Like many young girls growing up, I was obsessed with fairytales. Walt Disney was my own personal hero – the genius who made the magical world of Bippity Boppity Boo a major part of my childhood. Many a young girl spent her playtime daydreaming about singing chipmunks, talking mirrors and lands that were far, far away. But eventually, those girls grew up and “once upon a time” became replaced with the reality of “never gonna happen”. Well…most of those girls grew up…
For a handful of the Daydream Believers, images of dapper princes that swoop in on majestic horses to rescue them from an evil stepmother’s treachery and/or the basic monotony of life, are so overwhelmingly consuming, that they eventually turn into full-fledged beliefs. The line between Never Never Land and the Here and Now eventually becomes blurred and True Love’s Kiss actually seems like a plausible entity. Although consciously aware that such happy endings only exist in the wonderful world of animation, they subconsciously foster deep-seated hope that one day, their prince will come. Their world booms with harmonious melody and is completely devoid of heartbreak and pain. If the harm is relatively minimal, why not allow them to dwell in the land of delusion? Or should belief in fairytales only remain with the young and innocent?
I wonder: When should we let the fairytales go?
As someone who spends roughly 93% of any given day lost in daydreams, I’ve admittedly become disillusioned and disappointed with the tedium of the world around me. Love isn’t gleefully delivered with a nudge of a Fairy Godmother’s wand and the only thing gained from kissing a frog is a face full of warts. According to the countless articles and books about the subject, the only way to obtain true love is to actively seek opportunities and circumstances to make it happen. Doesn’t that sound like an enormous amount of work?!? In light of the tremendous effort needed and the immense vulnerability to rejection one is subjected to in the real world, the world of fantasy seems like a vastly superior option to anyone with a vivid imagination.
For those that denounce either extreme, I offer a happy compromise: realistic daydreaming. This basically permits daydreaming of circumstances and situations befitting motion picture glory, but only if the conditions are somewhat realistic. Dreaming of situations that are hopelessly doomed from the onset would be strictly forbidden. Whereas Disney princesses were forced to contend with demons, dragons, witches and sorcerers who stood in the way of their eternal happiness, none had to battle the debilitating disease of commitment-o-phobia. And even the evil Maleficent herself couldn’t concoct a potion that would make a married man leave his wife to live blissfully with his mistress. Those hallucinations are too unbelievable even in a world full of magic potions and wish-granting genies and thus, should be stricken from any thought, whether in the real world or that of fantasy. In the end, you allow the hopelessly delusional to indulge in elaborate fantasies, while still straddling the flickering line between it and reality.
As for me, I vow to continue regaling my inner child 93% of the day with tales of magical creatures, whimsical love triangles, unsuspecting heroes, and of course, alluringly remarkable heroines, all with the steadfast hope of obtaining Happily Ever After. If only the real world was as enchanting…
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Friday, October 26, 2007
The Art of Game Playing
I was never good at playing games. Even as a little child, I always lost. Monopoly, Life, Shoots & Ladders – even Candy Land. As an adult – nothing has changed. Don’t get me started on Poker… I never could win any of those games, no matter how hard I tried. I never had the fortitude to strategize and bluff; never had that competitive edge that drove me to outwit and outsmart my opponent. The only game I was ever able to master (even to this day) is that game where you pump water into the hole of the clown’s mouth in order to pop the balloon that stood above his head. The beauty of that game is in its simplicity. Shoot the water in the hole. The person with the steadiest hand and the best aim wins. Thirty seconds of full intensity and concentration is followed by the declaration of a clear winner and an absolute loser. No fancy maneuvering needed. No underhanded tactics necessary. It’s simple, straight and to-the-point. If only life were that easy…
I’ve become engaged lately in quite a heated debate with all of my friends regarding the concept of “playing the game of love”. One could wander for hours in a bookstore and find countless tomes dedicated to guiding hapless players through this complicated activity. Like any other sport, there are rules. Countless, endless rules on how to properly steer yourself through the complicated and oftentimes heartbreaking terrain. Some offer helpful conditioning tips. Some boast of foolproof instructions and guarantee success. Some even offer shortcuts. All pride themselves on being masters in their field, retired after years of honing their craft. And all unequivocally suppose the overarching premise.
