Arranged marriage

A cousin of mine recently got married. People are always surprised when I mention that arranged marriage is still a vital part of Indian culture, and that smart, attractive young people, raised and educated in the West, still choose an arranged marriage when trying to find a mate.

To give some background, India is a nation obsessed with weddings. As a young person, when people meet you they will ask you two questions: your name, quickly followed by “Are you married?” If the answer is No, then they immediately offer to set you up with someone they know who's looking (usually a neighbour's friend's second cousin), and if you remain unmarried past a certain age, you relegate yourself to the status of Social Pariah.

Arranged marriages have been occurring since the dawn of Marriage itself. They have been used to unite families, broker diplomatic relationships between nations and ensure pure bloodlines in matters of inheritance. Today, they occur for far more simple, human reasons--to find a mate that's compatible.

To me, it makes perfect sense. Arranged marriages are founded on those things that help a relationship last: similar family backgrounds, shared values and goals, common ideas on what you want from your family and how you wish to raise your children, a shared cultural heritage, mutual respect, and a completely realistic view of what a marriage is. Moreover with the support of both sides of the family, and the ongoing help of a community around you, it's much harder for those marriages to fail because there is a network to rely on when the going gets tough, as it inevitably will for all relationships.

The idea that love is more important that any of those things strikes me as not just ridiculous, but naive in the extreme. When one in three marriages ends in divorce in Australia (higher in other Western countries), its staggers me that we still believe this is the best way to find a life-partner. Anyone that's ever been in love can attest to the volatility of its character, the swiftness with which it can appear and evaporate and the effect it can have on one's ability to make intelligent choices regarding a mate.

In modern-day India, arranged marriages are still about choice. Like parents everywhere else in the world, Indian parents want what's best for their children. They attempt to choose mates they think their son or daughter would like and be able to build a life with, and of course, the final decision lies with the children. And yes, love has no place in that initial foray, but most people will tell you that after a time, founded on qualities like trust, mutual respect and the building of a shared life, love grows. A lovely idea when you think that often, it's the other way around.

The Chuck Bass Effect

A friend of mine recently announced her undying love for Chuck Bass. For those of you unfamiliar with Gossip Girl’s resident Bad Boy, Chuck Bass sleeps with hookers, deflowers virgins, conspires against his enemies and repeatedly breaks the heart of our favorite frenemy, Blair Waldorf. In short, Chuck Bass is Bad News.

What is it about Bad News Bad Boys that makes us want them so much? Every girl I know at some stage has lusted after a boy who treats her badly and converts her into a Clingerella—that needy, emotionally unstable, schizophrenic version of ourselves that sends too many text messages, angsts over the lack of reply, and ends up with the 1AM drink-dial crying, “Whhhyyyy? Whhhyyy don’t you caalllll meeeee?” which, to be fair, sounds very empowered and confident when one is inebriated.

I went through a whole phase of dating Bad Boys. Aside from being desperately good-looking, they have an air about them that suggests they’ll pull your hair and call you filthy names as you do it in an alley somewhere. They’re the guys that will drag you back to their cave and know you mean ‘Yes’ when you’re actually saying ‘No’. They don’t have feelings, they just have desires. They can nail a shelf to a wall and they can nail you to well, just about anything.

They exude so much self-confidence that their arrogance is a turn-on, because you suspect that there’s nothing they can’t do in bed. Maybe it’s the way they straddle that purring motorcycle, or, at the other end of the scale, the knowing way they order champagne while discreetly handing over the credit card. Any man with such deftness and abilty to multi-task must be a natural in the sack.

And the fact that they’ve slept with a gazillion women? It’s always nice to have the toy that everyone else wants to play with.

But the problem with Bad Boys is that it always ends in tears. All the things that attracted you to him in the first place—the inability to commit, the serial whoring, the fact that he’s an emotional cripple—are all the things that end up being your downfall. And the reason we persist is that sick conviction inside us that makes us think, “I’m The One. I’m going to be The One to change him, to make him commit, to heal the emotional scars left by his disturbed childhood, his crazy ex-girlfriend and that brief stint in jail which wasn’t assault, he was just misunderstood.” You believe that you can kiss it better, but sadly, this isn’t the solution. Because the only thing that can reform a Bad Boy is a Badder Girl.

