Maximum two

Spoiler: that is the number of people it takes to make or break a relationship.

Recurring conversation topics nowadays in any group of people I hang out with are around cheating, open relationships, love triangles, anything involving a tad more than the average two smitten individuals. Could be that I am pathologically drawn by people prone to dysfunctional shit. Or maybe taglines like "bigger is better" or "more is more" are also catching on when it comes to the number of parties that have to participate in a relationship.  Perhaps it was there all along and people are now just more daring in tackling these subjects. Nevertheless, human matters of the heart and interaction in general are devolving. And I, of course, have a take on it.

You see, I pride myself with being an above average open minded fella. I promise I have the personality tests results to prove it. However, when it comes to this, my counting skills don't go higher than two.

Let me first clarify the borders of my distress. I'm not referring to that drunken threesome that still kind of, sort of seemed like a good idea. Or those multiple insignificant Tinder flings that one juggles in order to boost their pathetic lonesome ego. Not even  that one time when you might have accidentally fucked that other guy while your sweetheart was in summer camp. And regretted it terribly.

I'm talking about the real deal here. That something worth, well, commitment and, um, feelings and...stuff. About what you supposedly have with someone when you've informed yourself: "Bro, this is IT."

When it comes to that, there is no such thing as a third wheel, successful nose poking, second best or several significant others. Tricycles are lame. Poking only works in stuffy relationship settings.  You don't also want a Ladurée once you've had a Pierre Hermé. That's greedy. And nope, those ladies or gentlemen are definitely not qualifying as significant when plural.

I don't believe in successfully balancing two love relationships. If you thought you had those two, sad news, homie, you probably have none worth having. I don't think it's possible for a couple to dissolve because someone else showed up and interfered with their business. If there was room for interference to begin with, the intruder neither has a reason to self five, nor should be made to wear a scarlet letter for home wrecking . I absolutely don't believe in compulsively hovering over different desserts when you've carefully selected your cake.

I guess what I mean is, choose one other that is significant enough to make (maximum) two sufficient. And ride your damn bicycle of choice. After all, in the long run, that's undoubtedly better for your environment.

He's Just Not That Into You

I've recently inexplicably gained the role of trustworthy adviser for several wonderful ladies. See, they are still doing a great job at being profoundly womanly when it comes to love, infatuation and other similar drugs emotions. Which, how to put this nicely, causes them to momentarily be heartbreaking doofuses.

I honestly don't know what brought about this popularity of my recommendations. Could be my cynicism with regard to matters of the heart. Or my cold bloodiness in providing counselling to anyone's restless soul but my own. Perhaps my loudly declared conviction that sometimes, even a hint of a negative balance between costs and benefits is reason enough not to start, or settle for, anything else but absolute. Or just the fact that I happen to be there, with the rudeness of a truck driver, telling them what they don't want need to hear.

You see, I am by no means claiming to be some sort of scholar in the arts and crafts of handling true adoration, or more likely lack thereof. I just happened to learn one or two things whilst naively being at the receiving end of fifty shades of shit, and becoming the aforementioned doofus myself. To be clear, I am not referring to subtle hints, possible lose end situations or hidden meaning actions. I am talking here about the obvious, the coarse, the ugly.  Allow me to exemplify.

He is using internationally acknowledged language for what i like to call "on-the-hook-ness".My personal favorite is "Not right now". Which translates, with no exception, into "Oh, don't mind me, I know you have a ton of feelings so I will keep you pointlessly hung up here a little. Or a lot, I've not decided just yet."

He's sleeping with your sister. Or your best friend, who just so happens to be a guy. Or your pet goat. Or anyone else for that matter.

He set your car on fire. Or stole your wallet. Or drank the last beer.

He prioritizes anything and anyone else but you, and should you point it out he claims that you're an overly attached, delusional, suffocating person.

He is mindful of his own comfort at any cost. He is giving ridiculously little,yet feels entitled to the whole of your world, time, feelings, money, chocolate cake, vagina.

Should you, my dear, have ticked any of the above, (yes, including the beer), here's a thought to prevent you from imminent disillusion.

Maybe the timing is bad. Or he is a little broken. Perhaps he does not know how to express his feelings. Maybe this and that. But very likely and very simple, he's just not that into you.

