I still don’t have it back–not completely, at any rate–but there’s been enough going on recently that made me wind up turning here at long last.  The larget imperative comes from, I suppose, Curfew Boy, who managed to in the last two or three months, dig himself into a ditch so deep that it may be easier for him to burrow through, emerge at the other end of the world and hop on a flight back before I wind up giving him the time of day.  This is, I realise, something of a far cry from the last few months of constantly wondering how else I could manage to make a long-distance relationship work, and I think (sadly enough) that I’m kind of over the idea of pushing for something that’s just so much effort.  As a wise friend of mine said a few days ago, when I was complaining to him about how miserable Karachi is after returning from abroad (naturally, this segued into Boy talk), he said, very simply:

We go into relationships to feel good generally and to feel good about ourselves. This is not to undermine the giving part of it. If, in the long term, something does not feel good-or more simply-is not fun any longer, then there doesn’t seem much point in persisting with it for the sake of it. I am sure you’ve given it the time and attention it deserves. If it doesn’t come about then maybe it is time to put it to rest and move on.

So, it looks like I’m moving on.  But for once, I’m closing a chapter, or at least book-marking it, with a distinct lack of regret.  I honestly don’t feel that I could have done anything more to make this work: flying to a different city and staying in a hotel at the expense of about half my monthly salary, each month; calling and SMSing at least four or five times per week; going out of my way to make plans for us to spend time together outside of Lahore and/or Karachi…I really did try to make a go of it.

And when you’re away for three weeks, and the person you’re trying to work something out with doesn’t call, text, e-mail or Facebook you even once (except for the single occasion at DJ Station in Bangkok when you texted him), despite the fact that you have a local Pakistani mobile number, so it’s not like you’re inaccessible or anything, and does so after the two or three conversations you’ve already had with him about how he needs to also make an effort to stay in touch with you–to initiate contact, not just respond to it–then really, you’re just bordering on desperation if you suck it all up and say “Ah well, fine, that’s just the way he is, I’ll make do.”

Fuck that.  I will not settle.  I don’t care if I’m fast-approaching the big 3-0 without having been in a “meaningful relationship” of some sort, I deserve better than this.  And that’s not just a random moment of self-empowerment; I neither need, nor warrant blatant disregard for my feelings and my needs, especially after having given way more ground than any reasonable person should.  There is absolutely no reason for me to stay in a relationship for which I have to make excuses to my friends, when they ask me how come I’m not feeling positive about it, or when people ask how Curfew Boy is, and I don’t have an answer because I just don’t know.

Everyone has their own drama, no matter the number of therapists involved.  But you can only help carry someone else’s baggage for so long before you become just another porter.

Which means, I suppose, that I’m back.  For a while at least.

Hey everyone.

Or it could just be the large amounts of cough syrup I’ve been downing since I got into Lahore and was promptly struck down by the flu.  I don’t fucking know.

That’s the problem though.  I don’t know.  And I hate feeling like I don’t know something that I “should”.  Do I like him?  Yeah.  Do I find him attractive?  Certainly.  Do I lay awake at night dreaming about him?  No.  Do I enjoy talking to him or being around him?  Yes, to both.  Can I see myself never looking at another man again?  Hell no.

So I don’t really know what to do with myself.  Or with him, for that matter.  I don’t know if he’s feeling any of this, and I’m terrified of being the over-analytical, insecure queen who starts raising issues when everything’s ostensibly hunky-dory.  My friends who know about the two of us (but haven’t met him) are of the opinion that I’m putting too much into this whole dynamic, and that he’s not as into it as I am, and they also wonder if I’m so into it because I’m terrified of spending another decade waiting for someone who wants to be with me, or because I’m genuinely interested in a relationship with him.

And again, I don’t know.  I can’t untangle the skein of thoughts and feelings in my head, and I certainly don’t want to end something that I haven’t even given the time to grow.  But I wonder if I’m being more flexible than I would in other circumstances because we’re in different cities and different places in our lives, and being unable to answer that question leaves me with another slew of queries, all of which seem to have no real answer. And I haven’t the foggiest as to how I’d ask him to think about any or all of this either.

Because right now, it feels like we’re friends with benefits. Not boyfriends. And I always figured it would take time to get to know someone well enough to move beyond that “friends with benefits” phase, but I’m kind of clueless. Does it take time? Does it all feel different, ever? Is it just generally fucked up for everyone and a “take it as it comes” situation? What?

Someone please tell me.

