I can give you a thousand reasons not to choose me.
I jump ship when I sense things are heading downhill;
I am hardly the long legged girl you watch in the corner of the cafe, her dress floating in her aura, her long hair carrying the wind.
I’m tiny, to put it politely, and I prefer t-shirts, boots and books.
I have a 60 yr old’s interest in gardening and knitting, a 10 year old naivety, and cannot stop chewing my lip for the life of me.
I tend to take the caution “guard your heart” way too literally, to the point where my heart is rarely without at least 5 guards available to tackle my every attempt to open up to the quicksand ground.
It takes an incredible amount of personal interaction before I can trust anyone and more so before I call them friend.
If I think our conversation is going nowhere, I probably will just stop replying abruptly.
But if I feel I can talk to you, I may talk incessantly in a way that probably feels like too much too soon, to you. To me it’s being honest.
I trust literally. I was always told to do so since I was young. How was I to know people didn’t actually mean it?
If virtue lies in the middle, here lies the least virtuous of all.
God forbid, I actually really like you, I will find it impossible to think of anything to say, even though all I want to do I talk to you like any other normal person would. Which to you probably looks like the cold shoulder, of course. And so another one bites the dust.
I have a difficult time with small talk and generally get straight to the point- which naturally would make the discrete art of flirting obsolete in my line of speech.
I tend to like the bad boys, who probably are scared away by my religiosity and those who do like me, I often find myself comparing to the infamous Mr. Collins of Jane Austen fame- not exactly too many sparks flying there.
To add on to the oddities, I know 2 modes of talking- taking control of the room and being the speaker or, shutting the hell up and trying to blend into the wallpaper. The part of my brain that was supposed to remember how to conduct a “normal conversation” in between those 2, apparently self destructed before I learned to speak.
I can talk to a bursting classroom and I can talk one-on-one. The number of people in between those two, which is the number that usually constitutes a “dinner” or a “party” makes me want to find the nearest bedroom, pull out a book from my purse and hide under the covers to read until everyone decides to leave.
My social awkwardness literally knows no bounds- not because I’m trying to be attractively quirky like some indie heroine (I wish) but because my mind seems to shut down when I most need it in polite society (see points above).
Why else should you choose an other?
Well, I’m too religious to be “normal” and too rebellious to be the “good girl”.
Let’s face it, even in my religiosity, I don’t really give a shit. And my rebelliousness is most Catholic in it’s theology.
My commitment-phobia probably makes me a candidate whose instincts cannot be entirely relied upon,
I’m too broken to be lovable, too naive to be trusted and too stubborn to considered the “safe” option for a “good wife”.
I seem to surprise myself most days, so I’m not sure how I can claim to be stable enough for someone to truly get to know the “real me”?
I am a riddle that I constantly unwrap each day, with eagerness and adventure on my part but seemingly, with increasing anxiety and disappointment on the part of others.
Though others make claims to stand by my character, I find myself disagreeing with them vehemently on what wonderful traits they think I possess. I’m not sure who they’re talking about half the time.
And so even in hearing about me, you have not even remotely heard half the truth about me.
But in asking me then to show my heart, it is painful for me to disclose to a perfect stranger (let’s be honest here for we are strangers), my innermost desires to write music, or a book, or get a tattoo, or 2. And yet, oddly enough, I find myself perfectly comfortable to disclose these things to the passenger who sits next to me on my 2 hour domestic flight to the middle of nowhere, who I will never meet again (oddly enough, also a stranger). No the irony is not lost on me.
Perhaps I am afraid you will disclose these secret desired to my parents, who are blissfully unaware of my bucket-list filled with their worst nightmares.
And thus strangers have walked away knowing most of the secrets that my family are still trying to pry away from me with guilt, emotional blackmail and obligation.
Let’s see, what else?
I spend far too much time enjoying my time alone and far too much money on things I really don’t need.
You are likely to find a more homely, reliable and eager partner anywhere else but here.
So no, you don’t have to explain yourself, I can take a stab in the dark at why you wouldn’t chose me. And I’m perfectly alright with that.
Of course what’s harder to swallow is that I cannot give you one reason to in fact chose me. And what sort of embarrassing excuse for self-dignity and reason could say that so unashamedly? Well not me, because I am thoroughly embarrassed to admit it. Though oddly not ashamed.
They tell me to say yes, that love will grow in it’s time, that at least you would have taken good care of me. But that’s my problem, I don’t need someone who can take care of me, I can do that for myself – I need someone who loves me, because that’s what I don’t know how to do at all.
Perhaps one day I will learn the answers to these questions, to why I am the way that I am and why anyone else should choose to love me.
Perhaps I am foolishly waiting to learn my worth through the eyes of my lover but you know, I think (perhaps foolishly) it’s working.
And when I get there, you’ll be the last to know or care.
But I must say the saint was right, if all the way to heaven is heaven, then all the way to true love is, the way to learn what it means to love,
And I wouldn’t have the journey any other way.