Hi Boys

That peace sign is more than enough salaam, thanks...

Dear Boys:

Please I would appreciate it greatly if you would not hit on me. Please. I realize that it is possible that my loud eye-makeuped, skinny-jeaned, laugh-out-loud-while-texting, nail-biting-while-reading-Howard-Zinn, boom-swagger-swagger, big-earinged, bescarfed person is some variety of charming, or mysterious. Or even tempting. That’s even kind of on purpose, I won’t lie to you.

Nevertheless, I am taking this opportunity to ask you – tell you – to please ignore the fact. Once upon a time I was a dowdy, buck-toothed, frizzy-haired twelve-year-old in overalls. Just pretend that’s still true.

If you happen to see me laughing while on the phone with a friend walking down the street, or reading a book of philosophy next to you in a cafe, or strolling with my parents, for God’s sake don’t mention how cute I am doing any of those things. Or whatever adjective happens to come to mind. It would be nice if you just kept that to yourself.

And if you have half a care, definitely don’t ask if I want more coffee.

You should pay all of these little advices – entreatments – a great deal more mind if you happen to be charming. Or good-looking. Or a little bit hipster. Or nerdy. Or vegetarian. Or you ride a bike. Or you have some kind of interesting career. Or a nice low beard. Or – God forbid – all of the above. Just keep a nice, generous distance. Over there behind the bushes where I’m unlikely to notice that you exist. I appreciate your effort.

The problem with you not following any of this (or all of this) advice is that, well, I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. In fact, I don’t think I remember a time when I didn’t like boys. I’m a big, devoted fan.

Nevertheless:  It stops right here.

Look, fine, okay, I get it, you like me back. We’ve established that. And, really, it’s flattering. And look, if things were different, your efforts would probably pay off a lot more. But things being as they are, this good, bescarfed, laughing girl is trying to stay just that: good. Y’hear? And you all don’t make it easy, with all your beards and t-shirts and eyeing me all the time. I can’t handle it, dig? A girl can only take so much.

I’ve given you your chance. I think if you examine the record you will find that I have been more than fair. I’ve spent years looking all kinds of cute, letting you hit on me in whatever venue you choose, and I’ve been responsive, Lord knows. So don’t tell me that you haven’t had your day in the sun. But it ends here.

I have my reasons. It’s not really personal. Actually it’s not personal at all. I just need some me time. Kinda like Fergie.

Look. I don’t know if it’s the way I was raised, or if it was my extremely dysfunctional first boyfriend, or any other of the plethora of things that could have mussed up a nice girl’s psyche coming of age in the late 90’s and early 00’s, but – I don’t insist on enough. And I like you. Too much.

The problem with me and you, frankly, is that I’m very good at you. On average, you are less adept at me. Meaning…meaning what. Meaning some girls are the girls that give girls a bad name. Some girls are crazy and high-maintenance and nagging and picky and helpless…except when you can’t find a parking spot, and they suddenly turn into Parking Space Backseat Hawks. Then there are the nice girls. You have nothing bad to say about them. Nobody has anything bad to say about them. They’re kind of girls you take home to meet your mother. And there is the third type. Rarer than the first two by far; this small, magical sisterhood manages to redeem the word “girl” for the masses, never to be lost to the ranks of insult. Purely because we are fascinating, you crave our company, and you always will. I am of this third category. You laugh; it is no small feat, let me tell you. There’s a reason most of us don’t turn out like that.

So before we sit back and celebrate, or admire, just how rare and alluring a flower I really am, let’s talk about you for a second. Or rather, me and you. Me with you.

One of the setbacks of engineering with this whole extraordinary-and-rare-woman system is that we are, by nature, low-maintenance. And usually optimistic. So you say something; we believe your word. Whatever world you spin up for us the first chance you get, we believe wholeheartedly that it is real. It takes a lot of reality not being that way for us to realize that we may have been a bit rash.

So you see, we have a problem. I believe you. You come all kinds of charming and tell me how sweet I look laughing or you earnestly want to know if I’ve discovered the secret to life in that book I’m buried in…you know what? I don’t have much armor to defend myself from these attacks. I was so busy all this time paying attention to myself and whether or not I was reasonable, or patient, or kind, or friendly, or whatever – I forget to pay attention to your end of things. And of course you’ve mastered charming. Who hasn’t? You know how to say a lot of pretty things. And I’m pretty, so I make it extra super easy for you.

