♫ There are so many parts that I have hidden and denied and lost. There are so many colours that I still try to hide while I paint. There are so many tunes that I secretly sing as I wait. There were so many times I thought I’d die not being truly known. You come along and invite these parts out of hiding. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for getting me. I’m healed by your empathy. ♫

Lyrics from a song by Alanis. No, all her songs are not angstious rants. In this album, she seems to have found a happy place, shock-shock! Anyway, this song talks about how she changed herself in a quest for love, only to finally find a man that loved her exactly as she was. It’s a beautiful fairytale that I believed in for the longest time. And it’s one that I’ve seen come true, for others, if not for me. At least not yet.

A good friend once told me I’m immensely selfish. He said that when something doesn’t work for me, I simply walk away. I don’t stop to think of the damage I’ve caused by leaving, or the mess I’ve left behind. It took all my restraint not to roll my eyes and yell, ‘Duh!’ Why would I stay in a place that’s clearly not good for me? Of course what he didn’t say was that it used to take me months or even years before I chose to stuff it. Nowadays it takes me days, or even hours. Maybe that’s what upset him so much, my diminishing levels of tolerance. Or maybe it was a deep-seated fear that one day I’d get fed up and walk away from him. And eventually … I did.

I suppose I’m that kind of a person. I consider myself difficult, maybe even impossible. And I believe that in the end, everyone will walk away from me… that’s if I don’t leave them first. Reason being that there are parts of me no one will ever understand. I’d like to think I’m complex, even though some say I complicate myself. They say everyone is the same, and that seeing myself as unique is simplistic, arrogant, and just plain wrong. And in many ways, ‘they’ are right.

I have strange ideas about relationships. Or maybe I just think they’re strange. For example, I don’t believe in marriage, but I do want someone to love me enough to ask me. Of course if he does ask, I’ll just say no, which makes me sound like a sadist. Which I’m not. I think. I’m also not the wifing kind, unless it has a hyphen.

For the longest time, I didn’t think my ideal relationship existed. I didn’t think it was possible to find a man that’s just a little taller than me, who likes to cuddle and makes me laugh, who loves my daughter as his own, who doesn’t want any more kids, who doesn’t need me to change my name, who doesn’t do cows or in-laws, who doesn’t want to share my house, who doesn’t really like blow jobs, who has a healthy vibrant appetite for me, and who will love, respect, and be faithful to me. Always.

With time, I’ve learned to love myself, in every way, and to accept that men exist that want a girl like me. It helps to watch my friends, awesome girls who were told they’d never marry. Beautiful souls that were constantly told they were not wife material. Yet now I watch them with happy husbands and beautiful children. And they didn’t even have to wear a corset or shave their legs or wield mascara. They found perfectly good men who loved them exactly as they were. And that’s a beautiful, beautiful thing.

The funny thing is the universe. In the sense that the universe, or God, or cupid, is a funny thing. He/she/it brings you exactly what you’re looking for, especially when you don’t know that you’re looking for it. That’s why my friends found wonderful men when they didn’t even know they were searching. And me, I keep drawing the wrong kind of attention because deep down, I think that’s what I deserve.

See, if you want a certain kind of man, and you tell yourself that man doesn’t exist, then every other man you meet will prove it. And so in some strange, twisted way, I keep finding the kind of man that tells me I’m not a worthy woman. And I end up thinking no man could want me, because all of the ones I’ve dated felt that way.

Sometimes I binge myself on theory. For example, there are at least 7 billion people in the world. And at least 3 billion of them are men. So statistically speaking, there are at least 2,999,999,980 that haven’t dated me yet, and any one of them could be my type. Even if I take out the married ones, the gay ones, the church ones, the criminal ones, the sadist ones, and the weird ones, those are still some pretty good odds.

I’m also learning that love is all around us if we just look for it. It’s not all romantic love. I can have a beautiful life with my daughter, my brothers, my friends. I can be fulfilled, be beautiful, and feel loved even if I don’t find a man to call me baby. Of course I don’t always agree with this idea. There are moments during weddings, or on cold nights, or in mid-ovulation when it feels like being man-less is the worst. thing. ever. But then the hormones pass, the rice is thrown, I get an extra blanket, and all is fine again.

