There is a theory that says girls seek boys who are either the epitome or the antithesis of their father. RG, the man who once had to explain to me that Muppet’s aren’t real, is the strongest man I have ever met.
The bar was set when I was still obsessed with monkey bars.
“I can lift cars above my head,” onceuponamissingachromosome winked.
“As far as you are concerned, I am a Hummar,” I blinked back.
In an objective world, all of the boys that I have dated don’t add up to an ounce of my papa’s strength.
But, man, were they ever so pretty.
RG left home when he was fifteen. His mother had a philosophy saying children were adults by the time they reached one-five (much like airlines and cinemas, really). With no formal education, guidance or money, he moved from New Zealand (who wouldn’t?) to Australia and started his empire, including Me.
Twelve years later, he had made his first million dollars. And then I was born. And then he lost it (Aside: I searched and searched under the couch). And then he made it back.
“I may have had to sometimes drink cask wine,” he once told me. “But I have always had tenacity.”
Many people try to analyse my reluctance for a relationship as if I am completely unaware of my own behaviour and/or actions.
“Fear”, “Immaturity” and “arrogance” are words often used to describe my decisions. And while there is certainly a place for certain linguistics (see onceuponamissingachromosome), the application of ignorance in my own life is nothing if not incorrect. Sometimes I wish that life was black and white, and simple assertions were true. Because then I would have more time to think about really pretty boys (see onceuponamissingachromosome) rather than Why they are only pretty and nothing more. However, for the majority of time, I am gleeful that there are complex human beings and complex reasons for Why we do what we do.
Then real beauty can be appreciated.
I was eleven years old the first time I enquired, “Where did I come from?” My mother recoiled at the idea of explaining to me that I was adopted and/or the stork brought me. But my dad sent me to bed with a copy of both “Atlas Shrugged” and “The Bible”.
“Read and compare,” he advised.
The next day, while all of my friends where doing the Dolly magazine quiz and researching how to give the perfect blow job, I was delving into a world of mystery, intrigue and mind boggling questions and, thus, intuitively knew that frivolous sex would Have To Do, as who has time for a relationship in between Leviticus and The Book of Psalms?
When I later asked RG for an increase in my pocket money, I was imprisoned to reading “Animal Farm” and, thus, didn’t eat bacon for three years.
If life is the war we have to fight, there is certainly something to be said about being lead into battle by a true leader. RG is Julius Caesar to my Russell Crowe-circa-Gladiator.
It isn’t about having someone who provides answers, encouragement and an endless supply of scotch. We can get that from a book. It is about the unique privilege to know someone who inhabits just what a human being is actually capable of.
Some people have to search their entire lives to find it. I am not going to mock privilege by ignoring what I have at my disposal. I wish everyone was as lucky as me.
The first time I said, “I hate you!” to RG, he said it back to me and then sent me to my bedroom with no pocket money and a decrepit edition of “Oliver Twist”.
“I can’t wait until you are an adult and you are a tolerable human being,” he told me when I was eighteen [and again when I was twenty-three].
If I had a dollar for every time I said, “I love you” to my dad, I would not have had the order to read “The Wealth Of Nations”.
Having high standards in The Dating World can be difficult. Society can be a variable farm of pretty but fearful, immature or arrogant people. I once dated a physically beautiful creature who enquired who Freud was after one of my frequent Freudian slips.
“Someone you would probably get along with,” I suggested before sending him to bed with a copy of “Sexuality And The Psychology Of Love”.
As I find myself attracted to yet another boy who I only know to be pretty, I can’t help but ask myself, “What will it take to learn from my mistakes?”
There doesn’t seem to be a book [yet] that I can go to bed with to explain that our twenties are all about learning lessons the hard way. Maybe in twelve years I will know better.
In the mean time, a boy will just have to suffice.
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