Tag Archives: Love

A note on love

9 Jul

When a couple tells me that they’ve been together for 5 or more years, I always think that they’re good as married.  That’s 5 year of bearing each other’s shit and knowing that the good stuff is worth all of it.  Trial-period over.  A person can’t change much after 5 years–the truth must’ve come out by then, you will know if she’s a night-farter or if he’s a snorer or if they’re prone to temper-tantrums.  But I suppose this isn’t true all of the time.  I heard a story the other day of a girl who is pregnant after two months of dating her current boyfriend (they’re staying together to raise the baby).  She had dated the last ex for 8 years but with this one, she knew.  She felt queasy, flusteringly hot when she saw him for the first time.  This could be called love-at-first-sight, which is possible but usually works when the person is terribly good-looking and doesn’t blow their looks with their personality.  It’d be interesting to see some statistics on what percentage of love-at-first-sight couples stay together for more than 5 years.

I’ve only been physically affected by looks once.  It wasn’t the faint, butterfly in the stomach feeling, but rather embarrassment.  I remember I was late to a dinner with friends who had invited another friend.  All weekend I’d heard about this friend in the casual, non-descriptive context such as “I was talking with Joe about gin” or “Joe is in the same frat as Bob.”  As I was running down the stairs to the basement (of course, North-End restaurants in Boston are so tiny that you dine in the basement), I saw Joe first and flushed red, too embarrassed to look at him again.  Of course, I had pre-imagined him in my mind as a nobody and here he was, tall dark and I would use the word lumberjack pretty, but I’d probably be the only one who considers this a compliment–anyhow these were things which my friend had neglected to mention.  Charming and witty as he was, I talked mostly to my friends during, because I couldn’t look at him too long without feeling scorched by his superiority.  You, underwear-model sitting next to me, I’ve read about you in the glossy pages of Vanity Fair, you should be sunning on your yacht now, drinking champagne with Sarah Jessica Parker.  But eventually, as the evening wore on and time took the spell off of me, I discovered that he was a music dork, meaning that he had a passion for it and he then became like all of my other friends.  We bonded a bit b/c I’m good at dropping obscure band names (superpower! high upkeep though).  At some point in the night, he kissed me, and surprised, I reacted as if I were taken off guard by a soda being thrown in my face, which of course, embarrassed him.  And try as I did, I never recovered that night.  Though I do wonder if he did give me a chance at redemption by climbing into the couch-bed with me during that frigid Boston night.  However, all I did was fart and sheepishly apologize, which he then charmingly forgave me for.

But that incident leads to me draw two conclusions about men:  no matter how they look like, most men are always after one thing and most men take rejection hard.  I’ve reached more or less the same conclusions from experiences with other less-pretty men in life.


I’ve been asked frequently, on every “what’s up!” email, if I’ve found a hot Latin lover.  Por desgracia no, because I would be fluent in Spanish by now.  I’ve gotten a good deal of whistling, but this is really no different than the car honking I get from Mexicans in Texas (chalk it up to machista) and is in comparison, negligent to the harassment which blondes receive.  (The funniest story I heard was when a car stopped on the street and my friend saw a hand reach out and felt a squeeze on her butt and then the car was off.)  They say Bolivians are less aggressive than Brazilians or Argentinians and I can say that Bolivians are very polite.  I adore the way people say “Provecho” (Bon Appetit!) to everybody when they walk into a restaurant.   But aside from that, Bolivians leave you alone.

Anyways the lack of a Latin lover can be attributed to the language barrier.  Having a crush on me would be like having a crush on a 2nd-grader, because that’s the level I speak at in Spanish.  Although, I have heard of 2-year relationships b/w people who don’t speak the same language and that must consist of a lot of patience and miming.  Anyhow, as people here are very frank about your physical appearance (a common nickname is “gordita” aka “fatty”…as in, “hola gordita!  te extraño!  hello fatty, i missed you!), I suppose I get a lot of compliments such as “I love your eyes, so chiquita! [insert pinching of fingers together]”  I’ve always wondered how relationships of two different cultures work out, b/c can you really be yourself in another language?  And if you’re someone else, how long will that last?