But I’ve wised up, and I’m here to tell you so. It’s not that you’re not good guys. I’m sure you are, down to the very last one. But I have things to take care of. I’ve got to move, and get ready for law school, and then I’ve got to kick a lot of butt while I’m there. And I have to be writing the whole time. I don’t have time to be messing around wondering whether or not you are objectively worthy of one of the most extra special varieties of woman postmodernity has cooked up. That takes a lot of mental gymnastics. And, let’s be real, you had your chance. I’ve been an un-law student for many a year now. And…my defenses are, quite frankly, down.

So you just stop before you utter a single word, and look away, and find some other super woman to be your girlfriend. I hereby drop out of the running. And hey – thanks.

Ever not-yours,

Muppie

Hot hipster lovin’

Saturday morning in a Somerville cafe: in stroll the hipsters. They come for the open doors, the walls covered in art, the outdoor patio and killer fritattas…who knows why they come? Maybe they just happen to be the people living within a stone’s throw of The Biscuit, our favorite closes-too-early-because-of-course-I-forgot-I-live-in-Boston spot. Anyway, in they stroll in their unwashed-hair, unmatching-in-a-surprisingly-fetching-way splendor.

Raise your hand if you don't want to be one of the people in this picture...didn't think so.

I’m, well, ungracefully trying not to stare at these gum-chewing dislays of companionable affection and discipline myself into reading a novel that I am not enjoying one bit. People-watching proves to be the far more compelling pastime (why do I end up feeling like every time I read a novel translated into English it’s full of unnecessarily exhibitionistic excalamations of premature emotion?), and Snow gets ignored, sitting closed by my cooling coffee.

The most charmingly in love couple takes the table next to me (!) before they place their orders. The man is sitting opposite me, and as his girl stands next to him (to better see the menu), he sort of absentmindedly lets one hand travel up and down the inside of the thigh closest to him. She seems not to notice – absorbed instead by the sandwich selections. Embarrassed to be intruding on such an intimate moment, I avert my gaze, yet again, back to my disappointing literature.

Later on, these two chat about some common project on their (shared?) overgrown Mac. He leans over as if to kiss her cheek – doesn’t – whispers something in her ear, and BAM. They disappear.

I start to think about this. At work, we’ve just finished a house meeting campaign, which basically means that we’ve gone around and asked hundreds of people who are part of the Boston Muslim community what issues they’re facing. These were both among the top issues:

1. getting married (as in, we’re having trouble doing it)

2. staying married (as in, we’re having trouble doing it)

And looking at my idealized fantasy of hipster love, I’m wondering if a little of this ain’t what we’re missing:

Matching, hugging, absorbing L-O-V-E.

Now one could argue that this is, for a lot of reasons, not the appropriate model for Muslim relationships. I’m going to ignore that whole side of it for now, hoping you’ll forgive me – as I explore What the Hipsters Have and We Don’t.

Speaking with some of my (not that much older) married friends, these are prominent commentaries on marriage (slash advice):

1. People think that married people don’t get lonely. Married people are often really lonely.

2. Dishes. Every day. Be prepared to do them. And be prepared that he won’t.

3. You should be picky, because this is the man you’re going to obey for the rest of your life.

Fantastic! Where do I sign up?

And then I’m looking around me at all the marriageable people, and I’m thinking, No freaking wonder we’re still single. I mean, here we are, for better or worse, completely immersed in a culture that not only prizes romantic love very highly, but displays it prominently – both in person and in the media. I don’t need Disney to form a warped, idealistic picture of romance – I have the thigh-touching, whispering, disappearing hipsters next to me. So we’re trapped – maybe not unpleasantly – in a world in love, surrounded by a bunch of married Muslims who are either not in love with each other, or who don’t show us that they’re in love with each other because they consider it to be inappropriate.

I’m not asking for people to start making out with each other outside of Eid prayers or anything. That would be kind of gross. But, like, a little something? Like holding hands with each other, maybe, or the occasional smile from across the room as though you share a private joke? That would be nice. That would make the rest of us maybe find marriage a more attractive state – not some sort of elaborately disguised prison.

