When they first kissed and held hands,
she expected to be wholly entranced–
to feel some magic in her heart, perchance.
But, in that ephemeral instance,
by the dictates of fate or circumstance,
the only sparks on that night of Independence,
were in the peripheral distance.
The curse of being picky is not that you can’t find someone to love; it’s finally finding someone who doesn’t love you back.
I have dated very sparingly in the last 10 years. Quite frankly, it began as a conscious choice, but ended up as a consequence of a lack of choices.
–
It all began in 2002, I guess. Back then, I opted to revel in the silly spoils of singlehood: going out with the boys on a whim, harmless flirtations with random strangers, the countless nights at my disposal to do whatever I wanted to do. It was a lifestyle of unadulterated freedom and endless possibilities, and it was the total opposite of the suffocating 11-year, troubled relationship I had just crawled out of. The bachelor life was exactly what I needed at that point; it restored the light in my then-grim view of the world.
The other edge of that sword, however, was, and still is, the bitter sting of solitude: the unsatiated hunger for profound companionship, the unfulfilled need for someone’s sincere touch, the bottomless supply of nights with no one special to create lasting memories with. Alas, after so many years, the allure of the single life has turned into a tiresome and vacuous existence.
Of late, it feels like a prison cell I’ve been sentenced to for life.
–
There’s this pivotal scene in the 2009 movie, Up In The Air, where Ryan Bingham (played masterfully by George Clooney) finds himself asking Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga’s character) on a real date–as in a “date” date. To his sister’s wedding, no less. It was a very uncharacteristic move for the perpetually single and constantly traveling bachelor.
Ryan: “[F]or the first time in my life, I don’t want to be that guy alone in a bar. I want a dance partner. I want a ‘plus one.’ And if you can stomach it, I’d like it to be you.”
It’s a poignant scene (though if you’ve seen the movie, you know how that story went).
–
Long after seeing the movie several times, I still relate to Ryan’s sentiments completely. I have grown weary and outright teary of my somber singularity. Before the music fades and the scene turns to black, I, too, pine for a permanent dance partner.
Perhaps the story of me finding a “plus one” is written in a script that’s yet to be played out. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. I really don’t know. The plot is still pretty much up in the air.
Last month during Valentine’s Day, I walked under the moonlit sidewalks of my West San Jose neighborhood and felt the penetrating sting of the cold wind make its way to the marrow of my bones.
As in years past, I did not celebrate the much ballyhooed holiday with some paramour. There was no purchase of a dozen red roses, chocolates, or any other accoutrements of amore. I’d like to think that it was because I’m not one to buy into the hype–that I’m one among the growing legion of anti-Valentinos who resent the over-commercialization of the day named after some martyr whose life a few of us actually know. But truth be told, that was not the case. I did want to partake in the celebration; there’s just no one to celebrate with.
My solitary status stung even more when I realized that practically everyone in my inner circle was in a relationship. Even friends and family members whom I thought were not the types who’d be in a committed relationship were, in fact, in that enviable situation.
Perfectly encapsulated by The Weepies in a song, the thought that ran endless cycles through my brain during that cold, cold night was: They’re in love, where am I?
During the walk, the streets were noticeably dark and empty, and I realized, so was I.
I have only seen her once before in the Starbucks I’ve frequented for years. One of the reasons I love going to that particular coffee shop was the plethora of interesting and beautiful characters I saw in its intimate setting, and she was definitely among the hall-of-famers in that regard.
Our initial encounter was a couple of months back, though I remember it like it was yesterday. We were lounging in the same sofa and happened to engage in idle chatter. I clearly recall how she twirled her hair as she sunk comfortably in the couch, how she adorably pouted her lips whenever she blew into her coffee cup, how she gazed at me with genuine curiosity when I spoke, as if I were telling her a centuries-old secret.
For those precious few minutes, she made me feel like I was the most interesting person in the world.
…
The second time our paths crossed was at the same Starbucks last week. She glided across the lounge area with a cup in hand, her long black hair perfectly framing and contrasting the angelic, pale face that crowned her svelte torso. The unexpected sight of her made my heart palpitate uncontrollably. I wondered if she remembered that day months ago. I wondered if she remembered me at all.
As she sat at the table beside mine, we exchanged the momentary smiles that strangers offer one another in passing. She did not remember me, I thought, and my shoulders drooped in unison with my spirit.
But to my surprise and pure delight, when she turned in her chair and looked at me for a second or two, she uttered, with noticeable recognition in her dark brown eyes and sincere glee in her voice, “Why, hello there!” Oh, the bliss that filled my soul at that very moment was indescribable.
