Sunday, September 12, 2004
Preseparation Anxiety
If there's one constant I can count on when I dine with T, it's a faint sensation of nausea afterwards. It's a good kind of nausea, mind you. Associated with a superlative sense of satiety - I'll never need to eat another meal again, for the rest of my life. Until tomorrow morning that is.
Last night was no different after an evening out that even Timeout would describe as exorbitant - but as always well worth it, thanks (cough) in part to my discerning tastes, and T's backbreaking research. Zuma, ladies and gents, takes Japanese fine cuisine to a whole different level. (and £40 is a rather low estimate)
Many's the time I feel a tightening in my stomach at the thought of going home - all this that I have now - given up in favour of the low-security prison I call "home." I try to console myself by thinking thoughts like "I might move out from under my parent's roof" - but when push comes to shove I have a funny feeling I won't - because it would break their hearts. In property-scarce Singapore, oft-times the only "excuse" to move out is the Big M (and we're not talking masturbation) - anything else would be a slap in the face to long-suffering parents who have toiled and laboured to provide you with an existence on this earth.
I'll concede that I've probably turned into the proverbial (and much maligned) "banana" (how often have I recoiled from the thought of a race that would coin a term simply to exclude others of their kin from membership, simply because they don't conform) having spent a third of my life here... but it just feels wrong the parents never to push their fledgelings out of the nests to help them find their wings.
Perhaps I'm not lamenting Singaporean society as a whole, and just my own folks. Or perhaps somewhere in here I actually have a point?
Anyhow, last night in a random bar in Knightsbridge as the alcohol coursed through my veins and eroded through my gastric lining (four doubles on an breakfast-and-lunch bereft stomach is bad for your sobriety) I looked around me at the London I knew, and also, I must admit, the gorgeous blonde sitting across from me with her friend (who turned out to be one of the waitresses about to start-shift at Zuma later that evening - how coincidental is that?) and I felt the usual misgivings and fears, and wondered how much I would miss all this when I leave - and whether, like some of my friends who made the big leap home, I'll somehow transform in a couple (or six) months into a compliant, happy sheep content with chewing his cud and baaing placidly in moon-eyed approval at Big Brother's whims and decrees.
I'm going to miss you, London. Ugly and fucked-up as you are.
*****
Dessert was a course of (? alcohol enhanced?) "The Terminal" on bigscreen - well for T it was a fruit chawanmushi, which was an exquisitely smooth blend of ? cocounut, ? custard, and a lot of other query contents.
The Terminal wasn't half bad. I'd been expecting a full-on soppy romantic comedy between Tom Hanks, and much coveted Catherine ZJ, but it turned out Spielberg had other things on his mind (Jazz, jazz, jazz) and his tongue firmly in cheek, and strangely the way C. ZJ left Hanks hanging seemed, to this cynic at least, very much like real-life rather than reel-life.
These thoughts earned me an almost lambasting from T, so go easy on me, as much of an MCP as I'm going to make myself out to be.
My disclaimer as always is - of course I know that stereotypes don't hold true 100% of the time - any fool knows that. The difference between a cynical fool and an ordinary fool is that we hold the percentages slightly skewed in favour of the less favourable outcome.
I'd give it 90-10 in most instances, that women are fickle creatures. They tout, laud (and ultimately tease) the faithful, dependable stalwart as appealing and desirable - yet when push comes to shove Mr International Man ofMisery Mystery, the serial abuser with flair, panache, and above all that damnably undefinable thing termed "chemistry" as The One - destiny - one chosen by a higher calling. The One who sets their nerves a tingle, their spines on fire, does amazing things during sex, and cooks exotic meals - nevermind if he's not always there for them, nevermind if he shits (sorry inside movie joke) cheats. Destiny is calling, goodbye Mr Second Best.
Nice guys never win.
And you know what?
Who can blame them? I mean, men are fickle too. We want the hot babe who'll set our souls afire (and do it in every room of the house?) who has The Way, of - flicking her hair back, looking devastating just by smiling, who makes the blood rush to our heads (depending on type of male, different anatomical locations or a not-so clever pun may be in order) and turns our knees to jelly, or at least pate. And dependable, faithful plain-jane naturally takes second-seat to stunning, sassy... err... InsertgenericcoolnamebeginningwithS.
The difference (and this is where T and I almost had ugly words with the cutlery as verbal aids) is that at least us men aren't hypocrites about it - if you're not prepared to give it, then don't talk the talk. If you can't be faithful, then don't go pretending to everyone that that's what you're out for - stability, and dependability. Don't perpetuate the stereotype - just spit it out, plain and straight. Mystery, mastery and hormones is what it's all about.
I think it all boils down to personality types. If you're a romantic (read - thrillseeker / adrenaline junkie) then dependability and loyalty are nice enough. And ultimately one day, boring. And then cue "absence makes the heart go wander", leading to many a mundane tale of domestic woe.