The conventional wisdom goes: romantic love does not last; therefore, it’s an illogical and doomed reason to get married. Better to marry for the sake of common values and a synchornicity in thinking about gender roles within marriage and how Islam should be practiced/Muslim kids should be raised – 10 years later you’ll thank us.

I would counter with, “What about the Obamas?”…But I’ll admit that they are the exception and not the rule. So this may very well be sage advice. Nevertheless, I’m not positive that it’s responding – or suitable – to our cultural milieu. It may very well be unwise, but Muslim kids grow up watching their peers fall in love again and again – Muslims see people around them in love all the time. The common cultural narrative goes like this: boy meets girl in some sort of meet-cute, they exchange some pleasant witticisms and then numbers – or maybe they friend each other on Facebook first (baby steps), then they agree under some pretense to meet for coffee (perhaps they happen to be reading the same book, which one of them only read because the other was reading it…), they flirt, they walk to some other destination (someone’s class? The bus stop? He walks her home?), navigate the awkward first goodbye (are we kissing or hugging?) but not before making plans to see each other again. They meet a second time – in the evening, so as to make looking hot and kissing more plausible, have a surprisingly wonderful time, and end the night with a kiss – which, if it’s sublime (and why wouldn’t it be?), will initiate a love affair that may or may not involve thigh-touching at the local cafe, much to the Muslim next door’s chagrin – and, if everyone’s amenable and things go well, could very well end in marriage, kids, and a plot at the local community garden.

And…apart from the kissing, etc. pre-marriage, what’s wrong with this picture? Are we telling ourselves to want something we can’t want?

I feel like we might be approaching it like this: the married community (to the extent that such a thing exists) is telling the unmarried community, “This [i.e. romantic love] is what’s broken in your culture [self].” So we’re supposed to want to get married for very practical reasons: to have a family, to have religious support, to not sin. But I don’t think that’s why we really want to get married. We’d like to be swept off our feet by an experience that makes us feel like taking on responsibility and adulthood with this person will feel less of a burden, and maybe even fun – we want to lose sense of ourselves, to desire someone – hopefully for deep and shallow reasons, we’d like to come across a person who makes us feel like all this waiting we’ve done is insignificant, erased, by the pleasure of his/her company. We’d like our minds to be blown – and eventually think about a family, support each other, happily not-sin together.

It’s not that we’d like to marry someone with terrible character and a tendency to shirk responsibility. It’s that we don’t want it to be just that. Who wants to end up in Charlotte’s marriage to Mr. Collins?

Practical? Very. Hot for each other? ...I rather think not.

Now, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy? There’s a better model. The beauty of this fictional match is that neither partner compromised on the ideal character of their imagined beloved – they both dreamed of marrying refined, interesting people of superb character. Perhaps Elizabeth imagined herself with someone a tad more outgoing, and Mr. Darcy imagined himself with someone a tad more rich – but these things are not the glue that holds people together. They loved and respected each other, and with good reason. And no surprise, happy ending there.

I like this much better. Much.

Why should we be trying to fit ourselves into a box that…doesn’t fit? If we want to love our spouses, I mean – isn’t that okay – isn’t it desirable? It only needs to be tempered with some sort of reasonable wisdom or reason – of course it’s possible to lust after, or even to be infatuated with, a person who is all kinds of wrong for you. Of course. It happens all the time. But that is very different than feeling deeply in love with a person you respect and admire, and therefore want to spend your every day with. Maybe he doesn’t rake leaves, and maybe she’s not so on top of the dishes, or the laundry, or whatever. But I’d so much rather do without a few of the teeny little chore expectations I had and have someone I actually like spending time with. Isn’t that what marriage is? Time? I’d so much rather enjoy it.

So I think it’s hot hipster lovin’ or bust. This unhot transactional nonsense has got to go, dig? Can’t nobody defenestrate that but us, one lovemonkey marriage at a time. Ready?

Because properly married people should stand like this. Really it's indecent not to.

Something else entirely

Very often this happens: I start to write about something. An event, maybe. An idea. And then three-quarters of the way through, or even after I’m done, I realize that I was writing about something else the entire time. Usually the something else is loneliness.

