Out of everyone in the whole world, my mother knows me best.
She knows my likes, my fears, the way coffee ice cream gives me nightmares if I eat it before bed.
She knows my temper and what will make me lose it. What I value, what I don’t, what to expect when I say “Oh, sure I’ll take out the trash.”
And more importantly what not to expect.
She does not like the guys I date, and is quite convinced that she can do better. The people averse to this, of course, being the guys I date.
“I put you up on some websites, dear.”
“Mom, I have a boyfriend.”
“Right, and he looks like fun, so after he breaks up with you you can meet these nice young gentleman!”
“We’re not breaking up.”
“Look at this one’s profile! He went to Columbia! He’s going to be a doctor. Didn’t you always say you wanted to marry a doctor?”
“No, that was you, Mom. You wanted me to marry a doctor.”
“Oh, right. Well now’s your chance!”
She wanted me to have a matchmaker so she made me a profile on a JRetroMatch, the jewish matchmaking site, and then she signed up for something called Date My Single Kid, which is part of Faboverfifty.com. It’s a site that allows her to act as my personal matchmaker.
This could work because my mother does know me very well, but it might also fail because my mother and I have very different taste in men. I like guys who have kind eyes, like the same music I do, and who watch foreign films without complaining. She likes guys who ask her if she’s my sister.
Only once did I ever agree to date someone my mother set me up with. I called him to hear the four words you never want to hear a 35 year old man say:
“Mom, it’s for me.”
Living with his mother. Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental. After all, I lived with my mom once. Maybe this didn’t mean he wasn’t financially stable. Maybe she’s just really good at cooking. Maybe he could move out of the house, into a giant mansion with a pool (most likely), and he just chooses not to because his Mom is a great room mate. Maybe it’s just like a fun Odd Couple situation. I have no idea. But I knew after that I would most likely not be going out with this guy.
I’m really awful at breaking up with people. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I feel it should just be quick and painless, like a band-aid. Or maybe casual so they won’t notice. I like to think maybe I can just slip it into conversation;
“Hey, how did you like that dinner? Yea, I thought it was good too. By the way, we should see other people. I hear the desserts here are excellent. You should come back and try them. With someone else. Did you watch the World Cup??”
I feel like if I do it casually and then change the subject fairly quickly they won’t notice anything about the relationship has changed. I mean, sure we can’t kiss or hold hands anymore, but hey…I’m not that great at holding hands anyway. I get sweaty palms.
Unfortunately people usually notice when I’ve broken up with them. Sure, we talked about the World Cup for a good five minutes beforehand (He was rooting for Spain all along), but eventually he changed the subject back.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Nah, I think it’ll be fine. You’ll move on, I’ll move on…Good times all around.”
So yes…I really suck at breaking up with people. But hey, he wasn’t Jewish. It was never meant to be. Thank goodness now there’s a way I can hire someone to do it for me.
It’s called iDump4U. Not only is it useful, but wildly entertaining.
I can actually hire someone to break up with people for me. This is good because I don’t have to deal with it anymore, but bad because now I want to break up with everyone.
Even people I really like.
Even people I’m not actually dating.
I just want to break up with everyone (but stay on speaking terms of course.)
Or at least that’s what I told my Grandma, but she has jealousy issues so we’ll see.
I think I might have a boyfriend.
I only suspect this because he says very nice things to me, frequently inquires as to what I’m doing, and often times pays for my food.
And I think I might like him because I don’t particularly mind it.
I am very hesitant about entering into relationships.
There are things I like about being single. I like silly dancing in the morning time when I put on the radio, I like watching whatever I want on tv, eating at whatever time I please, going out with my friends without feeling like it’s pointless, and farting.
I like farting. They’re like little pockets of air saying hello and letting me know that things are working. Plus it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. He hasn’t figured out that women do that yet. I feel like it’s inevitable that he’s going to find out eventually. I’ve been good about it so far but one day I know I’ll mess up. One day I’ll think it will be silent and it isn’t, or I just can’t find an excuse to walk away fast enough, or it’ll happen in my sleep.
Boy came to visit. He was staying with me in my tiny New York apartment. Living together. Every second spent together, I was being watched like a hawk. One morning I left and escaped to the bathroom without saying anything. I returned to find Boy standing there.
“What took you so long?”
