Discussing Love on a Lake

We discussed love while rowing on a freshly painted boat on Phewa Lake in Nepal.

He rowed. And I pretended I knew how to.

In the far distance, we could make out the faint outlines of the Annapura, the more accessible mountain range of the mythical Himalayas, which stood proud and silent on that hazy spring day.

Alex steered our boat around the small island that held the non-descript Hindu temple, dressed up like a blushing schoolgirl for the tourists, while we gazed upwards towards the pearly white Buddhist stupa planted up on a neighboring hill.

Sandwiched between the two symbols, we talked of love in the abstract. In the practical. In the religious.

I asked Alex what he knew about Buddhism. He shared with me the few tenets that he knew, most notably that of non-attachment.

I leaned back and frowned at a memory of a dear friend who recently embraced Buddhism. A year ago, she was bitterly and vocally unhappy with her marriage because of a void of understanding, touch, love, and common ideals.  She had dreamed of something different and contemplated divorce. Now, with the smile of the recently converted playing on her lips, she preached non-attachment to me in a crowded, cheap Italian restaurant. While her rambunctious 7 year old son screamed and kicked for his mom's iPhone, she patted him absentmindedly and explained to me why she was happy now. The key was letting go. All couples, regardless of the quality of their relationship, would end up apart at the end of mortal life. So why obsess about the journey? If she stopped hoping for love, then she would not despair over the deafening silence between them. Or the late nights she waited up for him to come home. Or the lack of gentleness.

If she stopped being attached to her husband, then she would be happy.

I swirled around my cream of mushroom soup with the tin spoon, hiding the torrent of anger behind my masked attempt to understand her sentiments. I wanted to scream that she was giving up. That she was settling for a shell of a happy life. We ended our lunch early because her son whined about going to the arcades and snatched my spoon to drum out his demands. I also grew weary of my curious burst of anger.

Alex listened quietly to my story and disillusionment with the concept of letting go.

I passionately argued that at least for myself, I either cared all the way or didn't care at all. Despite my parents cautioning temperance and 'it's just a job' whenever I cried on the phone because I wasn't sure how much more I could physically/ emotionally give to my work, I would still dip into my bank of inner reserve and drum out more energy to find solutions to never-ending problems. Or how I kept reaching out to a family member with a hopeful tentativeness even though she's hung up on me multiple times.

Isn't that what love is? I asked urgently. Not letting go?

In between a few more gentle paddles to maneuver us to a quiet alcove, Alex mused that love, in its ultimate form, is one of letting go of expectations of outcomes. It is the unconditional love that Christ spoke of, because He still loves us eternally regardless of our actions. He brought up the example of a proverbial modern mom who became angry because despite repeated reminders, the daughter was not practicing her instrument. The motive was love and hope that the daughter would develop her talents. But the anger arose because the daughter was not conforming to a set image the mom had crafted. Love, within the context of our conversation, would be for the mom to let go of the story she had weaved in her mind about her reality and instead persevere in love through the difficult, messy, and wonderfully unplotted life she ended up sharing with her daughter.

On our way paddling back to the muddy shores, I scanned the lake for the attachments in my life and saw them splayed out across the rippled surface of the the deepening water. Tangled in my thoughts, I decided to throw my stories, chained to their imagined endings, overboard and just let them sink to the bottom of Phewa. I decided to try to love in the best way I knew how and let things happen as they may. I would let go but not give up.

Across the lake, a proper Nepali storm was rolling in, a harbinger of the monsoon season.

Don't Play the Victim

I once loved a boy.

People thought we were really cute together. We thought so too. We would both get so pumped about the same things, volleying our excitement back and forth with wild gestures, and yet get so incredibly mad at completely different things, scattering confusion and hurt in our wake.

Sometimes he would make an offhand comment that would sting in the tender and secret places. I loved him so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I knew he didn't mean it that way so what was the point of brining it up? Since I cared, I would brush it off.

But the comments would continue - not because he knew they hurt, but because he didn't know they hurt. He was just being funny.

Meanwhile, I swallowed one and another and another till I was ready to burst with resentment. Even though I knew that he didn't have bad intentions, I started to question why he wasn't sensitive enough to figure it out. I wondered if that's what he really thought of me. I instinctively flinched every time the topic came up because I was mentally expecting to be hurt. I started to doubt whether we were good together. And so we weren't so good together anymore.

A few years and some growing up later, I realized that I had purposefully played the victim, even though I didn't realize it.

