Girls are mean. Girls lead on guys. Girls break hearts for fun. We’ve all heard this before, but where in the world did this idea come from?
The 2004 production of the movie “Mean Girls” accurately portrays the popular stereotype of the modern day beautiful yet heartless woman. As far as I know, however, this woman is basically mythical. Never once, in all my eighteen and three quarters years, have I heard any girl say to another anything along the lines of, “I just found out that so-and-so likes me; I think I’ll string him along for a little while before chewing him up and spitting him out,” or seen one sitting back and relaxing with some book maliciously titled, “Manipulating Males for Fun and Profit.”
In fact, if they were to learn that a guy they knew was interested in them and after a while they found they didn’t return that interest, they would do absolutely everything in their power not to hurt his feelings. Why, then, do these girls have such disagreeable reputations? I found the answer in my freshman year of high school.
One of my best friends had found herself head over heels in love with a boy in our class. Little did I know that soon enough I would find myself up to my eyeballs in drama. Sure enough, the moment she began Operation ‘I Like You,’ I was strapped into an emotional rollercoaster that would last the rest of the year. She started with friendly conversation, then flirting, then hanging out, then Friday nights at the movies, then Prom, all to no avail. He still seemed to be blind to her advances. After months of desperation, she tossed subtlety to the winds and sent him a text informing him that she was in love with him and begging him to react. When this final act failed to force him into action, we decided that the only plausible conclusion was that he was simply a mean-hearted jerk who had been knowingly leading her on all year.
It still wasn’t until the next time that I heard the familiar dilemma, “I keep trying to let him know that I’m not interested, I’m giving him all the signs, but he just won’t get it! Boys are so dumb!” that it finally clicked. Our freshman heartbreaker hadn’t been leading her on at all; he had been doing everything he could to let her know that yes, he noticed her feelings and no, he didn’t feel that way at all. The only problem was that he had taken a leaf out of the official “How to be a Girl Handbook” and chosen subtlety as the best means to let her down easy. He had been giving her all the signs (avoiding eye contact, never beginning conversations, keeping other friends around at all times, etc), but she wasn’t getting it because they were so irrationally subtle!
Girls are so dumb.
The revelation that we nice girls created the mean girl stereotype through our efforts to avoid it was mind-boggling for me. People think we’re mean because we treat guys so indifferently for so long, which we do to try to let them down as easily as possible, which we do so people don’t think we’re mean girls. Life is cruel.
Since this lesson, I have adopted “Honesty is the best policy” as my motto. When an uninteresting guy seems interested, I avoid subtlety as much as is reasonable, and while there is still the occasional boy for whom “I want you to stop talking to me and following me around” still doesn’t quite get the message across, I’ve found a great deal more success with this route. I may very well have still developed a reputation for rudeness, but at least it’s because I have actually been rude on occasion and not because I’ve just been way too nice.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Eye of the Beholder
Beauty is one of the world’s most fluid concepts; I would say it’s right up there with “Right” and “Wrong.” Countless dollars and years of efforts have gone into discovering what beauty is and where the idea came from. I once read an article that was supposed to explain this very thing. As the author explained that the reason that men are statistically more attracted to blond women is because naturally blonde hair is generally exclusive to healthy young girls who are more fit for child bearing, I could see where he was coming from, but when he began explaining that blue eyed women are more attractive because lighter eyes make it easier to tell when the pupil dilates if she is beholding a loved one – that was about the point that the author lost all credibility with me.
Most of us have had the experience where we are confronted with some ancient, historical work of art that features an obscenely obese woman, only to be informed that extra weight in those days was an attractive trait as it was a sign of good health (and good child bearing chances). I, personally, find these figures to be butt ugly, but I do know many overweight women that I could call beautiful. For one example, the winner of last year’s season of “America’s Next Top Model” was the first plus-sized girl to ever win that competition. Another example would be my aunt Barbara. Barb is no model, but if asked, I would tell you that she is the more beautiful of these two examples. Upon first impression, the model will be the one to catch your eye, but after five minutes of conversation you’ll begin to notice the way that my aunt’s eyes sparkle, the way that her smile never leaves her face, the way she makes you feel intelligent and appreciated, and I’m willing to bet that after five whole minutes with the model you’d find that you’d rather have spent it with a photograph than face to face with the person.
