She was scared now. It wasn't because someone was outside of her window. Nor was it because she received threatening phone calls or letters. It wasn't even because of the odd neighbor who liked to bang on her door every so often to give her free coupons.
No, what frightened her was the fact that she might actually like the Guy.
She had fooled herself into thinking he liked her more, that she was in control, that she had all the power. So much hubris. So little to back it up.
Of course, she could never admit this to anyone, except maybe to a bunch of random readers of her blog.
And then all of this struck her as particularly odd. Realizing one's genuine feelings for someone should be a liberating and joyous moment, especially if one is already dating that person. Yet for some reason, it scared her. She felt insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
There was more at stake now. This wasn't just a passing amusing fancy. These were her feelings she was dealing with now, her pride, and most of all, her heart.
"Damn," she thought to herself. Sometimes she hated being so ... human.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Weird dreams
Uh, what does it mean if you're having dreams about the guy you're dating... except in the dream, it's not the guy, it's your boss? And it's not just your boss's head on the guy, it's like the boss is YOUR GUY, except the arguments you're having with the boss are the arguments you'd have with your guy.
Yeah, it doesn't make sense to me either.
Yeah, it doesn't make sense to me either.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
The Guy and the girls
Despite my reservations, I am still seeing the Guy. Am still semi-skeptical as to long-term potential. I suspect that he has discerned my nonchalant attitude, given two recent incidents:
Incident 1) We were just chilling when he mentioned his night out with the guys. Then he volunteers this anecdote on how a girl at a bar hit on him and wanted to go home with him.
"Wow, that's flattering," I said. Out of curiosity, I asked "What was she on a scale of 1 to 10?"
Without hesitation, he replied, "A seven." Given that 10 is supermodel, and 9 is beautiful actress, a 7 is pretty good.
"Wow, she must've been pretty hot. Why didn't you just hang out with her?"
"Well, I'm in something now ['something'? What is this 'something'?] and I'm happy in it so I wasn't interested."
Incident 2) We were having dinner when he told me about his weekend away. He then happened to mention how a waitress hit on him, and then some other staff woman hit on him. I said, "You are getting hit on left and right. That must be flattering." Then he laughs it off.
---
So I'm wondering why the Guy feels the need to report to me every incident of every girl who is interested in him. I surely don't do the same for him, nor do I feel obligated to. Is he particularly honorable? Or perhaps he is genuinely sharing these stories with me the way I might talk about a bum I saw on the street with his monkey. Are these juvenile attempts to make me jealous? Does he sense my commitment-hesitation? Maybe he just needs his ego stroked?
The Naysayer asked why this was "bothering" me, which I assured him it wasn't. I suppose if it was 0% on my radar, I wouldn't be blogging about it. I guess I'm just really curious (and bored).
Anyways, the next time he brags about yet another girl who hits on him, I'll say "You should totally go out with her. It might be fun!" And if I'm feeling particularly obnoxious, I'll add, "Who knows? The sex might be good." That, or "You never know, she might be the One."
Incident 1) We were just chilling when he mentioned his night out with the guys. Then he volunteers this anecdote on how a girl at a bar hit on him and wanted to go home with him.
"Wow, that's flattering," I said. Out of curiosity, I asked "What was she on a scale of 1 to 10?"
Without hesitation, he replied, "A seven." Given that 10 is supermodel, and 9 is beautiful actress, a 7 is pretty good.
"Wow, she must've been pretty hot. Why didn't you just hang out with her?"
"Well, I'm in something now ['something'? What is this 'something'?] and I'm happy in it so I wasn't interested."
Incident 2) We were having dinner when he told me about his weekend away. He then happened to mention how a waitress hit on him, and then some other staff woman hit on him. I said, "You are getting hit on left and right. That must be flattering." Then he laughs it off.
---
So I'm wondering why the Guy feels the need to report to me every incident of every girl who is interested in him. I surely don't do the same for him, nor do I feel obligated to. Is he particularly honorable? Or perhaps he is genuinely sharing these stories with me the way I might talk about a bum I saw on the street with his monkey. Are these juvenile attempts to make me jealous? Does he sense my commitment-hesitation? Maybe he just needs his ego stroked?
The Naysayer asked why this was "bothering" me, which I assured him it wasn't. I suppose if it was 0% on my radar, I wouldn't be blogging about it. I guess I'm just really curious (and bored).
Anyways, the next time he brags about yet another girl who hits on him, I'll say "You should totally go out with her. It might be fun!" And if I'm feeling particularly obnoxious, I'll add, "Who knows? The sex might be good." That, or "You never know, she might be the One."
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Hah.
After posting my below entry, I contacted the tenant to express interest in the apartment. She informed me that the person who saw it fifteen minutes after me already contacted the landlord and is now "holding" the apartment.
Ah, the lessons to be learned from random events.
Ah, the lessons to be learned from random events.
To make a choice
I am looking for a new apartment. I just visited my first potential apartment this evening and I really liked it. There were a few little things that piqued my concern, e.g. paying extra for gas, having to buy AC units, etc. But it was a lovely place in a lovely location at a solid price.
However it was the first apartment I looked at. I know it's a great deal, but I can't help but think maybe there's a better apartment out there at an equal price, or an equal apartment at a better price. Maybe I should look around more.
Then I realized something: This is exactly how I treat every aspect of my life, from guys to jobs. I always think maybe there's someone or something better out there. Maybe I'm settling for what I have and can do better. Everyone wants to maximize their happiness at the least amount of cost and risk to themselves. How do we foresee the future? How do we know anything for sure? Every decision we make seems to involve some risk, some chance for failure and misery. And that thought is so terrifying to me that it makes me hesitate before making a choice.
So the saying goes "he who hesitates is lost." If I wait too long before deciding, then I lose the apartment. And if I find nothing better, then I'll be kicking myself for letting it go. Yet "haste makes waste." If I decide on this apartment and then find a better one later on, I'd kick myself just as hard. What's a gal to do?
Of course I know I shouldn't let my fears paralyze me from making choices. And sometimes I have to have a little faith that things will work out in the end. Even if it is a little scary.
However it was the first apartment I looked at. I know it's a great deal, but I can't help but think maybe there's a better apartment out there at an equal price, or an equal apartment at a better price. Maybe I should look around more.