She then joined me at the table and we began to talk about the typical things that fresh acquaintances chat about: work, family, hobbies. It unfolded like a perfect, casual date–romantically facilitated by fate. Or perhaps it was just fortunate happenstance. Either way, I did not care as long as we were enjoying each other’s company at that very moment in time and space.
The conversation turned to the topic of exercise, prompted by the entrance of a sculpted, tanned lady in a tank top and running shorts, whom I evaded looking at but which she pointed out. She said she’d kill for a body like hers and, in fact, started working out in an effort to lose 10 pounds, to which I reacted with a look of honest incredulity. I told her she looked great “as is,” sheepishly thinking that understated flattery will get me somewhere. Of course, what I really wanted to say was that she looked absolutely stunning. Even in her casual black t-shirt, gray flip-flops and form-hugging black sweatpants that silhouetted her calves and exposed her porcelain-like ankles, she was a glorious sight to behold. (I could not, however, bring myself to give such a blatant compliment like that. Timid as a turtle, it’s well beyond my ability to charm the members of the fairer sex with such ease and eloquence.)
We discovered that we both did yoga, and that she had actually just come from a session before heading to the café. When I asked her what her favorite pose was, she stood up and playfully showed me her tree pose: She anchored her left foot to the floor, lifted her right and rested it on the inner side of her left thigh, then raised her arms so that her palms rested against each other above her head. The vision of her in that unnatural but elegant pose was pivotal, so to speak, as it was at that exact moment when she completely enamored my susceptible heart.
“I think that, possibly, maybe I’m falling for you
Yes, there’s a chance that I’ve fallen quite hard over you
I’ve seen the paths that your eyes wander down,
I wanna come, too
I think that, possibly, maybe I’m falling for you”
Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop, Landon Pigg
She is unassumingly intoxicating–the kind of girl that charms your heart into submission without effort nor intent. And that is precisely what she did with mine one fine evening.
We talked; we danced; we held hands. All innocent in retrospect, but that point was moot by the time I realized it. From the moment I dropped her off at her place in the wee hours of the morning, to the minute I woke up at around noon hours later, my alcohol-fueled brain already fired off premature and misguided synapses of affection to the neurons within my impressionable psyche.
The heroine in this tale is in her mid-twenties, spirited and sociable. I, on the other hand, am inopportunely at the tailend of my thirties, seasoned and solitary. While the May-to-December angle is a convenient, more palatable and face-saving rationalization to convince my fragile ego that nothing will come of this, I know the real deal breaker. The signs are crystal clear; she just does not harbor the same feelings for me as I do for her.
“to me, you’re strange and you’re beautiful,
you’d be so perfect with me but you just can’t see
you turn every head but you don’t see me …”
Despite this rueful realization, the nascent feeling remains resilient. I have not been able to snuff it out with a dousing of vodka cocktails for that only intensifies the flame. Neither am I able to bury it deep in my unconscious for it just manages to creep back up with more verve. Fighting it is a lost cause, so I concede. I know what I have to do, as I have done it before.
I wait it out.
“sometimes, the last thing you want comes in first,
sometimes, the first thing you want never comes, and I know, the waiting is all you can do … sometimes”- strange and beautiful by aqualung
Sooner or later, time will reveal there’s an expiration date for this infatuation. Unreciprocated, it will eventually turn into a disposable emotion–one to be discarded for its silly uselessness. When that time comes I shall be free again. Free to fall for more romanticized follies. Then the cycle begins anew.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I give up on the whole ordeal,
and shall file it under things unreal.
The looking around is nauseating,
and simply too excruciating.
Any hope of being with her
Like prickly roses, wither.
But just you see, as I surrender,
that’s when Cupid finally sends her.
Originally written June 27, 2007. Minor edits with this version.
My dear teenage daughter asked me last night if I had seen “The Notebook,” and when I said I did, she proceeded to ask if I liked it. I clearly remember watching that movie and found it much too sappy, and so I told her I did not care for it. She gave me a quizzical look that, in no uncertain terms, questioned my very humanity. I felt like a heartless buffoon.
Now I’m not one who loathes love stories; I do have a heart after all, and it’s not made of stone either. But “The Notebook?” It’s just, well, too romantic. It’s like eating too much cheesecake: No matter how much I love cheesecake, eating too much of that creamy goodness will undoubtedly make me sick. And “The Notebook” is a whole lot of cheesecake for one sitting.
