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This morning I came across some of my writing from what seems like a long long time ago. Before Dx crashed, and in a rare moment of foresight, I downloaded my entire journal. Unfortunately however, I only performed this once – and had at least another six months’ worth of writing that is completely lost.
I began writing at Dx during my gap year before college. It was among one of the many web projects I undertook during that time, and the first time that I had actually gone back and looked at my writing. It was a little amazing to see how much my writing has changed. It went from off-beat, first-person speech littered with actions in asterisks to a strange blend of what my freshmen year writing professor calls “prose-poetry.” I also noticed the gradual shift of what I thought was important or memorable. My far too innocent freshmen year self, who found bongo-playing in the dorms remarkable, and was scandalized at the thought of weed being smoked two doors down. I read over my experiences in Italy, and how amazingly new and fresh everything felt. The first time I took a train alone in a foreign country. My amazement at the kindness of strangers, and a time before I became ever suspicious and wry of men who looked at me (or my friends) longer than what was comfortable. I didn’t notice because the thought simply never occurred to me, and when it did – I dismissed it as weird or unhealthy interest in young girls.
Skipping through the months – trips to Pisa, Rome and Venice. Fights with my mom – the beginning of the blow out. Leaving Italy and the interim summer back in Jetsonville. And then, the entries about RG. At eighteen, fresh from a year in college abroad. I have never been able to sort out what role I played in the whole fiasco. And it is only now, with a few more years under my belt (and a BA to boot) I realize that my two mistakes were in believing I was older or wiser than I really was, and in believing that just because someone uses the l word, they truly mean it. Reading between the lines of history that I myself had penned, I heard my own naivete echo back at me with every sentence. What chance did a girl so young and inexperienced stand against someone so much older, especially when convinced of his good intentions? My writing is not an excuse for my not knowing, or evidence of lack of choice. I am not entirely innocent, but neither am I to be blamed for what happened. Perhaps this echoes the irony in this world. No one is ever perfectly innocent.
I have spent a lot of time and heartache trying to pick apart my wrongs and rarely have I thought to think about my luck and good fortune at escaping relatively unscathed. In the same token, letting the memory of RG burden me is also a choice. Every day, I choose to pick up this burden and dwell on it. I choose to beat myself over the head, anguish over the loss and violation of trust. I choose to keep his memory alive by dwelling on it.
And even then, it seems I have a selective memory. In reading what I had written, I realize how much of what I dwell on is lopsided – as if to allow the blame to slide squarely in my lap. Coming across a couple of old e-mails I had copied and pasted into my journal, I was almost shocked by the exchange of words. His – angry, manipulative, even chauvinistic. Mine – calm, measured, and diplomatic. Until the end – where I seem to have lost my nerve at the thought of the ending of the relationship and being left.
It was not until I read the words he himself chose, that I remembered his anger which frightened me, and his cruelty which I always found an excuse for at the time.
In the four years since those initial incidents passed, I have spent a lot of time trying to dissect the decisions that were made. I have tried to understand myself, and also spent a lot of time trying to understand him. Something a friend once told me was not to try to do just that. “You don’t want to be inside his head.”
Its occurred to me before that I have an immense capacity to forgive. For the longest time, what I wanted most desperately from RG was a simple apology, and an acknowledgment of his share in the fault. One of the hardest things to swallow was the realization that this was never going to happen. If I sought closure, it would have to come independent of him. The realization of this was at once a burden but also liberating. For one, I don’t have the slightest idea of how to begin to obtain this illusive “closure.” But on the other hand, the thing I never thought would happen on my end finally did. I had finally given up on him. My greatest fear was that he would walk away, and yet in practice, I have almost always had the last word. Albeit at the time, it felt like I was sulking off in defeat. But the truth is, you can’t fight with someone who’s just not there.
I confess, I still wonder what he thinks. I wonder if he feels regret, loss, or even longing. But I’m looking forward to the day when someone mentions his name, and his image is fuzzy in my mind. He will never be gone entirely, but he doesn’t have to be important. He doesn’t have to be this dark shadow over the end of my adolescence seeping into adulthood. He doesn’t have to be this burden, this terrible dark secret. I have the freedom to choose not to care what he thinks, for the rest of my life.
My first set of wheels was a blue BMX that I shared with my brother. BMX as in the bike, not the BMW the car. It had an adjustable seat, no girly streamers on the handles or beads on the wheels. And certainly no training wheels. Our family didn’t believe in training-anything. Except maybe the potty. I think we had a kiddie one, because they didn’t want us falling in.
