Fickle

I talked to my boyfriend tonight.

Yeah, I have a boyfriend. I guess.

(The expression of dubiousness is not so much because I'm not sure he's my boyfriend as because I'm skeptical of that position and what it means. "Boyfriend." Hmm...lemme see...OH, you mean "guy you're sleeping with but aren't actually committed enough to to take any risks with?" OK then! Yes, I'm a cynic. I should curb my judgment. Because really, "boyfriend" is probably a necessary step now that arranged marriages are passé. But it seems so half-assed, and there's nothing I love less than half-assed.)

He's not the guy I lost my post-divorce virginity with. He's the guy who caught sight of me at a coffee shop at the beach, invited me to share his table, and subsequently managed to discover that I was a single parent, get my number, and send me two text messages that day to tell me he hoped we would hang out back in town.

He's the guy who impressed me as someone thoughtful, grown up, and yet unconventional and interesting. The guy who was consistent enough, communicative enough, and present enough to keep sending me those texts (but not so often it got creepy) until I felt like I had to at least go on one date with him.

Six months later, here we are.

I could write a lot of posts about how my boyfriend is funny, is caring, is passionate, thinks about my kids, has good ethics in general, and got me a kickass birthday gift despite the fact that we'd had exactly one date by my birthday. Not to mention the fact that very frequently, sex with him makes me want to swoon, then die, then sell my soul to Satan. If you know what I mean. I recently used the phrase "magical penis" to my old friend E. And I MEANT IT.

This, however, is not that post.

This is the post I'm writing in which I acknowledge that the man I'm dating, and men in general -- yes, pretty much all of them -- frequently impresses me not with his finer qualities, but with his ability to think only about himself.

Yup. Because I'm a Man and I'm Looking Out For Number One and Since I Have No Significant Responsibilities or Commitments, that means How Can Number One Have the Most Fun?

Seriously.

Seriously, I know we live in a culture of gratification, a culture where "fun" is supposed to be the apex of happiness, a culture where amusing oneself gustatorily, sexually, or otherwise equals identity and maybe even happiness, but come ON.

One of my favorite books series when I was a child, The Dark Is Rising by Susan Cooper (which I highly recommend you read if you enjoy literate, interesting fantasy, and which I demand you buy for any child you care about between the ages of eight and twelve, depending), posits, at some point, that "loving bonds" are the most important thing in this world and that they, in fact, define identity and belonging as much as genes and chronology do. And I guess in some way that resonates with me. Because I am of a family that very much defines me (despite our dysfunctions and silent treatments) and because I head a family that very much requires me to rise to the occasion. And because, perhaps, it's my nature to think that the relationships we form in this world are more powerful and more important than anything else we form here.

So you can understand my dismay when, in the third and last week of his trip to Asia, my boyfriend phones me from Shanghai, and it's an hour after he said he would and I am worried because my two-year-old has been throwing up and is getting dehydrated and the first thing he does is launch into a description of what's happening with him, the fact that he's postponing the day trip to Suzhou until tomorrow, the coffee he's going to drink after we get off the phone, and blah blah blah.

And I'm sitting there listening to him thinking, wow. I emailed you to say I was worried about my daughter, you replied that you'd call me and were concerned as well, and now you're talking about coffee and trains?

It got worse, of course. His next few moments of conversation consisted of detailing why he likes Hong Kong better than Shanghai, including the remarks that the women are "stunningly beautiful" in HK and not so much in Shanghai (which is, for the sake of full disclosure, the city my father is from, and my grandma was plenty hot, thank you very much. Not to mention What The Fuck Are You Doing Checking Out Chicks Anyway? And If You Are, Why Do You Lack the Class Just to Not Tell Me About It? Not to mention that I'm worried my kid is going to die from this strange vomiting thing that the doctors could not explain and could you therefore SHUT UP already about the relative hotness of chicks who aren't me? Okay thanks. Great. Awesome).

Meanwhile every other word is cut off and there's a lag that means we keep interrupting each other and I'm worried my daughter is gonna keep vomiting water every time I feed her a measly teaspoonful. Which I've been doing. Through a syringe. Every twenty minutes.

I don't rant. I am civil. I acknowledge that people have other perspectives. I know that my family is not the center of the world.

But when he says that he might go surfing this Sunday -- Sunday afternoon is my one kid-free day and he gets back, after three weeks away, Friday night -- I blanch. I think, are you seriously not going to stay in town and hang out with me and the kids you claim you love? I think, is it seriously more important to you to surf than it is to see the person you claim you love and are "deeply committed" to?

He doesn't hear these thoughts, of course. Because it's not worth my fighting the static and lag to communicate them. Because I know that he's not actually trying to illustrate that he's not going to make me a priority.

"Gotta get in the water," he says. "Gotta do it."

Oh yeah? I think. And what else do you have to get into? Because it might not stick around waiting while you hare off to wherever it is to amuse yourself with outdoor activities.

I know, I know. I can be a real bitch sometimes. And my expectations are too high. And I should live and let live. And mostly, I do.

But sometimes the total and complete selfishness, self-centeredness, of men in general and the ones in my life in particular, gets to me. Sometimes I catch myself thinking, "maybe I won't be here to welcome you back."

It's not that I hate men. I love them. It's just that it amazes me how much they're allowed to get away with thinking only of themselves -- and how long it takes to teach them to do otherwise. And then it amazes me that I put up with all that noise.

Even, it must be said, with the magical penis.

FREE hit counter and Internet traffic statistics from freestats.com