While I’m on the topic of movies and love stories, I remember posting an entry in my old blog after seeing a truly great one. This entry was originally posted 3 years and 9 months ago:
With all the fuss surrounding it, I finally watched “Brokeback Mountain” recently. And despite the impending teasing and confused musings that this post might elicit, I just have to say that the movie is profoundly moving. Yes, you heard that right, guys: Whether you are a homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual, asexual, or any other type of “sexual” I don’t even (wanna) know about, believe me, your orientation is just irrelevant … the movie is simply, universally worth watching. With so many a motion picture being touted as “a love story,” it just astounds me that it took a tale of 2 men–cowboys no less!–to capture the essence of what that is.
So ignore the intimidation, and put aside any inhibition; surely there involves no humiliation … in watching and appreciating this production. In the end, you might even want to thank me for prodding you to do so. Just don’t thank me by inviting me to go camping this summer. I’m just not outdoorsy like that.
I wonder where you are
I wonder if you think about me
Once upon a time
In your wildest dreams- In your Wildest Dreams, Moody Blues
I’m not sure how or why, but this morning, I woke up with “Wild World” by Cat Stevens (now known as Yusuf Islam) stuck in my head. As I searched my iPod for the tune, I chanced upon the quoted song above from the Moody Blues, and it brought back long-forgotten memories. I recalled how I absolutely adored this song back when I was an awkward junior at an all-boys Catholic high school in the capital city of the Philippines.
As I reminisced about those days of yore, the feeling of repression resurfaced as I recalled how I had to spend the majority of my days exclusively in the company of other boys. It felt like I was in a torturous incubation area for guilt-ridden, post-pubescent males. Especially at the age when boys’ hormones were at the peak of their volatility, such surroundings did not align with my ideal of an enclave conducive to pursuits of young love and other misadventures. I’m certain most of my fellow students felt the same way. As a reprieve from our homogeneous environment, and to keep us all relatively sane, we held parties, or “soirees” as we preferred to call them — feigning French to bring an amorous flair to the event, I guess — so we can meet and mingle with the delightful creatures of the opposite sex.
Typically, our class would pair up with an equivalent class at an all-girls Catholic school, who we wished to the high heavens — possibly the only time we prayed without being told to do so — felt as repressed as we did. It was in one of these soirees where I met Rachel.
The first time I saw her, she looked wonderfully angelic (Thank you, high heavens!): Long, black hair; sweet, innocent smile; coy, alluring eyes; quiet and introverted demeanor. I sensed a sleeping volcano in my midst, much like myself, waiting to be awoken from an uneventful existence. Luckily, my partner in crime — I believe this was just before Top Gun, so “wingman” probably wasn’t used in the sidekick sense yet — was equally enamored with Rachel’s cohort, so it was a winning pairing for us both.
I don’t remember much else that happened at that soiree–no recollection whatsoever of fumbling introductions, small talk, nor awkward silences, though I’m sure all of that occurred. I did end up with Rachel’s phone number somehow. Days after the soiree, I vaguely remember calling her once, but again, details of our exchange escape my fickle memory. We never ended up going on a date or anything like that. In fact, I don’t think we ever spoke after that phone call. For one reason or another, she just turned into one of the countless could-have-beens that were all too common for the timid, adolescent version of myself.
It was around this time that the Moody Blues song became popular, and every time it played on 99.5RT, my favorite radio station growing up, I would think about Rachel and couldn’t help but wonder if she did “think about me in her wildest dreams.”
I eventually crossed paths with Rachel again a few months after our phone call. It was during one of those school fairs wherein the school grounds turned into an amusement park with rides and booths and such. Such fairs were common at the private schools in Manila, and each school typically had one every year. For this particular occasion, I was at Rachel’s campus. She did not see me, at least I didn’t think so. I did see her face, and specifically noted her eyes; they looked different from the demure ones etched in my memory. I watched her walking away from me, hand-in-hand with another girl, as they got lost in a sea of other uniformed boys and girls reveling in the fleeting gloriousness of youth.
If I did muster the courage that day to approach her and ask if she ever thought about me, I take it Rachel would have replied, “In your wildest dreams.” Some questions are better left unasked.
What if you love the idea of settling down, but are just unwilling to settle?
When you pine for a bed of roses, but want it only if it had the right kind of petals.What if your excruciating wait for Mr. or Ms. Right leaves you with no one left?
And that happy ending you’ve been yearning, turns out to be regretfully bereft.
photo by Desirée Delgado
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