Tuesday, November 18, 2008

The Dating Game - 21st Century

Lately, I find I find myself thinking the cosmic plates of history and the world are shifting.  I wonder if we are in the middle of a tsunami of cultural change. If we are, I am going to be like that girl in some asteroid movie I saw once and just stand on the proverbial beach and let the wave wash over me. It is all in motion and all inevitable, so why even think about it? I am completely sure I was not what Darwin had in mind when he was having his "I could have had a V-8" moment about survival of the fittest.  

I loved dating. I had the best boyfriend in high school. On alternate Fridays, he took me to Ponderosa Steakhouse and then a movie. He gave me pretty gifts like music boxes and lockets. I bought him shirts he hated and record albums and Brute colonge. We wrote 'like' letters that became love letters.  No, I did not marry him, but I cherish him just the same. It was a ritual, it was a necessary step toward what would come later. I loved being in love. I loved the possibility of marriage. I blatently and with premeditation, dreamt about wedding dresses. I tore pages out of Brides Magazine and kept them in my underwear drawer. Yes, I know. That is wrong. It is silly and probably the result of societal brainwashing. I was probably suffering from a national, gigantic version of Stockholm Syndrome. 

So, when I came across this article about the state of dating, I experienced my usual five stages of culture shock:  hot flash, denial, melancholy, relief I am past this crap, and finally, the shrug, which for me, passes as acceptance... See? I am definitely not a survivor, I will always, in the end, just shrug my shoulders and watch old movies with a vengeance. It is my recurring theme, my inner Betty Crocker...

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Words to Live By

"...by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don't quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power against evil - widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower."

Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot) Middlemarch

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