There are a lot of single women in this world. I don’t mean that in a creepy way. But the rate of loneliness is going up in my opinion, and so is the anonymity of the world.
Young girls long to get married. Married women long to be single. And the middle-aged single women sit in cafes, as skinny as their lattes, with an expression of pondering. Pondering what you may ask? Maybe the man who left them on the alter? Maybe the poofy cat that she just buried in a lovely spot under that big oak in her backyard. Or, maybe she’s just trying to make up her mind on which sultry, young lady that buffoon of a bachelor will give a rose to. And another sip on your cappuccino.
And that’s life. People living in a reality where reality is not a word. Instead, what they know is a warm, dreary feeling that lifts us up above this dull room, this stuffy house, the translucent sky, till we lie with our backs on the clouds, our fronts warmed in the sun of tomorrow. And to tell you the truth, I like it. Alot.
You read a book about extraordinary people arguing about their love lives only for it to end unhappily, with that precious vase introduced in chapter three (you know the one, Grandma gave it to Ada on her seventh birthday), breaking to pieces. It represents the unhappiness in which poor Ada will live the rest of her life wallowing in.
And that little argument you had yesterday about why your response was a bit too harsh to that simple question seems so much more simple. In fact, it was only because you were feeling overwhelmed by the immense feeling of sadness at all the events that happened to you in the last 48 hours, and had in no way anything to do with the one you were snappy to.
But after the argument, you feel alone. So alone. And then you realize that someone is there. Someone who understands. Ada. Poor, sweet Ada went through the same feelings after that jerk of a man broke up with her over her over-cooked pasta. “I told you it wasn’t Al Dente!” he cried. That chapter will always bring a tear to my eye.
But it’s not pasta that wrecks our mundane lives. It’s the frightening thought that haunts your every step. It bites your heels when you check out at the grocery store. When you go on a walk past the neighbor’s. The thought that no one, no matter what you do, no matter how many escapist novels you drive your nose into, no one will understand. Gives you the chills, doesn’t it? The self-checkout is looking alot better, huh? A few hours on Second Life and I could go to the amusement park without worrying one bit about that.
Little looks, little motions, and your happy reality turns to black as you are sucked into a dismal drone of disappointment. Judgment. Rejection.
But in the long run, what does it matter? Rejection. As long as your content; or content to be discontent, that works too. Or just use a time-worn tradition and jump in front of that oncoming subway. What does it matter.
Or does it matter a lot. Acceptance. Being understood. Do all your hopes and fears, expectations and accomplishments hang on that very knob. Being understood. Like a dirty, old coat, that has been tossed around, used for years, do you throw your hopes on the back of your neighbor’s chair, maybe hang it up on their coat-rack? Does your neighbor know? Or will he forget and use that coat-rack as kindling to battle the bitter cold raging at his door?
Is it better to be understood and rejected? or misunderstood and content?
Let me know. Leave a comment.