I’m not really sure what to say about it. We all feel it, and yet we can’t seem to solve it for each other, which puzzles me a great deal. It seems that things get confused, like my writing. We think we want one thing, but after we get it we discover that we wanted something else entirely. Back to square one, a new post, a new project, a new something, chasing something else. And then the refinement of that. And so on.

I think the loneliest time in my life was probably during junior high. I had kind of a clique in elementary school, but it busted wide open in seventh grade, spilling its contents in different classes, separate hallways and lunchtimes, and a wide range of rungs on the social ladder. I landed somewhere near the middle-bottom. I think. No way of really knowing.

Here’s what junior high is like:

1. All the same people are cool. There is some predefined coolness that is unchangeable and unknowable until you get there. There is not a lot of room for originality, unless you want to totally give up and embrace becoming an outcast. Few people have the courage to do this early on. It usually takes a couple of years of swimming in pointless circles.

2. All of the people – cool, uncool, pretty, unpretty – have crushes on the cool people. Now this is interesting. The cool people aren’t necessarily the prettiest. They’re not necessarily the most accomplished. They’re not necessarily interesting, but the people who have crushes on them don’t know this, because they’ve never actually spoken before. These crushes are feelings borne of wallflower moments at school dances where one person seems to shine or appears immoderately happy, out of imagined intimacy when one arm brushes another in the hall, out of the aura, the mystique, created by the fatal combination of distance, new, overgrown desires, and active imaginations.

3. Everyone wants to be cool, but no one is sure why. There is some social currency in popularity , but it’s not clear what it will get you. Maybe a boyfriend on the JV basketball team. But maybe not. Nobody knows, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

4. The psyches of barely-not-children are pretty trampled on the way to the top. Example: I once had my two best friends bring me to the Guidance Counselor’s office (who, keep in mind, is there to reign in reason and protect the sanity of the innocent) to tell me that they couldn’t be such good friends with me anymore, because I wasn’t cool enough. That’s right. That was the only reason. They were magnanimous; they would let me say hi to them in the hallways. But no more weekend sleepovers. It was over.

Time passes, and a few things happen:

Sometime in high school, or college, depending on where you’re at, you realize that all the hullabaloo is a sham. The cool people are bland. Or you realize that the girl who sits next to you in homeroom is actually prettier. Or you develop some interest that allows you to interact with people in a way that isn’t based on mutual advantage. Like, you like the same things. Hey! Who thought of that as the basis for a friendship? Genius.

You become interested in and interesting to the people who are like you. It’s not really based on prettiness anymore, or status. It becomes about whole people, and this is totally refreshing. And affirming. The rate of rejection is relatively low, which, you know, ROCK, plus you actually enjoy your time more. No surprise there, but it still seems like a novel idea.

You realize that this obsession with popularity is a blip. It’s a stage. It’s developmental. Children have wholesome friendships, and so do adults, but somewhere in the middle there we lose all sense and fly at each other like dogs – and there is only one bone, and it is golden, and it is called The Perfect Social Life. But you have to rediscover either that it doesn’t exist or that there are a million different versions, once you enter the world of See and Be Seen. Because then, it’s not only about who or what you like. It’s about the consensus about who and what you like. And you can’t escape the pressure cooker of public school, so you get all twisted up faster than you can untie yourself.

Which brings me to the latent effects of this syndrome in the Muslim population. It is sad for me to say it, but some of us are kind of still in junior high. Every girl wants to marry the MSA president (or, if the MSA president is a girl, vice versa). Every boy wants to marry the prettiest girl he has spied out of the corner of his eye in the musallah. Which, you know, to each his own, but (and convert alert here, I’m coming at this from the outside) these impulses seem to miss the point that marriage is about soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much more than the ability to give a good speech, or really great recitation, or good looks. Those things, frankly, don’t matter much when it comes to being happy in a relationship (don’t say I didn’t warn you). When was the last time you gave a speech in your kitchen? And let’s face it, people – we’re all going to age. Have you ever seen a beautiful old person? That beauty is from character, and wisdom, and goodness – good genes give way to wrinkles eventually. Now, I’m not advocating for marrying someone who doesn’t appeal to you at all…I’m just saying that when it comes to domestic bliss, in all respects, and thank you for not making me spell that out, a lot more comes into play than a pretty face. I mean, we’re talking roommate for life, God willing. Not only is this person going to share your kitchen, and your bathroom, and bicker with you over window dressings, but you have to share a bedroom, too. And a bed. And the covers. And trust me, you’re not going to care how hot she is if she won’t give you the blanket in January. Trust me. If you’re going to have no refuge from someone, have no refuge from an interesting someone. From a nice someone. From a merciful and loving and patient and kind someone. No refuge from a hot someone gets old pretty quick, if that’s his/her crowning virtue.

