When you’re an Indian woman of a certain age, your options in the marriage pool become very limited. Typically, once you hit your late 20’s, it is deemed unlikely that you will ever meet a suitable mate; once you get to 30, it’s absolutely hopeless. In fact, my mother is currently hatching a plot in which she will move to Los Angeles and live with me, now that I won’t have any pesky husband or children to prevent me from giving her my undivided attention. Believe it or not, this was not her idea; it came at the suggestion of my grandmother, who seemed to believe that it was unlikely that I would ever get married at the old and decrepit age of 27.
Fortunately for me, I pulled myself out of that marriage pool many years ago; actually, it would probably be more accurate to say that I was never in it to begin with. I wouldn’t want to be a part of any social or cultural institution that determines a woman’s worth by her age (young), figure (slim), skin color (fair), or family background (rich). Nor would I want to live my life under the impression that I was destined to be an old maid if I happened to find myself unmarried after 25. After all, things in the marriage arena have certainly changed among my generation; many people are choosing to prolong marriage in favor of their careers, more couples are opting for cohabitation instead of taking vows, and some are washing their hands of this marriage business all together, instead choosing to live out their lives as swinging singles. In this day and age, anything is possible.
Or is it? Although I found myself feeling hopeful for my romantic future a few years ago, I’m now starting to feel that nagging doubt that I’ve missed the boat. Almost everyone I went to high school with is now married, most of them with children. Amongst my close circle of friends, more of them are now involved in long-term relationships. Every time I log onto Facebook, I’m bombarded by news that someone has either gotten engaged, tied the knot, or had a few babies (many of whom mysteriously resemble little pink kidney beans, until they get older and turn into adorable miniature people). I’m constantly pestered by relatives who think that I should “find a nice Sindhi boy to marry.” Even some of my clients ask me why I’m not married. In fact, not too long ago, I found myself in the middle of a particularly awkward exchange with a 5-year-old client during her therapy session.
Client: “You got a husband?”
Me: “Nope.”
Client: “You got a kid?”
Me: “Nope, no kids.”
Client: “You got a dog?”
Me: “Nope, no dog.”
Client: “Then who you got?!”
My thoughts exactly.
And the truth is, the older you get, the slimmer the pickings are. Nowadays, when I meet a single guy over 30, I find myself wondering what his problem is. Commitment-phobe? Pathalogical liar? Living in his mother’s basement, playing Magic the Gathering? Hell, a wife and 5 kids hidden on the side? What’s a girl to do? It’s like going to the buffet only to discover that all the good pieces of sweet-and-sour chicken have been snatched up by your fellow diners, and all that’s left are the soggy pieces of batter with no chicken inside.
When you’re starting to feel the pressure of being single at a later age, eventually you begin to consider options that certainly wouldn’t fly back when you were younger. In my case, that option would be…the dreaded arranged marriage. To be fair, it’s not truly dreaded among the Indian set. In fact, some within my community would say that arranged marriage is the only way to go. The marriage is orchestrated by family members, sometimes with the help of a matchmaker or a well-meaning great-grandparent, and all things are taken into consideration, from family upbringing to religion to education level. Think of it as a well-planned business deal: your marriage is arranged based on what makes sense, versus the idea of finding the romance of the century and living happily ever after.
When I was younger, the idea of an arranged marriage was horrifying. What if you were stuck with a dude who was a complete bore? What if you show up to your own wedding just to discover that the man you’ll be marrying is sporting a huge, hairy mole on his chin in the shape of some exotic country? And you couldn’t very well just walk away from mole-man with the knowledge that you’ll be shaming your family and labeling yourself as unmarriageable or mentally ill. I remember feeling particularly disturbed following a conversation with my aunt about her own arranged marriage. She shared that she saw her husband for the second time in her life on their wedding day, and they didn’t even speak to one another for the first time until after the ceremony. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom how a person would be willing to make the commitment of a lifetime to a person they’ve never even spoken to. They might be lame and unintelligent. Worse still, they could be physically and emotionally abusive. They could be an ax-murderer, for all you know. So where’s the appeal?