The Pointless Chase

Okay, it is a fact, people do shiloads of pointless things throughout their life under the umbrella of "everyone does it, so there must be a point to it". Obviously I'm not going to tackle all of them, that would mean arguing with a rough 99% of mankind's actions and would lead us to a (pointless) conversation about the meaning of life and other deep shit. However, I will refer to a recurring theme nowadays, which has me perplexed on how we unnecessarily complicate our lives. And just to clarify, by "we" I mean you including me, as I definitely am prone to such condemnable behaviour.

I will start from the (I hope not far-fetched) assumption that everyone wants to find true love. Or okay, maybe that is a bit too corny. Say the majority of us, the less ambitious, want to find  at least some warm substitute to IT (the true love that is), to snuggle with on the couch on a Sunday afternoon and complain about how shitty our day was. And to talk, fuck, laugh or, what do I know, other actions we supposedly cannot perform as well on our own.

Then comes the typical scenario. Girl meets Boy, or should I say, Woman meets Man, as we're all pretending to be adults here.  They interact a bit and both decide (in their heads only, of course) that they like each other and there's some potential future laughing, talking, fucking, snuggling on couches and complaining about bad days. They play a completely unnecessary game to exchange phone numbers or Facebook IDs, and when they eventually do, the Pointless Chase begins.

Let me explain. You see, as I mentioned before, they both decided they liked each other. However each will go out of their way to prove the contrary, thus earning desirability points (???) . She will not call first because of double standards, because she might seem too eager and easy and all of the such. And of course, because as soon as she shows a bit of interest, it's game over. He will not call the first 3,5,7 days either, because she will then think he's weak or clingy and a potential overly attached boyfriend. And what man in their right mind wants that? And this is just a first sample of the never-ending chase that will follow, to continuously establish who's in a position of power in that relationship, that has not even started yet. Which makes a whole lot of sense, eeerm.

In a happy end scenario, they will manage to hook up. However, they will have wasted a lot of time they could have spend together instead. Factoring in the assumptions that they were both looking for companionship and there was mutual attraction from the very beginning, point proven, the chase was pointless. In a less joyful case scenario, while one of the parties is busy putting all that effort in earning desirability points, the other party (who let's not forget, was interested to begin with) might get bored, or fall in love with a more interesting hunter, playing the game better. Again, point proven, futile chase.

Maybe I am simple minded this way, but I'd say, since we already have a lot of chasing to do in our everyday life anyway, why not make this slight percentage of it easier? You likey, me likey, let's go, no?

Loving with Nobody to Love

First time I fell in love I was eight. His mother was my dentist and he was the smartest boy I had ever met.Child of divorce, a bit damaged, with dark hair and eyes and a resonant name. He used to give me his fluorescent lollipop cards and say that it was hell if I didn't love him back. He said his shirt had a sensual print. I said the same...about my 101 dalmatian print blue leggings. We went to summer camp together, I drooled on his desk after his mom fixed my tooth, we danced on Backstreet Boys. Then he left the city. We would still see each other every once in a while when his parents would visit mine. I would make the most awkward jokes and wear the shortest skirt, even when having my both knees grotesquely bandaged. He was the first guy who made me want to be the best version of myself. I swore to love him forever, and all the love songs were happy and about us back then.

I met my second big crush when I was in the 6th grade. Again a very dark haired boy, this time with the bluest eyes ever. Fatherless, a bit damaged, it seemed like a nice pattern to follow. I went to social studies gatherings and sang in the choir just to spend time with him. I drove my best friend crazy by talking on and on about him, dragging her for endless walks by his block just hoping to run into him. It went on for a while, and by then the love songs, which of course were about us, had started to be bitter sweet. I was already discovering how confusing young love could be, but still happily crippled my emotions all over again.

After a string of small, poetic flings, that kept my hyper heart busy enough, I decided to give another piece of me for keeps. What started as friendship and gratitude to (yet another) the dark haired boy who was by my side in the darkest hours, turned out to be the greatest love my 18 year old self could accommodate. I guess that after tons of happiness, promises, bliss, learnings, firsts, but an equal amount of anxiousness and hurt, a great love that is not THE love can only turn back into its initial state, of immense gratitude. For the teaching that sometimes it is okay for love songs to be sad, one can gracefully survive and even dance on them.

My latest discovery is that you can become oblivious even to the Theme Song of your life. Rollercoasters do stop running eventually, and neither heavenly nor heartbreaking songs last forever, even if they temporarily tell Your story.

Now for the first time in almost two decades, all the love songs are happy again. It is easier when they're not about anyone. Just like loving, that is easier with nobody to love.

