My friend Reverie recently told me about her summer trip with her good friend Micah:
We were backpacking France, and met these two guys at carnaval who gave us their numbers. We just wrote ‘em off. French guys were always trying to pick us up. But later that night, we were drunk beneath the fireworks, and I really needed a guy to make out with. So Micah and I went of search of some hot guys, but we couldn’t find any. I said what the hell, and texted Rémy, telling him Micah wanted to make out, and I would take care of Matthieu.
At this point, I interrupted Reverie. What the hell? How do these guys get so lucky? I never get that lucky!
But reflecting on my relationships, that’s not true. I get lucky. A lot.
When I was 20, I was bumming over this girl I was crushing on. Nothing was going with her, so I called up my buddy and went out to kick it with him. We went to pick up a friend of his, Li.
She was petite and cute.
We all went for cheesecake and coffee. And when that was over, I wasn’t ready to go home and be alone again. So we went on a small road trip to visit some old high school friends. That night, I talked to Li about wanting to be a Cast Away, living on a deserted island in the Pacific, surviving on coconuts and fish. Li was absorbed into my fantasy and she articulately described my mangy island beard.
That night, we came back to the dorms to crash. My buddy and I got the futon. Li crawled up into the bunk of her ex-boyfriend, who proceeded to act on what he presumed was to be a hookup. Li wasn’t having it and made a bed on the floor.
No way. I took her place on the floor and made sure she was comfortable in bed with my buddy, who was passed out and had no intentions of groping her. The floor was hard, cold, and curling up like a shih tzu didn’t allow me to slip into dreamland any quicker. I got up and surfed the web. Checked my Xanga. Checked the weather forecast.
Dawn peaked through the dewey Mayflower windows. Li and I went out into the quiet campus town and made our way to the nearest coffee shop. Warm apple pie cider. Warm Li. Warm me.
Before I left for home that day, she gave me her number. We saw each other for 9 months. The relationship ended miserably, and I was depressed for 2 years. I didn’t understand how I could be so well-intentioned and be one half of a nightmare.
I got lucky again in college.
At a Halloween party.
I was pining after a vampire, but it was the librarian that checked me out. She thought I was an open book and wanted to read me. What she got was an unfinished diary, so for several years she wrote down our story.
Then she lost inspiration. The protagonist was no longer compelling. It was time for a new book with a different story full of colorful and tragic characters.
She told me I was a good man. Someday, I will make a woman very, very happy. Again, I was the well-intentioned man who was left wondering, if I was so good, how was I no good?
Because. Because these women found me cute and desperate, like an abandoned puppy. I needed love. I craved affection. I soon become an unneutered burden, jumping at them, clawing at them, always begging to be fed.
These women were beautiful. They are deserving of a man who has a strong character, an unwavering sense of integrity, a commitment to his work and his passions, and the respect and trust of his friends and family.
But more than that, they need a man who can love his self. A man must love his self first, before he can truly love others.
My self-worth was valued and measured by the affection I received from these women. They were my better half. They gave more than they received and they knew it.
If I’m ever going to love a woman as my wife, I have to stop begging. Stop being needy. Once I do that, I’ll be ready to accept the love of a woman who is willing to Save the Last Dance.