The Pleasures of Not Being Single...

 
It feels long overdue, and it definitely is... but sometimes words can't come out right, or come out at all. And instead of forcing myself to write, I chose to not write at all for a while. Perhaps it's time to come back for a bit.

By this point, I must have said "I love you" to the 21 Year Old about a few hundreds of thousands times. With him being in the navy, it's been hard having a very limited amount of time together each weekend. He only comes out on Saturdays and goes back in again on Sundays. This means we only have about twenty-four hours to spend with each other each week, and most of the times he is too exhausted to do anything active, liking riding bikes, or zip lining, or clubbing.

The thing is.. I am perfectly fine just napping the day away with him, or having a quiet dinner, or just talking. Or not talking at all.

It's the level of comfort that I've become familiar with but that has also calmed me down a bit. Normally, I'd be out and about, wining and dining, gossiping and socializing. And it's all fine and well, but it does burn me out quite a bit.

With him, I find peace, love and happiness. And that's exactly what I've been searching for for so long.

Besides... clubbing is for Friday nights, anyway ;)

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Straying Away

It was an honest mistake and, even though, I did not mean any harm by it, I can't honestly say that there was nothing remotely sinister behind my decision to talk to my friend's handsome Aussie friend that night at a club.

I suppose I was feeling a bit lonely and I was feeling particularly friendly because the Aussie bought us girls a bottle of Belvedere to share. And then there were several rounds of shots that I simply could not refuse.

The Aussie and I talked extensively that night, but I was fluttering around from person to person being overly social and not paying any attention to anyone in particular. But perhaps... No, not perhaps... With all certainty, he felt like there was a bit of a connection. And I guess that can happen...  that fabricated type of a connection that can only happen in a nightclub. After a few rounds of drinks and a few accidental looks at each other, he felt persuaded to ask for my number.

He knew I had a boyfriend from the very moment we met and though I felt compelled to insist that he did not need my number, he somehow obtained it anyway. (To be fair, I was probably the one giving it to him, though I must have been pretty drunk, as I do not recall any such interaction.)

I should not have been surprised when he texted me the next day. What should have surprised me was that I texted him back and we carried on an on-and-off conversation for the next two weeks... Chatting about this and that, and me allowing him to simply say "hey" to me in a seemingly-innocent manner all up until the point when my boyfriend came back from the army and just happened to glance at my phone and see the Aussie's name light up on my iPhone screen.

I knew that the Aussie knew that I had a boyfriend. Yet, somehow, even though I could never admit it to my boyfriend ("We're just friends!" I insisted to him over and over again), I felt that I was enjoying the attention of a guy who was clearly trying to forge a connection with me, regardless of the fact that I was attached.

I refused to understand my boyfriend's concerns. I refused to see why he thought that my daily long-distance conversations with a 2-week friend could be misconstrued as inappropriate. I had to sleep on it and wake up with a clear head the next day in order to understand exactly what was going on.

The truth is... it's hard to let go of old habits. Like a dedicated bachelor, I refused to let go of the right to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I refused to account for someone else's feelings. I refused to be unselfish.

The thing is.... ultimately, it is MY problem that I was enjoying prolonged attention from a clearly-interesed guy. It is MY problem that I still party way harder than my 21-year old boyfriend. It is MY problem that I can't see why he is feeling insecure when I come home at 5am when he is training to serve and protect his country and doesn't even get to get a glimpse at an occasional pretty girl when he wants to.

It is, therefore, my duty to change my ways a bit before it's too late and he loses his trust in me. Perhaps, it is time to grow up a bit and whole-heartedly commit to one man and one man only.

After all, why not make a sacrifice for the guy who I feel I can spend the rest of my life with?

I suppose, at the very least, I should give it a try.

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Met the Parents

It's never as bad as you imagine it to be.

Sure, I drank about three glasses of wine prior to the meet-and-greet but, in all fairness, this helped me calm my nerves down and somehow helped me not make a fool out of myself.

After the dinner, we walked back to my house (only a short distance away from the restaurant). His eyes shined with happiness as he held my hand and I didn't have to ask whether or not his parents took a liking to me. I knew that regardless of how they felt about our age difference, I succeeded in impressing them.

I could tell by his face that I'd received a stamp of approval from his mom and his step-father and that's all I needed to know. He stopped me on a crossover bridge on the way to my house, and kissed me just the way I wanted to be kissed. I felt like this was one of those life-imitates-movie kind of moments that would take the onlooking audience's breath away, because they'd know that they were witnessing two people in love.

Only a couple of days later, he had to pack up and leave for the army but, luckily, going to the army here is not like going to the army in many other countries. I will see him again in three short weeks (though right now, it feels like an eternity), and then again, every weekend thereafter.

I can't say whether or not our differences in our backgrounds, age, upbringing will ever tear us apart. And I can't tell how serious it is going to get in the long term, though he tells me he wants this to last forever.

All I know is that I am happy. In this foreign country, thousands of miles away from my parents and my childhood friends, I feel like I found my other home.

Since home is where the heart is.

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Meet the Parents

In approximately two hours, I will be dining with a very special company, indeed.

It's my much younger, 21-year old boyfriend's birthday today and I am meeting his parents, and his two sisters for a intimate family dinner at a restaurant that they insisted I pick because, and I will quote his mother on this one, "She seems like a picky eater."

It will be my first time meeting his parents and it's been a while since I'd met anyone's parents. Actually, I believe it's been about 5 years to be exact.

If this occasion doesn't call for three glasses of wine prior to the event, then I don't know what does. A funeral, perhaps.