So let’s all make an effort to get along. Let’s be mavericks and throw middle school to the dogs! Let’s dig each other for the important things. Things that matter to us. Let’s be nuanced individuals, and be, like, interesting, and stuff. I mean, I know it’s hard, and you’ve all been good, and you feel like your kiss with the prom queen is ten years too late and you deserve it already, but overvaluing the transitory elements of people, allowing yourself to be guided by the intoxicating cocktail of an aching desire and a rich fantasy life, amounts to shooting yourself in the foot. And besides, what happened to the prom queen of your high school? Do you even know where she is now? Do you care? You see my point. Balance in all things. If middle school was raging, repressed hormones, and high school was discovering your angst, and college was finding your niche, be in college. Marry the girl/guy who likes pina coladas (virgin, goes without saying) and taking walks in the rain.

Sometimes I feel like I’m looking around at this plethora of lonely, awesome people, and I feel like: what is our problem? Can’t we hook up, already? It’s all most everyone wants. But nobody manages to pull it off. (Well – some do – and may God bless them all, and bless us poor single folk with the same happy fate! But not enough do it. Not nearly enough.) And I’m not sure this is the solution, but I figure I’ll throw it out there just in case. Fuel the brainstorm, you know. I’m nothing if not brazen. So here are my brave ‘n brazen two cents for the day: we need depth in our interaction, and nuance, and love. We need to let each other be a little quirkier, and embrace it. Join that knitting group! Or dig on your hopscotch! Or whatever it is, rock! Be it, and be it like whoa, and find other Muslims who will do it with you and support you and make you feel like a million bucks. And who knows? One of these days you might wake up and look at that brother you get along with like peas & carrots but just aren’t that into (he’s no Brad Pitt) and think: smokin’.

It’s been known to happen.

[Comments, please. Stop being so shy. For those of you who have already - thanks!]

The wisdom of fools.

I’ve been neglecting my writing. Last week, I had the excuse of a midterm. This week, I am ashamed to say that my only reason for staying away was an inability to think about anything other than Jane Austen.

You see, I am jealous of Fanny Price.

Fanny has the good sense that no one around her seems to. At eighteen, she has the forbearance to consistently refuse the man pushed on her from all sides: her rich, benefactor uncle, the cousin she is in love with, her friends, her parents, and all her acquaintance together. He has been a libertine in the past; he tells her he has changed. She is the only one to not believe him, is cast out and called a fool. In the end, he runs away with her married cousin and vindicates her refusal.

It’s possible that I am Fanny’s opposite. I believe the things that people tell me, have faith in everyone’s ability to change (hey, I’m a convert – if not me, who?), and let optimism conquer reason without putting up much of a fight.

These would be admirable qualities indeed – in a world of people who spoke only the truth, changed all the things they intended to, and lived up to expectations. Sadly, this is not the case; disappointment abounds, and it is often mine.

I know many people who are not like this. My brother, for example. He is good and wise, and it seems that he was always so. He is purposeful and deliberate. People more than twice his age seek his advice. Whenever anyone meets the two of us, or hears me talk about him, that person always assumes he is the elder sibling. Always. The reverse is true. It is also true that I am often a fool – so the mistake is understandable.

I once found myself in a situation that was truly pitiful. I fell for a man who (surprise!) said he had changed, and talked about his ability to refine and improve himself a great deal. I was impressed by the commitment to improvement he was always chattering on about. What undaunted struggle! What courage!

What blindness.

My family dutifully raised their objections, as did my friends. All and every one. And I, the loyal lover, defended my man to the last. I defended my own flawed reasoning with logical dances I can’t hope to reinvent. My elaborate maneuverings of love were so impressive and impromptu that when family recounts them for me now, I’m aghast. Really? I said that? Idiot.

A funny thing happened amidst these objections. I noticed that I was unhappy in love.