2000 and 13 Clichés

As these days I find myself confined in bed, fighting "not-malaria", a wrap up of the year that just ended seems very much called for. After all, it's been one of the most interesting and emotionally diverse years of my life. How many clichés can one fit in a year's time? I had to catch'em'all, I mean, overachiever much? And since I know very well that (Cliché#1) time does wash everything away, and this is one of those years I do want to remember with clarity, here goes what the past 12 months taught me, of course, the hard way.

My 2013 started with metaphorical clouds of storm and actual rainy days, in what better a setting than the (Cliché#2) city of love. Which is a bit ironic, cause right there I was ambushed into (Cliché#3) letting go of a whole love related lot. And since I saw no choice, with a tiny resigned heart I obliged, or at least so I thought. But how very wrong I was thinking that I can, just like that, accept what for me was a less than ideal course of events. And how many intrinsic back and forths and illegitimate feelings and hope I had to fight. Took an unacceptably long amount of time and a whole lot of ego taming to understand that it is perfectly possible that someone cannot love you the way you want them to. And that (Cliché#4) even if you find their new heart direction useless and inappropriate because it is not right up your street, it doesn't mean it's not there at all.

Upon wrapping up half a horrible year in Paris, an extremely overrated location for that matter, time came to move to Amsterdam. And I be damned if I was not bamboozled when I wept for letting go of my 20 square meter studio in the 17th district and my coldhearted colleagues. Because of course, (Cliché#5) one's routine, even if bad and harming in its nature, is something one finds comforting in the face of something new. But there I was, having signed up for an everything but routinary lifestyle, carrying more than I could handle, in all possible senses. But after moments of perfect soul storm I switched to this new home and to a new stage of 2013, not lacking all kinds of lessons, more or less trivial. I taught myself (Cliché#6) how to ride a bike in Amsterdam, seems like I have a taste for choosing resonant locations. Soon after, I turned 26, and one of my biggest dreads, the late 20's, kicked off. (Cliché#7) I felt a different age for the first time after quarter a century, but good different for that matter. Then I discovered, the hard way of course, with tears and sweat and a whole new level of heartache (Cliché#8) that the best way to get over an obsession is to replace it with a fresh and as different as possible one.

Sometime halfway through the year the news about my third assignment came along, and then a distinct drama broke loose. Needless to say that stability had not been my strongest suit this past year, but I suddenly felt like I was being forcedly extracted from everything that was at least remotely familiar and thrown some unnecessary thousands of miles away. It was in the process of acceptance of this new upcoming reality when a few more truths occurred to me, not the easiest to digest. (Cliché#9) Difficult circumstances make for unlikely friendships, and (Cliché#10) similar experiences fast forward people's closeness. Complementary, (Cliché#11) those few people who matter and whom you matter for will stay despite of the rootlessness, the growing apart or outgrowing each other or even an actual continent standing in between.

By far the toughest relationship wisdom of last year, experienced from both perspectives -that of affection projector and projectee - was (Cliché#12) not taking people who care about you for granted. Because there's so much one can put up with before they say "F it, I am done". And while it is the easiest to take it out on people who you know love you, thinking that unconditional love will be enough for prioritizing your arrogant and needy ass, there is a limited amount of tantrums and eyes rolling one can prioritize you over. Because flash news, (Cliché#13) someone's boundless affection is not synonymous to them sticking around forever.

To wrap up a majestic 2013, in the 4th quarter my Africa begun. Which is too big of a deal to even begin fitting it in last year's story. Which was and still is beyond any imaginable cliché and beyond my explanatory power. The experience I feared most and still fear, that caused me to cross a lot of my boundaries and break a number of rules, that thought me different is not better or worse. Just refreshingly different, just how I feel now while blowing my nose, color coding my wardrobe and writing stupid sweet nothings.

Fruit taste better in Nigeria. Mac cosmetics are the best. There's no place like home. French people don't like to speak English. Your best friends are the same kind of crazy as you. You'll not be given more than you can handle. There are a million bikes in Amsterdam. Feelings put on hold are prone to kick back when one’s ready for them.

All of this and 2000 other tiny things broke my inside into tiny pieces and put it back together last year. And I kid you not, this refurbishment was much awaited for.

That Awkward Moment

That awkward moment. When your prude princessy arse is taken out of its comfort zone. Way out. Say...7000 km. When one afternoon, without too much warning, you find yourself away from everything you are familiar with, both literally and figuratively. When your common sense is so peculiar to your new environment that you cannot do anything else but smile, and...wait. For something, or everything, to happen.