I suspect it’s evolution. Men, who are natural hunters, understand that the easiest meat to catch is usually the weakest member of the herd. The best, most delicious meat is the one that requires a chase. The prize gazelle is the one a hunter has to work the hardest to catch. For women, who are the gatherers, we understand that the low-hanging fruit is definitely not the juiciest. And no girl wants a man whose plums hang low. Experience has taught that when it comes to collecting our nuts, it’s best to climb higher.

Which is why Badder Girl, who doesn’t appear to fall for the honey trap of their charm, becomes the one they want to catch. So unless you are Badder Girl, that leather-clad lothario is always going to be The One That Got Away.

As for me, I’m done with dating the Chuck Bass’ of this world. Because apparently, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and that fish no longer gets this girl wet.

Out There

A friend of mine was recently told that she needed to “put herself Out There.”

“What does that even mean?” she fumed at me. “Put myself 'Out There'?! Where IS that even?”

I don’t know, but wherever it is, I am sure that ‘Out There’ is a very crowded place. It seems like there are a lot of people Out There. And like my friend, they are doing all the things that one is supposed to do when one is single—go to parties, take a class, find a hobby, meet new people, say 'yes' to invitations and ‘Be Open.’

‘Being Open’ is a big one, the apparent entrée to this mysterious Wonderland, populated by fabulous singles just waiting like herded sheep for others who have found their way. So the good news is that wherever Out There is, it’s definitely ‘Open.’

The truth is, I’ve no desire to be Out There. I can barely find the energy to make it to yoga, and I at least know where that is and what I’m going to find there (a hot room, lots of sweat, a gay man telling me what to do flat on my back.)

As for what one has to do to be Out There...well, I don’t plan to join an evening class—after my 60 hour work week I don’t have the time. I already have hobbies, I volunteer and I don’t want to pash a random to see where it leads. I don’t want to waste an evening having dinner with someone I’m blasé about in case it ‘goes Somewhere’ (which I’m guessing is a place similar to, but not the same as, Out There.) In my head, Out There somewhat resembles The Ivy, which somewhat resembles my version of Hell, each successive VIP area being another circle of Dante's Inferno. Oh, but at least The Ivy has vodka cocktails.

So yeah, I’m not ‘Out There.’ I’m Right Here. And Right Here is a pretty cool place. It’s filled with people I love, and activities I actually enjoy doing, like Saturday night dinners around my dining room table with people I’ve known for a decade. I can hang out in pjs Right Here. I can tell bad jokes Right Here. Sure, the weather’s not ideal (there’s a Man Drought in Right Here) but still, I like it here. And anyone that wants to date me has got to like Right Here too, just as much as I’m going to have to like Right There, which is where, I’m guessing, he is.

Either way, if he’s Out There, I fear our paths are never going to cross because, well, I’m not at a TAFE course learning Swahili as my hobby, I’m not at a bar pretending my sky-high stilettoes aren’t cutting into my feet, and for those guys who just want a fling, I’m not Open and I don’t take Amex.

So to all the Singletons out there, the next time someone gives you the useless, unsolicited advice to “put yourself Out There” I suggest you tell them exactly Where To Go. And if you can do it in Swahili, even better.

The Sydney Dating Scene

A friend of mine recently wrote this guest post on dating in the Sydney scene. Like most Europeans, he's surprised by this idea of dating several people at once, which isn't very common over in the continent. I have several thoughts on this, but it's his post, so I'll let him explain:


Just what is it in us (me) that is driving us to fuel this never-ending game of love and it's associates; sex, dating, f-buddies and the like?

I guess an obvious answer can be found in Darwinian literature, but we sure endure a lot of pain hunting for the benefits Love supposedly brings, bravely taking on all the fuss and gossip and tears and anguish and heartbreaks and rejection that usually follow in the tracks of the able dater/dateress. All for what? The possibility of finding 'The One'? Or at the very least some casual appreciation of our personality or looks, some external stimuli for our narcissist selves?

For quite some time now (counted in years) I have found myself watching the socialite orgy I dwell in and have been thrilled, disgusted, horny and bored, usually all at the same time. I have also loved, rejected and intrigued people around me, and been equally so by them. In hindsight, and with happiness as my primary goal in life, I can but acknowledge that the bulk of my sadness, pain and worries have stemmed from this quest for Love, cooked up by myself and a girl I have fallen for, with all of the above mentioned agonies as ingredients. It’s like I’m becoming a master-chef of agony, but maybe I just need to find better recipes, or maybe different ingredients.