Ironically, in the name of love, I jeopardized our relationship. I wasn't fair to him because I judged him more and more and he had absolutely no idea. When you play the victim, you are turning your loved ones into attackers. That is not fair to them or to you because they didn't even know they were in the arena in the first place.

Sometimes, being faithful to somebody you care about means not giving yourself an opportunity to be a victim. If you really want a meaningful relationship, whether with friends, family, boyfriends or colleagues, you have to be ready to teach others how to love you.

Take the time to carefully explain why a certain comment bothers you and how you prefer they rephrase it. Bring it up (lovingly) right when it happens so it's a low risk conversation. Here are some phrases I try to use:

'Hey, by the way, can you explain to me why you said that? Right now, it makes me feel X" 

"I don't think you mean it this way, but it makes me feel a little judged. Do you really feel that way about me?"

"That kind of hurts. I think it's because I'm having a hard time with ____ right now."

"Honestly, I need some time to process it alone and then I will love to discuss it with you. So can you not ask me about it in the mean time? I feel pressure when people ask me about it."

Hint: it helps when you're saying these things while smiling or touching them reassuringly (except when it's a colleague)

Most of the time, the other person will be genuinely surprised that her comment has that effect and if she cares, she will do her best to change her future approach.

And yes, it will be easier to brush it off this time. But how about the next time? You need to take a stand for your relationships and fight for them. Taking the initiative to have those tough and awkward conversations. Show how you want to be loved. Don't play the victim. You and your loved one deserve more than that.

Buying Relationship Stability

Some call it spineless. Others call it whipped. Here, we just call it financial planning.

As far as I can tell, it is pretty miserable to be a man in China. Not only are you competing with a surplus of 30 million other men for a wife by the time 2030 rolls around, but you're also expected to bring to the marriage alter a house, a car, and stocks.

Now the women are laughing even more.

All over weibo, China's twitter, women are celebrating the entrenchment of the "Wife's Gospel."

China's Merchant Bank (CMB) recently released a financial product that sends user A a text with user B's account balance every day, and automatically transfers (across banks even) any amount over the determined cap to user A's account.

To illustrate the horrifying ramifications, CMB even designed a cheerful poster that describes the perfect application:



"Newlyweds Xin and Wen want to save up for a house to build the beginnings of their sweet story. So Wen wisely decides to let Xin manage all their finances. Every month, Wen's bank account will retain $300 from his income and automatically transfer the rest to his wife's account. And he doesn't even have to go through the trouble of making sure that happens every month anymore!"

What a thoughtful bank.

Well it's working. Because weibo has been overwhelmed by men's desperate cries for patriarchal financial products too.









p.s. The word domanitrix was not what I thought it meant. And um. Don't look it up on bing to figure out how to spell it.

Choice

There were a lot of pathetic apologies from my end (I wasn't sure what I was supposed to apologize for). There were a lot of swearing and phone smashing from her end.

Around half a year ago, because of a series of miscommunication and misunderstandings, my friendship with a dear friend went up in flames, disintegrating in a very dramatic fashion.

Last week, during Thanksgiving, in between serving my first turkey with its odd patches of skin still barely attached and whipping up a banoffee pie, I felt prompted to call her and tell her how thankful I was for her friendship. She was my first friend when I arrived in China with my college life packed up in 8 suitcases, overwhelmed and underprepared. She was the reason why I could tell my mom that no, I really wasn't lonely, when I spent my birthday sans family and friends a week after moving here.

But eating the turkey did not give me the courage to call her. I wasn't joking about the flames.

Yesterday, while blow drying my damp hair, there was a more insistent tug at my heart to call her that day. I shook my head. Sure, I missed her, but I had moved on and it was best to leave it alone.

Then my mom called. Sisi, you need to check your email. Right now.

A mutual acquaintance, extremely protective of my friend, had felt obligated to write my mom a lengthy, passionate email and ask her to tell me to apologize.

Instantly, hurt, anger, disappointment, incredulousness formed a toxic mix in my heart, churning, wrenching it tighter and tighter, fueled by my feelings of being misjudged and mistreated. My parents spoke love and support to me and advised humility and faith, seeing this as a chance to act on the promptings I had received earlier.

I ate nothing all day, filling my hands with meaningless tasks so they would have yet another excuse to avoid the phone. My pride was equivalent to seven hours of pacing around the house.