Then I realized something: This is exactly how I treat every aspect of my life, from guys to jobs. I always think maybe there's someone or something better out there. Maybe I'm settling for what I have and can do better. Everyone wants to maximize their happiness at the least amount of cost and risk to themselves. How do we foresee the future? How do we know anything for sure? Every decision we make seems to involve some risk, some chance for failure and misery. And that thought is so terrifying to me that it makes me hesitate before making a choice.
So the saying goes "he who hesitates is lost." If I wait too long before deciding, then I lose the apartment. And if I find nothing better, then I'll be kicking myself for letting it go. Yet "haste makes waste." If I decide on this apartment and then find a better one later on, I'd kick myself just as hard. What's a gal to do?
Of course I know I shouldn't let my fears paralyze me from making choices. And sometimes I have to have a little faith that things will work out in the end. Even if it is a little scary.
Monday, March 27, 2006
The city girl
She was a city girl. And so she liked city boys. There were the born-and-bred-here guys who were reared by urban professionals and soon to become the same. There were the born-and-raised-here fellas who grew up in the tougher areas, prided themselves on their blue collar upbringing and supported themselves through college. There were the metrosexuals, paragons of grooming, fashion and accessorizing. And there were the transplants, guys who moved to the city from the suburbs or other cities.
City boys. She liked them all. She dated them all.
And so it was peculiar when one night, she happened to meet a certain country boy at a certain city bar. He grew up in a small town in the southern part of a Midwestern state. He was tall with light blonde hair and light blue eyes, unpretentious and almost uncomfortably charming. And he spoke with a slight drawl. The way his words slowly formed on his lips, comfortable and easy, made her want to curl up into one of his sentences and just lie there in his drawl.
He was walking her home that night after dining on fine cheese pizza when she turned to him and asked "You know you have a drawl, right?"
"Yes, I know," he said smiling.
They stopped in front of her house and he looked at her with a half smile. She smiled back. He leaned forward and she closed her eyes when he kissed her.
She rarely rated kisses. In fact she rarely rated guys on anything. But this kiss, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being absolutely dreadful and 10 being absolutely perfect, was a 9.5. Maybe a 9.6. His kiss was like him, disarming and irresistible.
When their lips parted, he looked at her and placed his hand on her cheek. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. "What?" she said.
"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked holding her face. Had this come from a city guy, she would have rolled her eyes and mocked him. But his soft drawl made it sound perfect and she shivered and smiled.
"Stop it," she said, unable to stop smiling.
"You are." And as he held her face, he kissed her again.
When she went to bed that night, she laid her head on her pillow, curled underneath the blanket and thought of him. His light eyes. His arms wrapped around her waist. And his lips. She touched hers, trying to remember his. And with that she fell asleep.
City boys. She liked them all. She dated them all.
And so it was peculiar when one night, she happened to meet a certain country boy at a certain city bar. He grew up in a small town in the southern part of a Midwestern state. He was tall with light blonde hair and light blue eyes, unpretentious and almost uncomfortably charming. And he spoke with a slight drawl. The way his words slowly formed on his lips, comfortable and easy, made her want to curl up into one of his sentences and just lie there in his drawl.
He was walking her home that night after dining on fine cheese pizza when she turned to him and asked "You know you have a drawl, right?"
"Yes, I know," he said smiling.
They stopped in front of her house and he looked at her with a half smile. She smiled back. He leaned forward and she closed her eyes when he kissed her.
She rarely rated kisses. In fact she rarely rated guys on anything. But this kiss, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being absolutely dreadful and 10 being absolutely perfect, was a 9.5. Maybe a 9.6. His kiss was like him, disarming and irresistible.
When their lips parted, he looked at her and placed his hand on her cheek. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. "What?" she said.
"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked holding her face. Had this come from a city guy, she would have rolled her eyes and mocked him. But his soft drawl made it sound perfect and she shivered and smiled.
"Stop it," she said, unable to stop smiling.
"You are." And as he held her face, he kissed her again.
When she went to bed that night, she laid her head on her pillow, curled underneath the blanket and thought of him. His light eyes. His arms wrapped around her waist. And his lips. She touched hers, trying to remember his. And with that she fell asleep.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
The props
It takes a great deal of composure to sit at an important lunch with important professional colleagues and accidentally drop a piece of chicken into a pool of thick, brown sauce that then splatters it all over one's face and navy suit. For a certain gal to sit there, lightly dab her face and suit without missing a beat, and continue to smile amidst her obvious faux pas requires great poise and steady temper.
In other words, the gal deserves mad props.
In other words, the gal deserves mad props.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
I get it I get it
Women can be territorial creatures. More often than not, if I'm chatting with a spoken-for guy, his girl will soon thereafter trot over, throw her arm around him, nuzzle her face into his neck, and smile at me, or engage in some other equivalent behavior to mark her territory short of mounting him. I find it amusing and almost flattering that the girl considers me a threat.
The other day, a similar incident occurred with a twist. I was walking down the street when I beheld a couple holding hands from a distance. I guessed it was a lesbian couple but to be sure I gazed at the shorter haired girl as the couple neared me. The longer haired girl saw me eying her woman and immediately began swinging their held hands exaggeratedly, pulled her woman closer to her, put her arm around her, and then gave me the eye. We walked past each other without incident. Again, amused and flattered that I was considered a threat.
Indeed, women can be territorial creatures.
The other day, a similar incident occurred with a twist. I was walking down the street when I beheld a couple holding hands from a distance. I guessed it was a lesbian couple but to be sure I gazed at the shorter haired girl as the couple neared me. The longer haired girl saw me eying her woman and immediately began swinging their held hands exaggeratedly, pulled her woman closer to her, put her arm around her, and then gave me the eye. We walked past each other without incident. Again, amused and flattered that I was considered a threat.
Indeed, women can be territorial creatures.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Not a One
This past Friday while celebrating St. Patty's day in an Irish bar, I struck up a conversation with an Irish gentleman. (Well, I didn't think he was much of a gentleman after our conversation.) Somehow, we got onto the topic of dating Asian women. I, being a bit buzzed, asked him quite bluntly, "So are there any differences between dating Asian women and white women?" I knew I was asking for it, but I suppose I'm a glutton for punishment.
In return, he was very blunt. The following is a very explicit list of differences he observed after dating a number of Asian women. Please note that parental discretion is advised, children should please leave the room, you must be 18 or older to read this, etc. etc. And I'm not listing these because I'm a perv (really I'm not); I'm doing so because I find Asian stereotypes ever so amusing even if they are sick and twisted:
o Asian women have softer skin.
o Asian women try harder to please their men in bed.
o Asian women are better at pleasing their men in bed.
o Asian women are um less hairy.
o Asian women are "tighter."
