Half of it all.

Sibling! (Photo credit: Gus Dahlberg)

I’m overly logical.

I state the facts.

Facts and concrete evidence are comforting ideals.

The problem with facts is that not everyone appreciates the truth or the facts of a situation.

And this isn’t a criticism of what choose to accept or reject. Many truths are marred with malice, but not all.

Facts and truths are more than just that; they govern how I view situation or tackle a relationship.

I have many friends who share the same sentiment.

My one friend has several half-siblings, many who she’s met quite late in life. Many who she’s happily gotten along with and some she hasn’t. But in it all, she’s always introduced them and regarded them as her half-siblings.

Recently, one of her brothers had a heated argument. He hated how he’s viewed as the “half-brother” and decided to attack her for this. The argument lead to immature name calling.

We sat and discussed it. I agreed with her logic: he was her half-brother.  Yes they had the same father, but they didn’t share entire upbringings, morals etc. He was half of it all.

She even confessed to only mildly caring about him and his well-being.

I can’t dictate the extent to which you can care for a sibling. I just agree with the facts and I don’t find the fact repulsive or appalling. Judging someone on the extent they care for another isn’t in my interest.

If a sibling labelled me or introduced me as half, I honestly wouldn’t flinch. Why? Because it’s the truth. It’s not malicious intent.  Some people are different. Maybe the psychology of the brother wanted a whole family unit, something he lacked within his own childhood. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, he refused to see or acknowledge half-truths or half-families.

Love and family unions run deeper than the mere 25% she happens to share with him. Bonding and caring about another person is what makes families so unique.

However, in the same breath, I could understand my friend’s predicament and her psychological need to state and acknowledge the facts. I can understand her candour, and I can understand his anger, but I don’t see the need for anger.

What say you?

Related articles

• Why There Are No “Half” Siblings (parentsofcolorseeknewborntoadopt.wordpress.com)
• The Ethicist: Halfhearted Half Brother (nytimes.com)
• The Fighter (mrmovietimes.com)
• Like a Second Parent (theofficialtta.wordpress.com)

Male Bashing

“Besides he dresses horribly…”

“He smells like he never showers; count yourself lucky you don’t have to lay with his rancid-ass anymore.”

“I saw him kissing some slut outside a gig last week….it was disgusting, she looked like she belonged in an alley”

My turn:  “….and he has eczema..!”

Everyone turned and looked at me.

Face-palm moment.

All my girlfriends turned and said: “M…what?”

Male-bashing is primarily a post breakup ritual.

It exhibits itself other times as well, but post-breakup, it’s a compliant code of conduct.

Most days I’m pretty colourful with my insults, but today, for the 5^th day in a row, I was pretty exhausted.

I couldn’t think of anything more insulting to say about “J”.

Back-story?

Him and “L” we dating less than a year when she found out…wait for it…he cheated and he was bi-sexual.

She suspected his propensity for all things feminine, but the cheating was of course, unacceptable.

She was the conservative and her male counterpart would always be the wild-emotionally-vulnerable-need-to-be-fixed-man-whore, which is fine, because I can always count on a soap-dramasque story to entertain my inbox.

My problem was Keeping Up Appearances.

Selfish?

There were only so many Friday nights I could spend picking out flaws on men who I hardly met, let alone do so objectively. I know it’s silly to even think that in any girlfriend support situation, objectivity is priority, but hey-ho, that’s me and my “benefit of the doubt” theory.

Tonight of course was wine, tissues and male-bashing.

“K” started it off, and alternatively, as a group should, we continued bashing.

I hoped a slow-witted comment on eczema would bring comedy and maybe change the subject.

It didn’t, so I poured another glass a wine…

“M, you know L has eczema as well, how could you say that with such disdain? It’s a sensitive issue! It’s no one’s choice to get eczema!”

I drank more…

“I mean really, if you can’t support L right now, maybe you should go.”

I would, except my Friday night had nothing else on the agenda.

“Sorry.”

“No it’s alright M, don’t worry. He never took care of himself, and he was bad in bed!”

Here we go; the good stuff.

“I mean what kinda of man needs a weight lifting belt for sex? And you know after he finished, he always did a celebration dance, like he scored a touchdown, and when I gave oral, he smoked and had the nerve to drop the ashes in my hair!”

