Hope Dies Last

For some obscure reason, I recently spent an hour of therapy time discussing marriage.  Upon establishing that I am–in fact–pro marriage my therapist informed me that statistically speaking marriages produce happy husbands and bitter wives. She explained that this is almost always created because the average women my age believes that marriage will fulfill all their needs.

Initially, I reacted in the arrogant way that we all react sometimes. I am different. Then I made a judgment. Who are these silly women that believe that one person (and a piece of paper) can satisfy their every idiosyncratic need?

She began to cite the most common needs that women expect to be fulfilled through marriage. It was an exhaustive and long list. I rolled my eyes at the silliness. But, five minutes in I felt myself nodding in agreement. Ten minutes in, I began to furiously scratch an imaginary itch on my arm. Fifteen minutes in, I began to cross my legs, unfold them and then cross them again. At twenty minutes, I actually huffed and puffed. Finally– mid-session– I exclaimed to my therapist,

‘Goodness woman, I am so damn irritated and I don’t know why.’

It turns out that I am one of those silly women. I  have the expectation that The One will somehow complete me in every single way possible. To further my own embarrassment, I smugly stated:

‘Look, I’m not going to settle. I’m not going to compromise. I would rather be alone than be with something that doesn’t give me EVERYTHING I want.’

‘You are willing to compromise an entire relationship rather than to compromise some of your needs?’ she countered.

[She should have yelled CHECKMATE here but she didn't because she is a classy lady.]

As the session continued, I realized that I don’t even know what my needs are. I could see that I do naturally compromise (no matter my defiant denial of it) but I tend to compromise my most basic needs. I do this because I have never actually thought about my needs.Sure, I routinely think about the characteristics and traits I want my elusive future Man Friend to possess.But as a single woman, I feel like I have been brainwashed to believe that ‘need’ is a dirty, desperate word. The verb ‘to want’ implies an independence that is sexy and desirable.

It is absurd and that is the reason I have begun to think about my needs. These are the most important ones and I am not willing to compromise.

Equality

I do not believe that men and women are the same, but I do believe that we are equal. Therefore there needs to be some sort of balance in most aspects of the relationship. Men who subscribe to strict gender roles will stifle me. Equality will also impact the way we make decisions as a couple. I need my opinion to be just as important as his. I need us to be a team.

Acceptance

I need a man who will let me be me. An anecdotal example: if he is outdoorsy (something which I really am not) he will not try change me, or judge me, or deride me for not going to the gym. I am not willing to lose my sense of self for a man. This is not to say that I am not willing to change a little. I also want a man who will show me new experiences. But ultimately, I need to be loved for exactly the way I am.

Emotional Freedom

I need a man that is able to appreciate the complexity of my brain and who will be able to be an active participant in our emotional and intellectual worlds. What does this mean? I am a romantic, a dreamer, a philosopher and I believe in the goodness of people. I need a man who will be able to match that in some way.  This need however, is most important in the way we deal with conflict resolution. I fight to be understood and I fight to understand. I need a man who will want to resolve our differences in a constructive way. Time and time again.

Financial and Emotional Security

I need a man that is ambitious, hard working, practical, smart and who possesses an entrepreneurial spirit. He does need to provide for us both [See Equality] but I need to know–that in the worst case scenario–he will be able to push through. As for emotional security, I need a man who is strong but who can also acknowledge his weaknesses. I need a man who will do his best to choose to love me everyday and I need a man who will not run screaming into the abyss at the first sign of trouble.

Eye Candy

I need a man that I will be happy looking at for years. I like tall men with  kind eyes, naughty smiles and lean arms.

When I look at the above list, I feel a sense of understanding and relief for my past affairs. I have not yet met a man who would have been able to meet these five needs. It is disappointing but it is also liberating. While there are no prospects on the horizon, I am one step closer to knowing what I need which means I must be one step closer to getting it.

And there is nothing dirty or desperate about that.

Have you ever thought about your needs?  What are they? What about the ones you absolutely refuse to compromise?