Beauty cannot be restricted to merely that which is aesthetically pleasing; Beauty is everything that we find to be admirable, desirable, or pleasant. In other words, all good things are beautiful.
In any social group, you will sooner or later (most likely sooner) come across a knot of girls who are spending their time gossiping about that one girl that all the guys think is “Soo Hot” but is seriously lacking in the personality department, and you will probably hear one girl say something along the lines of, “And she’s not even that cute!” And then there’s the girl in everyone’s life who appears plain upon first acquaintance, but who you soon find is much more attractive than you originally gave her credit for. This same principle applies to men, and that principle is that people who treat others beautifully will appear beautiful to others.
Along these same lines, beautiful music does not necessarily have to be harmonic, melodic, or even well-written; it becomes beautiful when it means something to the listener. Some things that I could never bring myself to listen to will make someone else feel something deeply. I know this is true because otherwise Rap music would never have made it onto the radio.
In the art world, you may be moved by the elaborate painting of the beautiful woman in a flowering garden with her children, or you may find yourself drawn to the modern art. When I see a giant canvas with nothing on it but a red square on a blue background I think, ‘If people really buy this rubbish, why am I not a billionaire?” But someone else looking at the exact same thing will think, ‘That’s how I feel, an isolated speck of feeling in a cold, lonely world.’
Of all the places in the world that you can find beauty, the most beautiful to me will always be the people that become beautiful to you over time. That, and red squares on blue canvas.
Most of us have had the experience where we are confronted with some ancient, historical work of art that features an obscenely obese woman, only to be informed that extra weight in those days was an attractive trait as it was a sign of good health (and good child bearing chances). I, personally, find these figures to be butt ugly, but I do know many overweight women that I could call beautiful. For one example, the winner of last year’s season of “America’s Next Top Model” was the first plus-sized girl to ever win that competition. Another example would be my aunt Barbara. Barb is no model, but if asked, I would tell you that she is the more beautiful of these two examples. Upon first impression, the model will be the one to catch your eye, but after five minutes of conversation you’ll begin to notice the way that my aunt’s eyes sparkle, the way that her smile never leaves her face, the way she makes you feel intelligent and appreciated, and I’m willing to bet that after five whole minutes with the model you’d find that you’d rather have spent it with a photograph than face to face with the person.
Beauty cannot be restricted to merely that which is aesthetically pleasing; Beauty is everything that we find to be admirable, desirable, or pleasant. In other words, all good things are beautiful.
In any social group, you will sooner or later (most likely sooner) come across a knot of girls who are spending their time gossiping about that one girl that all the guys think is “Soo Hot” but is seriously lacking in the personality department, and you will probably hear one girl say something along the lines of, “And she’s not even that cute!” And then there’s the girl in everyone’s life who appears plain upon first acquaintance, but who you soon find is much more attractive than you originally gave her credit for. This same principle applies to men, and that principle is that people who treat others beautifully will appear beautiful to others.
Along these same lines, beautiful music does not necessarily have to be harmonic, melodic, or even well-written; it becomes beautiful when it means something to the listener. Some things that I could never bring myself to listen to will make someone else feel something deeply. I know this is true because otherwise Rap music would never have made it onto the radio.
In the art world, you may be moved by the elaborate painting of the beautiful woman in a flowering garden with her children, or you may find yourself drawn to the modern art. When I see a giant canvas with nothing on it but a red square on a blue background I think, ‘If people really buy this rubbish, why am I not a billionaire?” But someone else looking at the exact same thing will think, ‘That’s how I feel, an isolated speck of feeling in a cold, lonely world.’
Of all the places in the world that you can find beauty, the most beautiful to me will always be the people that become beautiful to you over time. That, and red squares on blue canvas.