I sat there and just listened. I did not argue nor did I attempt to convert him to Not-All-Asian-Women-Are-the-Same-ism. I simply nodded and then declined his offers to hang out after bar time.
It's interesting that although I have heard these stereotypes before (the internet, other Asian chicks, my Asian American studies class), I've never had a guy so bluntly articulate them to me. Sure I've met Asian fetishists, but they usually say "I love Asian women" or "Asian women are so hot," not "I like their __ and how their __ can __." In his defense though, he was answering the question I asked.
Hmm. For some reason, I don't think this gentleman is one of the Ones.
In return, he was very blunt. The following is a very explicit list of differences he observed after dating a number of Asian women. Please note that parental discretion is advised, children should please leave the room, you must be 18 or older to read this, etc. etc. And I'm not listing these because I'm a perv (really I'm not); I'm doing so because I find Asian stereotypes ever so amusing even if they are sick and twisted:
o Asian women have softer skin.
o Asian women try harder to please their men in bed.
o Asian women are better at pleasing their men in bed.
o Asian women are um less hairy.
o Asian women are "tighter."
I sat there and just listened. I did not argue nor did I attempt to convert him to Not-All-Asian-Women-Are-the-Same-ism. I simply nodded and then declined his offers to hang out after bar time.
It's interesting that although I have heard these stereotypes before (the internet, other Asian chicks, my Asian American studies class), I've never had a guy so bluntly articulate them to me. Sure I've met Asian fetishists, but they usually say "I love Asian women" or "Asian women are so hot," not "I like their __ and how their __ can __." In his defense though, he was answering the question I asked.
Hmm. For some reason, I don't think this gentleman is one of the Ones.
Idiot (part 2)
There is perhaps no greater fantastic feeling than realizing that, after having meticulously drafted and sent an important email to an extremely important professional colleague of whom you are making an important request, you put the wrong person's name in the header.
I remind myself that my IQ is indeed above 100, and that when sending email, one ought to put the correct person's name, not the wrong person's name. I know these facts. Yet my idiocy will at times prevail over me.
Idiot.
I remind myself that my IQ is indeed above 100, and that when sending email, one ought to put the correct person's name, not the wrong person's name. I know these facts. Yet my idiocy will at times prevail over me.
Idiot.
One or The Other
The guys I've dated seem to fall into one of two categories, never both. Why does it always have to be one or the other?
One:
Intelligent, articulate, witty, ambitious, sophisicated, and clever. Likes art, music, culture, intellectual conversations, & independent films.
The Other:
Fun, uninhibited, spontaneous, free-spirited, and passionate. Likes going out to bars, whether trendy or divey, dancing to hip hop or salsa, singing karaoke, and trying new things.
Can't I have an impulsive intellectual? A guy who likes Rachmaninov and 50 Cent? Someone who'll do a double shot of tequila with me and then discuss existentialism?
After trying to talk to the Guy about religion and existence, I realized he hadn't "thought much about it." It reminded me of a time when I tried to discuss the death penalty with another guy who pretty much responded "I don't know. I don't really think about that stuff." Of course, the guys who can have those conversations don't really like to go out and have a little crazy fun. And when I force them to go dancing with me, they move uncomfortably and awkwardly to the music, clearly humoring me, clearly not having fun.
Both of my two long-term ex-boyfriends were in the One category, not The Other. The Guy seems to fall into The Other category. Maybe I want too much in a man. But I still hope there's someone out there who'll be both. Until then, I'll have to settle for one or the other.
One:
Intelligent, articulate, witty, ambitious, sophisicated, and clever. Likes art, music, culture, intellectual conversations, & independent films.
The Other:
Fun, uninhibited, spontaneous, free-spirited, and passionate. Likes going out to bars, whether trendy or divey, dancing to hip hop or salsa, singing karaoke, and trying new things.
Can't I have an impulsive intellectual? A guy who likes Rachmaninov and 50 Cent? Someone who'll do a double shot of tequila with me and then discuss existentialism?
After trying to talk to the Guy about religion and existence, I realized he hadn't "thought much about it." It reminded me of a time when I tried to discuss the death penalty with another guy who pretty much responded "I don't know. I don't really think about that stuff." Of course, the guys who can have those conversations don't really like to go out and have a little crazy fun. And when I force them to go dancing with me, they move uncomfortably and awkwardly to the music, clearly humoring me, clearly not having fun.
Both of my two long-term ex-boyfriends were in the One category, not The Other. The Guy seems to fall into The Other category. Maybe I want too much in a man. But I still hope there's someone out there who'll be both. Until then, I'll have to settle for one or the other.
Monday, March 20, 2006
In a funk
There are a variety of ways to deal with a funk. My girlfriend and I were thinking of going out tonight despite it being a school night. She and this guy she was dating broke up just today, and she's heart-broken over it. I have my problems as described below. So we were wondering what two bummed-out chicks should do on a Monday night. We could stay in, bawl our eyes out, and eat ice cream and pizza while watching "Pretty Woman." Or we could go out to a low-key venue, like a pool hall, and just try to have fun.
What to do with a funk. Indulge it in a vegetative state to get it out of one's system? Or try to make the best of it by having fun?
I suppose if we had the answer to that, the anti-depressant drug industry wouldn't be as booming as it is now.
What to do with a funk. Indulge it in a vegetative state to get it out of one's system? Or try to make the best of it by having fun?
I suppose if we had the answer to that, the anti-depressant drug industry wouldn't be as booming as it is now.
Year 1
Exactly one year ago, my father passed away. This fact sort of just sat there this morning, on my calendar, immobile and silent. It feels like it happened ages ago, yet at the same time, feels like it just happened. It's so strange how time can be both elusive and slow.
Bleak
After this weekend, my perspective on the dating scene is quite dim. Friday night, I went out with some girls to a couple bars to celebrate the Irish in me (all 0%). Talking to strange men is all fun and good, but it makes you realize how bleak the prospects are. I danced with one guy (age 22) who really couldn't dance. Didn't click with him. Danced with another guy (age 24) who could dance, but wasn't very visually or intellectually stimulating. Met another guy (age 40) at a bar who only dated Asian and Latina women because he likes "the dark hair dark eyes" thing.