When we first moved to Canada, it was in the fall. I think I had just turned six, because it was my frist grade and I remember my mom taking me to the elementary school three blocks away, and I listened to her ask the principle about how many asian kids went to that school. It was a lot more colorful than my old school, which had uniforms and gates. There were construction-paper cutouts and bulletin boards in the halls. Even the school was red. That winter was the first time I had seen snow. I don’t remember liking it or not liking it, but I know it made things a lot harder for my mom. We had just moved across the globe and bought an apartment in the good part of a rough town. I didn’t know that though. But what I did like was our meals, which we ate on boxes. I really liked our new house becuase there was a lot of room to run around in. I liked the sparseness, no grown-up furniture. Lots of carpet to roll around or practice tumbling on (Jetsonville is all about hardwood floors. Not very condusive to wannabe gymnasts) I remember the first car we had in Canada. A maroon colored Buick that took a lot of time to start up. Especially in the winter. But it seemed to make mom a lot happier, probably because of groceries, which was pretty much the only time we went anywhere in that car for the first six months.
When I was seven or eight, my mother sent me to Brownies. I had a mud-colored uniform, scratchy socks, an orange hankechief that you rolled up and tied around my neck orange-striped elastic belt. The only thing remotely cool about that outfit was the little brown pouch that fit a tiny pencil and a few pebbles. I think we were supposed to fit junk that was supposed to prepare us for the widerness, or something like that. I always made sure I had candy in mine. I hated that outfit until my third week of Brownies or so. Then I thought it was cool. What I remember most is the time our car wouldn’t start up and I had a really important Brownies event to go to. Actually I don’t even remember the event. I just remember desperately wanting to go and not being able to. My mother took my hand and went into the basement storage of the apartment complex and pulled out this bicycle that she had gotten at a garage sale a while ago. She put me on the handlebars of that bike (I was scared to death, and then thought it was awesome fun) and biked me to where I needed to go. I think I only made it to the last 15 minutes of that meeting, but I never forgot the ride there.
Shortly before my twelfth birthday, we moved again. My brother and I were the only Asian kids in a Polish neighborhood. It took some getting use to, but I kind of liked it there. We lived in a townhouse (I’d always wanted to) with an actual upstairs and a yard, and in a little community where all the houses looked the same and a playground just a few steps from our house. Now that I think about it, it kind of looks like a retirement complex or something. All that I know is there were tons of Polish kids. They thought we were kind of strange, but we found common ground. Like perogies and dumplings, which are essentially the same thing.
What I remember is that everyone had a bike. And what was even more surprising, was that two weeks after moving there, my mom took me to the mall and bought me one as well. It was a twelve-speed, purple colored mountain bike, and the envy of the neighborhood. I never really wanted one, since I was a bit of a book mouse. Never really had much of a desire to venture out far away or stay out after dark.. but that bike, it was really something else. When we moved to western Canada, that bike came with us. By then, my brother had gotten wheels too – a pair of rollerblades. My brother and I would take turns, a pretty even split. And then there were the stunts. Riding downhill without hands, down stairs, jumps over logs.. all sorts of stunts.
We were daredevils, but we weren’t insane. Except once. This time I was on the bike, he was on the rollerblades. We went down this big hill towards the lake and he rolled ahead of me. As he gained momentum, this car came towards us and swerved. My brother lost control and went careening down the hill. In movies, these moments are portrayed in slow motion, the sound of your heartbeat drumming in your ears and sunlight blinding your eyes. It’s not like that at all. It goes by in a flash – the screech of wheels, the smell of rubber and the sound of your bike dropping to concrete is probably no more than three seconds. What makes it feel so awfully long is the three seconds that you’re holding your breath to find out what happened. All I knew is he stood up. He had fell – flipped, more like, over some debris and had fallen face forward and had a mouthful of blood. His two front teeth were partially missing, ground into the pavement as he had skidded to a halt, rather than actually snapped off. He looked so strange, half stunned and holding back tears as he checked for missing limbs or any other damages. It wasn’t until I peeled myself off of him that he realized the full extent of his injuries, and then the tears started flowing.
Not long after, we moved to Jetsonville. When you share an island with 6 million, there’s not much room. Hardly anyone owns private cars, and there’s not much room for bikes either. So that was the end of the adventures (and mishaps). But these days, we don’t need wheels to be free or to explore. These days, we have jet planes and other contracptions with wheels that separate families. This Christmas there are several thousand miles between me and my family. Normally, this is a blessing. But somehow tonight, even with Veer coming in a few short hours.. all I want is to hug my brother and to make sure that he’s ok.