My ex and I had a theme song, as many couples do, and that theme song was “Far Away” by Nickleback. The reason that we chose a song about distance rather than romance alone is because separation really has been a dominant theme throughout our relationship. His mission was the worst ten months of my life, and I wasn’t even waiting for him. My best friend happened to be officially waiting for a missionary at the same time, yet she seemed to have somehow escaped the depth of misery that had managed to swallow me up completely.
I remember when fall came that year and we both began our senior year of high school. We were both dressed to the nines and feeling good, prepared with our new school supplies, wardrobes, and an On Top of the World mentality. I had prepared for the coming school year by gluing pictures of my missionary into the insides of all of my notebooks, decorating the covers with poems he had written me, and buying up all the “I Heart My Missionary” memorabilia I could lay my hands on. I was fully prepared to begin spending every moment pining after my missionary.
My friend had prepared as well, but her preparations and mine differed enormously. She planned on pining, but she also planned on playing. From the moment they began orientation, she was peering around excitedly to begin documenting all the new or improved faces. By the end of the day she had a list of all the most attractive guys.
I was astounded. I had planned on dating people during my boyfriend’s absence, had even opened up to the possibility that some other guy might come along and sweep me off my feet, but I had never even considered actively seeking new relationships. I knew that she was just as much in love with her missionary as I was with mine, but she had somehow managed to put him behind her for the time being so that she could enjoy herself. I remember occasions where I would hear her pine after her missionary and the latest guy in the same breath. You would have been hard pressed to get me to even notice that there was a male in the room.
The only conclusion I felt I could draw form this was that I was a good, faithful girlfriend and that she had some serious personality defects. From an unbiased point of view, we’ll notice that she was happy and I was miserable. I was happy in my misery however, and my righteous indignation kept me going.
Some time into his mission, Elder Absent became very sick and was sent home a short while later. This was tragic, yet, in my mind, it was proof that God loved me and wanted me to be happy and sane. My friend’s missionary returned a few months after mine; shortly following, she and I both became engaged to said R.M.s. So, considering that the results of those long, long months were identical, we may find ourselves thinking that I was the one who missed out, that I could have enjoyed myself and still gotten the guy in the end. All I have to say is that anyone who thinks that has obviously never met the guys in my high school.
I remember when fall came that year and we both began our senior year of high school. We were both dressed to the nines and feeling good, prepared with our new school supplies, wardrobes, and an On Top of the World mentality. I had prepared for the coming school year by gluing pictures of my missionary into the insides of all of my notebooks, decorating the covers with poems he had written me, and buying up all the “I Heart My Missionary” memorabilia I could lay my hands on. I was fully prepared to begin spending every moment pining after my missionary.
My friend had prepared as well, but her preparations and mine differed enormously. She planned on pining, but she also planned on playing. From the moment they began orientation, she was peering around excitedly to begin documenting all the new or improved faces. By the end of the day she had a list of all the most attractive guys.
I was astounded. I had planned on dating people during my boyfriend’s absence, had even opened up to the possibility that some other guy might come along and sweep me off my feet, but I had never even considered actively seeking new relationships. I knew that she was just as much in love with her missionary as I was with mine, but she had somehow managed to put him behind her for the time being so that she could enjoy herself. I remember occasions where I would hear her pine after her missionary and the latest guy in the same breath. You would have been hard pressed to get me to even notice that there was a male in the room.
The only conclusion I felt I could draw form this was that I was a good, faithful girlfriend and that she had some serious personality defects. From an unbiased point of view, we’ll notice that she was happy and I was miserable. I was happy in my misery however, and my righteous indignation kept me going.
Some time into his mission, Elder Absent became very sick and was sent home a short while later. This was tragic, yet, in my mind, it was proof that God loved me and wanted me to be happy and sane. My friend’s missionary returned a few months after mine; shortly following, she and I both became engaged to said R.M.s. So, considering that the results of those long, long months were identical, we may find ourselves thinking that I was the one who missed out, that I could have enjoyed myself and still gotten the guy in the end. All I have to say is that anyone who thinks that has obviously never met the guys in my high school.