Yes, the prospects looked bleak.
Then Saturday night, I went out with the Guy. I won't delve into details but I'm almost sure my thing/non-relationship with Guy is nearing its end. I am both dreading yet secretly hoping that he never calls me again so that I don't have to go through the pain of ending this non-relationship.
So in these hard times, my mind wanders to my ex, my last great love. He was great in a lot of ways, we shared the same values, and I know he genuinely loved me. Yet the things that turned me off--i.e., that made me fall out of love with him--were his utter lack of conscience and resulting scathing sense of humor.
I enjoy biting wit once in a while. However his humor crossed many lines. It wouldn't surprise me if he made an anti-Semitic joke to a Holocaust survivor. Every time I think about possibly getting back together with him, I think of the times he has hurt me with his insulting comments and so-called jokes. The most recent instances include his joking about my dead father, and glibly calling me a bad daughter who doesn't care about her mother the widow.
In these instances, I hate him. And I hate myself for allowing him to disarm me and for letting myself become emotionally vulnerable to him.
Yesterday he called me to see how I was doing. He remembered my father died about a year ago and wanted to make sure I was okay. The conversation went well, we joked a bit about stuff. At one point, he had misheard something I said and I joked about his older age. Instead of responding, he measuredly said "I will not respond because I am more mature than you." I realized he was holding back the anti-Semitic-joke equivalent and observed, "Ah, it's not that you're more mature. It's that you know a lot of shit is happening in my life and my dad died a year ago. This isn't out of maturity. It's out of pity." I could hear him smile. You can hear a smile on the phone, you know. He said, "Yeah, you're right."
Bleak, bleak, bleak.
I was thinking this morning, maybe there isn't the One, but several Ones. Each of these several Ones alone could make me deliriously happy. I just need to find one of these Ones. I realized however that one could be in Nebraska. The other could be in Florida. One might be in Italy. What are the chances that one of my Ones will be here, in this city? And if he's in this city, what are the chances we'll bump into each other?
I'm afraid I've temporarily lapsed into the very person I did not want to be. The Formerly Optimistic But Now Jaded Romantic. Perhaps an inevitable result of having bleak prospects.
Yes, the prospects looked bleak.
Then Saturday night, I went out with the Guy. I won't delve into details but I'm almost sure my thing/non-relationship with Guy is nearing its end. I am both dreading yet secretly hoping that he never calls me again so that I don't have to go through the pain of ending this non-relationship.
So in these hard times, my mind wanders to my ex, my last great love. He was great in a lot of ways, we shared the same values, and I know he genuinely loved me. Yet the things that turned me off--i.e., that made me fall out of love with him--were his utter lack of conscience and resulting scathing sense of humor.
I enjoy biting wit once in a while. However his humor crossed many lines. It wouldn't surprise me if he made an anti-Semitic joke to a Holocaust survivor. Every time I think about possibly getting back together with him, I think of the times he has hurt me with his insulting comments and so-called jokes. The most recent instances include his joking about my dead father, and glibly calling me a bad daughter who doesn't care about her mother the widow.
In these instances, I hate him. And I hate myself for allowing him to disarm me and for letting myself become emotionally vulnerable to him.
Yesterday he called me to see how I was doing. He remembered my father died about a year ago and wanted to make sure I was okay. The conversation went well, we joked a bit about stuff. At one point, he had misheard something I said and I joked about his older age. Instead of responding, he measuredly said "I will not respond because I am more mature than you." I realized he was holding back the anti-Semitic-joke equivalent and observed, "Ah, it's not that you're more mature. It's that you know a lot of shit is happening in my life and my dad died a year ago. This isn't out of maturity. It's out of pity." I could hear him smile. You can hear a smile on the phone, you know. He said, "Yeah, you're right."
Bleak, bleak, bleak.
I was thinking this morning, maybe there isn't the One, but several Ones. Each of these several Ones alone could make me deliriously happy. I just need to find one of these Ones. I realized however that one could be in Nebraska. The other could be in Florida. One might be in Italy. What are the chances that one of my Ones will be here, in this city? And if he's in this city, what are the chances we'll bump into each other?
I'm afraid I've temporarily lapsed into the very person I did not want to be. The Formerly Optimistic But Now Jaded Romantic. Perhaps an inevitable result of having bleak prospects.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Being "cute"
The great thing about dating a guy with an amazing, flawless body is dating a guy with an amazing, flawless body. The bad thing about it is that if you have a less than amazing, flawless body, any flaw you have becomes magnified tenfold. This phenomenon does wonders for one's body image.
Last night, the Guy and I were just lying around when he pinched my waist, which incidentally isn't a tight, sculpted washboard of muscle. I asked him if he was grabbing my fat. "It's cute," he said. (By the way, "cute" is never a good adjective to use when describing a girl's fat. In fact, there is no good adjective to describe a girl's fat except "nonexistent.")
I looked at his abs and observed, "You have no body fat at all."
"Yes I do," he said. Then he pinched his waist. "See?" he said, "here's my fat." I looked. There was literally nothing but a pinched wedge of skin above his taut stomach.
"That's not fat," I said, "that's skin. You have no body fat."
He kind of laughed it off and hugged my fat, I mean, me.
I know I'm not a tub of lard. But by virtue of being more than mere muscle and skin, I feel like a half tub of lard. Or quarter tub of lard on a good day. By no means does Guy criticize me or even hint that my body needs to change. If anything, he thinks I'm "cute" as I am. I just wouldn't mind him one day trying to pinch my waist and finding nothing to pinch but skin.
One day. Until then, I'll have to settle for being "cute."
Last night, the Guy and I were just lying around when he pinched my waist, which incidentally isn't a tight, sculpted washboard of muscle. I asked him if he was grabbing my fat. "It's cute," he said. (By the way, "cute" is never a good adjective to use when describing a girl's fat. In fact, there is no good adjective to describe a girl's fat except "nonexistent.")
I looked at his abs and observed, "You have no body fat at all."
"Yes I do," he said. Then he pinched his waist. "See?" he said, "here's my fat." I looked. There was literally nothing but a pinched wedge of skin above his taut stomach.
"That's not fat," I said, "that's skin. You have no body fat."
He kind of laughed it off and hugged my fat, I mean, me.