So I wonder: Is Love really a game?
The issue I have with this whole “game-playing” concept is that it seems as if the only real contenders are the women. All of the directions, all of the advice is geared towards women. They are told that the only way to be successful in finding love is to view the whole journey as a game – one that you must learn how to navigate properly in order to win the ultimate prize – a relationship. Women are taught to be crafty, manipulative, and devious in their actions in order to bilk men into falling in love with them. Give a little at first, but not too much. Create an illusion of mystery. Never play your hand outright. Always plan your next move. Never show how you really feel. Never say what’s really on your mind. All of the directives and commands are focused towards ensuring that women abide by the “rules” of the seemingly one-sided farce, warning that those who shirk the rules will inevitably lose the opportunity for a loving relationship.
What really gets my goat, though, is the underlying tenet behind this whole “game playing” façade. If we are assuming that love is a game where women must abide by certain rules in order to win and the ultimate prize is a lasting relationship, then what role do men play in this scenario? They are the ones waiting at the finish line, armed with adoring smiles and promises of forever for the first woman who successfully crosses. All of the preparation and training and note-taking, in essence, are for the woman to snare a man. But why?? Why are women taught to engage in the game-playing in order to ultimately win a man where the contrary does not apply?
My friend put it to me as delicately and simply as possible: Men like the chase. Even Thoreau would marvel at the simplicity of such a statement! Men like the chase. Men thrive on that sense of accomplishment when they finally tame the shrew or obtain the unattainable or mount the insurmountable. A man might be interested in a woman, but if she seems too readily available, he loses the thrill of the pursuit, and might become bored. So, the woman is therefore forced into this whole “game-playing” synopsis in order to assure that the man’s interest continues and grows to the point where he is certain that she is the one for him.
It’s nauseating to think that women are obligated to abide by these ridiculous rules to play a game that was ultimately created to stroke the competitive yet fragile male ego. Some women take great pride in their game-playing abilities, bragging of their keen maneuvering as if it were a coveted skill that only few could truly master. Others have become weary after spending years of navigating the terrain, but continue to trek on, patiently awaiting the fruits of their labor. And a small minority sneers at the thought of succumbing to such imbecile tendencies and assert that they will find a way to reap success without playing the game. I wonder the record of success among that proud minority…Not so surprisingly, one rarely finds their tactics immortalized on the shelves of a bookstore….
Ultimately, I loathe the idea of playing the game of love. In part, my abhorrence is due to the fact that it is unequivocally one-sided; it’s like a game of cat and mouse, where women are in fact cats pretending to be mice, under the romantic belief that being caught is much more enviable than roaming free. But I think my real revulsion to the whole “game-playing” concept is that I’m simply not good at it. I am the one who squirms in her chair with heart-pounding, sweat-dripping enthusiasm, waiting for the first opportunity to scream “FULL HOUE”. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my emotions on my face. The game wasn’t created for women like me. Some, such as my friends, might call that a tragic fault. Those in the sneering minority might applaud my game-playing ineptness. I guess in the end, we all navigate the terrain the best way we know how and hope that one day, the details of our quest will be celebrated in the New York Times Bestsellers list. For now, I’ll continue to meander about the field, water gun in hand, aiming it right into the clown’s mouth.
I’ve become engaged lately in quite a heated debate with all of my friends regarding the concept of “playing the game of love”. One could wander for hours in a bookstore and find countless tomes dedicated to guiding hapless players through this complicated activity. Like any other sport, there are rules. Countless, endless rules on how to properly steer yourself through the complicated and oftentimes heartbreaking terrain. Some offer helpful conditioning tips. Some boast of foolproof instructions and guarantee success. Some even offer shortcuts. All pride themselves on being masters in their field, retired after years of honing their craft. And all unequivocally suppose the overarching premise.
So I wonder: Is Love really a game?