Monkey See Monkey Want to Be
Media in the past decade has had a vastly negative effect on women in America. Nearly every female targeted advertisement you see involves a woman who has been air-brushed to the point that she is simply inhumanly perfect. Deep down inside, we all know that even if we were to use that particular skin product for the rest of our natural lives, our skin still wouldn’t even remotely resemble the woman’s in the commercial, but now when we look in the mirror, the first thing we’re going to see is every spot and blemish we’ve acquired in all our years on this planet, and now we have a picture in our heads of what we would look like without them.
No one is completely immune to these effects. Whenever I find myself in the beauty products section of my friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart, I am surrounded by pictures of the effects that these products supposedly have, and I find myself holding out on the hope that if I simply bought the slightly more expensive brand of mascara, my lashes would look as silky and thick as the girl’s in the poster, even though I know perfectly well that the human body is totally incapable of growing that many eyelashes.
Jane Tallim informs us, “Digital manipulation is the foundation of the fashion and beauty industry, where air-brushed and digitally enhanced portrayals of ideal… female beauty promote standards of attractiveness that are impossible to achieve”
Now, suppose that a woman somehow becomes completely calloused to these advertisements; without making any effort to compete with the media’s “Every-day Woman,” how good are her chances of attracting a man who has had the exact same amount of exposure to pure, super-human beauty unless he also somehow manages to become completely immune to the visual expectations that he is bombarded with every day of his life?
The human race is more beautiful than it has ever been. Not only are beauty products more available, effective, and non-toxic than ever, the process of natural selection has caused us to develop into a largely attractive race. The more attractive you are, the more likely you are to reproduce. Hence, beautiful people marry each other and have beautiful babies. So why do eight million Americans have self-image based eating disorders? And why are only ten to fifteen percent of all cases of anorexia and bulimia male ?
It is because male fashion models don’t have a maximum weight requirement of 115 lbs, only to be slimmed down even further on the computer before being published.
When I was sixteen, I was accepted into the McCarty’s Talent Agency in Utah. I have always been slim for my height, but when I expressed an interest in modeling, I was weighed, measured, and then informed that I would have to grow two inches and lose ten pounds to become a high-fashion model.
This is a difficult time for the fairer sex. I no longer can allow myself to buy fashion magazines when I go grocery shopping. Not obsessing over my average face and body may be an uphill struggle, but I am not going to waste my time and energy competing with something that doesn’t exist.
No one is completely immune to these effects. Whenever I find myself in the beauty products section of my friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart, I am surrounded by pictures of the effects that these products supposedly have, and I find myself holding out on the hope that if I simply bought the slightly more expensive brand of mascara, my lashes would look as silky and thick as the girl’s in the poster, even though I know perfectly well that the human body is totally incapable of growing that many eyelashes.
Jane Tallim informs us, “Digital manipulation is the foundation of the fashion and beauty industry, where air-brushed and digitally enhanced portrayals of ideal… female beauty promote standards of attractiveness that are impossible to achieve”
Now, suppose that a woman somehow becomes completely calloused to these advertisements; without making any effort to compete with the media’s “Every-day Woman,” how good are her chances of attracting a man who has had the exact same amount of exposure to pure, super-human beauty unless he also somehow manages to become completely immune to the visual expectations that he is bombarded with every day of his life?
The human race is more beautiful than it has ever been. Not only are beauty products more available, effective, and non-toxic than ever, the process of natural selection has caused us to develop into a largely attractive race. The more attractive you are, the more likely you are to reproduce. Hence, beautiful people marry each other and have beautiful babies. So why do eight million Americans have self-image based eating disorders? And why are only ten to fifteen percent of all cases of anorexia and bulimia male ?
It is because male fashion models don’t have a maximum weight requirement of 115 lbs, only to be slimmed down even further on the computer before being published.
When I was sixteen, I was accepted into the McCarty’s Talent Agency in Utah. I have always been slim for my height, but when I expressed an interest in modeling, I was weighed, measured, and then informed that I would have to grow two inches and lose ten pounds to become a high-fashion model.
This is a difficult time for the fairer sex. I no longer can allow myself to buy fashion magazines when I go grocery shopping. Not obsessing over my average face and body may be an uphill struggle, but I am not going to waste my time and energy competing with something that doesn’t exist.
