Comic Con May 2018
Apologies for an expletive-laden entry
I wanted it to go perfectly well, but unfortunately, that's a notion not even the parallel universes can help me with.
It was my first time, and my frail heart literally hung from the loose ends of my sweater, blood dripping into the pavement of the almighty Excel. It also happened to be the day all my muscles decided to contract persistently, calcium ions perpetually pumping their way into synapses whilst laughing at the turnout. 99.9% of my whole biology wished I should've abandoned my free will to cancel a bank shift.
My heart was pounding at the speed of light I could barely hear the DLR operator instructing where to get off! And when I was about to get off, I wished my arms would stick onto the pole so I wouldn't ever have to leave the carriage! I was that effing nervous.
And then he told me he was in Gate 19. Dear Lord! I've read somewhere we can bend time and space. I wanted it to happen at that point! My path to Gate 19 wasn't easy either. I have drank lots of glasses of water before that meeting, and peed a hundred times in a matter of 30 minutes, but my thoroat was still so dry I had to consciously instruct my brain to make saliva. I can also feel my pupils have dilated beyond what my eyeballs can accommodate. My friends told me the day before to just enjoy it. F*ck F*ck F*ck were only all the words in my head. When I saw him standing there, my life literally flashed before me.
The next events were all a blur. I thought I had a stroke. I was dysphagic, aphasic, submissive, globally weak, unable to decide, and my perception in terms of spatial dimensions were almost nonexistent.
I started to extend my hand to greet him, but he started to reach over me with both of his arms. I completely forgot. This is the West. So I hugged him as well, but I did not know if it was proper to leave a space between my arms and his back.
And then things were sort of uphill downhill, exacerbated by the long entrance line, mutiple entry checks, vigorous processing of things I should ask him, mentally mapping similarities and adopting open-ended questions that turn out to be close-ended after all. Everytime he starts to give me a trivia, it felt like I had to reciprocate it with another. Think! Think! Think! Something about marsupials, or Mars, or anything freaking interesting that comes to mind. So I will say things, he will reply, vice-versa, and the thinking process begins once more, an endless battle to keep things afloat and not surrender to the mother of all evils that is, awkward silence. One of the laughable humiliating parts was where I made a fool of myself was when I was sharing a Pocket article about whitewashing in the American movie industry in relation to a film about dogs set in Japan (that doesn't need to be there really). I started awkward, at some point I lost my train of thought, at some point thereafter, I tried to salvage what I can remember and weave it into something socially acceptable. But the end result was a discourse that even a kindergarten student can successfully make. That ladies and gentlemen, is what disjointed in every sense means. I am very disappointed with myself for every thought I struggled to articulate, and disappointed that I see he is frustrated as well. I guess I wanted it to be ok, but if the alternative is less than a comfortable margin of a socially acceptable standard, what else can I do?!
There are realities to consider when dating cross-culturally is what my take on it. First on the list, is his perfect English. Now when my English is mixed with debilitating anxiety, the possibility flowchart further branches onto the dark side of the force, with Senator Palpatine rejoicing at the end of it.
I thought I can redeem myself by staying quiet. Then, I realised the more I stayed quiet, the more ideas started popping in my head, all at loose ends.
"Keep it simple. Keep things simple"
F*ck F*ck F*ck
I wish the Lord will forgive me for using that word too many times.