The issue I have with this whole “game-playing” concept is that it seems as if the only real contenders are the women. All of the directions, all of the advice is geared towards women. They are told that the only way to be successful in finding love is to view the whole journey as a game – one that you must learn how to navigate properly in order to win the ultimate prize – a relationship. Women are taught to be crafty, manipulative, and devious in their actions in order to bilk men into falling in love with them. Give a little at first, but not too much. Create an illusion of mystery. Never play your hand outright. Always plan your next move. Never show how you really feel. Never say what’s really on your mind. All of the directives and commands are focused towards ensuring that women abide by the “rules” of the seemingly one-sided farce, warning that those who shirk the rules will inevitably lose the opportunity for a loving relationship.
What really gets my goat, though, is the underlying tenet behind this whole “game playing” façade. If we are assuming that love is a game where women must abide by certain rules in order to win and the ultimate prize is a lasting relationship, then what role do men play in this scenario? They are the ones waiting at the finish line, armed with adoring smiles and promises of forever for the first woman who successfully crosses. All of the preparation and training and note-taking, in essence, are for the woman to snare a man. But why?? Why are women taught to engage in the game-playing in order to ultimately win a man where the contrary does not apply?
My friend put it to me as delicately and simply as possible: Men like the chase. Even Thoreau would marvel at the simplicity of such a statement! Men like the chase. Men thrive on that sense of accomplishment when they finally tame the shrew or obtain the unattainable or mount the insurmountable. A man might be interested in a woman, but if she seems too readily available, he loses the thrill of the pursuit, and might become bored. So, the woman is therefore forced into this whole “game-playing” synopsis in order to assure that the man’s interest continues and grows to the point where he is certain that she is the one for him.
It’s nauseating to think that women are obligated to abide by these ridiculous rules to play a game that was ultimately created to stroke the competitive yet fragile male ego. Some women take great pride in their game-playing abilities, bragging of their keen maneuvering as if it were a coveted skill that only few could truly master. Others have become weary after spending years of navigating the terrain, but continue to trek on, patiently awaiting the fruits of their labor. And a small minority sneers at the thought of succumbing to such imbecile tendencies and assert that they will find a way to reap success without playing the game. I wonder the record of success among that proud minority…Not so surprisingly, one rarely finds their tactics immortalized on the shelves of a bookstore….
Ultimately, I loathe the idea of playing the game of love. In part, my abhorrence is due to the fact that it is unequivocally one-sided; it’s like a game of cat and mouse, where women are in fact cats pretending to be mice, under the romantic belief that being caught is much more enviable than roaming free. But I think my real revulsion to the whole “game-playing” concept is that I’m simply not good at it. I am the one who squirms in her chair with heart-pounding, sweat-dripping enthusiasm, waiting for the first opportunity to scream “FULL HOUE”. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my emotions on my face. The game wasn’t created for women like me. Some, such as my friends, might call that a tragic fault. Those in the sneering minority might applaud my game-playing ineptness. I guess in the end, we all navigate the terrain the best way we know how and hope that one day, the details of our quest will be celebrated in the New York Times Bestsellers list. For now, I’ll continue to meander about the field, water gun in hand, aiming it right into the clown’s mouth.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Breaking Down Walls
From a purely voyeuristic point of view, it’s rather amusing to observe women in their quest for love. At times, they seem more like actors in a scripted play, which oftentimes can be characterized as a drama. Or a melodrama. Or a comedy. And sometimes, even a Shakespearian tragedy. It becomes pretty fascinating to see these characters play their roles with such intense purpose and naïve enthusiasm, driven and determined to end each act with a bang.
After observing enough of these productions unfold before me, it seems as if women can be differentiated into two particular groups: there are those who wholeheartedly (and at times blindly) embrace the concept of love without any inhibitions whatsoever, wearing their hearts openly on the proverbial sleeve, and there are those that are so guarded with their hearts that they create an indestructible shield, making it nearly impossible for any man to penetrate through the thick wall. Each group has its strength and weakness, and each adamant that its particular path is indisputably exact, that as an outsider, it becomes increasingly difficult to determine which path should be followed.
So I ask: In the quest for love, is it better to set up walls around your heart than to leave it completely unguarded?