Finally, I had to unclench my fist, actively choose to not be offended and recognize that this was the push I needed to call her. She picked up immediately. Hey, it's me. My heart, previously wrung tight and hard, literally softened at her voice. I told her how I was really grateful for her and that I had really missed her. As I started apologizing, more sincere this time because I actually understood more of her own hurt and disappointment from the email, she cut me off.

She had hit rock bottom recently. She really needed a friend. She also felt strongly that she should call me the last two weeks, but was afraid of my indifference. She said that my call had meant more than I would ever understand.

We both cried on the phone while telling the other how amazing she was. An hour later, we were still laughing and reminiscing about my terrible falling-asleep-in-awkward-places habit and her crazy colleague stories.

We both healed on this call. We chose to forgive and so we were forgiven.

All it took was a little unclenching of the fist.

Even the pricks can be beautiful.

Taken in Sahuarita. 

Celebratory Panic of the Bare Branches

The bachelors in China are panicking. By 2030, there will be at least 30 million more men than women in this country because of the female infanticides that resulted from the one child policy. Men are desperately trying to score wives. The ladies have become much more mercenary in love, taking their pick among those with the best cars, newest apartment, and biggest bank accounts. In an infamous Bachelorette spin off episode, a girl condemned her TV suitor with these cruel words: "I would rather cry at the back of a BMW than laugh at the back of a bicycle." Many men blanched. Many women nodded.

But on 11/11/11, bachelorhood was celebrated. The singles lorded over the couples, having exclusive KTV parties for the bare branches. The movie, 33 Days of Love Lost, was released on this special occasion (the anti 500 Days of Summer ?) and sold out weeks in advance. Weibo, China's twitter equivalent, even buzzed with the command for singles to buy all the odd number seats in the cinemas so couples would be forcibly separated.

Predictably, there were also a lot of brazen hookup solicitations. One leotard-wearing woman promised, on weibo, that if a man would spend bare branches day with her, then she would guarantee that he would be celebrating father's day the next year.

Hopefully the testosterone fueled suitors would cool down in time and realize that we're only 7 months till father's day.

But then again, she just might settle for a bike.

Ok, maybe an e-bike.

Kindergarten Love

I first fell in love in kindergarten.
He was dark, with really nice teeth. He always handed me the coloring pencils. I told my mom that I was going to marry him.

Then she transferred to our class. And she liked sitting next to him too.

I tattle taled and got her into trouble. She missed the school picnic and stood in the corner for the rest of the day. (Don't worry, I later met the same fate.)

Twelve years later, I sat in my Math class telling one of my best friends about my kindergarten fling. Her eyes opened wide and we realized that she was that girl. The girl in the corner. She went home and brought our kindergarten school photo and we pointed to the same set of teeth at the same time.

He was cute, I tell you.

------

I think that is why I can absolutely empathize with my boss's daughter. She likes me, but she thinks I'm stealing her boyfriend. She's six. And she's telling her mom that there are "too many girls around the house" whenever I come.

Well, at least she's playing fair.

Dating girls

The girls here just love me. Well some more than others. And they show it by grabbing my hands or clinging onto my arms. Especially when we're taking a romantic walk after dinner.

Just like the unspoken code where girls go to the bathroom together in droves, this is their affectionate way of demonstrating that they want to bring you into their group. They are so insistent. I just haven't figured out a culturally sensitive way of getting out of holding hands yet.

In the meantime, I just squirm. And try to engineer all sorts of ways to naturally loosen their grip on my arm. I point frantically to lamp posts or I look for non-existant objects in my bag. But mostly, I just suffer in silence.

I sympathize with the boys now. Girls are so clingy. And their hands are so soft. It makes me want to throw up.

I feel bad for the boys I've dated.

Casey - be prepared.

Progressive dating advice

Tonight, over rocky road, I mentioned to my family that I probably wouldn't date for an entire year in China.

Well, one because there will probably be no church boys. And two because last summer when I did my internship in Beijing, I was mainly hit on by 30 year-old co-workers who still lived with their moms, creepy old men with jade rings, and overly buff marines who looked like they could crush me if they accidentally sat on me.

My mom just smirked and asked, "Well, do you know how to do email dating?"

She then told me that since I'm an intellectual (questionable), I can just email boys and be satisfied with imagined love. While reading poetry.

Jody jumped in with helpful tips about online dating websites that her other 11 year-old friends "accidentally" created profiles for.

But her advice did come with a warning: No matter what I do, I shouldn't share cups with those boys (the ones I meet online), because apparently in fifth grade, that's as good as getting married.