Fits of giggles across the room and a snort from me.

Geez, women put up with anything these days.

I felt sorry for L and proud. She ended it, but I wonder how much horrific or humiliating things she put up with before the cheating came to light.

“…ugh and I remember our second date when he took me to a sports bar and sneaked in McDonalds burgers because he didn’t want to pay for bar lunch. I thought it was frugal and thoughtful, but looking back, he never cared!”

Bitch, please.

“…and my underwear always went missing! I had to start buying the cheap stuff now, ugh, vile right?”

“Totally! And ew!”

I didn’t say much after that, solely because it was all being said for me.

I know I would get the phone call the next morning chastising me for being the idiot at the ritual, but what they saw as unsupportive, I saw as preserving my perception of relationships….and being bored.

I sent L flowers the next day with lovely a hopeful message.

Did I mean it?

Of course!  Isn’t it customary to end the male-bashing weekend with empty messages of hope?

Unrequited

Glaring across the room they sit, fingers intertwined, breathing synchronized.  A playful touch on the nose and a rapid peck on the forehead solidifies their ties. Lovers.  Months in and they’re affection never wanes.   She tilts her head back and lets out a rambunctious laugh. He tickles her throat and they fall again into hysterics.

Carefully analysing their every move, another sits.  She ponders on the significance of each gesture he makes towards his lover and each subtle grimace, She records and analyses.  Hiding behind large hopeful eyes and a yearning heart, She stares.

She studies his lips, the smoothness of his freckles and the deep throaty laugh.  Every motion he makes induces a throbbing, and a heat. She bites her lips.  Her yearning unrequited, blocked by another woman she disproportionately despises.

On any given day, she would extend her hello. He would be alone, standing, poised, sexual, inviting. She would enter: makeup polished, blouse slightly unbuttoned, girdle choking her waist, perfume and pheromones languidly hanging between them.  All a bid to arouse attraction and perhaps a spontaneous grab and grope.  Far-fetched and delusional, she laughs at his jokes, gently squeezes his arm and subtlety licks her lips.

“C’mon! Find me attractive!”

Desperation begins to seep through her pores.

Conversation ensues: “So how about that Ronaldo eh?”

Football was her greatest weakness, but his laugh, his eloquent explanation of even the most mundane topics sent her skin hot, and her legs shaking. Though, it was all still unrequited.   He gives in, talks, jokes, and then extends his goodbye with a quick hug around her waist. She melts.

She calls every girlfriend and every perceptive male friend.

“What does it mean?”

Opinions waver from:

“Nothing, possibly something, but most likely nothing.”

To

“You’re getting close, wear a tighter skirt. Talk about his interests!”

The chase is arduous. Eight months on, small signs processed and love-related data are then extrapolated.  The protocol for obsessive preoccupation with one man has never been explained to her. She smiles broader, studies his interests to seem poignant and profound.  Still all remains unrequited.  Infuriation gathers when she sees him with a different lover: buxom, yet utterly unattractive.

With alcohol-fuelled rage, she sends him an Instant Message. Confidence and a technological wall in place, she sends a barrage of honest, bitter questions reminiscent of melodramatic teenage rejection.

“I really like you, don’t you feel the same?”

“Lol, really? I never thought you were interested.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you never talked about yourself, and you seemed pretty distant and serious.”

[All my smiles were in vain?]

“Do you find me attractive?”

“Are you kidding? Every guy I know wants you. I just always assumed you were too serious for flings. Unless you’re interested….? Come over, or shall I pick you up?”

[Part disappointment/Part excitement]

The conversation turns from IM to phone. She laughs and her skin tingles over his sensual sayings of nothing and everything. Gentle boasting and soft coaxing, He imagines for them both. Yet still, Her hope rise & fall. Her obsession over the past eight months seem to have been over a personality she created to fit into a handsome human being that could never exist.

Now, He smiles, He calls. She ignores.  All remaining unrequited.

Opinions waver from:

“Good, I told you he wasn’t worth it.”

To:

“I don’t know girl, I think you still should’ve seen him naked.”

Indeed.