I believe that good men exist. And I am charmed every time I see the men in my girls’ lives treat them right. Salute to R, who married my girl even though he was convinced she was incapable of housework. Hats off to C, who makes his wife happy each time he helps her spray paint a bottle with glitter. Three cheers to L who compliments his lovely bride while she labours with her natural hair. Kudos to F who supports his wife’s high-flying career and helps her be the hotshot that she is.

And a special heartfelt blessing to all the men that choose to remain faithful to their wives, even when the rest of womanhood is throwing evil, envious, and immensely luscious body parts in their direction. No woman can keep a man. Not Halle Berry. Not Cleopatra. Not even Hellen of Troy. Your man has to decide to stay with you. And as I watch the good men of the world, the ones I know belong to other hearts, I thank them, and honour them, for the comfort and pleasure they bring into those women’s lives. Maybe one day, I’ll find mine.

♫ Nothing compares to you ♫ Sinead O’connor ♫

There are tons of studies that say beautiful people get further in life. They are more likely to be hired, get free stuff, and – of course – find people to date and marry. I’m a very visual person, so I often get the urge to walk up to pretty people and tell them how gorgeous they are. And sometimes, I give in to this urge.

That said, my daughter is unusually beautiful. (Yes, I know every mother says that, but in my case, I have third, fourth, and fifth party corroboration.) I raise her to do things for herself, to NOT use her beauty as a crutch, to not expect the world to do stuff for her, just because she’s pretty.

It’s a bit hard teaching this lesson, because while I say one thing at home, the world gives her the exact opposite message. Everyone she meets proves that she’s entitled to things as a result of her genes. But that’s not my issue today. My issue today is looking past said genes.

See, I live with my daughter, so it’s natural to see all of her. I don’t just see a pretty face. I see a warm heart, a vibrant spirit, a quick mind. I see so much more than the supporting  documents that have her schoolmates drooling even though she’s only eleven. And as I watched a pretty boy walk past me in the office, I realised I owe him that as well.

As much as I silently admire the beautiful people of the world (and feel too intimidated to do more than watch), they need more. They need to be recognised as people, to be seen for more than just their looks. It’s a counter-intuitive thought, because come on, they already get so much. Now you want to give them more? Can’t we just quietly envy them and try not to stab them with pencils?

No. Because they’re people too. We spend so much time fighting for the underdog, standing by the wall-flowers, championing the introvert. We forget that sometimes beauty can be lonely. Everyone assumes someone that hot must be surrounded by fans and groupies. We don’t notice everyone that while everyone nearby is drooling, they’re all too scared to get close to the beautiful ones. We’re afraid these gifts from God will reject us, or dismiss us. Or we assume someone else must already be giving them the attention they deserve. The last thing they need is one more awkwardly speechless fan, yes?

I’m not suggesting you walk up to a pretty person and offer them the favour of your company. But I am suggesting that when you do find yourself around someone that’s dangerously pretty, like that one for example *pointing up there* you go past their looks and see them as a fellow human being. You might be surprised what you learn, and sometimes, what a drop-dead-gorgeous person needs is for somebody to treat them like they’re NOT ridiculously beautiful.

♫ Hollow Point Sniper Hyperbole ♫ Ubiquitous Synergy Seeker ♫

Being an introvert is hard. You see, when you’re talking to people inside your head, conversations generally go the way you want them to. But when you talk to people in the real world, they say all the wrong things, and that can get really annoying. After a while, it seems easeir not to have those out-loud conversations at all, just to maintain peace and sanity. You’re better off reading a book.

Another challenge to being an introvert – at least for me – is when people don’t act the way they’re supposed to. See, just like the conversations I have inside my head, there are composites I build in my head. I have a very clear picture of how Cousin X, Auntie Y, and Ex-boyfriend Z behave in certain situations, and I base all my decisions on these … shall we call them … hypotheses.

Thing is … my composites aren’t theories at all. They’re detailed constructions based on keen observation, so they should be accurate dammit. But human beings rarely co-operate. Nooooo. They have to go growing and changing and evolving, throwing massive spanners into the beautifully constructed boxes that I’ve built for them. And that’s not even counting the parts of themselves they keep so well hidden.

