To sum it up, the basic lesson in life is that what we want most we sometimes do not get. Not because life is bad bitch or anything like that – that too – but also just because sometimes we’re not ready for it and haven’t grown ourselves enough to handle it.  Like how crabby lessons are always repeated until you get it right. Or something to that figure. I had it down in my head better yesterday, but of course, like all self indulgent writers out there I told myself I would remember without having to jot it down. It could have been a life changer epiphany I’m sure, but for now, we’ll just have to deal with this sort of half assed statement.

I reviewed my current lifestyle at the moment before I went to bed last night and went through a mental check list for the decent ‘adult’ life I had always imagined as a child. I have moved out after graduating. I had actually gotten that hospitality position downtown like aforementioned;  and I absolutely love it, both the pay grade and the people. I am finally exercising regularly – though sometimes begrudgingly. These were just my basic checklists since I was 13 years old and my mom really caught on to saying, “Everyone in the household should do their part.” I mean in other words, Asians are just known to be running child labor in every household. What are you going to do right?

This morning before work, my mother mentions to me, “Do you think your landlord is secretly upset that I have been sleeping over at your place so often?”

Now I can’t say I had never thought of this conclusion before. Particularly when she was caught several times coming back to my place at 3am in the morning while the landlord smoked outside. She would tell me the next morning as if she was proud. I didn’t get it. It seemed natural to me, all the more so since my mother was a landlord before, to imagine that if a reported single tenant of 18 uses the electricity and heat and water on par with that of two, sure, I might be a little upset.

I recall when I had first settled down back in October of last year, my mother would tentatively ask me whether or not she would be able to stay over for the night. In the beginning she would sleep over on my couch. Eventually, and somehow without my much noticing, she began to regularly sleep on my bed. Along the way she also became almost a house maid. She would cook my food and make my bed. Before long she did not hesitate to walk in and immediately begin cleaning up and opening up packages I get at the door. I had gotten myself a wife.

The sarcasm is certainly not lost, I’m sure. Among us bloggers, we’re experts in that area. With that, I could not help but think to myself how I had subconsciously battled this in my head, thinking that well, she does provide for me in food & beverage, so much so that its almost her payment to stay over. And naturally…she cannot stay with her partner of two and a half years, since his faith requires for him to be married in order to live under the same roof. And just in case anybody is wondering, she does in fact have a house – she’s not just a landlord over my kitchen alone – but it’s a house in which she has not slept in alone since a break-in during September of last year.

I get it. The house is out of the way across the bridge from the main part of town. Its a big space, especially being so spectacularly clean, it becomes down right depressing to feel that its almost a show room. I get that her room and belongings were particularly targeted as it was the masters bedroom. I get that she loves me, and is probably making up with that small conscientious part of her trying to make up for not being more of a homemaker back when we all lived in that home. I also get that I would sometimes leave the kitchen light on for her, expecting her very very late arrival into the night. I get that I would regularly wonder whether or not she would come to my place or her partner’s tonight. I have certainly become lenient and spoiled in the desperately awkward struggle to be a ‘grown up’.

Several nights ago, during dinner, her and I chatted for 4 good hours about her indecision to marry her partner. At the least I can say I have finally grown from those days when I first screamed at her for meeting a man after my dad passed. I mean, life’s got to let us have some leeway, sometimes. Otherwise, who else is going to play, right?

Anyway, when I reflected on how defiantly strong I was in my stance for what I imaged to be a healthy relationship, I recaptured the text messages I have received on my phone. Ex coworkers with very tinder like approaches. Is that a thing for guys to speak as if you owe them something? Like, all arranging females in the world just swoon for those 5 words. I know you like it. Right, precisely why the worse of my sarcasm is oozing through the screen. Now call me out on it. You know honestly, I took you for a much nicer person.

Sorry, I did not agree when you said, Cmon babe, you know it would be so hot. We would be so hot.

So what the hell am I doing giving relationship/marriage advice to a widow?

Am I perhaps advocating in secret to avoid confrontation and just have her naturally move out with more gain on her end?” 

Hm. Dangerous thoughts.

Even then, a even smaller wicked part of myself whispers, “Even she is in a relatively communicative long term relationship.” I look at my cousins, my sister – those are old wounds now, so I won’t quack that much. They were practically high school/college sweethearts – but then my coworkers, them and their 9 years as high school sweethearts. My manager and his new brood of vibrant personalities stuffed in the body of a 3 and half and 5 years old.

Now the following news is certainly not for the faint of heart. To think you would have read all the way down here, just so you can be witness to the following over populated words: I knew I was never quite ready to be in a functional relationship. After all, I still wasn’t kind enough, nor as sincerely humble as I would wish, or just simply wholesome enough as my own person to become codependent. Here, my sister chimes that I’m twisted. She’s 5 years older and has never ‘arrived’ as I had worded it. I get that too.

Doesn’t matter though. The glass can be viewed as half empty or half full. As a girl, I have a full closet and a variety of excessive choices in shoes, bags and general accessories in my choosing. I have a working phone and freedom to eat without overt guilt. But for the life of me, I have never proven myself to be capable of a friendly continuation between opposing sexes without the actual interference from the intermediate difference between the two: sex. In words or otherwise. Do I honestly think that’s my only redeeming feature against all other girls?

Gosh, I know that’s not true but I think the Duck can buy it enough to screw herself over.

Just tonight, feeling like a sack of potatoes after gym,  I watched my fellow Vancouverians walk their respective animal companions. That proud perching poodle and the sniffling twin Corgies. Or that famous wagging tail of a chocolate brown Labrador, openly looking up to its owner in affection and love. I thought, if only I could be as blindly loyal and unabashedly forever loving as all the pups in the world. But not be so completely docile I thought as well that deviant trait must be combined with the rude insolence of a cat. And of course, retain the flamboyant “Idaf” attitude of a paddling Duck on a calm palm. Wouldn’t I just be built for survival then in this cruel old play pen.

But like I said, I think the basic lesson in life is that we never quite catch the ripple of wave we really wanted. I don’t know, maybe cause I’ll drown. Or it’s poisonous. I mean, sister life deserves some leeway as well to be vacant from her alias, sometimes. Not all bad. I can only “Eat. Pray. & Love.” So you say Julia Roberts. Whenever I come across Mr. Edwards and become a ‘pretty woman’, I’ll let you know.