Related articles

• Why Unrequited Love is Always Sad? (backstreeetboy.wordpress.com)
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Speeding

This isn't me by the way.

I went speed dating once. A friend kept telling me how much of a great experience she had, so I wondered, “why not put myself out there?”

I told my friends and they laughed. “Desperate move!” Sure it was desperate. I didn’t expect to have a husband by the end of the night, but I wanted a different social experience.  Albeit it might be seen as a desperate one, but it was a unique experience!

I didn’t know what to expect. I wore a black dress with tan heels and a matching tan bag. I wore my hair out and wore soft sensual makeup. You know the kinda lipstick/lip gloss that draws attention to the curves of your mouth *ahem* and stuff.  I looked ok. I was confident and ready to attempt some flirtation skills I read online.

Walking in, I wish they had told me that everyone had brought a buddy or several buddies for “social support”. I just brought myself and a bit of confidence. Damn! Every guy looked nervous and every girl clung to her wine glass, myself included.  I did the typical thing: I scanned the room for hot men and black men (or hot black men).  Only a few were present. And by a few, I mean hot men. Nevertheless, I was ditching my vain need for hotties and decided on getting to know people – that was the aim right?

Rules were explained: 2 minutes per table. Women were to move to each table and tick whether they found him likeable enough to date.  My first date was cute, had a great engineering career, but he struggled with his English and when he told me he was from Transylvania, I thought he was pulling my leg. I really wanted to make a Dracula joke like: “aye! you ain’t gonna drag me to your dungeon right? Cuz’ I hear y’all love snatching people up!” But that would’ve been childish and I certainly am not childish….on a date.  The entire 2 minutes with him was spent helping him gather enough words to become interested in each other.  By the time I had enough information, the bell rang and I was semi-relieved.

Guy to Guy I kept moving and hoping for a spark, but it’s kinda hard to get a spark when you have to ask all the right questions and at the same time, play it cool.

“What do you do?”

“Where are you from?”

“What would you do if I gave you 10 bucks, whip cream and Russian vodka?”

One guy was pretty vocal about interviewing for a wife: “What’s your hobby? Can you cook? Do you want kids? Would you consider getting married in 6 months?”

One date kept me cracking up like I was at the Apollo, just hysterical. Too bad I guffawed him outta interest.  He was such a nice guy and I really wanted him to take me out (hehe).

I couldn’t help notice the competition women in the room. One girl confessed to me that she was only there because of the open bar and made damn sure to nab a bottle of white wine, which she proudly took from table to table. She was obviously drunk and really pretty.  And they say pretty women don’t have issues! Puh! One girl wore the tiniest dress and flirted her way through a lot of phonebooks (which was totally unfair, rules are rules! Hello?). It was unbelievable and commendable, but the competitor in me needed to step it up to her level, but I didn’t have the gall to.  Homegirl said some lines which I thought were explicitly meant for lovers.  Just phenomenal.

At one point, I honestly felt that my ideal match would show himself, emerging from the corner in full Bollywood dance and song “My lovelyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” The flirty girl would be jealous and try to entice him and all the dancers would be singing in high-pitched voices: “No no! He only has eyes for herrrrr!” And we’d be carried away to an exotic date on an elephant.  Of course, if this were Nollywood film, the flirty girl would have poisoned me with a bit of obeah and he would be in a loveless marriage with her trifling ass.

I know, I’m delusional.

Anyway…

I found guys I liked: 10 out of 25 men. I was pretty excited with my selections. They were smart, engaging, funny, ambitious, loved books, art galleries etc!  I couldn’t wait to go home and see who I matched up with.  I signed in, and scanned through, the computer says, “Number of matches: 1! Contact him now!”

Wow 1 guy? That was my reaction! One. Single. Uno. One shot with one guy. I felt mortified and slightly confused. I thought I was sexy? I thought I was funny? I thought I was interesting? I thought I used my flirtation skills right? I mean I played with my afro hair, I smiled, and I didn’t overshadaow him, blah blah blah….!

I know I shouldn’t have based my attractiveness level on the response of 25 men. But, it was just mind-boggling, brutal and semi-honest.

Will I go speed dating again? Probably not. It was fun, but there’s only so much desperation a girl can put out there.