Sunday, April 09, 2006
When I was little, small enough my reading ability was mostly looking at pictures and the recognition of a few words, I had a fantasy. Most of the reading I did was done by Mom or Dad, the books and stories they often read, or even many of the stories I watched on TV showed woman in love. They had false images of pretty princess, and handsome princes. When I was that young, I dreamed that there was a prince out there for me. I would find him and we would know just by looking at each other. This fancy stayed with me as long as I have lived, even today at the back of some thoughts (though very different from that little girl having stories read to her in her hospital bed) I can some times find that joyous little fantasy.
In time I got older, I watched everyone it seems get there first boyfriend/girl friend and I even turned down one young fella, cause I was moving in a few weeks. I felt then that when I got to my shining new living place I could find someone. AT this time my fantasy had changed from handsome prince, who I would live happily ever after with, to cute boy on the Volley ball team, whom I would have fun with. But the thought really wasn't different at all. I was still living in a world of perfection in fantasy.
Lessons hit hard, when I learnt cute boys were not the fantasy handsome princes. Boys were harsh and cruel, especially if the girl wasn't perfect.
As my adolescence advanced, I had comfortably moved to the idea of a boy that was nice, and enjoyed some of the things I do. But I maintain even after numerous rejections, that someone is there.
In my early twenties, things seemed more positive, university had a wealth of intelligent, fun loving boys around. But most of them had not left there high school ways behind yet.
Now toward the end of my twenties, I found hope beginning to diminish. The number of rejections grows with out cease. The courage to try grows weak, even the heart to look has almost been smothered. Then last night an evening that was to be fun, contained the repetitive conversation about what men are like. Looking for something they have been programmed to. I didn't fit. I felt listening to the conversation like I was watching my little candle of hope slowly being smothered.
I'm finding that people who are more comfortable with themselves are less demanding in their expections of perfection in other people. It's a funny paradox, but the key seems to be the simple Buddhist idea of self-acceptance.
I believe it was when I gave up a tiny part of those expectations and stopped desperately searching with standards that no human on the face of the planet could meet, that I found and met, then eventually married Shawn.
Now, neither of us is perfect. He's a large, round, hairy man, and I'm a large, round, lumpy female. People can turn their noses up at us all they want, but both of us are happy. And now a days, as I'm getting old and crotchety -- that's all that matters.