The abrupt change in pronouns should have been an obvious clue. From “we”, “us”, and “our”, she began to use “I,” “my,” and “mine,” occasionally at first but soon taking advantage of any opportunity so I’d notice. “I plan on making law firm partner in five years from graduation and moving to New York in ten.” “By the time I’m twenty-seven, I’ll have a 5 Series of my own.” “I’m going to Boracay for the weekend. I need some alone time.” Back then, I was just too dense to notice that “our” relationship was going the way of the Siberian tiger, critically endangered, just a hair shy of being extinct.
But before I get ahead of myself, and ramble on about my past relationships, a bit of a context. In the 38 years I’ve been on this planet, I’ve had three steady girlfriends, all of which are now, categorically, exes. Let’s refer to them, in chronological and geographical order, as Batangas, Antipolo, and Diliman. No real names, please, not even fake names. This is to keep them anonymous and protect myself (and them, I guess) from any possible backlash. I’ve learned a number of important life lessons from my exes. These are things you notice only in hindsight—or after a few beers with friends who’ve had similar experiences.
Let’s start with Batangas. Lovely girl. I met her at a church camp just before I entered college. She came from a good family, was exceptionally bright and quite gregarious. She took a fancy to this bookish torpedo boy and within a couple of months we were going steady. This period of puppy love bliss lasted for about two years. After which, it was an onagain- off-again affair that went on for three more years. The sudden death of her father thrust Batangas into a level of maturity that I wasn’t ready for.
She took over his businesses out of necessity and proved adept at running them. She excelled as an entrepreneur and was soon making good coin. On the other hand, I was religiously determined to up enough money for the next issue of X-Men and the other X-titles (Jim Lee, dammit!).
We broke up soon after a fight about money and maturity. She needed me to be more mature, but at that point, Peter Pan wasn’t about to give up his playtime in Neverland. Believe me, I tried. I invested what money I had in the bank into a business with her, a small store that abruptly failed. I feigned interest in pursuing law and, while I did pass my entrance tests with flying colors, I never bothered to actually enroll, which incensed her even more. Which brings me to Lesson One. You can’t force maturity, no matter how hard you try.
There’re things you can fake, and maturity isn’t one of them. As the saying goes, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. Despite breaking up with me, Batangas and I would cross paths many times, like planets in eccentric orbit, and we’d always get back together. She’d always initiate the renewal.
I had never been a jerk to her, something she’d appreciated and never forgot. I was always available for a cup of coffee, an understanding ear and a shoulder to lean on. We’d get back together maybe twice a year only to drift apart after a few months. At first I didn’t mind the rubber band relationship.
It wasn’t like I had anything better to do, but after maybe six times of this, I grew tired. Lesson Two, Don’t make yourself a target of convenience.
Corollary to this, cut clean. Laser clean. East Bound Antipolo came four years after my last and final break up with Batangas.
She was an office colleague who had interests in literature and film similar to mine and we hit it off well. We both liked dogs and our relationship seemed to revolve around taking care of our sometimes stinky but always playful pets. By this time I was in my late twenties as was she. Her biological clock was ticking while I’d hit the snooze button on mine.
Though I was already working and earning enough to keep me afloat in comic books, CDs and DVDs, I was far from ready to settle down. Mr. Shifty I was, and despite her efforts to convince me to pop the question, I always managed to evade a serious discussion on the matter. It didn’t help that I had niggling doubts about our compatibility.
We were alike in many ways, but it never seemed to be in the stuff that mattered, to me at least. I wanted us to be dinks: double income, no kids, at least for the first couple of years. She wanted to drop her lucrative management position to live entirely off my paycheck. In her exact words, “Get a better job. I want to be lazy.” That didn’t sit too well with me. She also started smoking again despite knowing I hated the habit. After the first year of fluff and peaches came two years of petty bickering, occasionally escalating to screaming matches. One time she tagged along on a vacation with my family, on my dad’s tab, during one of our protracted fights. She spent the entire week surly to me and avoiding my parents.