It was early morning and for a woman who doesn’t take sales as seriously as her gender shoulds her to take them, I was on my way to Zara.It was pouring down with rain. A fitting tribute to the state of my mind. Feeling pessimistic, I was surprised to find a parking space only ten short steps away from my destination. Most spaces in Athens require parallel parking; a manoeuvre that I have just about mastered and could do with my eyes half closed.

On this particular day however my over confidence got the better of me. It could have been the rain, it could have been the greyness of my mood and the earliness of the morning but as I reversed and turned, I nipped the stationary car next to me.

It was early, cold and raining and there was no one else on the road. Not a single soul. My instinct was to jump out and inspect the damage I had caused. Thankfully, it was minimal; nothing a paint job couldn’t fix. No indentations just a tiny scratch. I then took a photo of my handiwork. Still not a single soul. I felt that I needed a presence; some other person to tell me what to do. Perhaps, a crowd. To condone me for my appalling parking skills or to applaud me for my humanity.

But as with most events in my life, it was just me, the rain and this drama I had created.

‘I could leave and no one would ever know it was me‘ I thought.

Instead, I parked (making sure not to hit him again) and wrote a note on the back of a receipt.

Dear Black Astra Driver,

I am so sorry. I accidentally bumped into the left side of your car as I was parking. My number is [redacted]. Please call me. I’d like to make it up to you. Again, I am so sorry!

I left the note on his windshield and went home. My shopping plans canceled. Thankful that the darkness of my mood was now–at the very least–confirmed by a concrete reason.

My number was never used for reasons I do not understand. But every now and again, I think of that day. My action and then my reaction. I think about the way that I took responsibility. I think about that thought that ran through my mind while I was there in the moment. How easy it could have been to avoid, to ignore, to deny and to carry on shopping because there was no other human around to notice the damage I had caused. How easy it would be to carry on living and never acknowledge the inconvenience I may have caused another person.

And then I think about the men (and friends) that have denied me a conversation. I think about the people that have refused to take responsibility for the scars they have left me. I have defended these people because that is the way I am wired. I can find a justification to almost all the bad things that have been done to me.   Tragic [and extreme] case in point: I can find no hatred within me for the person who stabbed my father to death. This was the early 90s in South Africa; apartheid was the parent of all black people and my father was white.  His dying will never be justified to me.  But–in my mind–the actions of the man who held that knife can be justified by that much larger social issue.

But then I realize that I had a choice on that day. A split second choice between running away or admitting I made a mistake and accepting the consequences. Whatever those may have been. If I had that choice, then most of us [barring the sociopaths among us] have that choice. And I think to myself that I’d like to meet a man who takes responsibility for his actions. A man who mans up and has the awkward conversation with me. I am not interested in a person who has witnessed the pain they have caused me and chosen to look the other way. I am not interested in a person who takes the easy way out. [Even though I can understand the reasons that they do.]

Some may argue that this is a high expectation. But I think it is probably the very least we should expect from one another.

Some compassion.

A little acknowledgment of our own mistakes.

Some sort of sincere regret.

I’ll take it.

Even if it is in the form of a hastily written apology on the back of a forgotten receipt stuffed underneath a windshield wiper.

Even though…

…it is highly unlikely that I would go through with a one night stand, every night before leaving for drinks I tidy up my flat; in case the unpredictable happens.

…the light is green, I check both ways before crossing.

…I hardly cook for other people, I invest time in finding the right recipe for the right person. I invest money in serving bowls and gorgeous plates. All in case I became a regular on the dinner party circuit.

…I want to tell my ex-affair-er all the reasons that I don’t respect him anymore,  I don’t. In case, we get back together. And then I would just look like an asshole. (To myself).

…I live alone, my flat has enough seating for thirteen people.

…I don’t get naked  and horizontal very often, I have a strict wax appointment. You never know, right?

…there is no rational reason I would get a text from a certain someone, each time my phone beeps late at night I wait ten minutes before checking it. So as not to seem desperate. In case, The Universe keeps tabs on the level of desperation emanating from a single woman and then purposefully does not give her what she wants.