I’ve been asking myself this question for several years, amidst the prying inquiries from relatives about my love life and the increasing stress on my parents, who worry that they will eventually die and leave me on this earth alone. I’d be lying if I said that the idea of spending the rest of my existence alone didn’t scare the hell out me. But is the prospect frightening enough to push me in the direction of a custom that I’ve always found somewhat barbaric? I’ve heard horrific stories about arranged marriage, and if you’ve ever read an article on dowry deaths and bride burning, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. For those of you who are unfamiliar, a dowry death is when a young bride is murdered or driven to suicide by her in-laws when her family is unable to pay a large dowry following the wedding. And if you do your homework, you’ll learn that there are far more acquittals than convictions for the murders of these young women. My mother always tells me that cases such as these only take place in villages amongst the uneducated, but I still find myself feeling disgusted at the thought of this type of violence against women being acceptable anywhere, let alone within a culture that I’m a part of. And why the hell should there be a dowry in the first place? Is it really necessary that I pay some fool to marry me? I want to attract a man’s interest because he finds me beautiful, intelligent and humorous—not because my parents are offering him some cash and a new refrigerator.
But in the best-case scenario, arranged marriages may be ideal for some, because the marriage is based on practicality and partnership as opposed to hormones and romantic notions. My aunts all had arranged marriages, and they seem happy with the cards dealt to them. And in reality, is arranged marriage really any more barbaric than some of the bullshit a single girl has to endure while taking a swim in the dating pool? If I had a nickel for every time I was treated disrespectfully by a man I dated, I’d be a goddamn millionaire….although if I were treated disrespectfully, you can bet I didn’t date them for too long. The point is that sometimes you just get tired of putting up with the nonsense attached to the process of finding love. The games, the mixed messages, the emotional exhaustion that comes from trying to read your date to determine if he’s a total loser. If I were to seek out an arranged marriage, you can bet your ass I’ll be matched up and married off within a year. And since I won’t know the guy from a hole in the wall, then I can’t be carried away by the affectionate feelings and unrealistic expectations that can sometimes develop when you fall hard for a man who, in the end, isn’t right for you at all.
I find myself asking the arranged marriage question more frequently these days. Time marches on; soon, most of my friends will be married with families of their own, and I will have to find new ways to spend my time. And many of my mother’s friends are now clamoring for me to marry their sons. Who knows? Maybe a few more years of the single life will shift my views. And I guess there are worse things than marrying a guy with bad breath and a hairy mole….right?
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Blast From the (Brokenhearted) Past
When one envisions the city of Los Angeles, two words typically come to mind: enormous and overcrowded. It’s a city with a very impersonal vibe; you have no idea who your neighbors are, you don’t spend much time interacting with people due to most of your day being spent cursing alone in your car while stuck in traffic, and you hardly run into the same person twice unless you specifically make plans to do so. On any given day you find yourself surrounded by hundreds of people that you’ll probably never see again. So how is possible that in a city boasting a population of almost 4 million, you could come across the same ex-boyfriend six times in six months, in the most random of places? And what are the odds that the ex-boyfriend you keep running into would just happen to be the one that caused the most damage?
A. and I met during my first year in graduate school. I stumbled upon his profile on an online dating site, discovered that he was a fellow UCLA grad student, and made arrangements to meet him over dinner following several hours of phone conversation. I discovered that he and I both grew up in small towns on the central coast, and that his younger sister was married to a guy that I went to high school with. We both possessed the same dry sense of humor, and our flirting was loaded with sarcasm. Aside from being intelligent and hilarious, he was also shy and pretty awkward, which interestingly enough only added to his appeal. And, wonder of wonders, he seemed find me attractive, which was unheard of for me, being that I weighed just over 200 pounds. He looked right past the extra weight, instead talking about how comfortable he felt spending time with me. After that night, not a day passed in which we didn’t talk to each other—most nights, we would spend hours on the phone talking about nothing and everything. We made ourselves at home in each other’s apartments, and every Friday we would have date night, where we would go out for dinner followed by an evening of relaxing together at my apartment and unwinding from a stressful week of papers, projects, and exams.