This post is either going to come off as a little controversial, irreverent or both. It’s intention however, is pure in spirit – so take what I’m about to say with a grain of salt and try to see it from my point of view before judging it as either depraved or suppressed.
I wish they had taught us how to be sexy in Sunday School.
Allow me to clarify the above statement. I was raised with a very wholesome childhood, albeit a little ahem on the sheltered side. Since then, I’ve had my fair share of eye-opening experiences, and more skeezy inappropriate come-ons to last a lifetime (fate however seems to disagree. For that, I can only appeal to higher forces for justice. See how these old, slimy men feel when some crass, horny, toothless biddy starts trying to grope them. Yeah.) But while church taught me to be a lady, it certainly never taught me how to be a lady not among gentlemen.
There’s a common misconception that Christianity (or relgion in general) equals prudishness. Not true. I would argue that religion is against the ills of promiscuity, but not sex per se. How else could it command “go forth, be fruitful and multiply” or dedicate an entire book of the Bible to sex? (Song of Solomon, in case you’re wondering.) There are more than enough passages promoting modesty, restraint, and other lady-like attributes, but there are as many passages that describe attraction, beauty and relationships.
I think there’s a reasonable way to encorporate modern day culture with ethics and principles. I guess what I’m trying to say is if my Sunday School teachers had spent a few more lessons on the practical aspects of growing up and dating, maybe I wouldn’t be as lost. Maybe.
If you look at the videos on MTV (not that MTV is ever a really good teacher of principles and morals), excluding the outright misogynistic and slutty, there’s a few mainstream ideas: beauty and sex are influential, sometimes just playful.
The fact is, sex and sexiness are things we just can’t avoid as women in the 21st Century. But it’s a little insane to assume that every attractive woman knows that she’s attractive or the full extent of her influence and power. And women – how do you figure that out anyway? Do you just go about being paranoid, as Chris Rock puts it – assume that every man who’s ever spoken to you since 13, has been trying to get in your pants. Or do you have different levels of defenses? And men. What is the inherent difference between men and women and the decisions they make on who to hit on. Women will make their move on men they think they have a half-decent chance with. But it seems like a good portion of men just hit on women to see what reaction they’ll get. How else do you explain the prevelance of greesy, shameless construction workers?
Another question I’d like to have answered – why do women put up with it? Let’s picture that all women simultaneously banned together and formed a cartel, (what. I’m an economist, dammit) and demanded a certain level of respect from men. Not just the men they interact with on a personal level – all men. Do men get away with all this inherently because we’re not looking out for each other’s backs? Is it a divide-and-conquor tactic, or in game theoretic terms – a prisoner’s dilemma that puts us at this disadvantage?
From a personal note, I wish Sunday School focused a little less on what was my “responsibility to guard men from temptation” and a little more on what is just blatantly inappropriate behavior. And I wish that it had taught me a little more on what is appropriate behavior (rather than what isn’t). Because the sex/attraction factor – it is important. It’s one thing to just be a good girl – that’s characterized by what you don’t do. But it’s an entirely different thing to be a great girl – one that knows what to do, when, and with whom.
Up until now, I’ve not experienced an iota of senioritis. I’ve watched many of my friends start to slack off, fall behind in expectation of being done with school. The whole wiser-than-thou shrug and patented “meh” look of not-caring. And then there are the seniors who are clueless upon graduation with what to do with their lives. The panicked and frenzied who now realize that they had four years to make something of themselves and desperately wish that they could change things.
I think my experience is a little but not too different from the typical senior. There is something about nearing the end of a phase of your life and looking towards the next that causes you to look back and wish you could have changed things. There are relationships that I wish turned out differently. And perhaps contrary to most, I wish I had been a little tougher, a little more self-confident or placed more value on my feelings and how I was being treated. There are relationships where I wish I would have put my foot down earlier, because not everyone deserves the benefit of doubt. In this respect, I think I’ve toughened up significantly.
When I compare the amount of external support or my safety net in the past four years compared to when I was in high school, I wonder if I’m slowly turning into a lone straggler. In college, I’ve had to make most of the major decisions on my own, based on the best knowledge I’ve had at the time. My relationships with my high-school mentors has gotten so convoluted that it’s something best left to stagnate, at least for now. And my immediate family… well. We’ve spoken twice since summer and neither were very pleasant conversations.