It would be so great if this didn’t feel so mournful…

Unhappy in love is an unfortunate combination, and is fraught with danger. The danger is that one will say to oneself, I don’t care. I’d rather be with him than without, no matter how miserable I am. Perhaps even more perilous is the suggestion, It will get better. He’ll change. We’ll learn to get along.

I’m not sure why, or how, but remarkably and miraculously, neither of these tempting thoughts won out. I got out. I got out fast, and reflected later on all of the building evidence of my own unhappiness that I did not see at the time. The mounting pile in the corner that suggested, oh so massively, that the man I loved was not actually the one I was involved with, but an elaborate invention we had both spun out of hope and breath and forgiveness. It was so clear in retrospect.

Foresight? We’re fresh out. Try the hindsight store next door; bitterness is on sale, and self-loathing is half off.

I’m seven years older and a good deal more experienced in relationships than Fanny, so what gives? Why does her presence of mind elude me in all the most important ways, in all the most important moments?

This is what I was thinking as I was walking to the post office today. Why wasn’t I just born wise? What is the purpose of all this fumbling towards sense? Couldn’t I have been more like Abdullah? I would have been spared a good deal of false starts and heartaches.

Then I thought: Because I’m a writer. Because I’m a writer, I was born a well-meaning, good-hearted, foolish girl. Because I’m a writer, I have some comic foibles that entertain more than myself. Because I’m a writer, there is a path to wisdom. If it had been easy, there would have been no story to tell. There would have been no point in speaking. If I were all alone, the Buddha on the mountaintop (to steal from Reality Bites), there would be no one up there to relate to me, and no benefit to all my wisdom. Because I’m down here mucking it out, I get to tell stories that are also, on occasion, lessons. It is a peerless joy, purpose. I can say, Here is point A: silliness. If you want to get to point B, which is marginally less foolish, I have recently discovered the secret to doing so, and it is X.

Actually, it is Islam, but that’s a little tangential.

My current suggestion is to read Mansfield Park. It is an incomparable study on patience, modesty, and the will of God making things turn out all right in the end. It still shocks me. Every time! It all turns out all right. Sometimes we just have to ride out the rough wave of sticktoitidness. Definitely holding to your principles is key. Holding to your romanticism, or your faith in the fancy promises of others…not always a great idea.

I know. I read it in a novel once.

 

The meantime

The other night, a friend asked me if I thought it was possible to be happy while waiting for Prince Charming to show up, bang down the door, and whisk me up in his arms:

Gee, he looks about fifteen…that might be a problem.

This certain friend of mine, who is absolutely lovely, is, a little lovelorn at the moment. We’ve all been there. When the last person to walk out the proverbial door seemed like he (or she, as the case may be) was (okay, almost) everything you’ve ever wanted, the temptation is to brood a bit. To dwell on it. If only…

If only I had a nickel for every time I’ve sighed and thought if only, I would be able to afford a much nicer apartment.

My if onlys started right around the time I turned eighteen. That was the first time I got my heart properly broken into a billion tiny glittering pieces. I was a traditional if onlyer back then, and it took me about a year and a half and the most awful trip to Italy in the history of tourism (that story I’ll save for another time) to realize that I was better off as I was: single.

Alone, alive, alert, AMAZING!

Now, if you’ve been reading these posts, you probably realize by now that I’m not the world’s least romantic person. So it’s not as though I’m completely unenthusiastic about sonnets, or Italy. Or princes [note: princes must be much older than fifteen to inspire enthusiasm]. What I mean to say is that the time I spend sighing and piddling around my apartment waiting for my life to start is significantly diminished. Okay, maybe I have a few weak Sunday mornings, when I’m alone in the apartment and there’s no one to go to brunch with. Maybe those days I have a few pigeon-toed, wistful moments while I’m waiting for my tea to brew.

I know he’ll show up someday…but if it were today, that would be awesome.

But these moments have not commandeered my whole life, thank God for that.

Things are hard to appreciate when they’re right in front of your face. There’s a reason that Joni Mitchell is popular. This poor lovelorn friend of mine is getting over her first…serious involvement with a guy. I won’t call it love. But anyway, poor thing, there’s no end in sight. Maybe the first time is always like that.