I am currently on glass of Chardonnay number one and the butterflies are taking over my stomach. I detest formal occasions like this but I also know that it is a necessary and logical step in any normal relationship. A necessary and normal, but still...

"Don't be nervous. They're really chill," the boyfriend says to me.

But "chill" can mean anything in Chinese culture. Besides, parents will always be parents in any culture. They will probe and quiz and question my intentions. Jesus Christ, I am freaking out just writing about this.

If I survive the meet-and-greet and the subsequent 21 questions that surely will follow shortly after, I will be pleasantly surprised. Usually, on occasions like this, I am the opposite of poised and graced woman I've been raised to be. Quite frankly, I am a mumbling mess. I completely fail at impressing parents.

Now. Glass o' vino number two... I am looking at you, kid.

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What More

It's a bit hazy and groggy here; the sun is setting past the roof ridges of shop houses and I empty out an ice cold Heineken into a chilled glass. Ah, Thursdays. A necessary prerequisite to Fridays.

I've been living my life on a whim here, telling myself that this is my vacation without it being a vacation. Despite it being exactly one year since I've moved to Singapore, I am still treating it as an exotic, tropical country with beaches and sand and men who make it their business to invade my private beach naps a bit too often for my liking.

Yet, it's been a year and my friends back home are busy getting engaged and getting married and what not. I feel grateful that I am not feeling the pressure to settle down but I am also feeling slightly worried. Like, am I ever going to feel the urge to settle down or am I always going to be one of those people on the move, treating every new country as my personal holiday.

Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's just that, I don't know, maybe I am not getting any younger and maybe I should care about things like getting married?

I am enjoying this all too much though. My job, my life, my weekend subway rides to the beach. It's all so convenient, so resort-y, so detached from the real world. I am living in La-La Land and I'm fucking loving it. Even my boyfriend, for Christ's sake, is just too good to be true.

The question is: can I live like this forever?

Right now, I am not doubtful that I can. But what if one day I wake up and my vacation is over. What then?

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The L-Word, Deconstructed

I've always been cautious about saying the three-letter phrase. So many people use it so carelessly and nonchalantly, after all; I wanted to be the one to set an example for all. I only said "I love you" to a total of two men in my life, despite having dated, seriously and casually, a whole lot more than two in my life.

It was just that.... when the 21 Year Old told me he loved me in person, shortly after he texted me all about it... it was as if the flood gates of affection had opened up. The Red Sea had parted, the doves ascended to the sky, and the L-word, that I so much feared to throw around casually, entered my vocabulary like it was my new favourite thing to say.

Yes, I said "I love you back" when he told me he loved me in person. And after that blood-coughing incident a few weeks ago, I felt even more of a need to say it, right then and there. Just in case I didn't have that much time to wait.

And I felt happy, and safe and fantastic when he wrapped his arms around me in gratitude. And since then, I've said "I love you" to the 21 Year Old probably more than I had ever said it to anyone prior to meeting him.

It feels amazing to say it. And liberating. And blissful. And all of those things that I wanted to feel but did not want to give into fully.

"I love you" is my new favourite phrase. With all the abandon that I think I deserve for once, this freedom makes me feel amazing.

Sometimes it's that someone who you would least expect to make you happy, that actually does make you feel like you're on top of the world.

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Will You, Tomorrow?

Last night I woke up in a feverish state. The air conditioning was on full blast so it wasn't the hot air of the tropics nor the stuffiness of my room that was making me sweat in my sleep.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, looked in the mirror. I looked like shit and I winced at the sight of my own skin, with the imprints of the folds of my pillow still on my right cheek. Why was I awake anyway at this ungodly hour?

I coughed and spit into the sink, casually, to clear my throat. I washed my mouth with a minty-fresh mouth rinse and looked down to spit the liquid out.

But before I could do that, I stopped. There were blood clots in my sink.

I coughed again to see if the blood was really coming from inside of me, and there it was again at the bottom of my sink. Small little chunks of blood.

Suddenly, I was wide awake. How did this happen? Have I done anything to hurt my stomach lately? I've been on a short self-imposed health kick, so I haven't had a drop of alcohol or soda in just about a week. I've been eating a lot more greens and even forcing myself to chow down a small breakfast every morning, despite my absolute abhorrence of breakfasts.

A quick Google search only heightened my alarmed state. Strangers were suggesting that the blood clots could be anything from an ulcer to cancer. Fucking cancer? No way. Not me.

I dressed in the middle of the night and texted a cab to rush me to the hospital. On my way there, I had to deal with racing thoughts. Have I lived my life to its fullest? Have I loved enough? Do the ones I love know that I love them? Do the ones I care about going to care if I am suddenly gravely ill?

I thought of how much misfortune an unexpected sickness can bring. What if my employer does not value me any more because I will always have to call out sick? What if my dude decides that I am too much of a burden to deal with? What if my parents get grief-stricken and will want me to come home?

I didn't want to find out the answers to these questions just yet. I wasn't prepared to deal with the heavy shit, right then and there, at 4 o'clock on a Saturday morning.

The doctor's observation was vague and not completely reassuring.

"This might be caused by stress... but we will not know for sure now. We can do a conservative treatment, give you some medication and see if your condition improves in a week. Or we can do something more aggressive and do an endoscopy to check for ulcers."

I chose the more conservative option. No need to go batshit crazy with worries just yet. Maybe I shouldn't stress too much (yeah, like that's likely to happen) and see if my condition improves, just like the doctor said. Maybe I don't have cancer after all.

So today, I will rest in my bed, take my medication as prescribed and try to recuperate to the best of my ability. And today, before tomorrow brings whatever it is destined to bring, I will tell at least one person I love them.

It's the least and the most I can do. Today.

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