It only takes an email announcing you you're flying to Lagos soon, to be living there for half a year. After a series of initial "OMGs" and "WTFs" and "why me's", you experience a complete change in your priorities. You suddenly start telling people more [of course in a very awkward way] how much they mean to you. Not that you didn't love them before. But the perspective of being shipped thousands of miles away makes it more necessary to express it. So your love declarations fly out as often as you fly back home. Which is disturbingly often, to somehow compensate for the months you skipped before and the absent months you are about to serve. The logic of that? None whatsoever.

Then you start preparing. Physically but mostly mentally. You oscilate a million times between "f this shit, I'm going home" and "f, let's do this, I'm moving to Nigeria" with no clear pattern and of course, no logic in your decision making process. You discover how difficult it is to obtain a visa for this country, while running around to put together a huge pile of requested documents. You take a million shots against all these weird diseases, panic in the process, go again through the two gate decision tree, and make up your mind on moving forward. Buy all these crazy things and stuff your luggage with blond hair products and medicine, cause you don't expect to find them here. And you're superficial and prejudiced, but you're right.

You start asking random people for their opinion. They divide themselves into two big groups: the "Oh wow" and the "Oh yay", which of course doesn't help you in any way. You hear annoyingly often words like challenging, interesting, different, fascinating, which can only mean trouble. You start asking for input from people who've experienced the same thing. They give you precious information (to which you react either by panic or nervous laughter) but tell you that some things cannot be explained, you have to see them for yourself to understand. You have no idea what they're talking about, and imagine they are just being unnecessarily mysterious. You understand immediately what they meant once you set foot at the destination.

You pack, fly the longest flight in your life, land, scared shitless and embrace it all, even if sometimes forcedly. People ask you how you find it, you say challenging, interesting, different, fascinating...way too often. Then you say that some things cannot be explained, one has to see them for oneself to understand. They have no idea what you're talking about.

That awkard moment. When you are thorn between living The experience of your life and living Your life.

The Rootless

Every time I start gathering the many small pieces of my existence to move them somewhere new, I am invaded by equally numerous worries, more or less justified and obviously, more or less superficial. I’ve been called (yet again) shallow when I found out I was going to Africa for six months and one of my first thoughts was ‘What am I going to do about my blond hair? Who is going to dye my roots?’

If there is something I already appreciate about African ladies, without having interracted with too many of them though, is their amazing volatility when it comes to hairstyles. But as much as I appreciate that, somehow I am pretty sure that taking care of thin and moody blond hair is not on their skill list. And don’t get me wrong, I had the same fear while travelling around Europe. Shout shallow again, but it seems like my hair is one of my top concerns nowadays.

So after a few jittery days I had an epiphany, maybe it’s not the end of the world if the roots stay for a while. Anyway, they are the only ones I can hold on to nowadays. Which brings me to the actual point of this tell-tale.

I’ll admit, two whole paragraphs on ‘50 shades of blond’ can be tough to digest, but [in my defense] it was just meant as a witty (?) lexicon introduction to the matter at hand. It shall be called‘The rootlessness’.

They say that persons who keep moving around for several years experience this unfortunate feeling of non-belongingness. Which of course, to compensate, has its perks, like freedom from all imaginable constraints, independence, increased adaptability and tolerance, all those amazing, beautiful people you get to meet, the pride of calling oneself ‘a (wo)man of the world’ or an ‘international kid’.

I’m honestly afraid that one of my special talents is to be an early adopter of all them ugly truths. So take this as a testimony of an international kid, after only one year of wandering the wonders of the world. A kid who does feel and appreciate the perks, for sure more than the non-belongingness. But also acknowledges that she’s become ruthlessly rootless.

Thus here's acknowledging what may be nerve wrecking for the poor devils of the world. It's the endless anxiousness of not knowing where she’ll end up next. The heart ache when he sees all of his loved ones partying together +2000 km away. The lack of a fair notion of what “home”is, as this home changes so often that it can be anywhere. A messed up value system and crazily high and unrealistic expectations. The long flights, jet lags, heavy drinking, forever new and empty houses, endless string of goodbyes and fresh beginnings. But most of all, circumstantiality in everything. Mostly with people who are walking in their life, taking a small piece of their existence, giving a new piece in return.

But hey, who can be prouder of having such a diverse and international heart? No matter how patched and rootless.