In asking my friends this very question, I’ve been approached with a myriad of answers. For many who choose to don the imperishable suit of armor, it seems as if such a decision was made only after suffering from a life-shattering bout of heartache. I’m regaled with tales of how each began the quest with unbridled optimism, enthusiastically believing that one can only enter the journey with the purest of intentions and with unwavering hope. But somewhere along this journey, she was met with a scheming wolf in sheep’s clothing, and unsuspectedly fell prey to empty promises and meaningless grand gestures. Although she was left broken and alone, she managed to mend the broken pieces of her heart and ultimately continued on the journey, vowing never to be vulnerable to such pain again.
Given the circumstances, it’s hard to imagine anyone who wouldn’t sympathize with the journeywoman’s plight and commend her for managing to persist in the pursuit despite the previous defeat. But I wonder, in creating this force field, is she not losing sight of the ultimate goal of the quest to begin with? Perhaps it is my unquestionable naiveté on the matter, or my childlike definition of the subject at hand, but isn’t the whole concept of love the complete giving of oneself to another with the steadfast faith that such would be reciprocated? And if so, how can one expect to obtain this love if she creates obstacles that are impossible to pierce? Aren’t you, by guarding your heart from being broken, in essence disregarding one key element in ultimate goal? In purely mathematical terms, if Love equals Vulnerability, then doesn’t eliminating vulnerability negate the equation altogether?
In the end, I think there should be some happy median between the two extremes. It is undeniable that the quest for love is oftentimes filled with danger lurking behind many seemingly unsuspicious corners. One shouldn’t begin the quest completely defenseless; doing so leaves you dangerously helpless in the face of carnivorous prey. However, entering the quest so guarded that you are completely impervious to anyone who approaches is just as dangerous; you can find that at the end of the winding road is nothing but solitude and loneliness. Being practical in the quest for love is certainly admirable; being too practical to a point where you are too blind to see love is certainly contemptible.
After observing enough of these productions unfold before me, it seems as if women can be differentiated into two particular groups: there are those who wholeheartedly (and at times blindly) embrace the concept of love without any inhibitions whatsoever, wearing their hearts openly on the proverbial sleeve, and there are those that are so guarded with their hearts that they create an indestructible shield, making it nearly impossible for any man to penetrate through the thick wall. Each group has its strength and weakness, and each adamant that its particular path is indisputably exact, that as an outsider, it becomes increasingly difficult to determine which path should be followed.
So I ask: In the quest for love, is it better to set up walls around your heart than to leave it completely unguarded?
In asking my friends this very question, I’ve been approached with a myriad of answers. For many who choose to don the imperishable suit of armor, it seems as if such a decision was made only after suffering from a life-shattering bout of heartache. I’m regaled with tales of how each began the quest with unbridled optimism, enthusiastically believing that one can only enter the journey with the purest of intentions and with unwavering hope. But somewhere along this journey, she was met with a scheming wolf in sheep’s clothing, and unsuspectedly fell prey to empty promises and meaningless grand gestures. Although she was left broken and alone, she managed to mend the broken pieces of her heart and ultimately continued on the journey, vowing never to be vulnerable to such pain again.
Given the circumstances, it’s hard to imagine anyone who wouldn’t sympathize with the journeywoman’s plight and commend her for managing to persist in the pursuit despite the previous defeat. But I wonder, in creating this force field, is she not losing sight of the ultimate goal of the quest to begin with? Perhaps it is my unquestionable naiveté on the matter, or my childlike definition of the subject at hand, but isn’t the whole concept of love the complete giving of oneself to another with the steadfast faith that such would be reciprocated? And if so, how can one expect to obtain this love if she creates obstacles that are impossible to pierce? Aren’t you, by guarding your heart from being broken, in essence disregarding one key element in ultimate goal? In purely mathematical terms, if Love equals Vulnerability, then doesn’t eliminating vulnerability negate the equation altogether?