Over the next year, I fell—hard. It was an experience akin to jumping from a plane without a parachute, and unfortunately, the relationship eventually ended that way. For over a year following our breakup, my emotions were splattered all over the asphalt. What made the experience particularly excruciating was the fact that I was completely unprepared for it. We had become very close, A. and I. I knew things about him that he had never told anyone. He always knew how to make me laugh after a particularly hellish day. A few weeks after offhandedly mentioning that he would never introduce a girl to his family unless he was serious about her, he invited me to spend a weekend in his family’s home. Knowing that he cared about me enough to introduce me to his parents was elating, and I was blindsided when he came to my home a few weeks later and told me that it was over.
He and I were having dinner at my apartment on a warm summer night in August, following a splendid date at the Getty Center the day before. After clearing his plate, he abruptly started crying, and said that he didn’t think he and I should continue being romantically involved with one another. Well, at least he brought his appetite beforehand.
He didn’t really offer much of an explanation, other than “I’m just not sure how I feel about you.” He had a difficult time letting me go, and insisted that he and I remain friends. Assuming that he was just experiencing some momentary cold feet, I agreed; I was sure that within a few weeks he would come to his senses and correct his mistake. We remained “friends” for 6 months, carrying on our nightly phone conversations and spending several evenings a week together; oftentimes I would catch him staring at me as I washed dishes, did homework, or watched the funny vedeos he would show me on YouTube. Some nights he would cry, saying that he missed me and that he wished he could find his way out of the storm of confusion brewing in his head.
The following February, things came to a sudden end, this time for good. I found out that he had been quietly dating someone else, which was both heartbreaking and enlightening. I learned that he wasn’t “unsure”—he just wasn’t interested. After that fateful phone conversation, during which I discovered that the girl he was now seeing was a longtime friend and fellow lab geek from his graduate program, we never spoke again.
Following that devastating experience, I was a disaster. I would spend hours on the couch each day, crying and watching reruns. I would Facebook-stalk him and his girlfriend endlessly, which led to me accidentally sharing one of her photo albums of their romantic trip to San Francisco on my profile. And, to my dismay, I ran into him EVERYWHERE. I would see him on campus, bumping into him in the quad at the court of sciences, or at the student health center. Then, I started running into him in the most strangest of places, like crossing Santa Monica Boulevard. One day, I even came face-to-face with his girlfriend at Nordstrom. I was looking at handbags on sale, and when I looked up, she was right in front of me, eyeing a purse similar to the one that was in my hand. I was intrigued by this girl. What did she have that I didn’t have? Did she have an incredible personality? Was she a freak in bed? Did she have a vagina made of gold? I trailed her around the first floor of Nordstrom, obsessed with discovering why she was the one he had chosen. I hid in the accessories department, watching her from behind a display of floppy sun hats. An employee came over to ask me if she could be of any assistance. “No!” I snarled. The poor woman scampered away, and I resumed my obsessive investigation, eyeing her clothes, her haircut, her handbag. I noted that she appeared cockeyed and frumpy, which brought me intense satisfaction. Petty, and definitely not my finest hour.
The situation blew up the following month, when I had joined a group of girlfriends for champagne brunch. As the waitress was taking our orders, he walked in with his girlfriend and seated himself at a table across the restaurant. He didn’t see me, and I proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk. We didn’t come face to face until I ran into him in front of the restroom after finishing almost an entire bottle of champagne. He was paying the bill, and I had to squeeze past him to get to the ladies’ room. I, being piss-drunk and ill-tempered, loudly hissed at him in front of a waitress and several restaurant patrons. He was humiliated, and couldn’t seem to make eye contact with anything but his shoes. Was it because he was feeling embarrassed about the way he had treated me, leading me to believe for so many months that there was hope for the two of us? Or was he embarrassed for me, due to my childish behavior? As he walked out of the restaurant with his girlfriend, I verbally abused him, loudly enough to ensure that he heard every word I said. A loyal (and drunk) friend of mine even gave a hearty “Boooo!!!” as he walked out the door. Once again, not my finest hour. But we had broken up six months earlier, and I had already run into him and his girlfriend six times. I had hit my limit. When would it end?