I know I'm not a tub of lard. But by virtue of being more than mere muscle and skin, I feel like a half tub of lard. Or quarter tub of lard on a good day. By no means does Guy criticize me or even hint that my body needs to change. If anything, he thinks I'm "cute" as I am. I just wouldn't mind him one day trying to pinch my waist and finding nothing to pinch but skin.
One day. Until then, I'll have to settle for being "cute."
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Confession of the day
I was in the elevator alone. A man was walking towards the elevator. We made eye contact. The doors slowly started closing. And I didn't hit the button to keep the doors open.
Mr. Man, if you're reading this, I apologize. I have no excuse for closing the elevator doors on you.
Mr. Man, if you're reading this, I apologize. I have no excuse for closing the elevator doors on you.
Just jump
I've reached that point in my courtship with Younger Guy where I'm starting to get anxious. (What a surprise, I'm getting neurotic.) Even though I jokingly complain about not getting any, I suspect that I can't really *be* with a guy unless I feel like it's real. And the idea of the real thing is scarier than harmless making out.
So Guy wants to spend more time with me, and he "observed" the other day that he was always calling me, not I him. I suppose I am being the hesitant one in this thing. Perhaps a part of me is afraid to get seriously involved with someone if it's not going to work. Every time one of my last serious relationships failed, it kind of chipped away at my romantic optimism; and I don't want to be jaded even more by another failed relationship.
I always tell everyone, "You never know unless you try." So I should try, right? Why the heck am I scared? I'm not afraid of commitment. I want a relationship. I guess what frightens me is the thought of being hurt in the end, and losing just a little bit more of my hopefulness.
But maybe nothing great is ever accomplished until someone closes her eyes, makes a leap of faith, and just hopes for the best.
So Guy wants to spend more time with me, and he "observed" the other day that he was always calling me, not I him. I suppose I am being the hesitant one in this thing. Perhaps a part of me is afraid to get seriously involved with someone if it's not going to work. Every time one of my last serious relationships failed, it kind of chipped away at my romantic optimism; and I don't want to be jaded even more by another failed relationship.
I always tell everyone, "You never know unless you try." So I should try, right? Why the heck am I scared? I'm not afraid of commitment. I want a relationship. I guess what frightens me is the thought of being hurt in the end, and losing just a little bit more of my hopefulness.
But maybe nothing great is ever accomplished until someone closes her eyes, makes a leap of faith, and just hopes for the best.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Correcting the politically incorrect
I know two girls. Both are intelligent and were raised in large cities with large minority populations. So it surprises me that two smart city girls could make semi-ignorant remarks. Now, because both are my friends and are kind in every other way, I cannot correct their ignorant remarks by yelling at them, "You're so racist!" It's insulting, counterproductive and antagonizing.
Their comments aren't blatant racist like "I hate race X." But they're more subtle. Some examples:
"I don't date blacks and Hindus." People are entitled to their racial preferences I suppose. But by "Hindus," she meant all South Asians.
"So J needs to go to synagogue. What time does his church start?" Um. Church is for Christians.
"All these Middle Eastern guys like me. Why, the other day, this Indian guy came up to me and asked me out!" India is in South Asia, not the Middle East.
So how to correct the politically incorrect?
As to the first comment, I was genuinely curious, so I asked, "So you don't date those of the Hindu faith? Or do you mean South Asians?" She responded, "Um, I guess South Asians. But most of them are Hindu..."
How do you correct someone tactfully without making them feel like they're being attacked? The media, politics, and general human relations demonstrate that attacking people by labeling them "bigot" or "racist" isn't exactly the best way to convert them into racial tolerance. But staying silent seems to enable the ignorance. Perhaps I will take the feigned curiosity approach, like "Don't Christians go to church, not Jews? Not sure..."
We'll see.
Their comments aren't blatant racist like "I hate race X." But they're more subtle. Some examples:
"I don't date blacks and Hindus." People are entitled to their racial preferences I suppose. But by "Hindus," she meant all South Asians.
"So J needs to go to synagogue. What time does his church start?" Um. Church is for Christians.
"All these Middle Eastern guys like me. Why, the other day, this Indian guy came up to me and asked me out!" India is in South Asia, not the Middle East.
So how to correct the politically incorrect?
As to the first comment, I was genuinely curious, so I asked, "So you don't date those of the Hindu faith? Or do you mean South Asians?" She responded, "Um, I guess South Asians. But most of them are Hindu..."
How do you correct someone tactfully without making them feel like they're being attacked? The media, politics, and general human relations demonstrate that attacking people by labeling them "bigot" or "racist" isn't exactly the best way to convert them into racial tolerance. But staying silent seems to enable the ignorance. Perhaps I will take the feigned curiosity approach, like "Don't Christians go to church, not Jews? Not sure..."
We'll see.
Just a tip
I was looking in the mirror when day when I saw a bruise on my neck. It didn't hurt at all. And it didn't rub off. It was then I realized that Younger Guy had given me a hickey. A hickey. I haven't had a hickey since I was 18 (coincidentally, from another 23-year-old. Maybe it's a 23-year-old-thing).
Given that I had an important meeting today, I had to wear one of my suits, none of which had turtlenecks.
Ladies, if you wish to mask your love bites, I strongly recommend Physicians Formula concealer in Yellow. The yellow neutralizes the magenta/purplish color. That, or tell your guy not to give you hickeys.
Another tip from me to you.
Given that I had an important meeting today, I had to wear one of my suits, none of which had turtlenecks.
Ladies, if you wish to mask your love bites, I strongly recommend Physicians Formula concealer in Yellow. The yellow neutralizes the magenta/purplish color. That, or tell your guy not to give you hickeys.
Another tip from me to you.
Winning a no win situation
Fellas, you are in a no win situation if you are asked any of the following questions by your female significant other:
o Do I look fat? (Variants: Does this make my [insert body part] look fat? Do I look fat in this [insert clothing type]?)
o If you could hook up with any of my girlfriends, who would it be?
o Guess how much I weigh!
o If you could change one [or two or three] things about me, what would it [or they] be?
Should you respond in any way other than "Hun, you are perfect in every possible way. Because you are so perfect, you are the only person I can possibly love," be prepared to run or else have your balls chopped off.
Just a tip from me to you.
o Do I look fat? (Variants: Does this make my [insert body part] look fat? Do I look fat in this [insert clothing type]?)
o If you could hook up with any of my girlfriends, who would it be?
o Guess how much I weigh!
o If you could change one [or two or three] things about me, what would it [or they] be?