The irony is (well I believe, anyhow) if you don't go looking for it - even the thrillseekers - when they find the "right one" - become prepared to stay, for a happy lifetime. Here the cynic rebutts : likelihood is abysmally poor, and statistically insignificant in frequency.
Ah well.
Me, call me whatever names you will. I'm a thrillseeker.
Last night was no different after an evening out that even Timeout would describe as exorbitant - but as always well worth it, thanks (cough) in part to my discerning tastes, and T's backbreaking research. Zuma, ladies and gents, takes Japanese fine cuisine to a whole different level. (and £40 is a rather low estimate)
Many's the time I feel a tightening in my stomach at the thought of going home - all this that I have now - given up in favour of the low-security prison I call "home." I try to console myself by thinking thoughts like "I might move out from under my parent's roof" - but when push comes to shove I have a funny feeling I won't - because it would break their hearts. In property-scarce Singapore, oft-times the only "excuse" to move out is the Big M (and we're not talking masturbation) - anything else would be a slap in the face to long-suffering parents who have toiled and laboured to provide you with an existence on this earth.
I'll concede that I've probably turned into the proverbial (and much maligned) "banana" (how often have I recoiled from the thought of a race that would coin a term simply to exclude others of their kin from membership, simply because they don't conform) having spent a third of my life here... but it just feels wrong the parents never to push their fledgelings out of the nests to help them find their wings.
Perhaps I'm not lamenting Singaporean society as a whole, and just my own folks. Or perhaps somewhere in here I actually have a point?
Anyhow, last night in a random bar in Knightsbridge as the alcohol coursed through my veins and eroded through my gastric lining (four doubles on an breakfast-and-lunch bereft stomach is bad for your sobriety) I looked around me at the London I knew, and also, I must admit, the gorgeous blonde sitting across from me with her friend (who turned out to be one of the waitresses about to start-shift at Zuma later that evening - how coincidental is that?) and I felt the usual misgivings and fears, and wondered how much I would miss all this when I leave - and whether, like some of my friends who made the big leap home, I'll somehow transform in a couple (or six) months into a compliant, happy sheep content with chewing his cud and baaing placidly in moon-eyed approval at Big Brother's whims and decrees.
I'm going to miss you, London. Ugly and fucked-up as you are.
*****
Dessert was a course of (? alcohol enhanced?) "The Terminal" on bigscreen - well for T it was a fruit chawanmushi, which was an exquisitely smooth blend of ? cocounut, ? custard, and a lot of other query contents.
The Terminal wasn't half bad. I'd been expecting a full-on soppy romantic comedy between Tom Hanks, and much coveted Catherine ZJ, but it turned out Spielberg had other things on his mind (Jazz, jazz, jazz) and his tongue firmly in cheek, and strangely the way C. ZJ left Hanks hanging seemed, to this cynic at least, very much like real-life rather than reel-life.
These thoughts earned me an almost lambasting from T, so go easy on me, as much of an MCP as I'm going to make myself out to be.
My disclaimer as always is - of course I know that stereotypes don't hold true 100% of the time - any fool knows that. The difference between a cynical fool and an ordinary fool is that we hold the percentages slightly skewed in favour of the less favourable outcome.
I'd give it 90-10 in most instances, that women are fickle creatures. They tout, laud (and ultimately tease) the faithful, dependable stalwart as appealing and desirable - yet when push comes to shove Mr International Man of
Nice guys never win.
And you know what?
Who can blame them? I mean, men are fickle too. We want the hot babe who'll set our souls afire (and do it in every room of the house?) who has The Way, of - flicking her hair back, looking devastating just by smiling, who makes the blood rush to our heads (depending on type of male, different anatomical locations or a not-so clever pun may be in order) and turns our knees to jelly, or at least pate. And dependable, faithful plain-jane naturally takes second-seat to stunning, sassy... err... InsertgenericcoolnamebeginningwithS.
The difference (and this is where T and I almost had ugly words with the cutlery as verbal aids) is that at least us men aren't hypocrites about it - if you're not prepared to give it, then don't talk the talk. If you can't be faithful, then don't go pretending to everyone that that's what you're out for - stability, and dependability. Don't perpetuate the stereotype - just spit it out, plain and straight. Mystery, mastery and hormones is what it's all about.
I think it all boils down to personality types. If you're a romantic (read - thrillseeker / adrenaline junkie) then dependability and loyalty are nice enough. And ultimately one day, boring. And then cue "absence makes the heart go wander", leading to many a mundane tale of domestic woe.
The irony is (well I believe, anyhow) if you don't go looking for it - even the thrillseekers - when they find the "right one" - become prepared to stay, for a happy lifetime. Here the cynic rebutts : likelihood is abysmally poor, and statistically insignificant in frequency.
Ah well.
Me, call me whatever names you will. I'm a thrillseeker.