I didn’t see him again for almost three years…until just a few days ago. I was alone, Christmas shopping in Santa Monica. As I walked past the shops, a young man up ahead caught my eye. A young man that looked suspiciously like A. As I got closer, I realized that it was A. I was tempted to duck into Forever 21, especially following my drunken performance at brunch nearly 3 years ago, which was the last time we had come face-to-face. I bravely decided to walk on and face the music. I wondered if he had spotted me, as I was about to pass him on the sidewalk; we were only inches away from one another. Would he be surprised to see me? Would he get that panicked, overwhelmed expression that he typically wore when he ran into me unexpectedly? I had lost 80 pounds since we had last seen each other. Would he even recognize me?
I guess the answer was no. He walked right by me, oblivious and fashion-challenged. He did not wear that expression of sheer horror. He didn’t even seem to know who the hell I was. In a way, I take satisfaction in that. I look better than I have in years. I wear a size six, I only have one chin, and I walk with my head held high, possessing a confidence that I had forgotten I once had. That’s what he didn’t recognize…and if that’s true, then it’s not a bad thing.
I wonder if I’ll run into him again. If I do, I wonder if I’ll have the nerve to say hello. Sometimes these things come in waves, so I may encounter him again at the supermarket, the gas station, and the mall. Apparently, repeatedly running into the man that broke your heart in a city of 4 million isn’t unheard of. And apparently, the enormous city of Los Angeles isn’t nearly big enough.
A. and I met during my first year in graduate school. I stumbled upon his profile on an online dating site, discovered that he was a fellow UCLA grad student, and made arrangements to meet him over dinner following several hours of phone conversation. I discovered that he and I both grew up in small towns on the central coast, and that his younger sister was married to a guy that I went to high school with. We both possessed the same dry sense of humor, and our flirting was loaded with sarcasm. Aside from being intelligent and hilarious, he was also shy and pretty awkward, which interestingly enough only added to his appeal. And, wonder of wonders, he seemed find me attractive, which was unheard of for me, being that I weighed just over 200 pounds. He looked right past the extra weight, instead talking about how comfortable he felt spending time with me. After that night, not a day passed in which we didn’t talk to each other—most nights, we would spend hours on the phone talking about nothing and everything. We made ourselves at home in each other’s apartments, and every Friday we would have date night, where we would go out for dinner followed by an evening of relaxing together at my apartment and unwinding from a stressful week of papers, projects, and exams.
Over the next year, I fell—hard. It was an experience akin to jumping from a plane without a parachute, and unfortunately, the relationship eventually ended that way. For over a year following our breakup, my emotions were splattered all over the asphalt. What made the experience particularly excruciating was the fact that I was completely unprepared for it. We had become very close, A. and I. I knew things about him that he had never told anyone. He always knew how to make me laugh after a particularly hellish day. A few weeks after offhandedly mentioning that he would never introduce a girl to his family unless he was serious about her, he invited me to spend a weekend in his family’s home. Knowing that he cared about me enough to introduce me to his parents was elating, and I was blindsided when he came to my home a few weeks later and told me that it was over.
He and I were having dinner at my apartment on a warm summer night in August, following a splendid date at the Getty Center the day before. After clearing his plate, he abruptly started crying, and said that he didn’t think he and I should continue being romantically involved with one another. Well, at least he brought his appetite beforehand.
He didn’t really offer much of an explanation, other than “I’m just not sure how I feel about you.” He had a difficult time letting me go, and insisted that he and I remain friends. Assuming that he was just experiencing some momentary cold feet, I agreed; I was sure that within a few weeks he would come to his senses and correct his mistake. We remained “friends” for 6 months, carrying on our nightly phone conversations and spending several evenings a week together; oftentimes I would catch him staring at me as I washed dishes, did homework, or watched the funny vedeos he would show me on YouTube. Some nights he would cry, saying that he missed me and that he wished he could find his way out of the storm of confusion brewing in his head.
