Saturday, 20th September 2003, 7:22pm
An opinion by:
Noemi
How Insensitive I Must Have Seemed... by Noemi LoPinto
So, I was re-reading my diary the other day. The last entry, was in March 2003. It read something like this: moan, whine, snivel, moan, complain, and sigh. In essence, what I was complaining about was how much I still missed my Ex. For those who didn't know, my last boyfriend died in the spring of 2002, having choked to death on the unabridged version of Gulliver's Travels. I was really upset at the time. I didn't even know he liked Swift.
Anyway, my emotional state has improved dramatically since the break-up, and I am happy to see that I have even improved since March. The memory of the Ex no longer inspires hand-wringing and breast beating. Mostly, I feel grossed out that I loved a weenie so passionately, and for so very long. After reading the diary entry with some disgust, I decided to make up a list of the attributes of the man I would like to meet , marry, and spawn with at some future date. The list went like this, in order of importance:
#1) Employed.
Then came Productive, Responsible, Mature, Loving, Open-minded, Outgoing, Comfortable in his own skin, Experienced, and Educated. In review, I realised I have progressed somewhere down the line, because nowhere on my list was Sensitive.
This is significant, because as recent as five years ago, Sensitive would have been first on my list. In fact, in the old days, the list might very well have started with it, and then followed with a bunch of synonyms like Tender, Earnest, Sentimental, or Romantic.
I have finally figured out that, basically, all human beings are sensitive. Touch them and they will flinch or coo. If you prick them, they will etc etc. All men have insecurities, weak points, unpublished poetry, the little child trapped inside them bla bla bla bla bla... What I want now is someone who can share the rent. Fix the goddamn plumbing. Scare away the Jehova's Witnesses. Do the dishes. Protect me and my brood. Feed themselves. Go buy milk.
These kinds of thoughts would be anathema to the budding young feminist that I was at seventeen. I was looking for someone who would never hurt me, and I thought someone who cried during the sad parts in movies would most likely never do so. I liked dreamers. Insecure guys who could talk about their feelings. Hah. That's a laugh, I tell my younger, naive self. It's the sensitive ones who will kill you in your sleep. (Or failing that, age you prematurely).
My first boyfriend was probaby the most delicate person I have ever met, and he loved to talk. He talked about about his mother, his father, his brother, his grandmother, his religion, his history, and his God. Something would hurt him, and he never forgot about it. His first impression was his last impression, even if he was four at the time. In fact, he talked about being four years old with a breadth of understanding and color that amazed me. I thought he was perfect. He always looked deep inside himself and tried to fix what was broken. But there is still a lot that is broken, and he still talks about when he was four years old. By the end of our time together I had a perpetual headache and a rash on my chin from being on the phone all night. Fights lasted for days, but I never had the pleasure of the silent treatment. He couldn't have imposed silence on me if his life depended on it. He wanted to talk about the reason for the fight, the fight itself, the underlying reasons for fighting in general, and then eventually we would move on to his mother, his father, his grandmother, his religion, his history and his God. We began our courtship on the phone, and ended it on the phone--his number is currently blocked on my home line.
Boyfriend #2 couldn't have looked inside himself if you gave him a map, a flashlight and a latex glove. He was more macho than #1, and lousy at self-analysis. But he was still sensitive. He would cry sometimes without knowing why. His moods dictated his every move. He ate, slept and shat feelings. He was sad, horny, and happy all within the space of a few hours. There were some beautiful moments spent together, getting up to watch the rapturous sunrise, having lots of ecstatic sex, talking to trees (I'm not kidding), and then getting dumped with exquisite speed, and for no apparent reason other than he "felt different". I should have known, but then we always say that.
Boyfriend #3 is the one who died of a literature overdose. Just kidding. He broke up with me by e-mail and ate a lot of comfort food. When I next saw him he had gained twenty pounds and was contemplating an exciting career delivering beer. He was a good talker, and would have been good at self-analysis if he wasn't part armadillo, part ostrich. Every once in a while I would push his limits and talk about "us" or the "future", and he would shut down and become as remote and blank as a hospital wall. He would disappear for a few days. No calls, no explanation. I imagine he would go for long melancholy walks and not think about things. And then some niggling instinct, some voice from the murky depths would compell him to call me and we would start all over again.
So "sensitive" can go fuck itself. I have done some dating in the last year, and found myself with varying levels of Mr Wrong. But at least I never fell in love with any of them. There was the Vancouverite who liked to cuddle in bed with his head on my shoulder and my arm protectively around him, which made me feel like his Mommy. There was a Morrocan, who once ate peanuts and forgot a few crumbs on the side of his mouth. He came forward to kiss me and I was too fascinated by the encroaching remnants to stop him. When I "broke up" with him, he crank-called me for two months. There was the Romanian Gypsy who has a scarred dick, from when he was in the Romanian army. He was bored, so he and his army buddies decided to put nails through the heads of their penises on a lark. There was the Irishman who liked to feel my ass by giving me a piggy-back. There was the muslim North African, who on the surface looked nice and strong, but once he was under my roof, he became a giant, hairy, smelly, spider-legged baby--albeit a baby who smoked and had bodacious foot odor. And then there was the Algerian taxi driver who was so eager to kiss me, he ate my cold sore.
I have a theory about patriarchal societies now, thanks to my experience with the North African guy. I think the patriarchy doesn't build the chauvinistic, dominant, opinionated alpha-males you see on the news blowing up small villages every night. It creates helpless Momma's boys who can't cook, don't know how to wipe down a counter properly and need food served to them. When they fix the plumbing, or some other such alpha-male like task, they leave such a bloody mess behind you wish you'd done it yourself. No wonder they go out and ruin the world. They can't even handle breakfast.
So finding the perfect balance between Alpha-Male and Whining Eunuch has been hard. But one thing I am sure about: the next guy will have a job, goddamn it. He'll have skills other than talking, crying or dreaming. I used to believe I would never find someone, that I was too special, or too crazy. But now I have seen plenty of nutsos shack up and it has given me hope, and a sense of leverage. If they can do it, I can do it. And now that I know that, I have come armed with a list of demands.
later,
N
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