The Special Olympics

They're at the gates. Number 17 looks oiled and limber. Ooh... do you see the exchange of loving glances between 17 and 36? They've been in constant training for 8 months. They may take it. Or maybe 33 Squared will. They did well in the Finishing Each Other's Sentences prelims earlier. It's all very exciting. A beautiful day for it, ladies and gentlemen! Thousands of athletes all lined up for Love's Race.

And they're off!

Though the course waivers, the beacon continues flashing throughout the course, of course. They can see their goal if they're looking really, really hard. What's that? What do you mean they can't? There's zero visibility? They're going to crash and burn! God, I can't look.


No one in my relative proximity, who has been in a romantic capacity for 2.5 years and under, is currently running that race without the surprise element of oil spills, hurricanes, (quick)sand traps and unseen walls that love-runners slam full force unawares into.

Who is laying those deathtraps?
Who the hell designed this obstacle course?

Rubbing a flea market lamp, nicked from the set of Disney's Aladdin.

The Comrade: Genie? Geeenie? Ollie ollie oxen free. Come out, come out wherever you are. C'mon buddy. What do you think?

Tones of a xylophone cascading like waterfall.
A poof of white, dry ice smoke.

The Comrade: [cough, cough] Pride? False sense of entitlement? Weird ego emanations? Survivor? The series? Really? That's what you see?

The first season had been the only one I had ever watched. Contestants converged from all over a country, placed in a desert island scenario eating and performing heinously for alleged "survival". The commonality was consistent performances of one-upmanship from all. Well, only one person could win the prize. So, the girls stuck it to the girls who stuck it to the guys who stuck it up each other. Blur providing musical accompaniment.

We're sticking it to each other
Because we want to win a million dollars?
Is that what you're saying, Genie?

Oh.
Metaphor.

We're born alone. We die alone. It's as if we're preparing ourselves for the inevitable.

Sometimes I'll watch Chicken, my Sweet Sixteen cat, walk across the room with his tongue at half mast and a grumpy/bewildered look on his face. It sends me into a neighbour's state of heaven's. I'll think: If I was scared of loving something because I was scared of losing something eventually, I would never have known how much joy and love a 6 lb, yelling, little dude could bring.

I also have no expectations of Chicken.

Chicken doesn't have to be on time, doesn't have to clean the washroom, doesn't have to protect me. I don't hold him to his word. He makes me no promises. He just simply loves me. And there isn't a doubt in my mind that he doesn't.

The progression trajectory between myself and Fatty has looked like this:
Platonic friends for 4 years. A beautiful kiss. Moving in with me within 2 months of that first kiss. Regularly scheduled fighting like coed WWF wrestlers who had also vigorously enjoyed their high school's debate club. Truth, beauty, floods of tears, great love, the greatest embraces, and alas, more fighting. It's like a strange continuous loop, inside an old Sears wringer washer.

It's also only been 11 months.
Prior to that we'd been ourselves by ourselves for a hell of a lot longer.
It makes sense that we're still figuring it out.

Last week I was talking to Ed, a new regular whom I met while A) working and B) intoxicated. Apparently. Ed had been seeing a girl a while back, but they were currently friends, one whom Ed occasionally goes out for cocktails with.

Ed: We were never that serious.
The Comrade: How long were you seeing each other for?
Ed: About a year.

I don't know how things can not be serious after seeing someone for a year. But maybe that's just me.

Sure, it would probably be easier to just have good times with a fella, ask nothing of him, be nothing to him, and make no plans for the future. Unfortunately, I'm not that kind of person.

And then there's the whole being 37 thing. Not asking the advice of my mother, yet getting advised nonetheless, I get nuggets like this: So you want to get pregnant? You'd better hurry up. The longer you wait, the greater the chances of a Baby Retard.

Verbatim, though translated.

My friend the Doyenne, my original boss at my tenure at the Cheer's Equivalent Bar, said, "I was trying so hard not to become my mother that I didn't even see the turning into Dad thing coming."