Should you respond in any way other than "Hun, you are perfect in every possible way. Because you are so perfect, you are the only person I can possibly love," be prepared to run or else have your balls chopped off.
Just a tip from me to you.
The red shoe
The first thing he was saw the red shoe. It was perfectly red and perfectly shiny and it dangled from a girl's perfectly ivory foot.
The girl was sitting on a wooden bench, writing something into her PDA. She wore a slim red dress that just grazed the backs of her knees. Knee gave way to calf. Calf gave way to ankle. Ankle gave way to foot, that foot with the red shoe.
He could try talking to her. But what kind of man picks up a woman at a train station? He studied her face. She wasn't remarkable looking. But attractive enough. Even her lips were red.
Okay, if she drops that shoe, I will talk to her, he thought to himself. Though the shoe teetered, it seemed unlikely to fall from the foot. In a way, he was relieved.
Then all of a sudden, someone screamed a sneeze. It was emitted by one of those old women whom he suspected had so little attention at home that the only way she could garner attention was to startle as many people and secure as many "Bless you"'s as possible with an ultrasonic scream. He would have hated this wretched women had not at that precise moment the red shoe fell.
He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and stood up. She was reaching for the shoe when he walked towards her and stood in front of her. "Hi," he said. She looked up.
"Hi," she said, grasping onto her shoe.
"Are you taking the train on track 7?" he asked.
"Yep," she said.
"It looks like it's running a bit late today. Do you have any idea what's going on? "
"Not a clue," she said. She slipped the shoe onto her foot. Then she smiled and added, "I guess all we can do is wait for it then."
"Yeah," he said, sitting down, "I guess so."
The girl was sitting on a wooden bench, writing something into her PDA. She wore a slim red dress that just grazed the backs of her knees. Knee gave way to calf. Calf gave way to ankle. Ankle gave way to foot, that foot with the red shoe.
He could try talking to her. But what kind of man picks up a woman at a train station? He studied her face. She wasn't remarkable looking. But attractive enough. Even her lips were red.
Okay, if she drops that shoe, I will talk to her, he thought to himself. Though the shoe teetered, it seemed unlikely to fall from the foot. In a way, he was relieved.
Then all of a sudden, someone screamed a sneeze. It was emitted by one of those old women whom he suspected had so little attention at home that the only way she could garner attention was to startle as many people and secure as many "Bless you"'s as possible with an ultrasonic scream. He would have hated this wretched women had not at that precise moment the red shoe fell.
He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and stood up. She was reaching for the shoe when he walked towards her and stood in front of her. "Hi," he said. She looked up.
"Hi," she said, grasping onto her shoe.
"Are you taking the train on track 7?" he asked.
"Yep," she said.
"It looks like it's running a bit late today. Do you have any idea what's going on? "
"Not a clue," she said. She slipped the shoe onto her foot. Then she smiled and added, "I guess all we can do is wait for it then."
"Yeah," he said, sitting down, "I guess so."
Saturday, March 11, 2006
News flash
There's a great weight loss plan that works. It consists of exercising and reducing fat and sugar from one's balanced diet. It really works!
For some reason, people don't get this. They binge on chocolate and bacon, and then yearn for that diet pill they see on TV during a commercial break for Jerry Springer.
For some reason, people don't get this. They binge on chocolate and bacon, and then yearn for that diet pill they see on TV during a commercial break for Jerry Springer.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Bob
Bob was obsessed. He didn't mean to be. He just was.
Bob went on two dates with Jane. She was the perfect girl. Pretty, smart, and fun. After their second date, Jane didn't return his call. He called again asking her to call him back. Nothing. He tried calling from a different number. When she picked up and said "Hello?" he said "Hi it's Bob." She promptly hung up. After that, she never picked up any of his calls. Different phones, blocked numbers, private numbers--it made no difference. The most of Jane he ever got was her sweet voice on her voicemail greeting.
He decided to try a different tactic. It was harmless really. Still, as he parked his car outside of her apartment building, he felt a little guilty. Why? he asked himself. It was a free country. He could park his car anywhere he wanted. What did it matter that he chose to park his car outside of her apartment, waiting for her to come home from work?
Finally he saw Jane walking towards her apartment. With another guy.
Maybe it's her brother, he thought to himself. He watched as she turned to the guy and kiss him lingeringly on the lips. Maybe not, he thought. He watched the pair enter her apartment building and disappear.
Bob turned on his car engine and drove away discreetly. When he got home, he logged onto his computer and surfed the web for Jane, searching for anything mentioning her name. He found her personal webpage. Her blog. Her profile on her company's website. Each of these he devoured. From then on, he visited each of these sites and relished them every day after work and twice a day on weekends.
Obsessed. He was obsessed. But he didn't mean to be. He just was.
Bob went on two dates with Jane. She was the perfect girl. Pretty, smart, and fun. After their second date, Jane didn't return his call. He called again asking her to call him back. Nothing. He tried calling from a different number. When she picked up and said "Hello?" he said "Hi it's Bob." She promptly hung up. After that, she never picked up any of his calls. Different phones, blocked numbers, private numbers--it made no difference. The most of Jane he ever got was her sweet voice on her voicemail greeting.
He decided to try a different tactic. It was harmless really. Still, as he parked his car outside of her apartment building, he felt a little guilty. Why? he asked himself. It was a free country. He could park his car anywhere he wanted. What did it matter that he chose to park his car outside of her apartment, waiting for her to come home from work?
Finally he saw Jane walking towards her apartment. With another guy.
Maybe it's her brother, he thought to himself. He watched as she turned to the guy and kiss him lingeringly on the lips. Maybe not, he thought. He watched the pair enter her apartment building and disappear.
Bob turned on his car engine and drove away discreetly. When he got home, he logged onto his computer and surfed the web for Jane, searching for anything mentioning her name. He found her personal webpage. Her blog. Her profile on her company's website. Each of these he devoured. From then on, he visited each of these sites and relished them every day after work and twice a day on weekends.
Obsessed. He was obsessed. But he didn't mean to be. He just was.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Dangit
My neurosis is my greatest muse on blogger.
I have a semi-big thing going on tomorrow. I've been preparing for it for the past few days. I told Younger Guy about it on our last date and he gave me some tips and consoled me.
