Thursday, December 19, 2013

A Fad (or the longest post ever).

Clementine: "Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm going to make them alive. But I'm just a fucked up girl who's looking for my own peace of mind-don't assign me yours."
Joel: "I remember that speech really well."
Clementine: "I had you pegged, didn't I?"
Joel: "You had the whole human race pegged."
Clementine: "Hmm, probably."
Joel: "I still thought you were going to save my life; even after that."
Clementine: "Oh, I know."

--Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

"What about the girls he's dated since?" A friend asked me about Crane.

"Well, I only know about one. But I suspect he's got a type, just sort of going on an assumption. I don't know, they aren't like me. They don't look like tattoos, no lipstick. They look...cleaner."

"What if you were his adventure? One wild girl before he settles down."


"Well, that's what you said, right? They aren't like you. They're probably the kind of girl his family would want for him. You are..."

"Don't. It's okay. 
An adventure. I had never considered that..."

Only, I had considered it. 
I'd questioned over and over whether the superseding reason behind our non-compatibility was really ethnic or something else. As in: if I were Indian, would things have been different?

Not that matters. 
Only, it sort of did. 
I guess it's just another thing I'll have to excuse as something I'll never really know. 
Even if I could know it, would I really want to accept the risk of hearing, "It's not that you aren't Indian, it's just you."
Someone out there is emotionally equipped to deal with those sort of realities. Not me. 

I don't think I'm alone in wondering about this sort of thing?
How often do we realize that the person we're (hooking up) with has unrealistic expectations about who we are?

In my own personal experience, I understand that in the last 3-4 years (maybe longer) I've become maybe a tad unpalatable--I'm what some people might lovingly call "curvy" and what still others might call, "can you believe she's wearing THAT?" My smile is off-white, I have a perpetual cow lick in the back of my hair line. I'm heavily and noticeably tattooed. I curse, tenaciously. I battle daily with a lack of motivation. & outside of some soul searching I did, primarily while I dated Solo who's personal standard of beauty is impossibly high, I'm pretty happy with both, the person I am and the way I look. Not that I don't think there's room for improvement, but that I'm generally pretty cool with myself.

(As a side note, I recently considered [am considering] joining the national guard. Part of the process involves getting mostly naked in front a group of other people. In my case, being 26, the group was primarily very firm and very thin 18-year-old women. Maybe it's a result of having been getting undressed in front of people [lovers, doctors/clinicians, curious friends] for the last 12 years, but I didn't feel shy about my body. I had spent so much time leading up to that experience thinking I'd be mortified having my body on display with so many other [and more appealing] bodies, and in the end, it was such a non-issue. I watched as the girls in the room with me crossed their legs or covered their breasts. I think the biggest pity of youth is not realizing how awesome your body actually is in years leading up to your metabolism suddenly and completely betraying you. But I digress...)

& I understand that with this particular brand of unpalatability comes a strange cluster of men; artists, rebels, the kind of man who aspires to "make an honest woman" out of me, and the all too frequent general weirdo.
Part of my all-too-hasty attraction to Crane is that he was a breathe of fresh air. He's very vanilla (and where it would have been fun to use a racial epitaph here and say he's very masala, for example, I didn't want to confuse what I'm trying to say. And besides, masala sounds very exotic and untraditional to the untrained ear). How often do I get vanilla? Sweet, uncomplicated, traditional vanilla? The answer to that is rarely, leaning more towards never. 

Outside of Crane (I know, I, too, can hardly believe I am even capable of talking about anyone who isn't the Indian boy who metaphorically tore my heart out and pissed all over it), I wonder how many other people thought I was an adventure.
It's the one thing I cringe when I hear now:
"You're just my type--bold, outspoken, blah blah blah."
I wonder if it translates out to, "you'd be cool to try on, just to know what it's like before I find someone I can introduce to my family."
I once had a lesbian explain to me the basis of her dwindling affection for me. In a nutshell, she told me that on first impression, she found me "pretty, but in a mean way." A trait she was drawn to. When I revealed myself to her as nothing but a sheep in wolves' clothing, the infatuation was lost.

How many of us out there are Clementine?
I have a hard time here. Famous words by Frida Kahlo* (*allegedly, for you can never fully trust that which you find via the interwebs) urge us to, "Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic." & where I want to be with someone who thinks I am as good as it gets, I fear the unrealistic expectations they may bring with them about who I am and what I can bring to their life.
Because, like Clementine, I'm trying to sort my own shit out and juggling someone else's fantasies and expectations isn't necessarily high on my list of priorities.

No comments:

Post a Comment