When a person acts ‘out of character’, it shakes my world view. It makes me wonder what else I could be wrong about. For example, is the sky still blue? Unfortunately, this business of people breaking out of their boxes has been happening a lot lately. It started with Josephine, the neighbourhood sweetheart. She’s an old lady that lives in our building. She spends most of the day sitting on her balcony staring at people walking by. Sometimes she smiles and waves, and the kids love playing with her.

I’ve always assumed Josephine was harmless. She’s not crabby or senile like some of the old people I know. She seems perfectly content with her cozy little life. At least that’s what I thought before last week. I happened to leave the office at lunch time and got home much earlier than usual. As I walked into the building, I heard a high pitched voice yelling the type of obscenities that would make a sailor blush.

I assumed it was some lunch-time drunk and approached with mild amusement. Except it wasn’t a drunk. It was Old Josephine. She was yelling at some neighbourhood kid for the unforgivable crime of refusing to run an errand for her. She was going on and on about a generation lacking respect, and the poor boy was petrified.

Then there’s Tom, the family flirt. I always assumed he was an airhead with the horizontal skills of a ruler, because he’s charming, hot, and constantly surrounded by wealthy older women. Which is fine, if you’re into that kind of thing, it’s not my place to judge. But then I recently had a conversation with him in the smoking room. No, I don’t smoke, but some people like to talk when they smoke, and sometimes, I like to listen.

Anyway, the reason we were talking was that he had just been dumped by a woman that he liked. Why? He had refused to sleep with her. Yep. Apparently, he’s saving himself for marriage, and all his lady friends just like to spend money on him for conversation, and attention, because they don’t get that from their husbands.

Of course I was skeptical, but he’s pretty convincing, and he doesn’t generally lie – at least not to me. Plus, there’s a firm, solid reason for his abstinence, pun intended. Apparently on his first day of college, they were shown a series of quite disturbing videos about abortions and STDs. Graphic stuff. He then swore he’d marry a virgin and only after a battery of tests performed in classy Swedish hospitals. Okay then. But … what level of mad skills does that boy have to get them dishing out the dough without him dishing out the di …

Moving on swiftly. There’s the person in my phone book who constantly sends me txtx dt luk lke dis, cjui 208. I’ve never taken him seriously, and he only survives on my list because he’s allegedly my brother’s boss. Le sigh. Well, two days ago, I finally met the man. Turns out he has three degrees and speaks four foreign languages. So why on earth can’t he spell? His response? “It’s called Short message Service. Duh!” Sigh.

Sometimes, my judgement goes beyond outward characteristics. Sometimes I judge people’s opinions, personalities, lifestyles. It’s odd to me that they can think, act, or be certain ways. A key issue here is homosexuality. For a long time, I thought it was a sin. But then I wondered what kind of a God would create you with an attraction to the same sex, and then declare his own creation a sin.

I’m still conflicted about it, because two of my favourite people in this world are gay. It’s easy to be with them and see them as … well … themselves. Maybe because they were already such an important part of my life, so I don’t see them as gay people, I see them as the same people they always were, the same people that I love.

When they came out to me, it wasn’t awkward or disturbing because our relationships were already established and secure, so it was like, ‘Oh, okay. So what’s for lunch?’ Well actually, it was more like, ‘I’m so glad you didn’t tell me five years ago, because I might have smashed your head with a Bible. But I’m older, wiser, and more open-minded now. So what’s for lunch?’

I do notice that I skirt certain things with them, because I don’t want to be hurtful or offensive, and I don’t know where the lines are, if any lines actually exist. I didn’t give any of it much thought until Binyavanga came out and I found myself wondering how I should ‘feel’ about it, because I didn’t feel anything at all.

But then I realise that his essay wasn’t about any of the readers. It was about him. It was an expression of himself, a form of personal release. What me or anyone else thought about it was incidental. And I think gayness, like personality, or fashion, or religion, is really about the person in question, period.

I suppose we can argue – I can argue – that my opinions (whether they’re happy or angry) are part of who I am, and that forming them cements my personality. But that’s just it. My opinions cement my personality. They have nothing to do with how anyone else chooses to live their life. The rest of the world can and do form opinions, but in the end, the only thing that matters is you.