In the end, I think there should be some happy median between the two extremes. It is undeniable that the quest for love is oftentimes filled with danger lurking behind many seemingly unsuspicious corners. One shouldn’t begin the quest completely defenseless; doing so leaves you dangerously helpless in the face of carnivorous prey. However, entering the quest so guarded that you are completely impervious to anyone who approaches is just as dangerous; you can find that at the end of the winding road is nothing but solitude and loneliness. Being practical in the quest for love is certainly admirable; being too practical to a point where you are too blind to see love is certainly contemptible.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
The Art of Letting Go
As an overly obsessive, ridiculously romantic and at times, painfully unrealistic individual, “letting go” is a concept I have yet been able to comprehend, much less employ in my daily life. Whether it is a relationship or even a friendship, recognizing that my best laid plans will not come to fruition is a fact that I haven’t been able to appreciate. I know that recognizing that I have a problem is the first step in any recovery process. Figuring out a way to overcome this debilitating malady while not completely alienating the few remaining friends I have left is the ultimate resolution.
And so I wonder – why is it so hard to let go?
I imagine the root of this whole predicament is a devastating sense of fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of having to start from the beginning. Fear of placing myself in a vulnerable state once again just to be met with the same disappointing results. Underlying it all is an unbearable fear of failure. It’s the Fear that motivates the manic clutching, the frenzied grasping, the desperate clenching. Only through getting over the fear can one truly be able to “let go”.
It’s akin to giving up your favorite pair of shoes – sexy black pumps that were comfortable enough to wear all day to work, but sultry enough to wear for a night out on the town. Through thick and thin, those shoes were there, sparking the most agreeable memories that come to mind. But the cruelty of Lady Time smeared their glory, making them depleted and worn-out. Although the only sensation received from wearing them was pain to the lower back, placing them in the garbage bin was something you simply could not do. The thought of finding another pair of perfect pumps seemed to be a frightening impossibility. And yet, the stark reality is that the bin is where they truly belonged.
The only way to proceed in life is to ultimately face your fear. Accepting that life doesn’t always play out like a Disney fairytale is a certainty that every individual must realize; as is the fact that failure is a truth that everyone must confront at some point in her life. Even after wishing on every star that illuminates the sky or crossing every bone in your body, “happily ever after” might not be achieved. Sometimes, hopes and dreams aren’t realized. Only through accepting the uncertainty of life can one truly get over that fear. And in getting over that underlying fear, can one ultimately let go.
And as sad as it is to see your favorite pair of shoes languishing in the garbage rubble – take solace in the fact that with every loss comes an opportunity for the future. In this case, it’s an opportunity for shopping. What could be more exciting and hopeful than that?
And so I wonder – why is it so hard to let go?
I imagine the root of this whole predicament is a devastating sense of fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of having to start from the beginning. Fear of placing myself in a vulnerable state once again just to be met with the same disappointing results. Underlying it all is an unbearable fear of failure. It’s the Fear that motivates the manic clutching, the frenzied grasping, the desperate clenching. Only through getting over the fear can one truly be able to “let go”.
It’s akin to giving up your favorite pair of shoes – sexy black pumps that were comfortable enough to wear all day to work, but sultry enough to wear for a night out on the town. Through thick and thin, those shoes were there, sparking the most agreeable memories that come to mind. But the cruelty of Lady Time smeared their glory, making them depleted and worn-out. Although the only sensation received from wearing them was pain to the lower back, placing them in the garbage bin was something you simply could not do. The thought of finding another pair of perfect pumps seemed to be a frightening impossibility. And yet, the stark reality is that the bin is where they truly belonged.
The only way to proceed in life is to ultimately face your fear. Accepting that life doesn’t always play out like a Disney fairytale is a certainty that every individual must realize; as is the fact that failure is a truth that everyone must confront at some point in her life. Even after wishing on every star that illuminates the sky or crossing every bone in your body, “happily ever after” might not be achieved. Sometimes, hopes and dreams aren’t realized. Only through accepting the uncertainty of life can one truly get over that fear. And in getting over that underlying fear, can one ultimately let go.
And as sad as it is to see your favorite pair of shoes languishing in the garbage rubble – take solace in the fact that with every loss comes an opportunity for the future. In this case, it’s an opportunity for shopping. What could be more exciting and hopeful than that?
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Bring Back the Fuzzy!!
