Saturday, April 2, 2011

Queen Litigator of the Single Girls

Last night, while I was attending a low-key soiree at my friends' apartment, I stumbled upon a realization. Firstly, let me clarify what I mean by "low-key soiree". I do not mean a somewhat mellow alternative to a fraternity/sorority party where booze and meaningless trysts are the norm, I simply mean that a compatible group of wonderful people gathered to watch the opening game for the Red Sox (which had an unfortunate ending, unless you are a Texas fan in which I advise you to stop reading this blog, just kidding :)), followed by the viewing of "Tangled" (the real reason to celebrate). The hostess' of this little get together are absolutely lovely! I must have held open enough doors for others and racked up my karma points in order for the universe to have granted me the gift of knowing these girls. Talented bakers, creative, amiable, and loyal, sprinkled in with a couple of nuts and drizzled with giggles is enough to ensure a fun time had by all. A fraction of these femme fatales are in a relationship. They buzzed around the apartment, fetching items varied from Red Sox themed cupcakes to cookies to drinks for their loved ones, ensuring their comfort and satiety.

Therein, my friends, lies the realization. As I watched my friends dote on their boyfriends, somewhere deep inside of me the notion of catering to someone else struck an odd chord in me. While I do not oppose to their actions, I actually find it very endearing, I have trouble in picturing myself complete these same selfless acts. I panicked, a vision of me married to some chauvinistic fellow barking at me to bring him another beer, complaining about the food I cook, and bashing my appearance flashed before my eyes. This behavior, this rude, selfish, and demeaning behavior makes my stomach tie itself in a knot. If there is anything that I can control in this lifetime, it would be preserving my mental health by not adhering myself to one of these relationships. In reality, this uncovers a deeper issue we in the Psychology profession like to label as a fear of commitment. I admit it. I fear commitment.

That's the first step in therapy, right? Admittance of your shameful problems to a room of other individuals with various other shameful problems? I do not want to be put in a situation in which I feel like I am stuck in a cage. I do not want to be just thought of as a woman, I want to be an equal partner, a team player if you wish. My definition should not include "being pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen fixin' grub". I feel as if my definition should be a little more heart felt, sentiments never hurt anyone by being shared.  It is the former definition that lays out the iron bars, dirt floor, and cement blocks of my cage. If that is not the worst part, I have this terrible habit of identifying every man as acting this way and immediately writing them on my "You don't gotta chance, sucka" list and naively prancing on through my life thinking that a prince on a noble steed will eventually rescue me. As dreamy as that sounds, I know this is far from the truth. The only person who can really save me from being single, is myself.

So, after the party I returned to my dorm room in which I flicked on the television, only to find "What Women Want" playing. It was a cosmic sign sent from the cable gods of love, who were angelically cooing "What do you want, Rach?". Well, no one has ever asked me that before. My mother has compiled a list traits for my husband, who does exist at the moment, which includes: being taller than 6'1", must love dogs, must be intelligent, must be a Christian, have no tattoos or unsightly piercings, and above all worship the ground I peddle upon with my somewhat teeny feet. Never have I taken the time to think about what I want. Do I want a relationship? Do I want someone that tall? Does he have to love dogs, or just accept them for what they are (lovable, drooling flea bags)? The truth is, I had no idea. I still don't. In the muck and mire of my confused heart last night, I decided to lay on the floor and think about this conundrum. I even talked to myself, or maybe to God, or maybe to Mel Brooks, who was dancing around on television to music by Frank Sinatra. Nevertheless, I just talked it out. I questioned the universe like I was queen litigator of the single girls. I am sure the universe was happy to hear from me. The night ended without answers. The significant aspect, however, is that my lone voice will harmonize with a choir of other single ladies (hey Beyonce...) leaving the universe no choice but to supply us all with some sort of answer. Which led to me to dance around while blasting "Dog Days Are Over" and bellowing at the top of my lungs, needless to say I feel better. :)

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