I’ve continued to seek out mentors who believe in me and want to invest in a girl that’s young and hungry to take on the world. What I’ve come to realize is that some mentors are only meant for a season, and few will actually invest in you long enough to carry you to the next phase in life. And then there are those that seem older and wiser, but decisions should not be made until you understand their intentions. The truth is, if you’re young and seem like you’re going to go somewhere in life, inevitably everyone will want a piece of you.
Beyond relationships, I find it hard to resist the urge to look back and want to re-do everything. I wish I could have re-done my entire sophomore year, when I landed in New York for the first time. I would have told my nineteen year-old self not to worry – about housing, grades, internships or any of that. I would have told her that the way to get to any destination, no matter how close or far away it seems, is the same like any other journey. One step at a time. I would have told her to wisen up and listen to her gut instincts, rather than anyone who was older and wiser and to seek to understand intentions as well as advice. And more than anything else, I would have told her not to worry, because eventually – we all get there.
Turning to the present. During finals week just before the semester ends. I recognize that I have enormously high expectations of myself, and not only are they a little unrealistic, I need to have my priorities straight. There are enormous resource limitations, and the truth is – I really have managed to get this far largely without any guidance. That’s a huge achievement.
So this is Verity offering a word of advice to herself, and to you. Take a deep breath. Don’t freak out, don’t spin your wheels. There is a way out to everything, and like any other solution, it takes one step at a time.
This year on Christmas eve, 20 minutes before midnight I will be standing in JFK among the crowd of people, anxiously awaiting their loved ones. Except unlike most of the grandparents, aunts and uncles, they probably won’t launch themselves 5 feet away and pounce on the passenger, as I intend to do with Veer. Heh.
So the plans, they have been confirmed. The tickets were booked last night, the budget approved this morning, and I’m looking forward to a giddy Christmas filled with reunions and laughter. I’ve never wanted Christmas to be here more.
I was talking to Fuzz today about the recent event.. and he remarked how much things had changed. In perspective, it’s like Veer and I have changed places. I’m the one looking to move after graduation, who is unsure about diving in (okay, well ths aspect hasn’t changed). But without any doubt, the biggest difference is my unwilliness to be rooted in anything other than my own existance and ambitions. If there’s anything that I’ve learned.. is the need to be yourself. This post is rather short and trite, but it’s nearly 3AM, I’m freezing and have a day’s worth of work ahead of me in just four hours. Oy.
There are a thousand and one ways to begin an entry such as this one. Each with varying tone – reminiscing, thoughtful, lovesick or complacent. As lawyers, perhaps you would appreciate if I stuck to the facts of the case. You came, Thursday night arriving at 2AM in the morning – no notice. But I should have known you weren’t likely to send me that text message letting me know you were on the way. You caught me completely off guard, and I’m sure you were right when you said I looked like a doe in headlights when I opened the door and found you standing there.
And without warning, you pulled me out of my apartment and into the hallway. Standing among all your luggage, into the deepest embrace I’ve ever felt in my life. And so we stood, after a year and a half. You realize in these moments that time changes things, but some things are just the same. You swept me off my feet – literally.In the slowmotion confusion, we both knew we had to take it slow. And so we did. Waiting perhaps a full 20 minutes before the first kiss.
You whispered, “just let me love you” and you did. In your easy, gentle way, careful not to force your way into any areas of my life, barging back into my heart. We stayed up all night talking, like the old friends that we are. Two kindreds who defy the lulling charms of sleep, waiting for the sunrise. And when we did fall asleep, holding each other like two peaas in a pod.
You were my best friend, my confidante, my lover, and counsel. That we remain a central part of each other’s lives, just seems so natural and fluid. Like no time has passed at all. Except we have both grown, and at least on my part, I recognize that my needs are different. I needed a boyfriend, a staple. Someone who would integrate themselves into my life with the regularity of phone calls, dates and all the everyday things that couples are wont to do. The distance, it was too much, because what I wanted was simply something you couldn’t give. Excep now, I am more sure of myself. More rooted in my own existance. I have seen your coming, and experienced your going, and know that I can survive and thrive in both. I have a better sense of who I am, and am unafraid to tell you my terms so that when we’re sitting across from each other instead of across the continent, I can look you straight in the eye and tell you that there are just questions I can’t answer right now, and that yes – I may still go off to China.
What amazes me is your level of support. Or perhaps it shouldn’t. Maybe I never credited you enough the first time, because you would never hold me back from achieving my dream. We both recognize that we can’t do distance forever. That the relationship right now, as it stands – can’t be the end unto itself. People only go through distance to achieve the final goal of togetherness. Our problem is that life is, and has always been pulling us in different directions and we have never been in the position to change any of that.