The night seemingly ended with a bang! It was a well-executed dinner party, complete with savory food, interesting conversation and enough funny quips to know the guests were entertained. As my tiny apartment emptied, the petite bellies of the invitees bulging with satisfaction, I took one hearty breath and began patting myself on the back on a job well done. But as I looked about the solitary room, which once brimmed with laughter and glee, I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. The melancholy wasn’t caused by the heap of dishes that poured out of the sink; nor was it due to my alarmingly aching bones that screamed from exhaustion. It was a sense of desolation that was brought on by an overpowering, overbearing sense of desertion. That sense of loss that was suppressed by the vibrant chatter of a crowded room quickly found its way back into the isolated domain, announcing its presence with a resounding thud. To put it plainly, the “fuzzy” was gone, replaced by the all-too-familiar sense of loneliness.
My friend and I laughingly coined the term “fuzzy” to describe a feeling that at times cannot be explained. It’s the knotting feeling one gets in her stomach, one that’s wrought with anxiety but riddled with excitement, when she is lost in the throws of love. Or lust. Or contentment. It’s a combination of pain and pleasure; angst and anticipation; stress and stimulation. It’s a feeling that elicits nervousness, but is blindly sought out by every able-bodied person. To try to explain it would be an injustice and to never feel it would be a tragedy.
But the fuzzy is fleeting. It comes into your life unexpectedly at times, sneaking in when least anticipated, but leaves abruptly, without warning. And invariably, the minute one begins to feel isolated or lonely or deserted, the one feeling that she invariably remembers is the fuzzy, longing for the days in which she’ll feel it once again. The fuzzy shouldn’t be confused with physical ecstasy in any way. Let’s face it – that can be cured easily with a pair of recharged double C batteries and ten minutes of solitude. No – the fuzzy is much more meaningful, packed with profound depth and vigor.
I remember when I last felt the fuzzy. Although it wasn’t too long ago, it feels as if a lifetime has passed since the fuzzy was a part of my being. Sadly, it wasn’t instigated by the most remarkable or memorable individual either. Rather, it was the glee of the fuzzy that made him outstanding. He left an indelible impression and created the fuzzy, and like the lame duck that he is, took it away from me as he disappeared from my life.
So as I look about my empty apartment, remembering the days in which my life seemed complete with the fuzzy, I long for those days to return. The air seemed fresher; the sky bluer; the world a happier place. I sleep alone, saddened by the loss and thoroughly disheartened. I go to bed despondently and broken. And I ask – when will the fuzzy come back??
My friend and I laughingly coined the term “fuzzy” to describe a feeling that at times cannot be explained. It’s the knotting feeling one gets in her stomach, one that’s wrought with anxiety but riddled with excitement, when she is lost in the throws of love. Or lust. Or contentment. It’s a combination of pain and pleasure; angst and anticipation; stress and stimulation. It’s a feeling that elicits nervousness, but is blindly sought out by every able-bodied person. To try to explain it would be an injustice and to never feel it would be a tragedy.
But the fuzzy is fleeting. It comes into your life unexpectedly at times, sneaking in when least anticipated, but leaves abruptly, without warning. And invariably, the minute one begins to feel isolated or lonely or deserted, the one feeling that she invariably remembers is the fuzzy, longing for the days in which she’ll feel it once again. The fuzzy shouldn’t be confused with physical ecstasy in any way. Let’s face it – that can be cured easily with a pair of recharged double C batteries and ten minutes of solitude. No – the fuzzy is much more meaningful, packed with profound depth and vigor.
I remember when I last felt the fuzzy. Although it wasn’t too long ago, it feels as if a lifetime has passed since the fuzzy was a part of my being. Sadly, it wasn’t instigated by the most remarkable or memorable individual either. Rather, it was the glee of the fuzzy that made him outstanding. He left an indelible impression and created the fuzzy, and like the lame duck that he is, took it away from me as he disappeared from my life.
So as I look about my empty apartment, remembering the days in which my life seemed complete with the fuzzy, I long for those days to return. The air seemed fresher; the sky bluer; the world a happier place. I sleep alone, saddened by the loss and thoroughly disheartened. I go to bed despondently and broken. And I ask – when will the fuzzy come back??
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