I recently reread some of the journal I kept during my first epic heartbreak. I was the lovesickest puppy in town. Man oh man did I have it bad. I recorded dozens of bright, hopeful moments between us, things that haunted me, things that I couldn’t get over. And I relived them. And obsessed about them. For like, ever. Mind you, most of these delightful things happened during the first two weeks of the relationship. Those were the happy times. First date and all that jazz. Throw in some angsty folk music, a few springtime hikes and a sunset dinner in a tiny French restaurant, and almost any girl will fall for the nearest reasonably attractive single male. Alas, I was not the exception. These loverly things were followed by an awkward summer, an insecure fall, and a miserable, miserably long winter. And still it didn’t occur to me that maybe this guy wasn’t Prince Charming disguised in a pair of stripey overalls.

What. An. Idiot.

I pity my eighteen-year-old self. Wretched girl! I wasted all that time pining for some narcissistic fool who couldn’t go a whole hour without insulting me. But that was the best I’d had it, so I thought it was the best there was. I’m convinced that this is the misfortune of first love. It’s all fun and games until someone can’t let go. And someone always can’t let go.

This friend of mine is having some trouble letting go. It doesn’t matter that it didn’t work out and we can tick off several reasons for that on our reasonable fingers. The vacuum of flattery is consuming her attention. Meanwhile, she and I drive around belting out happy love songs in my car, make each other very tasty tea every morning, and carefully dissect our days together before retiring. We model our best dresses for each other, share perfumes, read each other favorite pieces of literature, pray together, eat together, study together, dream together. Last night, we sang along to a Disney ballad (and no I will NOT give you the satisfaction of knowing which one) and spun giggling circles in my living room. And yes, I was wearing a smashing cocktail dress and stiletto heels at the time. The point is this: while she’s yearning for her lost admirer, life is happening. And life is good.

Beautiful friendships are under-appreciated. I wish I had paid more attention to mine, when I was eighteen and stupidly, stupidly in love. My friends had a lot more to offer me, and I brazenly ignored the fact that I was much, much happier with them than I was with my overall-clad chap. I had a friend whose entire room was plastered in Absolut ads (each one different, mind you). She called me “Mang” for a forgotten reason and had a penchant for burritos and Simon & Garfunkel. She wore all black the day the last episode of Seinfeld aired. I can’t remember a single afternoon we spent together that I didn’t laugh so hard that I couldn’t stand up. Another friend of mine used to run through giant leaf piles with me in the fall, would dance to any Shania Twain with me, and never made me feel anything less than a fascinating person. We used to go for long drives. I could spend any amount of time with her and never get sick of her. We never, ever fought. I had the kind of mythical good friends that exist in movies, or Nickelodeon sitcoms. And yet I managed to let a bad relationship get me down – and keep me down. Why didn’t I ask the same of him that I enjoyed with them? I don’t know why I didn’t hold the happiness bar higher. I would have been better off if I had.

Friends take us as we are. It’s not complicated. I love my friends, and it’s not hard to love them. They seem to love me back, and they don’t act like it’s a chore. But finding a romantic attachment of this nature is rare. It’s the Bigfoot of relationships; it’s out there, but the images we have are so grainy and overexposed that no one believes the witnesses.

But it could be a bad relationship in disguise!

Everybody says that you’re better off single than in a bad relationship, but for some reason this is hard to ingest. I don’t know if it’s the ego-stroking that comes hitched to romantic attachments, or the feeling of being wanted, or what. I’ve had some pretty legendarily bad romances by now, and the truth of this has finally (thank God, thank God!) wiggled its way into my head. And I’m happy. Happy! Imagine that. I’m happy not to be under the boot heel of a less-than-generous man, and happy to be busy making myself the sort of girl that the sort of guy I’d dig would like to sweep off her feet. (How’s that for a garbled sentence?)

Of course I won’t object if Prince Charming shows up. Unless he’s fifteen, in which case I will slam the door in his face. But until the day the non-jailbait, non-cartoon version comes a-knockin’, there’s plenty to enjoy. Including the fact that I’m not too busy pining after some overalls to hear the door.

Yours always, with awkwardness.

I’ve been thinking about my Atonement post, and I think I’ve hit on something.

People often wonder with wide wonderment why Muslims court in the awkward and roundabout way that we do. I won’t deny it. It’s a bit strange; it has always seemed so to me. Please allow me to elaborate.

