Men and some more

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

The usuals in my list of things have a new entry titled, "Hang with the guys". Every week or sometimes twice a week, I see the guys from college, like I'm one of them. The statement is questionable because I've attended more colleges than the count of my stable relationships. College friends are a tricky zone. There are quite a few women who qualify as that, but men- only a handful. Keep your bros close and hos closer. 
Anyway, these soirées happen over a heavy meal- sometimes they cook, sometimes we go out. I have started to look forward to meeting the guys more than any other thing in the recent past. The most unique thing about this weekly set-up is the comfort level. I could be in bathroom slippers and torn t-shirt displaying overgrown armpit hair and the guys wouldn't battle an eyelid. 

Which is to say, if you see me at my worst and stick around, you've penetrated the ozone layer to my heart. You're forever logged in (a post on that one, yeah?). 

I remember, being 22 and in the company of this man-child. I had harboured the desire to do him in the backseat of his car (a friend recently reminded me of that, and boy, was I shocked at my tenacity) before we became friends. I recall us sitting in the same wretched car when this happened. We had stopped at a traffic signal and I was looking out of the window, hungover out of my mind. Dressed in pyjamas and a t-shirt, I was every bit nonchalant when he looked at me and pointed out, "Can you please get rid of your moustache? You have more facial hair than me. Also, what sort of clothes are these anyway? Why won't you wear formals to college? We only wear formals at our college."

Something changed that day. I decidedly stopped giving fucks to people other than me. This, from a woman, who coordinated her lingerie daily despite studying in an all-girls school and college with close to no semblance of a relationship with a boy/man. He'd hit the wrong nerve. My moustache wasn't the only thing I got rid off that week. 

I've come a long way since. 

I've loved men for their brashness. I have been in love with their way with words. And, their words. I have looked at them in rapture. I've seen them articulate using their hands. Staring at their long fingers, I have stood next to them completely enamoured. I have been in awe of their obstinacy. I have held them tight, after letting them down. I've been there after I've been gone. I've seen them and had my fair share of knowing them. Knowing what makes their heart giddy and what makes them fall in love. I know them, much as how I know how veins carry oxygen in the blood to the heart. I know some of them better than I know myself. It's a curse, truly. 

However, my only regret to this day is, I don't understand them. Maybe it's because I am not wired like them. Men are like the jigsaw puzzle that you receive as a birthday present, which you don't sign up for. Aged 6, all the pieces lost in the living room was probably the first time I experienced anxiety and OCD almost simultaneously. Men, to me, are the lost pieces of the puzzle, I discovered before I saw the larger grid. Almost, always, they stick out oddly and I lose my patience, and prematurely, end my quest to discover them in entirety. 

I'd much rather listen to Lady Gaga or read up on Jersey Shore than to spend time in understanding men. 

However, I want to be like them. 

I revel in envy when I see the guys being themselves and having reactions to things, which are utterly normal for them. I want to be able to comprehend them, on issues such as why women should stay at home and raise kids and why women shouldn't work in media. I wish I could think like them. Since I don't, and I find myself disagreeing on most things, I want to strangle them. This is a 25-year-old writing. Please factor in my maturity level. 

We didn't raise them right but we can raise ourselves better. Yes? I digress. 

Last week, a bunch of us were out making one such banal day memorable. A few beers down, the conversation drifted towards a duo who had been making appearances together as a couple. An unlikely match for a fucktart of an individual to find the love of her life in a cuntlet of a man. Their ever so casual bonhomie had not bode well with most of us. Admittedly, being the only woman in the setup, I was the one to ask. 

"How does someone like her end up with someone like him? I don't see why they'd do this. Especially, her. What is she even getting out of that?"

Brash, as I am, the guys just heard me. One of them from the group looked me in the eye and said,

"I've only one thing to say. I know exactly why they're together."

I looked at his face, in complete disbelief. My question was hard-hitting hitting rhetoric, which did not qualify to have an answer. Here we were, 35 seconds into the topic, the man had a reply ready.

"Tell me."

"That's because, a beautiful woman always looks forward to hearing that she's smart. A smart woman only wants to hear she's beautiful."

I looked at my friends eyes. He had a mad glint. A twinkle, which he reserves for moments when he knows he's right. He looked straight back with a wry smile and said,

"You know, he's been saying what she wants to hear. That she's smart. She only ever wanted that."

And just like that, I went from zero to envious. Not only did I want to hear that I'm smart and I'm pretty, I always wanted to possess the wisdom that this fella around me did. 

Who knows, someday I will. Maybe a man will look me in the eye and make me believe his lies. But that day's nowhere close to being here. I've a higher chance of hearing "We're moving to Bahamas and you're coming with us" than learning the mechanics of what makes a man's mind. Till then, I'm not letting go of these weekly meetings. 

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