So today, I had this secret hope that he'd call me tonight to wish me luck. I knew it probably wouldn't happen, given that we just went on a date only 48 hours ago. But there's nothing wrong with harboring one silly wish.
So I'm sitting here at my computer, when I whip out my phone and see "Missed Call: Younger Guy." A mere ten minutes ago. And he didn't leave a message. I was so bummed I missed his call.
With the advent of caller ID, what is the etiquette involved in seeing a missed call? Call them back? Or assume that if they did not leave a message or page, they don't want you to call them back? I was tempted but decided against calling him back with a "Oh I saw you called" line. That struck me as being a little psycho and needy. And nothing scares a guy off more than Psycho Needy Chick.
So I'm just sitting here. Kicking myself for missing the call. Wishing he'd call again. But knowing he probably won't. My fear of being Psycho Needy Chick outweighs my desire to call him. Maybe not by much, but just enough.
I have a semi-big thing going on tomorrow. I've been preparing for it for the past few days. I told Younger Guy about it on our last date and he gave me some tips and consoled me.
So today, I had this secret hope that he'd call me tonight to wish me luck. I knew it probably wouldn't happen, given that we just went on a date only 48 hours ago. But there's nothing wrong with harboring one silly wish.
So I'm sitting here at my computer, when I whip out my phone and see "Missed Call: Younger Guy." A mere ten minutes ago. And he didn't leave a message. I was so bummed I missed his call.
With the advent of caller ID, what is the etiquette involved in seeing a missed call? Call them back? Or assume that if they did not leave a message or page, they don't want you to call them back? I was tempted but decided against calling him back with a "Oh I saw you called" line. That struck me as being a little psycho and needy. And nothing scares a guy off more than Psycho Needy Chick.
So I'm just sitting here. Kicking myself for missing the call. Wishing he'd call again. But knowing he probably won't. My fear of being Psycho Needy Chick outweighs my desire to call him. Maybe not by much, but just enough.
A break
This guy sitting at a computer near me is watching porn. You don't have to look at his screen to know what's getting him off (in public no less). He's wearing headphones plugged into the computer, and they're turned up so loud, you can hear this woman's voice moaning and screaming "Oh yes," "Oh God," and the like.
Some guys take cigarette breaks. I guess this guy takes porn breaks.
Some guys take cigarette breaks. I guess this guy takes porn breaks.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Gym nation
The gym is such an interesting microcosm. Mirrors are everywhere. Open wide spaces. People looking at themselves. People looking at each other. And more yet, people looking at other people looking at themselves. It's kind of like the prisons Foucault talks about one of his books, where the prisoner comports his behavior based on his perception that someone is always watching him, even if no one in fact is. The idea of being watched causes a person to act very differently.
Visible flab, light weights, cellulite are all shamed in a gym. Perhaps shame is the mechanism that motivates people to work out more. That, or vanity.
And as I am literally forced to look at other people working out or stretching, I am confronted with the vision of women with flawless, sculpted bodies. It's odd that though I'm aware of the gym's voyeuristic atmosphere and glorified vanity, I still can't help but want to have that perfect toned body.
Visible flab, light weights, cellulite are all shamed in a gym. Perhaps shame is the mechanism that motivates people to work out more. That, or vanity.
And as I am literally forced to look at other people working out or stretching, I am confronted with the vision of women with flawless, sculpted bodies. It's odd that though I'm aware of the gym's voyeuristic atmosphere and glorified vanity, I still can't help but want to have that perfect toned body.
Retraction
I hereby retract any and all preconceived notions I had about dating younger guys. After my date with Younger Guy last night, I have been converted.
In other words, the date went very, very well.
We went to a pool hall where we had a couple drinks and shot a couple games of pool. All the while, we had great conversation. He was so comfortable to be around, so easy to talk to, and so unpretentious. It was fun to joke around and banter with him.
Afterwards, he drove me home. He stopped outside of my apartment and we said our good night's and I-had-a-great-time's. Then he leaned over and kissed me. Finally, my 29,348,932,843-year long period of no male contact ends! We made out/mauled each other for the next two hours. It was fun, except for his stubble which scraped me a bit. (Incidentally, how do you politely suggest to a guy you just started dating to shave?)
The thing about kissing him was, it was so comfortable, it felt like I was kissing someone I had already been dating for ages. And the kissing alternated between grab-him-by-the-collar kissing and soft, reverent kissing. It was very nice.
After we came up for air, he asked me out this weekend, and I of course said yes. I'm pretty excited. I can't believe I almost passed up the chance to even call him just because of his age. So I guess some cliches are true; that yes, age is just a number.
In other words, the date went very, very well.
We went to a pool hall where we had a couple drinks and shot a couple games of pool. All the while, we had great conversation. He was so comfortable to be around, so easy to talk to, and so unpretentious. It was fun to joke around and banter with him.
Afterwards, he drove me home. He stopped outside of my apartment and we said our good night's and I-had-a-great-time's. Then he leaned over and kissed me. Finally, my 29,348,932,843-year long period of no male contact ends! We made out/mauled each other for the next two hours. It was fun, except for his stubble which scraped me a bit. (Incidentally, how do you politely suggest to a guy you just started dating to shave?)
The thing about kissing him was, it was so comfortable, it felt like I was kissing someone I had already been dating for ages. And the kissing alternated between grab-him-by-the-collar kissing and soft, reverent kissing. It was very nice.
After we came up for air, he asked me out this weekend, and I of course said yes. I'm pretty excited. I can't believe I almost passed up the chance to even call him just because of his age. So I guess some cliches are true; that yes, age is just a number.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
One of those days
For some inexplicable reason, every so often a person will wake up in a shitty mood. The rest of the day is then clouded by shittiness. Like most humans, the person will want to be upbeat. Yet on these shitty days, it literally takes physical and mental effort to "make" onself upbeat. Then the person becomes resentful because it takes so much goddamn effort to be happy and gets pissed on top of feeling shitty. So the anger and the thick heaviness of a bad mood mingle and accumulate throughout the day, with occasional reminders to one's self that one ought to be grateful because there are starving people in Africa. (For some reason, this fact has never successfully guilted the person into being happy.)
So the day is just one of those days. Shitty.
So the day is just one of those days. Shitty.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Expiration dating
Younger Guy called me back last night. We exchanged the usual "How was your day's" before he finally asked me out. He was actually going out of town this weekend, but wanted to call back before it was too long. I thought that was proactive and considerate. We plan on shooting pool next week. When I warned him of my poor shooting skills, he replied "Don't worry, I'll teach you some moves." The irony. Especially after my last post on Younger Guys.
