When you’re little, you wonder what he will be like. How he will talk, what kind of music he will like, how big his family will be, what he will do for fun. You imagine what he will smell like, and as you grow older you wonder what he will taste like.
But sometimes, when you grow up you start to wonder whether he exists at all.
I would like to think that I am not a pessimist anymore.
There was a year (or so) where I was definitely a pessimist to the greatest extreme. If I were to have been illustrated in a cartoon during that year, I would guess that the artist would have drawn a dark rain cloud above my head that comically followed me wherever I went.
But now, as my heart has mended and I have been transplanted into a different city I have wandered from my pessimistic outlook and gloomy aesthetic, and reached for a more realistic approach.
Some people mistake it for negativity, which I really can’t blame them for. During fall quarter at a makeshift thanksgiving dinner in Gwinn Commons, my friends decided that my Indian name was “hater of men”.
I don’t hate men. I really don’t. Yes, I know that some of even my closest friends would tilt their head at me and say “yeah right” in response to this statement, but I really do swear its true; and there are some that can vouch for me.
I don’t hate men, but am I constantly amazed at their ignorance and complete stupidity? The answer is yes.
It seems that man after man (or boy after boy) just seems to end in a complete disappointment. Now don’t get me wrong; I am not one of those kind of girls that after being slighted by a few jerks dismisses all of mankind; I believe that there are great guys out there. But instead it just seems like far too much work to get to know guys well enough to find out which side of the fence they fall on.
I hope that there is someone out there for me; I would like to think that there is. I mean, I’m not an ogre, I would like to think that I am a good person, and as far as I know my mental health is balanced in all ways possible. But sadly, I often find myself doubting it. My innocent, little girl day dreams of being swept off of my feet and carried into a living fairytale have been replaced my independent explorations of the various large cities that cover the globe. This isn’t a bad thing, traveling is also something I want to do; but when I picture my life in its best and truest form, I picture children running through my house and a person to come home to.
An anecdote that is so often used in the comforting of the dumped is that there are “a million fish in the sea”. And when you actually take into account the world’s population there is nearly 7 billion fish in the sea (not including those that are taken, gay, in jail, or children). Oh and the girl fishes, considering I’m not a lesbian.
That is still a lot of fish.
But how many of those fish will eat you alive? Sometimes I’m not so sure I want to find out.
good books, throw pillows, discovering new music, my sprint team, public speaking being the easiest class i will ever take, my roommate, tea, fellowship, living on a floor with 40 beautiful and amazing girls, seattle rain, grapefruit scented facewash, cute boys that actually want to converse with you, words, pictures and driving past the seattle skyline while blasting crystal castles.
I am stuck in an airport. In Oakland, CA. A city which so far has presented itself only as a place where people go to either because they:
Want to go to San Francisco
Want to take a cheap ass flight on allegiant to somewhere warm (or Bellingham)
So it’s safe to say that although this airport is substantially larger than the Bellingham airport, it serves almost exactly the same purpose (substitute San Francisco for Canada/Seattle).
Being trapped in an airport is a quite common, yet almost novel thing. It seems like it would be a good place to meet someone. To find someone really interesting, and hear a great story, or maybe make out with someone in a Clorox bleached airport bathroom. Being stuck in a small and limited space, where you are trapped by boundaries drawn by pulled ropes, with people who also have nowhere else to go seems conducive to these types of situations.
Walking through the terminal, Pandora sounding in my ears through my phone, I listened to the incessant melodies of Death Cab for Cutie and other bands that the online radio had chosen for me. People rushed past me, all different kinds of people. I noticed old women in tacky Christmas sweaters, families settled into their seats, business people typing on their laptops and of course a few hot young men. All of whom by the way, were not wearing wedding rings (of course I looked! What kind of a person do you think I am?). I found myself wondering why in a place where we are all trapped, more interactions don’t occur. And yet again it came around full circle to that midnight (more like 3 am) conversation my roommate and I had about all of the opportunities we pass up because of the societal norms that have been placed on us since we hit the 6th grade. A.K.A if you don’t know someone don’t talk to them.
But I find myself wondering how many opportunities we miss out on because of this. What if my future husband is sitting in this airport? What if someone in this airport has a story to tell me that could potentially change the way I see everything?
Why don’t we talk to each other and get to know each other? What is the purpose of being in this world if we don’t interact with the people around us?
I know that I am not exactly one to complain about this, considering that I myself am not exactly willing to break the social norm. But I just can’t stand that we walk around in our little bubbles and live as though we don’t notice the person walking next to you.
We all complain about how life is nothing like the movies; how directors and actors make real life look like a dream when in actuality being trapped in an airport almost never ends in a story that involves romance, adventure or any sort of intrigue. But as I sit in this airport, about to get on the plane that has been looming in Eugene, OR for the last three hours, I am asking myself why don’t we, as people who are able (just not willing), make life more like the movies?