The Choices We Make

Dear Elly G,

So this is why that night was epic. Not only did you write, produce, direct and star in your own version of The Best Party Guest Ever, you also got hugged by a guy you are attracted to. And not just a boring, wimpy, ass-out hug either. A hug tight enough for you to feel his back muscles and biceps. We all know this is how you get your kicks – lingering physical contact with handsome, fragrant men you have a big crush on! After all that, I can only imagine the amount of pudding in your panties if you somehow finagled your way into XX’s arms at our looming high school reunion. I feel like someone would have to stand by with a defibrillator in case things got spastic. After the heady rush of that dinner party and its subsequent ending, ending up in a VIP booth with free drinks in a nightclub straight out of a Baz Luhrmann fever dream could only be the icing on the cake.

(Speaking of cakes, coming out of the kitchen with a candlelit cake, coyly singing Happy Birthday? Not the star of the night, my fat ass. If you weren’t, you certainly earned points for trying.  You do realize you just negated your claim to being self-conscious when you channeled your inner Marilyn, right? If I had been at that party, I would probably be Janeane Garofalo.) 

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I still don’t buy that being a “judgmental asshole” would keep you from being with someone. Everyone is a judgmental asshole. People who claim they aren’t are lying. We’re Filipinos. We are born with the judgmental gene. I think you judge yourself just as hard, if not harder, than you do other people, so you’re really getting in your own way, but we all knew that. I’ve sung this song a thousand times. Stretch marks can be lasered off, if you really feel that strongly about it. Or you could always turn the lights off. T is living proof that not everything is physical. Most everything is, but he’s clearly learned to rise above. Good for him, I guess? There’s hope for everyone. But I know why you call yourself a judgy bitch, because I’d probably also say “he’s got a boyfriend?”  like you and then apologize to God for being a hateful mess. You and I know I’ve said worse. And seriously, if someone with his condition has a cute partner, this is just proof that I’ve been right about your issues all along.

That line about the choices you’ve made resonated with me. We all make choices. It’s funny that you end up with a bit of self-doubt at gatherings, because I get the same self-doubt whenever I hang with married people. They all seem so happy and well-adjusted and a perfectly synchronized team with their children and their dog and their mortgage. It makes me wonder if the choices I made were wise, and why I can’t have whatever they may be having – for instance, why aren’t they struggling with who handles the finances –  and sometimes it makes me unhappy when I skim through my mental list of relationship pros and cons. (The dumb jokes. Con.) And then I get a few days to think about it and realize maybe I’m not doing too badly, and hopefully they rant and rave and break things in their private time too. (Just us? Damnit.) Being happy 24/7 has to be impossible. It’s unattainable. We never really know what goes on behind closed doors, do we? I know, I’m grasping at straws here. Then again, maybe some couples really are truly happy and never argue so the rest of us are just fucked and will never win the relationship lottery.

Ah well. Give me a few orgasms and I’ll be in my right mind again.

Yours,

Nikka

 

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