…I have no use for beer in my fridge, I keep it in there.

…I really don’t like pointy witch heels anymore, I still keep them in my shoe closet.

…I am starting to think that all those men who let me go, lost more than I ever did. But I still don’t want to know it in case the mere admittance that I have abhorrent taste in men may bring another one into my life.

What are your ‘just in case something happens’ quirks?

A little before Christmas I was chatting to an acquaintance, when her gaze rose above my head and her smile broadened. I did not need to move at all to know it was him. Twenty minutes earlier I had whispered to A, ‘I have a feeling he’s going to be here tonight. And that he’ll be with a woman.’

It was all said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone; I did not want The Universe to hear me and then reward me with my very own self-fulfilling prophecy. There are times when all I want is to be is right. And then there are times when I want to be as wrong as torture. This was one of those times. I jumped from my rented seat at their table and turned to face his enigmatic smile. Was this the mischievous grin of a player? Was it the uncomfortable smirk of a nice guy in an awkward spot? I don’t know.

(I don’t even know the reason I am analyzing a smile.Oh wait I do. Because I can.)

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Back to my table so that you can sit.’ [Singular. I refused to acknowledge the tall, leggy, blond, red lipped warm blooded woman standing directly next to him.]

I returned to my side of the bar and quickly decided that my only mission for the next hour would be to not look in his direction. I was successful for exactly one minute and 34 seconds. My self-control is NOT what legends are made of. I dropped a paper cut thin glance at him. At the exact same moment, he dropped an even more casual, sideways glance at me.

Hook

Line

Sinker.

To say that his split second acknowledgment of me meant nothing would be a big, fat lie. Emboldened and uncharacteristically confident, I returned to his table ten minutes later. I conversed happily with our mutual acquaintance. I bantered with him–as we did during our entire affair. A pair of rams butting heads. Knowing that his attention was now reserved for another woman,  our past and present clashes felt playful not pathological. Up close his shiny lady-friend was less attractive than I had initially thought. To say that made me feel better would also be a big, fat lie. It didn’t. She is a woman; I am a girl. She has him; I don’t.

Without much fanfare, it dawned on me. All this time I have been avoiding, fighting, denying. I’m certain that you all probably know where I am going with this. This is how blind-spots work. Everyone else sees clearly except for the driver.

I fell in love with this man.

That night in bed I cried; a short drizzle but a cry nonetheless. It wasn’t a cry spurred on by pain, or jealousy, or unrequited want. They weren’t tears of self-pity or of desperation; of unfairness or frustration.

These were, at long last, farewell tears. A final nail in the coffin of not meant to be.

And with that I was free.

When I was a kid I assumed that love was easy.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–like twenty–I would meet a boy, fall in love and live happily ever after. Then my father was killed and overnight I learned that love wasn’t straightforward at all. I learned that love lasts and even transcends life but love also hurts when the object of love is no longer there. For several years, my assumed life story altered slightly to include this fatalistic addition. Meet a boy, fall in love, live happily, he dies, I still love.

When I was in my early twenties I assumed that love would eventually come.

I thought that when I reached a certain age–twenty-five–I would meet a man, fall in love and (timing willing) have a long-term relationship. Then my boyfriend dumped me and I learned that I knew nothing about love. Love was a word to use in a moment. It was so meaningful that it became meaningless. Two years ago, my re-assessed life story was that I was not likely to meet my great love. (This was a relief because there was no chance of him dying on me.)

Now in my late twenties, l have no assumptions about love. I’ve made an ass of myself so many times that I’ve lost count.  I have no knowledge on love. I’m plain clueless.

All I know is that as a kid I thought it would be easy. I never expected that the road to love–or to like even–would be this complicated. I didn’t expect that there would be this many false starts. I didn’t expect that intentions could be shrouded in so much mystery that the process of finding love, once as exciting to me as the art of creation, would become a mathematical equation of mythical proportions. One that is frustrating and exhausting. The sheer number of variables in the theory of love are limitless.

And I’m no scientist.

I’m only a woman wishing that it could be a little simpler.

For everyone.