I’m not saying I was a saint all this time. I brought my own share of irritations, bothers and shortcomings to the table. It was just becoming a toxic brew, yet, for the life of me I don’t know why, she still wanted to get married. I wouldn’t relent and, one overlydramatic rainy night, she dumped me. Lesson Three: It’s important that you share core values with your partner. It’s essential that you’re on the same metaphorical road going the same metaphorical direction. How do you expect to live together when you’re fighting every step of the way? Lesson Four: Make sure you get back all the things you’ve lent before the break up. Otherwise, you’ll never see your boxed set of The Best of The Muppet Show again.
Perhaps breaking up with me was her ploy to jolt me into realizing what I’d be missing (aside from Kermit and Co.). Maybe she hoped I’d come groveling back. It didn’t work, mainly because I wasn’t missing anything. I’d already been dating Diliman a couple of months when Antipolo tried to reconcile. She probably didn’t expect me to play the field so soon after, but I had.
True North
Diliman was an artist, a painter. We’d found each other online and it turned out we had common friends in real life. We started dating and got along splendidly. From the start we agreed to be honest to each other, no holding back, no secrets. While we both had some baggage coming into the relationship, we easily slipped into a rhythm of mutual support. Listening would be one of the cornerstones of our relationship, especially when we each needed to be heard. My elaborations on Star Trek’s Heisenberg Compensators and her musings on the latest fashion trends were fair game for selective deafness but when it came to topics like family life and career we were all ears for each other.
Lesson Five: Don’t lose sight of what matters; everything else is secondary.
We saw each other through several rough patches. She held my hand as I told her I’d lost my job; I held hers as she saw one of her oldest friendships end in a radioactive train wreck. We’d gripe to each other about the companies we’d worked for and laugh at our respective superiors.
There’s stupid people everywhere, we both knew, and we’d need to learn to manage them without losing our minds. Laughter was a bonding agent, the glue that we both applied liberally to most things around us. For the most part, we found the same things funny, except I was significantly less discriminating and would laugh at the dumbest YouTube videos. She’d raise a single eyebrow, of course, to my lack of restraint, but left it at that. Tolerance would be Lesson Six.
For four years we led a happy steady relationship founded on similar ideals, mutually acceptable goals, common experiences, and ridiculous levels of compatibility. She was good for me and I’d like to believe I was good for her, too. With apologies to Jack Nicholson, she made me want to be a better man. With her encouragement and “training,” I learned how to eat my vegetables and do household chores. I upped my office game and performed better at work. During her watch I became, gasp, more responsible.
But, when the question of marriage came up, I still dragged my feet and eventually pissed her off. Was I reluctant to give up my bachelorhood? On impulse I thought, sure, but when she imposed a “time out” I was left with no choice but to really reflect on my issues. Ultimately, it was fear freezing me in my tracks. Fear of not being able to handle married life and be a good husband. Fear of not being able to provide a financially comfortable life on a writer’s salary. Fear of making decisions that went beyond just myself. Frank Herbert’s Bene Gesserit priests have a saying: “Fear is the mind-killer,” which so aptly described my performance anxiety.
Lesson Seven,when you do find the right girl, never let her go. If you do so out of fear or worry, things that are mere illusion, you’re a dumb ass. A year later, Diliman became another ex-girlfriend, but not because we broke up. We were married before a judge, close friends and family in a simple ceremony that ended with lots of merrymaking and classic new wave tunes. It’s been almost three years since and it’s been smooth sailing. She’s beside me right now working on a painting and cringing at how I’m ending this article. I was always the baduy one in our relationship and will continue to be. Thank God and her for Lesson Six: Tolerance.
-By Marcus Sta. Maria, published in the September 2010 issue of Men's Health Philippines
Reference:
menshealthph.com