My darling, I don’t know if what we are doing is wise. But I know that it will not be something that either of us will regret. In the last year and a half, I’ve come to realize how rare a relationship like ours is. In fact, it just doesn’t happen. When was the last time you heard of two strangers meeting in Grand Central, dancing under rose petals, moving across the continent and reuniting after a year and a half? If anything, ours is a story that deserves to be told. Because the world needs to realize that timeless love can still exist – though it is never far from problems.
You come, all force and charm, barging once again into my life. Dropping the big decisions in my lap and the life-altering choices that need to be made. It’s been – how long? Just as I am laying down the beginnings of a future and direction. Just as I am looking out the window, making big plans and dreaming up places to see. You recognize that this may well be your last chance and mine, and so you come – breaking the rules of decorum, taking me in the upward spiral of your dreams.
The grand gestures, so elaborate. Flying across the continent for two days, just to take this ash-covered princess to her ball. The vacations we used to speak about, now a possibility. There are barely four days until I see you, this you tell me last night. You call me in the middle of the Rolling Stones, yelling above the din so that 4000 miles away, I can share the experience of a live concert.
And from my island metropolis, I eye you with a weary smile. Because I know your tricks, your schemes and your elaborate gestures. I’ve felt the rose petals falling on my face, caressing my skin as I walk into your room for the first time. I’ve held the glass pen, the replica of the one I carried accross five countries only to break as we broke up, the one you replaced dictating a love poem that I wrote in cursive hand. I’ve heard the leaves crinkle under my weight as you lower me in the field for a kiss. And I’ve tasted the salt of your tears, the sweetness of your lips and the ache in your departing. All of these are things that I know.
Four days from now, will you be able to tell me anything that I don’t already know? Or are we just living things again from the moment of your crashentry.
There are a great many people who expect a great number of things from me. For that matter, I expect a lot from myself. Except I’ve come to realize that I may not necessarily be the best judge of what my limits are.
Last night I went to the opera with Jan. Jan is your paper-perfect, boy-next-door. The kind of guy you would be proud to bring home to your parents. He’s a bio major at a top-tier ivy-league school. He’s exactly my age (a first) and Chinese to boot. He’s hansome, funny, and moderately charming. A real gentlement. Unlike D, not at all forward, but moving at a comfortable pace. Then again, I really wouldn’t know much about pace since I seem to be stuck in middle school and am content to just pine away, not moving at all. The only issue is with Veer now somewhat in the picture, and D somewhat in the background – I’m reluctant to add yet another name to the list. It’s not that I draw any pride in the list of suitors (I doubt D can be actually considered a “suitor”.) On the contrary, my instinct is to wonder what exactly I did to send out the wrong signals. It might just be that I’m clueless/doing my own thing and none of this is inherently my fault. At least that’s what my girlfriends are telling me, and that’s the story I’m sticking with.
But I digress. Jan and I went to the opera. It was lovely. A real “grown up” experience with a gentleman. He asked about the dating history – so I guess that hurdle is passed. And a few hours later, I found myself standing on my stoop fumbling for my keys. The ironic thing is all I could think about was the movie, Hitch where Will Smith starts lecturing on signs of the first kiss and the significance thereof. They say you can tell with one kiss. I don’t know how true that is. With Veer, I waited, and waited and waited until the right moment. With D – I felt pounced on and caught off guard. So maybe it was a good thing that nothing happened – except an awkward one-armed hug. Good Lord, I am so bad at this..
It’s not the dating per se that I’m so anxious about. I’m lively, social, and I’d like to think an interesting conversationalist. I generally really enjoy myself the few times that I’ve “dated” this year – except when it comes to the end. The unspoken expectations that I seem to be unable to distinguish and digest. And so I find myself running away from D (not once, but twice), fumbling for my keys with Max and Veer…. well he wants marraige and the ultra-long term so I’m not even going to try to get into that.
There are all these pressures and expectations. From friends, student organizations, lovers, work, and myself. I am edging towards overwhelmed-ness and exhaustion. It’s getting close to the time to shut down and buckle down to work.
It’s been a year and a half since I last heard your voice. It’s the third time we’ve spoken – they say three times the charm – and I am bracing myself for a conversation that I’ve suspected since September.