I was pooping. It was clear that I was pooping. But I couldn’t say that.
It’s a lot of pressure to be a woman. There’s a lot of pretending to be perfect going on. There’s makeup, and hair straightening, and pretending like you only go to the bathroom to gossip, fix your makeup, or snort cocaine. That’s why there’s couches in women’s bathrooms but never in men’s. Men usually build the bathrooms. They probably just assume the stalls are there for decoration.
And who am I to tell them they’re wrong?
Some day a woman much stronger than I will tell people she poops. Perhaps it will be Oprah, or Hilary Clinton. She will stand up, and proudly say that she feels repressed by society’s female sexual objectification, and that everyone should know that she poops. She will be a hero. But it will not be me.
There’s a book called “Everybody Poops.”
It’s a kids book about how everyone poops.
Birds poop and bears poop. Mice poop and bugs poop. Barack Obama poops. But women do not poop. We just dissipate all of our waste into Mel Gibson. And that’s why he’s full of it.
I like a boy.
We talked about it. It was deep.
“….I really like you.”
“I like you too.”
“…I don’t usually like people this much.”
“Yea, me either.”
Love is a very innocent feeling, and all the great authors and poets will stack words upon words of embellishment and eloquence on top of it, trying to explain it, trying so hard to relate it, but it’s really very simple. I like you. A whole lot.
I tried to explain to my friends how in love I am.
“I’m very happy.”
“No, but you don’t understand. I’m like, very very happy.”
“Yes, I see that, that’s wonderful.”
“I’m not sure anyone else has ever been this happy before. I’m not so sure you can understand.”
“I totally get that you’re happy. I’ve been happy too. And I’m happy for you.”
“Right, but…You should probably be jealous.”
It’s intense. You can’t imagine anyone else can possibly relate to what you’re going through. You’re on another level, in another place, and everyone else is just little ants in a faraway land of mediocrity and normal adrenaline levels.
Everything Significant Other is doing is the best thing they could ever possibly be doing.
“S0metimes he’ll just sit there and ignore me.”
“Oh man, that’s awful.”
“No, but I love that. I hate when guys pay too much attention to me. It’s so annoying. They just love me all the time and it’s like ‘Umm…Can you please stop?’ It’s like he gets me. Sometimes when we fight he’ll just pick me up and carry me out of the house. It’s so romantic. Until he leaves me there alone. But our relationship is just so special. You wouldn’t understand.”
“It certainly is.”
His eyes are like these big dark gorgeous pools of seduction. Sometimes I just stare at them, mesmerized.
He notices and gets uncomfortable.
“Oh, nothing. I was just, uh, you have something in your eye.”
Yes. The ability to make me fall madly in love with you.
“Yea I think it’s like an eyelash or something.”
He rubs them in an effort to get it out.
Okay, so he’s not my ideal match. He’s into sports and going to the beach. I’m a homebody who likes art. We constantly run out of things to talk about, and usually resort to topics such as listing everything we did that day and discussing at length what we had for dinner.
“It was a sandwich.”
“What was in the sandwich?”
“Yea, I was out of jelly.”
But I mean, how important is compatibility really? I like being with him. I like the way he makes me feel and the cute things he says. He likes that we’re so different; he thinks it will cause us to improve one another, and I suppose he’s right. I’ve started eating healthier and going to the gym. He’s started reading more.
And if we ever need something to talk about I can just start putting more things in my sandwiches.
I am studying abroad for 4 months.
He wants to take things long distance.
I don’t. I hate long distance. My last relationship went long distance. It started out strong and then disintegrated into different lives and text messages of hollow I-Love-You’s and I-Miss-You’s.
There was no longer any substance or connection.
So I said no more long distance relationships.
….But I still really like him. A lot. In that “I-never-thought-I-could-ever-find-anyone-like-you-and-up-until-this-point-was-completely-convinced-I-might-never-love-again” kind of way. You know the one. Where you’re even shocking yourself by how much you like someone.
So here are my options:
1) Stay together and risk the relationship completely decomposing until we both lose interest and find other people
2) Break up and risk not getting back together when I come back home
There is no third option.
Timing can be your best friend and your worst enemy. It brought us together and then it took us right back apart.
What to do, what to do…
Only time will tell. But in the meantime it’s so good at keeping secrets.