Speaking of boxes, I have a pretty tight one for myself. I don’t know if this has anything with being an introvert, but I love being psycho-analysed and doing personality tests. I know very few people brave enough to humour me with the former (bless you both), but as for the latter, I have so far tested as INFJ, Type 4, and mel-choleric. All three results focus on me thinking I’m unusual, individual, one-of-a-kind, there-is-only-one-me and all that kind of thing. But the more I think about it, the more I reluctantly admit I’m just like anybody else.

Maybe we only feel we’re unique because nobody expresses these universal joys, triumph, or fears in the exact same way you do. Maybe everyone secretly thinks that billboard top 40 song is dumb, or that famous girl is plain, or that award-winning movie has no plot. And maybe everyone hides these feelings to fit in, or maybe when they do display opinions, they deliberately do so in ways in that no one else can recognise.

The thing about the internet is people type a lot of things they wouldn’t say out loud. So if you hang around long enough, you’ll find out that lots of people share your unique quirks. They just don’t like to talk about. For example, defensive pre-emptive rejection is a thing. It isn’t just in my head. Yay!

Logically speaking, discovering that we’re more alike than we think is a good thing. But it can be depressing when you enjoy feeling like one-of-a kind. We all think we’re special. We all want to be noticed, even if we want to be noticed for being the person who doesn’t want to be noticed. I was thinking about it the other day, and the only reason I wear jeans while all my peers dress up is because I want to be different.

It’s a stubborn form of rebellion. Some girls want to stand out for being the most stylish. I subconsciously want to stand out for the opposite. But clearly, I still want to stand out. If I genuinely didn’t want the attention, I’d dress like everyone else to fully blend in. So in effect, I go against the grain not to refute the grain itself, but as a sneaky way of being seen inside the grain.

By being an introvert, I don’t fit into the typical social fabric because I’m happy in my corner with my book. But at a party, the most visible person – ironically – is the one sitting in a corner with a book. You want everyone to ignore you, but at the end of the party, everyone has noticed you. So by shunning attention, you’re inadvertently seeking it just as much as the loudest person at the party.

By sitting there, you’re saying, “I don’t care about this party. I want you to see that I don’t care about this party. And I want you to know how much I hate being here. I’m different from all of you, because you all want to be here, and I don’t.”

Ironically, lots of the people at that party don’t want to be there either. They just hide in different ways, like drinking so much they forget themselves, standing awkwardly in dark corners, forcing conversations and laughing far too loud. And no, it’s not any more effective to skip the party, especially the kind of party where everyone there notices your absence. *cheeky grin*

I think there’s a reason it took me six months to write this post. I kept adding a paragraph here and a line there, and now I feel I finally get the point. Making snap judgements is easy. Especially when said judgements were reached after several hours of keen observation. But maybe it’s time I learned to change my judgements, or better yet, to not make them at all.

It’s only human to care what other people think, and to mould our lives around that, even if we mould them by ‘rebelling.’ Dressing like a tomboy doesn’t make me any less of a girl. If anything, my tomboy-hood re-inforces what it is to be ‘feminine’, and deep down, I accept that idea, because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be fighting it so hard. If you didn’t care about ‘girly things’ you wouldn’t take the time or effort to contradict them. By being a tomboy, you’re effectively saying, “That’s what a girl is, and I don’t want to be … that.” Doesn’t stop you being a girl though.

There will always be specific people you need to please (or displease); significant others, parents, children, yadda yadda yadda. But accepting that their opinion doesn’t change or define you is important. You are not what people think you are, whether you mould yourself into that image or invent yourself against it. No matter what anyone says, thinks, implies, suggests, or puts on TV, you will always be you, that soul that is sharpest and clearest at 3.00 a.m. on an idle Tuesday.

If we could all make our peace with that, life would be a whole lot easier, and maybe we wouldn’t all be angry all the time. I’m not there yet, but I hope I will be soon, because it’s a beautiful place to be. And maybe once I’m there, I’ll learn to keep pointless judgements and opinions to myself. Or better yet, I’ll learn not to have them at all.

♫ I knew you were trouble ♫ Taylor Swift ♫