2 Questions Every Girl is Asking Herself

Chapter 43

The following spring, around the time tulips were in bloom, I graduated. With the consulting job lined up for the fall, and a whole summer looming ahead like an ocean destination, I decided it's finally time to think about this confusing thing we call love again.  I borrowed piles and piles of books on dating and relationships from the library. I took it on like a master's thesis assignment. I read them on the plane to Cancun, on the white sandy beaches of Mayakoba, in between fish tacos and fresh coconut juice. I'm gonna study the hell out of it and I'm gonna get this right the next time. Armed with my scientific knowledge from psychologists and experts on love, and shiny new pumps, I re-entered the enchanted forest for the great hunt of Prince Charming.  

For the next few years, I went on dates with men of all shapes and forms: rich men, poor men, successful men, yet-to-be successful men, waiters and CEO's, consultants, lawyers, real estate developers, golf pros, studs from Ivey Leagues. Most of them were just one or two dates, some extended into short relationships. But this time around, the princes weren't so charming. To my astonishment, most guys won't offer to pick you up, and some begrudgingly paid for dinner. I reminded myself it's wrong of me to expect these things but I couldn't help but feel bothered by it. One of the boys, a very attractive and capable young man, let me know very early on his best friend only dates girls who put out on the first date. He would call me conceited one minute and tell me, "You look regal the way you hold the wine glass" the next. When he paid for the meal and made of a point of highlighting it again later, I felt like I owed him something. I wondered if nowadays when young people date, they sleep together right away? And my refusing to do so puts a strain on the relationship?

I may have been confused, appalled even, with the first few guys. But when it kept happening on guy after guy, I began to convince myself this is normal. All women must be happy with this kind of behavior from men, I'd decided.  A strong, independent woman would no doubt, not mind these things at all. So I shouldn't mind it either. The kind of woman that men want must be like a Toyota – low maintenance, low-cost, reliable, easy on the eyes. Able to exist without regular doses of attention, or flattery, or romance.

With each new boy, I made more compromises. You don't have a car? No problem, I'll come out and visit you. You don't like to call or text? That's ok too. I'll practice the quiet enjoyment of my own company. Their ex's, it appears, all behaved like Toyotas, and here I was acting like a princess. Spoiled – was a word we both agreed on. I only inconvenienced them. After a couple of years of these fruitless dates and futile efforts, I finally met a guy who said the L-word, and I thought, at last, a keeper! A few weeks in, we had our first fight, so the next day, I brought him a gift and apologized. He didn't even look at the gift. He just let me know that make-up sex is the best kind of sex.

I didn't want to believe it, but the same observation kept insisting itself onto me: so many young men seemed to be thinking the same thing – what's the least amount of effort I can get away with, to get her in bed with me?

I thought if I could just be that strong independent girl who'll happily ride her bicycle to dates, split the bills, and then cheerfully read a book while he reserved Saturday nights for poker with the boys, even though I'm out of town 5 days out of 7, then I could fall in love. I didn't want to be clingy, or high-maintenance, or a gold-digger, or less of a good girl. But for 4 years, I just couldn't fall in love.

For the life of me I couldn't figure out why, until I came back to China.

——

When I was around 6 years old, still living in China, I would ride on the back of Dad's bicycle to go to school. One time, my foot got jammed in the rear wheel, and a thick strip of flesh peeled off. The wound throbbed in pain for months. By the time it was finally healed, a scar the size of a guitar pick was left behind. When I pressed on it, it was like piece of leather, all I could feel was a faint pressure. That was how I felt when my latest pseudo-boyfriend of half a year forgot my birthday, dropped me off at the airport, and then disappeared without even a text message. (Only to reappear six months later.) My girlfriends were indignant on my behalf, and I thought I would cry or feel upset, but much to my own surprise, I didn't. I myself had become a thick piece of leather, resistant to disappointments. I think over the years my expectations had taken enormous strides toward reality, so much that I don't get disappointed anymore. I'd accepted the reality that Ed was a miracle rather than the norm. The reality is, well, the men I dated in those 4 years, they're the reality. They are the norm. I don't dwell on the whys, or beat myself up anymore. I'd simply learned to say this heartening sentence to myself – the next one will be better.  

The interesting thing about reality is that it changes from place to place. What is the reality in the ER physician's world is nearly completely different from my reality. Both are realities. Both are true. Like blind men attempting to describe the shape of the elephant. Some are convinced the elephant looks like a tree trunk. Others insist the elephant looks like a thick rope. We each only get exposed to a corner of the reality, and shape our expectations of what's possible based on our limited views of the world.

I'd probably have gone on trying to white-knuckle myself into falling in love with "the norm", if I hadn't visited China for grandma's birthday. When I met the men in China, I felt my horizons broaden to such an extent, it was as if a window in my mind opened and fresh air rushed in, sweeping away all my cobwebbed beliefs and disappointments, heartaches and things I'd simply come to accept as reality like dust. The men in China are so sweet and considerate and generous, they are like mittens for the soul. They will text you funny jokes on a long train ride to make you laugh, or call you right after you've just had dinner together, to keep you company on the way home. It doesn't even in the least occur to them, doing this might make them look desperate or clingy or less of a man. And frankly, it doesn't to me either. When I crashed at a friend's place, he forbade me to sleep on the couch. He would sleep on the couch, and give me his bed. When my wallet was stolen in Shanghai, they offered to travel across cities to pick me up. While six thousand miles away from everything that's comforting and comfortable and familiar, I felt like a pearl held securely in the centre of their palms, enveloped in warmth.

For the first time in years, I realized I don't have to feel guilty for wanting what I want, I don't have to apologize for it, I don't have to twist anyone's arm, I don't have judge myself, or call myself all sorts of names. I don't even have to justify it. I can just BE.

There's a pose in yoga called the bridge pose, where you're lying on your back, feet on the ground, knees bent, and you lift your pelvis floor up in line with your knees, like a bridge. Our teacher likes to do this pose at the end of class to help us relax into cool down. She would say, "Imagine a waterfall running from your knees, flowing against your legs and torso, washing all over you." That's exactly how I felt when I met the men in China. I felt so soothed. I felt like the drop that merged with the ocean.

They reminded me of what love felt like.

It struck me then, ever since Ed broke up with me, for six years, I hadn't dated a single Chinese man. If Ed and I were incompatible, I thought, I had to find someone totally different from him. During that time, I hadn't fallen in love once.

It finally dawned on me, ah it's the culture.