Anita. I thought, if there was any perfect girl, she was the one. The One. Before her it was The Ex I upheld as the embodiment of virtuous femininity.
The Ex had a finely honed sixth sense, that much touted Womanly Intuition, that made her “just know” that I liked Anita, even though I already had her. So she got jealous and nasty about it. Lastly we broke up (that was the first time). From then on all our fights became irresolvable the minute Anita was mentioned. I refused to cut ties with a friend whose friendship preceded my teenage years. The same jealousy and suspicion was leveled at my then long-distance best friend. Ultimately I maintained my friends and eventually I lost The Ex.
Anita and I remained just friends, despite the lengthy “we’re both single now so *nudge-nudge* whadja make of it” phase.
You know the type of just friend: someone you really admire, fiercely desire and consequently spend much time around, hoping that something will develop. But the passage of time yields only talk and laughter and naughty mutual friends. Lo and behold! you get a sister, whereas you secretly sought a very different type of love.
The fact she’s spiritual only reinforces your intent to “do it right,” to avoid the kinds of seduction scenarios depicted in romance novels targeted at the female adolescent demographic. No, rather, setting your eye on the long term prize, you put your best foot forward, and lose the battle, to win the war.
One of those naughty mutual friends, Oti, opines with arrogant confidence that your approach will cost a funeral – yours. This is the twenty-first century. “She’s a woman.” Winks.
You rebuke him: “She’s not like that! She’s different.”
“Different what? Different woman! Still a woman.”
“Oti shut up Oti and go away Oti.”
He sniggers, shrugs, and immediately goes to meddle with the heads of some comparatively less attractive albeit more easily impressed girls. Let him have the low-hanging fruit. Let him let us climb the tree for the biggest ripest fruit on the highest frailest branch.
Clinging steadfastly to your own tactics, you refuse to listen to detractors who would lump your One with the common herd. Slow but sure will do it for you. The race is not to the swift etc. More talk, more hanging out, more sharing, more! More! Something’s about to start happening!
No, nothing’s going on, and you know it. She’s, like, your sister now, remember?
But something happens, say some random thing you did, that unintentionally shatters the whole idea that such a person as The One exists. For an instant a breeze separates the curtains and you catch a glimpse of backstage...
The Ex had a finely honed sixth sense, that much touted Womanly Intuition, that made her “just know” that I liked Anita, even though I already had her. So she got jealous and nasty about it. Lastly we broke up (that was the first time). From then on all our fights became irresolvable the minute Anita was mentioned. I refused to cut ties with a friend whose friendship preceded my teenage years. The same jealousy and suspicion was leveled at my then long-distance best friend. Ultimately I maintained my friends and eventually I lost The Ex.
Anita and I remained just friends, despite the lengthy “we’re both single now so *nudge-nudge* whadja make of it” phase.
You know the type of just friend: someone you really admire, fiercely desire and consequently spend much time around, hoping that something will develop. But the passage of time yields only talk and laughter and naughty mutual friends. Lo and behold! you get a sister, whereas you secretly sought a very different type of love.
The fact she’s spiritual only reinforces your intent to “do it right,” to avoid the kinds of seduction scenarios depicted in romance novels targeted at the female adolescent demographic. No, rather, setting your eye on the long term prize, you put your best foot forward, and lose the battle, to win the war.
One of those naughty mutual friends, Oti, opines with arrogant confidence that your approach will cost a funeral – yours. This is the twenty-first century. “She’s a woman.” Winks.
You rebuke him: “She’s not like that! She’s different.”
“Different what? Different woman! Still a woman.”
“Oti shut up Oti and go away Oti.”
He sniggers, shrugs, and immediately goes to meddle with the heads of some comparatively less attractive albeit more easily impressed girls. Let him have the low-hanging fruit. Let him let us climb the tree for the biggest ripest fruit on the highest frailest branch.
Clinging steadfastly to your own tactics, you refuse to listen to detractors who would lump your One with the common herd. Slow but sure will do it for you. The race is not to the swift etc. More talk, more hanging out, more sharing, more! More! Something’s about to start happening!
No, nothing’s going on, and you know it. She’s, like, your sister now, remember?
But something happens, say some random thing you did, that unintentionally shatters the whole idea that such a person as The One exists. For an instant a breeze separates the curtains and you catch a glimpse of backstage...