So, being a serious person who has potentially found the man she wants to have as the future father of her children, culminated with the clock ticking and 2 marriages under her belt, she feels the need to quickly nip buds and waste no further time. You'd better be it. And if you're not, you better make yourself known pronto lest I live with yet another grave error in judgment.

I can't afford to do that again.

Testing, testing, one, two, three.
He keeps getting 87s.

We are a continent of big kids. Me, me, me. We got used to living alone, by our own rules, until living alone served us up a rather large platter of loneliness. That was uncomfortable. But then, if we were lucky, we met someone to love. Sharing our sandbox or our toys for an afternoon is much different than sharing them indefinitely. We wanted it all yet we wanted to sacrifice nothing.

When two people converge, they have to do so from different parts of the world, or just the city. Either way, there are individual roads, travelled alone, that each takes to meet the other. Once the roads intersect, one person, in order to meet the other, needs to merge into the other's lane. Succumb might be a nasty word for the Millennial Girl. Or emasculating for The Metrosexual. Maybe yield is better. Yield's got that cool yellow sign appeal.

Somehow we've been having difficulty adjusting to the other person.
There's been a lack of providing our lover with what he/she really needs.
We know what's best for the other.
Aren't we clever?
Somehow our inherent generosity fled and control began to dominate.

Men somehow forgot how to be men, and women don't know how to be girls because we're too busy being a strange combination of both. Anytime I see an example of girlishness, even though it tickles a man, I catch myself viewing it simply as manipulative.

But maybe it's not. Not when I see the resulting delight on a man's face.

I need to remember to tell him how wonderful I think he is, and not just point out the things that need to be done. I need to remember that what I have is rare, and that I'm truly fortunate to have someone love me so much, and to have an opportunity to practice love.

With the exception of Valentine's Day diners, their one day off, I've seen, in the eyes of young lovers, passport holders who unwittingly became visitors to the Twilight Zone, whose ticket was purchased by the one who loves them.

If you really loved me, you wouldn't be driving me fucking nuts.

I see the exasperation in their eyes. I see, "Is it worth it?" flash momentarily nearly every day these days. I have personally ignited magnesium, having the phrase pop - overexposed - on my own expression.

Is it worth it?

He dared to hold a mirror to my face to show me my imperfections, wept that I could not see them, still vowed to continue to love me, but if I didn't want his love, or his presence, he would go, granting my wishes. He just wanted my happiness. Pushed away for the countless time, then pulled back, he would consistently demonstrate longevity by not leaving me until my last heaving, snotty tear was shed. Every single time. He never grows tired of holding me. Or telling me how much he loves me. Or how much he wants this to work.

Is it worth it?
He's everything I asked for.

At the end of my marriage to Ack, the now ex-husband/ best friend, I promised myself that next time, if there was to be a next time, I wanted to have someone who fought back, who didn't just extinguish my flame with baking soda. I wanted someone equally as passionate as I.

All of the girlfriends that Fatty had prior to me were girls who hung on his every word, never challenged him, could have easily been taken advantage of. He wanted someone challenging, someone strong, someone who fought back.

It's everything we asked for,
Just not the way we'd asked for it.
It was supposed to be easier.
Wasn't it?

Something we'd both shared in common was going if the going got too tough. Yesterday we made a pact that we're not allowed to leave because it's too hard. The rewards will be there if only we stick it out. Besides, I want us to demonstrate longevity to our children.

So, maybe it wasn't supposed to be easier.

Oh, this Universe, who thinks us so special as to grant us everything we ever wished for.... In the future, if you're just as generous, I wouldn't mind a little black Mini Cooper with white racing stripes, please. Or a cheapo 4 day journey to Cuba. That might be nice.

Maybe there's not a finish line in this race, just a target to keep stabbing at.

Darling Universe, for the next event I'll take a handicap with a Special Bus pass on a par 14, if I could.