"Besame"
Growing up I had the great fortune of being in a family that could afford to travel. My father had served his mission for the LDS Church in Germany and was anxious to show us the ropes. It was during this trip that I began the tradition of learning at least one new phrase in a foreign language every time I left the country. I learned how to say, “Cream of mushroom soup,” “Those Americans - they fight like women,” and, “I don’t speak German,” in German. Random phrases, however, are not at all the only things I’ve learned from these trips.
In the summer of 2008 I embarked on what would be the last vacation paid for by my parents before I began my life as an independent adult. We would go to Cancun, Mexico with a group sponsored by my high school; the trip would include all of the normal escapes to beaches and ruins, but the majority of it would be spent far from Aztec remains and wide expanses of sea and sky.
I got to spend my final free vacation working in Orphanages and Soup Kitchens. Every morning my family, my roommates and I woke up early to make ourselves look as beautiful as was reasonable before choking down something unrecognizable and climbing onto the bus for the long drive to wherever we were going that day. As soon as we arrived, we parted ways for the day. My dad and my little sister went to the orphanage, usually to do paintwork or assemble the new playground toys that we had bought them. My mom split her days between the Orphanage and the Soup Kitchen; she spent her time giving haircuts and so went wherever she was needed most. I went to the Soup Kitchen. I was a Dental Assistant, but only in the basest sense of the term. I assisted the dentists by means of washing the blood off the instruments and reloading the needles for shots. On occasion they had need of a few extra hands to hold down the latest child, or even adult, who seriously needed extreme dental work and desperately wanted anything else.
I wasn’t able to work in an orphanage until the day before we left. I spent all of that morning painting around windows, but eventually my break came and I could at last spend some time with the children. I had been looking forward to this chance all week, but when it came right down to it I realized that the language barrier did nothing to quell my natural awkwardness with children. I joined a group of friends who were speaking excitedly into a cluster of small, round faces and grabbed a hold of a student I recognized who spoke Spanish fluently.
“Tell me something I can say to them,” I begged.
Paul looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied, “Tell them, ‘Besame.’”
“Bay-sa-may?”
He nodded. I turned back to the tiny eager faces and held my breath, waiting for some kind of Divine intervention. It took the form of a little boy who had the courage to walk up to me with a small smile on his face. I knew enough Spanish to understand when he introduced himself and to convey my own name; then out of my mouth came tumbling, “Besame amigo.”
The little boy placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed down until we were at eye level, and then he leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to my cheek. Before I could recover the little boy grinned shyly and retreated back into the larger group of orphans, and voices began calling out that it was time to board the buses for the final time.
“Paul!” I shouted.
The boy I’d spoken to a minute before turned toward me.
“What does ‘Besame’ mean?”
“It means ‘Kiss me,’” He responded with a grin. I turned from my group and ran back to the small group of children. Quickly finding the boy I was looking for, I pulled him into a tight hug before planting a kiss firmly on his cheek.
“Adios,” he said, smiling widely.
“Adios.”
As I pondered these few short moments during the short walk to the buses and the much longer flight back home, I decided that the so-called “Language Barrier” has a number of loopholes. Love is a universal language, and if I can ask for a kiss and directions to the bathroom, I’ll survive. All I need to learn now is the Spanish translation for “Cream of mushroom soup.”
In the summer of 2008 I embarked on what would be the last vacation paid for by my parents before I began my life as an independent adult. We would go to Cancun, Mexico with a group sponsored by my high school; the trip would include all of the normal escapes to beaches and ruins, but the majority of it would be spent far from Aztec remains and wide expanses of sea and sky.
I got to spend my final free vacation working in Orphanages and Soup Kitchens. Every morning my family, my roommates and I woke up early to make ourselves look as beautiful as was reasonable before choking down something unrecognizable and climbing onto the bus for the long drive to wherever we were going that day. As soon as we arrived, we parted ways for the day. My dad and my little sister went to the orphanage, usually to do paintwork or assemble the new playground toys that we had bought them. My mom split her days between the Orphanage and the Soup Kitchen; she spent her time giving haircuts and so went wherever she was needed most. I went to the Soup Kitchen. I was a Dental Assistant, but only in the basest sense of the term. I assisted the dentists by means of washing the blood off the instruments and reloading the needles for shots. On occasion they had need of a few extra hands to hold down the latest child, or even adult, who seriously needed extreme dental work and desperately wanted anything else.