The following February, things came to a sudden end, this time for good. I found out that he had been quietly dating someone else, which was both heartbreaking and enlightening. I learned that he wasn’t “unsure”—he just wasn’t interested. After that fateful phone conversation, during which I discovered that the girl he was now seeing was a longtime friend and fellow lab geek from his graduate program, we never spoke again.
Following that devastating experience, I was a disaster. I would spend hours on the couch each day, crying and watching reruns. I would Facebook-stalk him and his girlfriend endlessly, which led to me accidentally sharing one of her photo albums of their romantic trip to San Francisco on my profile. And, to my dismay, I ran into him EVERYWHERE. I would see him on campus, bumping into him in the quad at the court of sciences, or at the student health center. Then, I started running into him in the most strangest of places, like crossing Santa Monica Boulevard. One day, I even came face-to-face with his girlfriend at Nordstrom. I was looking at handbags on sale, and when I looked up, she was right in front of me, eyeing a purse similar to the one that was in my hand. I was intrigued by this girl. What did she have that I didn’t have? Did she have an incredible personality? Was she a freak in bed? Did she have a vagina made of gold? I trailed her around the first floor of Nordstrom, obsessed with discovering why she was the one he had chosen. I hid in the accessories department, watching her from behind a display of floppy sun hats. An employee came over to ask me if she could be of any assistance. “No!” I snarled. The poor woman scampered away, and I resumed my obsessive investigation, eyeing her clothes, her haircut, her handbag. I noted that she appeared cockeyed and frumpy, which brought me intense satisfaction. Petty, and definitely not my finest hour.
The situation blew up the following month, when I had joined a group of girlfriends for champagne brunch. As the waitress was taking our orders, he walked in with his girlfriend and seated himself at a table across the restaurant. He didn’t see me, and I proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk. We didn’t come face to face until I ran into him in front of the restroom after finishing almost an entire bottle of champagne. He was paying the bill, and I had to squeeze past him to get to the ladies’ room. I, being piss-drunk and ill-tempered, loudly hissed at him in front of a waitress and several restaurant patrons. He was humiliated, and couldn’t seem to make eye contact with anything but his shoes. Was it because he was feeling embarrassed about the way he had treated me, leading me to believe for so many months that there was hope for the two of us? Or was he embarrassed for me, due to my childish behavior? As he walked out of the restaurant with his girlfriend, I verbally abused him, loudly enough to ensure that he heard every word I said. A loyal (and drunk) friend of mine even gave a hearty “Boooo!!!” as he walked out the door. Once again, not my finest hour. But we had broken up six months earlier, and I had already run into him and his girlfriend six times. I had hit my limit. When would it end?
I didn’t see him again for almost three years…until just a few days ago. I was alone, Christmas shopping in Santa Monica. As I walked past the shops, a young man up ahead caught my eye. A young man that looked suspiciously like A. As I got closer, I realized that it was A. I was tempted to duck into Forever 21, especially following my drunken performance at brunch nearly 3 years ago, which was the last time we had come face-to-face. I bravely decided to walk on and face the music. I wondered if he had spotted me, as I was about to pass him on the sidewalk; we were only inches away from one another. Would he be surprised to see me? Would he get that panicked, overwhelmed expression that he typically wore when he ran into me unexpectedly? I had lost 80 pounds since we had last seen each other. Would he even recognize me?
I guess the answer was no. He walked right by me, oblivious and fashion-challenged. He did not wear that expression of sheer horror. He didn’t even seem to know who the hell I was. In a way, I take satisfaction in that. I look better than I have in years. I wear a size six, I only have one chin, and I walk with my head held high, possessing a confidence that I had forgotten I once had. That’s what he didn’t recognize…and if that’s true, then it’s not a bad thing.
I wonder if I’ll run into him again. If I do, I wonder if I’ll have the nerve to say hello. Sometimes these things come in waves, so I may encounter him again at the supermarket, the gas station, and the mall. Apparently, repeatedly running into the man that broke your heart in a city of 4 million isn’t unheard of. And apparently, the enormous city of Los Angeles isn’t nearly big enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)