To tell the truth, I can't bring myself to care much about the game out there, even though I usually fail at not getting pulled in by it. I don't like one-night stands (don't mind a 12-night-stand though), I am more likely to laugh at a girl who's playing hard to get than to get intrigued (occasional fail here too), and I love buying someone a drink - but my reason for doing so has never been to get into her pants (that goes for all you guys who I’ve bought drinks too). I have this idea that directing my mindset the other way might save me from an eternal imprisonment in the short-term dating game, and seriously; have anyone ever thought they would find true love at a nightclub in the Cross? Not really, no.

I have an issue with dating cultures like the one in our beloved city, which is: when I love, I love fully. This is somewhat a fundamental opposite to parallel dating, 'keeping doors open', holding back a little to see if anyone else might have a better offer than the current aficionado, or playing games to keep the other party chasing. It feels like this sort of behaviour is a fundamental part of the Sydney dating scene. What is this thing about constantly keeping a lookout for something else? Maybe we have become so good at finding (or creating?) those Fatal Flaws in people that we manage to keep ourselves on a never-ending quest for that perfect match, like a holy grail we put on a pedestal and make damn sure we can't reach.

My questions to you, dear fellow readers of this blog, are these: Do Sydney ladies have males chasing them without having the ability or the will to ever be truly caught (with subsequent potential surrender)? (see Elephant Theory) And correspondingly, have Sydney gentlemen forgotten that the chase isn't supposed to be the goal, the prize is? (Someone should write a piece on 'chase-junkies' both the male and female variant).
I must admit that I love being chased myself—my ego thrives on it—but is it only my experience (as a life-long serial monogamist), that Love (the real deal) always comes with a total lack of any chasing, gaming or maintaining of other options? It just stares you in the face and is there, no work needed, no chase necessary, the grass seems utterly green where you're standing and it straight up disarms you, doesn't it? How do you game someone you’re in love with? And by being in love I mean that place where you can’t get enough of someone and catch yourself walking down the street with a massive smile on your face for no other reason than the scent of her hair being stuck in your memory from the moment you kissed her goodbye this morning. When you're there, there really is no reason to run, is there? Problem is, we all seem to be running so fast we fail to stop long enough and see those moments that would take us there. And when you do find such a moment in the constant blur of the social scene, I'm afraid the object of your desire is likely to be long gone from it, chasing the next one.

For now, I'll have to rely on coincidence to put me in my next moment of disarming love, it's worked well for me so far and I am sure it will again, but someone should suggest a better solution. Meanwhile, it's Friday; the game is on; see you in the blur, maybe we’ll meet in one of those moments, or for a shag.

Is it true? Is the thrill of the chase better than the capture itself? Is it more fun to tease than be taken? Or is the game-playing a vital part of the endless quest for love?

You can follow Rasmus on Twitter here and check out his blog here.

Heartbreak

A friend of mine was recently heartbroken. As she sobbed on my couch and I plied her with Ben & Jerry’s and mouthed comforting platitudes, I wished there was something I could do to make it better. I wanted to wrap her up and fix this, because I knew how much she was hurting. We’ve all been there—the horrible, gut-wrenching ache of lost love. I wished there was a pill I could give her to heal this, or at the very least, to numb the pain. I wished I could go through it instead of her, because it is easier to endure agony yourself than watch someone you love suffer.

The truth is, there was nothing I could do to make it better except hold her hand, remind her how much she’s loved, and promise her that it will hurt less eventually.

“When?” she wailed at me. “When will it hurt less? And why does it hurt so much now?”

I’ve often wondered myself. I’ve thought a lot about why we become heartbroken, and why so much of love is pain.

A doctor friend of mine pointed out that in the human body, pain is a sign that something is wrong. It is a message to the brain that something needs to be fixed. When you break your arm and are waiting for it to heal, pain is a reminder of what limits your broken bones can handle, and diminishing pain is a measure of recovery.

The human heart is no different. When we lose a lover, we are not merely losing another person. We are also losing a part of ourselves; the part that we invested in them, the part of us that grew and transformed while we were together and the part of us that they take with them when they leave our lives.

We lose the hopes and dreams that we built with each other and we lose the future that we imagined together. The subsequent pain is a reminder that we are emotionally broken, and it prevents us from falling in love with someone else as we allow our hearts to heal.

When we go to the gym and work out, what we are actually doing is ripping our muscles apart and forcing them to re-form. They do so bigger and stronger every time. Ultimately, the human heart is also a muscle. The painful aftermath of a failed relationship is a signal that our heart is ripped apart, but also a promise that it will heal, bigger and stronger the next time.