6:37 p.m. - 2005-06-11
Hurting Men Rant
The problem was not that I found myself looking for Matthew to buoy my spirits in every circumstance of life. The problem was not that the scent of his skin made me believe that everything would turn out alright. The problem was not even that my every joy was enhanced by his presence and my every sorrow lessened by the same. The problem was that Matthew mistakenly believed that the summer sun rose and set in my frightened eyes. That July would last forever. That traversing the hills as if we hadn't a care was the fabric out of which one could weave a sturdy life. In Matthew's world, when you found someone you cared for more even than all the someones you cared for more than yourself, you were in love and when you were in love of course you got married. No scrutinizing the hue of the grass. No second guessing. So one day, not very different from any other, sharing a tuna sandwich and listening to the cacophony of birdsong, Matthew proposed. "Wanna get married?", he grinned boyishly. Just like that. He was wearing a straw cowboy hat pulled low over his skyblue eyes, tousling those wayward, black curls in all directions. I sighed in disbelief, reminding him that I had a boyfriend. "Yeah, I know. But do you love him?", he asked with childlike sincerity. "It's more complicated than that", I tried to explain. The skin under Matthew's eyes took on a sort of bruised look as tears collected like blue sweat. He didn't get it. He lived in a universe where things were as they appeared. Where prayer was lived, not spoken. Where conversations were without subtext. Where the number of angels that could dance on the head of a pin was not some philisophical debate, but self evident. As many as it took to convince a cynical world that love was real. Backing away, Matthew stumbled in the tall brush, as though he had been stung by the unrestrained venom of a baby rattler. I'll never forget that look. Hurting Matthew was like a gnawing sensation that followed me from Calabasas to Burbank. All the way home, I tried to convince myself that his feelings probably didn't run that deep and that he would approach the new day as though nothing had happened. I told myself that it had been only an impulsive, momentary act on his part and that he had probably forgotten all about it by now. I tried to believe that I had in no way contributed to his naive conclusion that the fireflies circling invisibly in the electric atmosphere between us equalled love. Arriving home by rote, I walked in to find Tom soaking in his gritty lukewarm bathwater, lost in a sci-fi about some kind of dragons, his green glass pipe lying precariously on the porcelin tub. "You'll never guess what happened today," I said, secretly hoping to divert his attention. "Matthew proposed to me". "That retarded dude?", he said incredulously. "You think that anyone who would propose to me would have to be retarded", I said. "Something like that!", he agreed, much too enthusiastically. But the very next weekend, there at Don the Beachcomer's in Malibu, as we walked along the shore celebrating our first year together, Tom simply proposed. He had prepared a rather long and poetic speech. I stared at the ocean, some primal panic filling my chest. I shivered in the cool air as the sun was slowly giving up and so was I. Not knowing what to say, I said "What would be different? We're already living together". And then I saw again, twice in a week, the result of my desperately selfish need to be needed. There was stoic Tom, orphan eyes brimming with tears. I hated being vulnerable, which men perceived as endearing. I hated the way I averted my eyes, which men mistook for fragility. Mostly I hated my vagabond heart, which trailed along after any promise of devotion, however unrealistic. "Well, this is not at all how I pictured it", said Tom, visibly wounded. The pain of disappointing a man was a scar I carried from childhood like the little nick on my forehead from scratching a chicken pox blister. My mind reeled. I heard myself saying anything that might convince him that it was all a terrible misunderstanding, that he had just caught me by surprise, that this had been my dream all along. Of course, I wanted to marry him. It took the whole weekend, but eventually he believed me. Sunday afternoon, we pooled our meager resources and purchased a microscopic diamond chip set in 10 carat gold. I wore it to school Monday morning like an embarassing hickey. Matthew noticed at once. "You'll never guess what happened," I said, too casually. And his blue, blue eyes simply absorbed the blow.
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