Dearest life,

When you want something good for someone you love,

but it’s found between a fine line of motivation

As an Asian-American woman in the US, I have never felt extremely attractive or sexy. I am average in height, weight, and facial structure and definitely below average in the boobs and ass department. Growing up, I was insecure about my body, but ultimately I came to accepting the fact that I will always be “cute.” I think another reason why I came to being comfortable with my average self was because I wanted to reject the patriarchal definition of sexual attraction and the objectification of the woman body. By the time I was budding, my body had already been abused by a handful of men, and I didn’t want more attention than I already had received. So, as an adult, I took pride in not being vain in how I looked.

However, I find myself looking into the mirror and trying to pose seductively. I would take pictures of myself that I would delete, not because I didn’t want them to be found, but because I didn’t like the results. When we went out, I would try my best to find a sexy outfit. I would add the finishing touches to mimic the celebrities that always seduced me through the screen. The issue was I never got the “sexy” or “beautiful” compliment. And that bugged me. Even in the most intimate positions, I never felt physically attractive, just carnally fulfilling. 

Last night, I asked him, “why do you find me attractive?” And he started with a chuckle and “...because you’re cute...” My heart dropped. “And your personality...and how selfless you are...how much you sacrifice for me...and that you would do anything for me...and that turns me on.” 

I’ve been thinking

about how much easier 

it would be to hate.

Hate is self-fueling

and ignites manifestations,

such as resent, pity, and anger.

All of which are as volatile

and eruptive as the next.

It doesn’t take much to start

or to spread infectiously.

Love, on the other hand,

often requires replenishing

from another source-

one that becomes the sweetest

addiction and high.

And that’s why

I’ve never dated a lot. I’ve had a lot of near-connections, infatuations, near-misses, friendzoning (on both ends), but relationships- a true connection- those are rare in my life. I’m not ashamed of it, although I used to feel the need to keep up with my female peers in the pursuit of “love” and “happiness.” Regardless, I think I’m ready to confess my crimes as a gamophobic aka a commitaphobe.

I am the frog in boiling water- I sit and wait for the warmth, wait and wait, without realizing the heat between us. This is detrimental- either you pull us off the heat, or I jump out and run.

I’m a hopeless romantic with a realist streak and a monogamous tendency- you were my best connection, but I pushed you away because I knew I was career-driven, yet every time I see you, I wish madly that a change of heart would whisk me away in the sunset. Contradictory and especially confusing- I really don’t know what to tell you...

I can be cordial and giggle my way across the dance floor, through a nice dinner, and in every text, but I sometimes just can’t connect with you. It’s instinctive, and I never believed this because I’m a scholar of formulas and algorithms, but that gut is too organic to ignore.

Number 3 leads to my 4th crime: lack of checklists/criteria. I really don’t have a “type,” per se. But, EVERYONE has a type! Yes, I have certain qualities that I’d deem as a perfect mate, but again, that connection, the mind, the character is what wins me over. And the dating apps just cannot help me with reconciling this concept. Falling back to passing superficial judgement on pictures and misspellings on profiles disgusts me to the point of tears and frustration (of myself. not all the great young gentlemen online). 

I am recovering from gamophobic whiplash- put two gamophobes together is like trying to shove two positives poles of magnets together and watching them repel. I was so ready to climb out of my gamophobia, but timing was just impossible. And this has reverted me into a severe gamophobic state, leaving a trail of “Sorry, I don’t think we’re compatible” texts after many first dates. 

“We had our moments...

We are compatible...

But I am selfish,

I’ve been thinking about us lately, months after we have decided that our alignment was far too crooked to even try to fit. It doesn’t make sense now, not any more than it made sense then. Yet, moments of the months where we did fit keep flashing back, like a cliche movie montage. From the cringing pecks to the melodramatic declarations, they ping through my mind like droplets of the beginning of a rainstorm. And then the storm falls.

There will be one day when I will look upon my daughter’s youthful face and remember my own. And I hope she will never value that face more than her mind. I hope she will never accept those lingering eyes with a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. I hope she will never compromise her values for desire, her dreams for another’s, her esteem for a man or woman’s approval. Her vanity should never consume her, motivate her, or mold her- only her integrity shall do this. 

Each time I soar, I always let my fingers glide across your cool barrier, my knees just gently nudge against that icy field. And then I draw back, scared of cracking this glass ceiling- though I long to be freed from this cage of doubt and capacity. There has to be a limit for everything with energy, no? There must be a mark for the end of your potential- nothing is infinite: it’s just the physics of things.

But where potential energy ends, kinetic energy begins. And I feel it, building inside, and I see what beckons across this window. I’m speeding towards you ceiling, and I’m going to hit you with a force that will shatter you to shards. And I know these shards will cut my skin, embed into my face, bleed me in an effort to hold me back in fear. Well, as they say, no pain, no gain, right?

Sincerely,

Thank you for always making my week! Late Friday afternoon (might I add, Friday the 13th), I set a goal of donating blood more often in honor of my grandfather, especially since we shared the same blood type and he had received 3 pints of blood in his time of need. So, I got myself to the blood bank and had a lovely time draining a pint.

Fast-forward 36 hours, I wake up with a sore throat and runny nose. No biggie, just allergies. At 48 hours: chills & 99.2 degree fever. Fuck. I quickly whipped out the donation receipt and called the hotline to recall MY BAG OF DEATH. 

Here's to my Hippocratic oath to do no harm...

Sincerely,

It's been a while since I've been happy. Even in the longest breaks where I could do anything and everything I want, I just didn't want to budge. The worst part is that there's absolutely nothing stopping me from being happy. I'm being dragged again by Time; he's pulling me like we're late to the grandest gathering of greatest gratification...and I'm tripping to keep pace, as if I was in caught in a dream state--you know, the one where your feet cannot keep up with the urgency, no matter how much you will it. 

And then there's the constant fog of disappointment that will not clear. Disappointment from false hopes, disappointments from lost connections, disappointments from weak performances...It's all just a perpetual breeze of icy air that numbs my face even after I thought there was no more sense to be felt. 

But it's not that I've given up, it's definitely not that. I'm searching for that high, I'm yearning to unload the release of endorphin, but I can't seem to place where the key is. Is it satisfaction that my results reflects my work? Is it finding clarity in mixed signals? Is it forgiving myself for all the pity and anger? Is it trusting the world again?