“I know, I hate that line…..for real, though, can I text you sometime?”

This is how white people do it: they walk up to each other and say things like, “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?” And then they both wink at each other, signaling that this is a horribly overused line. And then, with a little chuckle, one of them says, “Seriously. I’m guessing you’re a Leo.” They have coffee or lunch or dinner, they go out a few times, leisurely explore each other’s state of dental hygiene, they grope and caress and tackle and tickle. They meet each other’s friends and go out bowling, and then have the post-friend-meeting analysis: “So. Tell me what you thought of her. Seriously. I really like this girl.” They fight and make up, they make each other dinner, see what the other one prefers to wear to bed and learn how to make each other’s favorite breakfasts. They spend Saturdays together on the couch, at the museum, in the park. They vacation together in Peru. They experience together every known thing under the sun, they cohabitate for long periods of time, they wait for it all to be settled, and then one morning one of them turns to the other with a bright sparkly expensive thing in one hand and says, “Baby, I know your sign, my friends dig you, and you always take out the trash when it’s your turn. Nobody makes better pancakes, and you know how I love that little freckle on your nose there. Let’s get hitched.” Then, and only then, does my tribe marry.

Hooray! Bliss.

Now for the Muslims:

“This totally isn’t awkward….at….all.”

Muslim boy meets girl, and nervously looks at his feet. She plays with her skirt and they exchange salaams. Boy and girl continue to stare at their toes while they discuss every potential issue under the sun….in a fairly dry manner. Things like who will get up at three with the imaginary baby come up, things like how to deal with in-laws no one has met yet, things like childcare, how the household income is shared and/or split and spent, where the couple will live, what their best and worst qualities are. It’s all out there, a big, giant, verbal pop-quiz. We quiz each other’s friends: “Is he really that nice? Or just when he’s come round courting…?” We meet each other’s families and extended families, and ask each other how we like to spend our time, what we do on a lazy three-day weekend, and how clean we like the kitchen to be. Anything is on the table for deliberation, and most of it gets carted out for examination at one point or another. We ask each other what we do on weekends but we don’t spend weekends together. We ask each other about favorite dishes, but we don’t share them. We make extra effort to not bond. It’s extremely frustrating, trying, and befuddling. All this….and we don’t even hold hands yet. Not yet. Then, finally, boy says to girl (or visa-versa), “So, um, sister….I think you’re the one for me. Are you diggin’ it like I’m diggin’ it? And is your family diggin’ me too?” And the sister says, “Uh, yeah, brother, my family is a fan. And I guess I’m sorta into you. Let’s do it.” And they get all married and then it’s like,

Gee, what could be cuter than that?

You’re thinking what I’m thinking. Why be crazy? Why do we make it so backwards and hard? Well, I’m sure there are a lot of explanations out there, but something occurred to me, as I said, thinking about Atonement. Part of the beauty and security of Robbie and Cecelia’s love is that they have known each other and loved each other in a sort of pseudo-sibling way for their entire lives. Not much is at stake when they finally declare their romantic love; neither one will walk out the door and leave the other high, dry, and not knowing whether to call. It’s safe…because the foundations are already built. They know each other. They respect each other. They admire each other. Now all they have to do is fall for each other, and it is accomplished over the course of one sweltering midsummer day. Voila! Love blossoms, roots itself, grows. A novel is born.

So I think this is why we’re crazy. Despite appearances, it’s not a masochistic or puritanical endeavor. It’s because, well, when somebody cooks killer pancakes, maybe that distracts a little from the fact that she wants five dogs and you want five kids. Because humans are beings of extremes…and while we can be extremely rational, in love, we’re mostly extremely not. So the Muslim wisdom has mostly been to take the fun out of the before-the-wedding part, and make the after-the-wedding part pretty awesome, pretty safe, and purdy dern loving. There’s a lot, obviously, that goes into choosing one’s spouse…a person’s nature, manner, habits, desires, and background all play a part in the decision. And I guess we Muslims figure that if someone can pass muster without all of the distracting (and hey, let’s face it, lovely) day-to-day romance and affection, then adding those last two ingredients will only make a good thing double platinum.

It ain’t a bad hypothesis, now that I think about it.