At any rate, I suspect that I am expiration dating, i.e. dating someone knowing full well there's an end in sight. I could never understand people who dated people knowing there was absolutely no future with them (e.g. Boy wants marriage, Girl doesn't. Boy wants kids, Girl doesn't). I suppose it's too early to say there's absolutely no way I'd end up with Younger Guy. I probably have these doubts because of his age, which again, I know I should approach with an open mind. As always, we'll see what happens.
At any rate, I suspect that I am expiration dating, i.e. dating someone knowing full well there's an end in sight. I could never understand people who dated people knowing there was absolutely no future with them (e.g. Boy wants marriage, Girl doesn't. Boy wants kids, Girl doesn't). I suppose it's too early to say there's absolutely no way I'd end up with Younger Guy. I probably have these doubts because of his age, which again, I know I should approach with an open mind. As always, we'll see what happens.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Fun games
The artful game of phone tag is perhaps one of the few games we play as adults. I however know none of the rules and the rules I do know I can barely execute. For example, I know that when a guy asks for a girl's number, he must wait three days before calling her. This tactic allows him to appear both interested yet not desperate.
On day three, the guy calls. If the guy gets the girl's machine, he leaves her a message. Then the girl inevitably hears the message. At this point, I am at a loss. Should I call back that evening? Or wait one day? Two days? A girlfriend and guyfriend both advised that I wait 48 hours before returning Younger Guy's call because (1) he made me wait three days, so why not make him wait two? (2) I don't want to look too eager, and (3) it's kind of lame to make plans for the weekend so early in the week.
Games are fun, aren't they?
So pursuant to my friends' suggestion, I waited 48 torturous hours (actually 51 torturous hours) before returning Younger Guy's call last night. I got his voicemail. I left a message. He did not return my call that night.
What makes the games fantastically painful is the uncertainty. Did he lose interest already? Does he even remember who I am? What if he's annoyed that I played this tactic of waiting-two-days-before-calling-him-back? And the questions go on. Such questions put a girl on edge. Every time the phone rings or her call-waiting beeps, her heart races, she looks at the caller ID or answers the phone, and is ultimately let down.
What makes the game even more ridiculous is that all of this analysis occurs before anyone knows anything about the other.
Games are so much fun!
On day three, the guy calls. If the guy gets the girl's machine, he leaves her a message. Then the girl inevitably hears the message. At this point, I am at a loss. Should I call back that evening? Or wait one day? Two days? A girlfriend and guyfriend both advised that I wait 48 hours before returning Younger Guy's call because (1) he made me wait three days, so why not make him wait two? (2) I don't want to look too eager, and (3) it's kind of lame to make plans for the weekend so early in the week.
Games are fun, aren't they?
So pursuant to my friends' suggestion, I waited 48 torturous hours (actually 51 torturous hours) before returning Younger Guy's call last night. I got his voicemail. I left a message. He did not return my call that night.
What makes the games fantastically painful is the uncertainty. Did he lose interest already? Does he even remember who I am? What if he's annoyed that I played this tactic of waiting-two-days-before-calling-him-back? And the questions go on. Such questions put a girl on edge. Every time the phone rings or her call-waiting beeps, her heart races, she looks at the caller ID or answers the phone, and is ultimately let down.
What makes the game even more ridiculous is that all of this analysis occurs before anyone knows anything about the other.
Games are so much fun!
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Inside the dollhouse
The girl sat in her chair, waiting for something to just happen. She knew nothing would happen. But she waited nonetheless. She was alive, of that she was sure. Yet everything seemed sort of dead. The radio was on. The fan spun. The radiator sighed.
There was something stirring inside of her, something that needed to change. She felt stagnant. Move, it said to her. Move or die.
Instead she sat there, drinking ginger ale and thinking about the day ahead of her. There were still things to look forward to. People to entertain her. Events to dress up for. People and events were the spice to the bland diet of her daily life. She created drama in her mind for the sake of it. Kind of like a child with a doll and a dollhouse. Pieces of plastic and cardboard transformed into a person and a home with a story.
Maybe she was the doll in the dollhouse. Everything was plastic and not real.
That's depressing, she thought to herself. She knew some things had to be real. Love, for example. Where it resided was another question. Friendships were real. Family. Ambitions.
All was not lost, she assured herself. Still though, as she sat at her desk, she felt like something had to change. Everything was a pattern waiting to be broken, waiting to be mended into something else. Into something new.
There was something stirring inside of her, something that needed to change. She felt stagnant. Move, it said to her. Move or die.
Instead she sat there, drinking ginger ale and thinking about the day ahead of her. There were still things to look forward to. People to entertain her. Events to dress up for. People and events were the spice to the bland diet of her daily life. She created drama in her mind for the sake of it. Kind of like a child with a doll and a dollhouse. Pieces of plastic and cardboard transformed into a person and a home with a story.
Maybe she was the doll in the dollhouse. Everything was plastic and not real.
That's depressing, she thought to herself. She knew some things had to be real. Love, for example. Where it resided was another question. Friendships were real. Family. Ambitions.
All was not lost, she assured herself. Still though, as she sat at her desk, she felt like something had to change. Everything was a pattern waiting to be broken, waiting to be mended into something else. Into something new.
Little details
It's odd how the most insignificant details on a man can suddenly render him irresistible. The stiff crease of the collar of his dresshirt. The way he holds a ballpoint pen right before he writes something down. The way his eyebrows crease when he reads the paper. The classic suspenders over his shoulders and down his back. The way he laughs. The way he says your name.
Yes, it's been a while.
Yes, it's been a while.
Still yellow
I know that some white Americans, when they first see me, think "immigrant." That is, until they hear me speak or see the way I carry myself. It is perhaps ironic that when my immigrant relatives or peers see me, they think "white American," precisely because of the way I speak or carry myself. I remember my older cousin express shock when she saw I knew how to use chopsticks. Some immigrant peers were surprised when I mentioned I enjoyed food of my ethnicity. And I constantly amaze my immigrant relatives and peers with my ability to handle foods that have more than one speck of red pepper in it, that I in fact love spicy food and probably can't go a day without having something spicy to eat.
I know I'm "white" but dang, I'm still yellow.
I know I'm "white" but dang, I'm still yellow.
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