Since the beginning of my illustrious dating career, I've had an inexplicable aversion to being called "baby." I'm not sure exactly why, but it has always sounded contrived and cheap to me. Like, every man since the dawn of time has affectionately called his girlfriend "baby." Can't you be more original? I find the nickname so repugnant that I can literally feel my stomach turn when it's directed at me.
I have also, I must admit, harbored a secret belief that someday I will meet a man with whom the synchronicity will be so precise, and with whom I will fall so deeply in love, and with such immediacy, that if and when he calls me "baby," not only will I not mind, I'll like it. Other things, I've imagined, will align in this hypothetical perfect union. We'll love all the same music and books and have frequent, perfect sex. He'll alternately praise my cooking and volunteer to cook for me. We'll enter the Land of We and never look back.
Recently, I've let go of this fantasy, not because I've stopped believing in love (I don't think that could happen) and not because I no longer want a partner (I still do). I think that what I've realized is that I've spent nearly twenty-eight years becoming who I am now, and, while I'll continue to develop as a human being for the rest of my life, it seems likely that at least most of my traits will be maintained over time, as will the respective traits of my future partner. We'll be distinct individuals with both differing and similar interests and habits. We'll be individuals who love each other deeply but will, most likely, occasionally drive each other crazy. Moreover, we'll be individuals who get along really well, treat one another with respect, and never, ever call each other "baby."
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
the hand fruit
On Monday night I lay in bed, catching up with one of my best friends, Ryan, on the phone. He works in a very fancy restaurant in Boston and was sitting at the bar of the restaurant, after it had closed, sipping a vodka-soda, telling me about the enormous, several-thousand-dollar truffle in the restaurant's kitchen.
"You should totally eat it," I teased.
(Laughter) "Oh my God. Could you imagine if I just took a bite out of it like it was a fucking hand fruit?"
"What is a hand fruit?"
"You know, like a plum or an apple. Fruit you eat with your hands."
"I think you just made that up."
"No way. People have been saying that for years."
(I paused to do a quick Google-search)
"No, Ryan, according to Google, they have not."
(This, by the way, is all I could find on "hand fruit.")
"Dude, Gab, I totally just made up hand fruit."
(Pause.)
(Peals of hysterical laughter from both coasts.)
We laughed for at least five minutes straight. Tears streamed down my face and I clutched my stomach in the fullest whole-body laugh I've had in as long as I can remember. Eventually we had to hang up, but I fell asleep giggling.
The best thing about something so utterly hilarious that it inspires such an intense physical reaction is that it doesn't fade quickly. Since Monday night, as I've gone about my daily tasks--driving to work, paying my bills, cooking dinner, etc.--I've periodically remembered Ryan and the hand fruit, and laughed out loud. (Note: the man behind me at the bank today did NOT think it was cute.) It's made the past week great, if for no reason other than the stream of endorphins that are likely circulating my brain, due to the multiple belly laughs I'm having throughout the day.
Now, you may not think that the story of the hand fruit is all that funny, mostly because you are probably not best friends with both Ryan and me, (unless of course you are Emily Barratt, in which case you probably still don't think it's very funny). Having tried to retell the story of the hand fruit several times since its birth, I've learned that Ryan and I are probably the only ones who are amused by it. That said, I hope you have something in your life that makes you laugh out loud on a regular basis. It's truly a superior way to live.
(In the absence of your equivalent of a hand fruit, go here.)
"You should totally eat it," I teased.
(Laughter) "Oh my God. Could you imagine if I just took a bite out of it like it was a fucking hand fruit?"
"What is a hand fruit?"
"You know, like a plum or an apple. Fruit you eat with your hands."
"I think you just made that up."
"No way. People have been saying that for years."
(I paused to do a quick Google-search)
"No, Ryan, according to Google, they have not."
(This, by the way, is all I could find on "hand fruit.")
"Dude, Gab, I totally just made up hand fruit."
(Pause.)
(Peals of hysterical laughter from both coasts.)
We laughed for at least five minutes straight. Tears streamed down my face and I clutched my stomach in the fullest whole-body laugh I've had in as long as I can remember. Eventually we had to hang up, but I fell asleep giggling.
The best thing about something so utterly hilarious that it inspires such an intense physical reaction is that it doesn't fade quickly. Since Monday night, as I've gone about my daily tasks--driving to work, paying my bills, cooking dinner, etc.--I've periodically remembered Ryan and the hand fruit, and laughed out loud. (Note: the man behind me at the bank today did NOT think it was cute.) It's made the past week great, if for no reason other than the stream of endorphins that are likely circulating my brain, due to the multiple belly laughs I'm having throughout the day.
Now, you may not think that the story of the hand fruit is all that funny, mostly because you are probably not best friends with both Ryan and me, (unless of course you are Emily Barratt, in which case you probably still don't think it's very funny). Having tried to retell the story of the hand fruit several times since its birth, I've learned that Ryan and I are probably the only ones who are amused by it. That said, I hope you have something in your life that makes you laugh out loud on a regular basis. It's truly a superior way to live.
(In the absence of your equivalent of a hand fruit, go here.)
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