I wasn’t able to work in an orphanage until the day before we left. I spent all of that morning painting around windows, but eventually my break came and I could at last spend some time with the children. I had been looking forward to this chance all week, but when it came right down to it I realized that the language barrier did nothing to quell my natural awkwardness with children. I joined a group of friends who were speaking excitedly into a cluster of small, round faces and grabbed a hold of a student I recognized who spoke Spanish fluently.
“Tell me something I can say to them,” I begged.
Paul looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied, “Tell them, ‘Besame.’”
“Bay-sa-may?”
He nodded. I turned back to the tiny eager faces and held my breath, waiting for some kind of Divine intervention. It took the form of a little boy who had the courage to walk up to me with a small smile on his face. I knew enough Spanish to understand when he introduced himself and to convey my own name; then out of my mouth came tumbling, “Besame amigo.”
The little boy placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed down until we were at eye level, and then he leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to my cheek. Before I could recover the little boy grinned shyly and retreated back into the larger group of orphans, and voices began calling out that it was time to board the buses for the final time.
“Paul!” I shouted.
The boy I’d spoken to a minute before turned toward me.
“What does ‘Besame’ mean?”
“It means ‘Kiss me,’” He responded with a grin. I turned from my group and ran back to the small group of children. Quickly finding the boy I was looking for, I pulled him into a tight hug before planting a kiss firmly on his cheek.
“Adios,” he said, smiling widely.
“Adios.”
As I pondered these few short moments during the short walk to the buses and the much longer flight back home, I decided that the so-called “Language Barrier” has a number of loopholes. Love is a universal language, and if I can ask for a kiss and directions to the bathroom, I’ll survive. All I need to learn now is the Spanish translation for “Cream of mushroom soup.”
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Choices
I stare at the heap of old, greasy looking french fries stacked high on the plate in front of me and nervously brush the crumbs off my fingers as I consider the question I've been asked. I glance around the restaurant, briefly skimming over the cheesy western decor and the old men chatting with the saggy waitresses in their dirty wife beaters; it's all just too cliche.
This is in American Fork? I think.
My brief scan ends at a pair of ice-blue eyes still looking into mine, staring with the kind of intensity I'd all but forgotten they were capable of. A reminder that he is still waiting for me to answer his question.
Why did we break up?
As I reconsider the question, the irony of the sudden role reversal silences me. It takes me back to another beautiful, sunny day in another restaurant where we sat across the table from each other, just like this, and I stared into his eyes, and I nervously brushed the crumbs from my fingers, and I asked him, why did we break up?
And I looked into his blue eyes, certain that he could see that I was dying inside, that my whole life was crumbling. And he sat there and looked at me, with pity in his eyes.
Now I'm looking at him, that same question hanging in the silence between us.
I can see that he is dying inside, that his whole life is crumbling.
I look at him, and I have nothing to say. Nothing, but what he had said to me.
I don't know.
I don't know, I say, but it's right.
His pained blue eyes finally release me from their hold. I notice that I have gotten crumbs on my fingers again. I brush them off. I pick up the sandwich on my plate, reconsider, then put it back down. I have crumbs on my fingers.
Now he wants to know where we stand with each other. It's a valid concern, I think. Yes, darling. Let's determine the relationship, one last time. For old time's sake, shall we?
brush, brush, brush,
Should we still see each other? Should we still call, text, email? He says he can tell that I don't want to see him any more. I tell him that I couldn't begin to heal until I learned to let go.
I don't know which will hurt worse, he says.
Giving you up now, or losing you bit by bit, watching you slowly pull away from me.
We hold each others gaze, him seeking reassurance, both of us knowing that I can't give it. Choose the one that hurts the shortest, I tell him.