There was always the distinct possibility that we would have this talk one day. After all, it’s us. You and me. The modern day impossible fairytale against all odds. It was the story that proved you can still meet a stranger in a train station under the stars (painted constellation), fall in love in three days, go your seperate ways only to find that to stay apart was the hard part. You’ve always said that our story was one that needed to be writen and told. That people needed to know that fairytale romances still happen nowadays. Which is what I’ve done – snippets, moments in time that form a catechism.
The only divide between fairytale and reality is the happily ever after. If it had been about the train stations, the rose petals, the airports and the deep, soul-transforming kisses. If it was about the romance, the passion and the odds that needed over coming, then my prince, we would have ridden off into the sunset long ago, and joined the other creatures of light.
Except we’re not beautiful, etheral figures but clumsy flesh and bone. We bungle through life, make mistakes and do our best to move on. That one of us wouldn’t move on.. had occured to me. After all, it’s us. You and me. I just never expected it to be you.
It’s been a year and a half, and your voice across 3,000 miles. The signals faithfully transmit your message: you’re in love. You’ve never moved on. You’re not searching for someone “like” me, you’re searching for me. You’re as in love since the first day at the clock tower by Grand Central, since the rose petals that you rained on me when I walked into the room, since that breath I held for an eternity before I tasted your lips. A year ago, your words would have brought me trembling to my knees, and I would have flown across the country to your arms.
Except all of this was a year ago. A year and a half ago. You walked out of my life, and into my past and in those eighteen months, I’ve learned to breathe without you, live without you, and grow without you. We’ve both grown, and apart. I wonder if the girl you are so in love with even exists today. Being in love with you, was one of the biggest milestones that I’ve passed in life. It forever changed me, and shaped who I am today. But loving you, was exhausting. Life and love – are not fundamentally supposed to be this difficult. We are not supposed to alter who we are fundamentally, or the course of the universe in order to attain the happily ever after that we both deserve.
Eighteen months ago, you made a decision. Now I suppose, it’s time for me to make mine.
It’s hard for me to accept that not everyone I meet or encounter will necessarily care about me or want to be a part of my life. Not every person is meant to be a friend, mentor or lover. And not everyone cares to be. That’s a fact of life we all need to come to terms with.
Whether the reason I feel this way is because of my parents, or the dichotomy of trying to be good without understanding any of the bad (or for that matter, why it’s bad) is unclear. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter. Everyone’s always told me that my innocence was a good thing, but what they didn’t told me is that innocence without cunning is a deadly combination. It’s asking to be exploited.
When I was a child, my mother always accused me of being cunning. I felt so.. guilty and ashamed for the instincts and thoughts that were sometimes less-than-innocent, and even strategic or machiavellian. Is it any way to go through life, completely pure as snow? Is it wise, or make use of the faculties that otherise exist in your repertoire of talents and abilities?
There are numerous areas in my life that would have benefitted from not listening to my mother as much as I did. Maybe I would be a little wiser, a little more thick-skinned, and a little more aware. There are some things you shouldn’t give benefit of doubt to. Some people you shouldn’t open your heart to, and some situations you should stay out of.
There are many things that I learned tonight. That one step forward and two steps back, doesn’t only get you nowhere, it sets you further back than you ever intended to be. Three-date rules and generalizations have their place. Whether you decide to follow them or not, at least be wise enough to concede that you don’t know everything and probably ought to listen. If no one around you is talking about those subjects, it’s probably a good idea to go find people that do. Women need to move in packs because there’s safety in numbers. Fundamentally, we need to understand and respect that guys are not necessarily looking for the same things. Respect doesn’t mean you honor their wishes, but the kind of respect you have for fire. Knowing wise enough when to draw the line, and not test it.
I really learned something tonight about respect. I need to respect myself enough to value my integrity above what anyone else wants, and what the small physical side of me wants. Beccause it’s not about today. It’s about tomorrow, and being able to look yourself in the eye when you wake up. I need to respect men’s limitations and desires – enough to not to tempt fate, even for my own vanity and fool’s hope.
Remember this well, Eva. That you drew the line in the sand, and he stepped back. That is his right to do so. Don’t go crossing the DMZ because that just confuses you and him. The long wait can be tiring and frustrating, and you wonder whether it will even be worth it.. this illusive “someday.” Remember that it stung, like a slap in the face and the moment of doubt and regret you felt for being so bold. But here is also the truth: you don’t have the kind of support network to afford you many failures. With you, it’s always been one-shot. It’s a pressure, but there’s no reason that now should be the time to change a course of history.
tales of a global nomad 