He sits next to me, a thousand miles away, falling apart at the seems, staring at his hands. I stare at his eyes. Our first baby was going to be a little girl, named Alice. She was going to have light, curly hair and her daddy's eyes; that same, piercing ice blue...
Look away. Breathe in. Breathe out. Brush the crumbs off your fingers.
So this is the last time we will see each other.
Yes.
A pause.
I should probably go now.
I stand up to see him out. He asks if he can hug me. I answer by wrapping my arms around him, one last time. It's the familiar embrace that has communicated all our goodbyes, hellos, and in-betweens for years.
We cling to each other. A minute passes. The other diners politely avert their eyes from the scene taking place amidst them. I don't let go; I want him to be able to know that in the very end, when it came right down to it, he was the one to let go, to take the first step into the rest of his life without us. Two minutes pass. I lose track of time. I let go.
As I pull away, I plant a single kiss on the side of his face. He gently turns my face with his hand, and places a single chaste kiss on my own, tear-stained cheek.
I will always love you, he whispers in my ear.
Nothing will ever change that.
....................................................................................................................................................
I lay across the grass. I can see the sun through my eyelids. I can feel it drying my face, warming me, lighting the world and bringing the earth back to life.
And I know that, for once, I made the choice that would hurt the shortest.
This is in American Fork? I think.
My brief scan ends at a pair of ice-blue eyes still looking into mine, staring with the kind of intensity I'd all but forgotten they were capable of. A reminder that he is still waiting for me to answer his question.
Why did we break up?
As I reconsider the question, the irony of the sudden role reversal silences me. It takes me back to another beautiful, sunny day in another restaurant where we sat across the table from each other, just like this, and I stared into his eyes, and I nervously brushed the crumbs from my fingers, and I asked him, why did we break up?
And I looked into his blue eyes, certain that he could see that I was dying inside, that my whole life was crumbling. And he sat there and looked at me, with pity in his eyes.
Now I'm looking at him, that same question hanging in the silence between us.
I can see that he is dying inside, that his whole life is crumbling.
I look at him, and I have nothing to say. Nothing, but what he had said to me.
I don't know.
I don't know, I say, but it's right.
His pained blue eyes finally release me from their hold. I notice that I have gotten crumbs on my fingers again. I brush them off. I pick up the sandwich on my plate, reconsider, then put it back down. I have crumbs on my fingers.
Now he wants to know where we stand with each other. It's a valid concern, I think. Yes, darling. Let's determine the relationship, one last time. For old time's sake, shall we?
brush, brush, brush,
Should we still see each other? Should we still call, text, email? He says he can tell that I don't want to see him any more. I tell him that I couldn't begin to heal until I learned to let go.
I don't know which will hurt worse, he says.
Giving you up now, or losing you bit by bit, watching you slowly pull away from me.
We hold each others gaze, him seeking reassurance, both of us knowing that I can't give it. Choose the one that hurts the shortest, I tell him.
He sits next to me, a thousand miles away, falling apart at the seems, staring at his hands. I stare at his eyes. Our first baby was going to be a little girl, named Alice. She was going to have light, curly hair and her daddy's eyes; that same, piercing ice blue...
Look away. Breathe in. Breathe out. Brush the crumbs off your fingers.
So this is the last time we will see each other.
Yes.
A pause.
I should probably go now.
I stand up to see him out. He asks if he can hug me. I answer by wrapping my arms around him, one last time. It's the familiar embrace that has communicated all our goodbyes, hellos, and in-betweens for years.
We cling to each other. A minute passes. The other diners politely avert their eyes from the scene taking place amidst them. I don't let go; I want him to be able to know that in the very end, when it came right down to it, he was the one to let go, to take the first step into the rest of his life without us. Two minutes pass. I lose track of time. I let go.
As I pull away, I plant a single kiss on the side of his face. He gently turns my face with his hand, and places a single chaste kiss on my own, tear-stained cheek.
I will always love you, he whispers in my ear.
Nothing will ever change that.
....................................................................................................................................................
I lay across the grass. I can see the sun through my eyelids. I can feel it drying my face, warming me, lighting the world and bringing the earth back to life.
And I know that, for once, I made the choice that would hurt the shortest.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)