And of course, there’s the perpetual concern–there’s a lot of it, I admit freely–that whatever we have going isn’t really around for the long-haul; that right now, the excitement and energy we’re putting into it is because we’re in different cities and don’t see each other often enough to get tired of each other. Or that because we’re miles apart, we don’t necessarily have the opportunity to work through any issues that may arise together; it’s always going to be a bit of a hit-or-miss scenario. I realise that this happens, and that there’s no way to anticipate the future, but the intellectualised admission of that fact doesn’t make it any easier to avoid thinking about.

I wish I lived in some sort of inflation-insulated gay bubble, in which my salary continued to be sufficient to get me across to Lahore every couple of weekends; and if only I didn’t have to stay at a hotel, it probably could. Unfortunately I can’t see any of my umpteen family members in Lahore being kind enough to allow me a shag-pad for the weekend, and I certainly can’t imagine a situation in which I could comfortably invite my friend to come and stay with me at any of their homes. It’s OK…highly inconvenient in terms of a budget, but OK.

The kicker though is that the more time you spend with someone with whom you’ve got some sort of romantic connection, the more valuable your time together becomes. And that’s when the kick-in-the-ass that is a long-distance relationship really starts leaving marks. All of a sudden, once-a-month trips don’t seem like they’re enough; and while on some level it seems ridiculous to be hiding in a hotel room in your own city over the course of a weekend, on another level, it just doesn’t make sense to open yourself up to a world of anxiety-cum-trauma by hosting the person you’re sleeping with at your home. Unless of course, you’re fortunate enough to live on your own.

Curfew Boy was supposed to come to Karachi this weekend, since a friend’s family was out of town and we could have stayed at her house for the weekend, but everything was just a little too last-minute, and so we decided to reschedule for next weekend. That bummed me out a certain amount in any case, because I really wanted to see him, but we both agreed it was probably for the best to chill out and wait for next weekend, which plan was promptly derailed by my friend’s father, who announced his intention to fly back next weekend. So now, although Curfew Boy is adamant that he wants to fly to Karachi to see me, I’m also wondering if I can–on principle of absurdity, if nothing else–really stay in a hotel within driving distance just so that we can spend some time together. Unfortunately, it’s not as though I have access to any free housing, and additionally I’d probably use a “work trip” as the excuse to be out of the house for the weekend–and that could get ugly since almost all the “fun” stuff to be done in this city is within hopping distance of my house, and by extension, my family.

So now, I’m wondering how I can manage to arrange some sort of romantic weekend getaway without actually having to leave Karachi behind. And short of checking into a hotel room–in which case I may as well travel elsewhere to sort myself out–I can’t think of any friends who would either have and/or be willing to put me up for a weekend locally, or be able to loan me an apartment/spare room/club housing.

This kind of blows.

I’m not completely clueless. I understand that for gay men and women at least, the social permission to get married breaks one of those many semi-permanent taboos, in that it admits them to the realm of hetero-orthodoxy and sort of makes society as a conceptual whole acknowledge the validity of their relationship (and on a more practical note, confers many legal and fiscal benefits). But the whole idea of marriage, which in my mind seems to be aimed at creating a stable structure in which to produce and raise children…well, isn’t it just a little dated?

The thing is, I don’t think gay men and women need or should need to get married in order to prove a point, or to gain benefits. Quite honestly, I don’t think straight men and women should be required to get married either; it’s supposed to be this grand gesture of eternal devotion and love and all that jazz, but I have trouble seeing it as more than a cleverly disguised contract. If you have such real depth to your relationship that you want to get married, it shouldn’t require stamps and ceremonies to be effective. Then again, admittedly, what do I know?

I’ve never loved anyone enough to think that I’d want to get married.

I’ve never thought I’d live long enough to have children. Nor have I wanted to.

I’ve never felt that there’d be someone out there who’d want to marry me.

It’s not really more complicated than that. What amazes me is that this is such a non-issues in some ways, so why in the world are people emerging in droves with hysterical screams about “the sanctity of marriage”, and how letting two men or women go through a formalised ritual that allows them to demonstrate that they’re now (as Bridget Jones so rightly puts it) “Smug Marrieds”, is in any way threatening “the institution of marriage”? For goodness’ sake, if the so-called edifice of matrimonial bliss is so weak that by certification of affection it’s going to fall apart so easily, maybe the damn’ thing needs to be re-considered. I mean, who does it hurt?

Marriage is such a large part of all things Pakistani, especially as you get into your early twenties, that in a way I feel incredibly qualified to write about this, as a highly informed spectator. And I remember how awful it is to feel left out of the big fortnight-long celebrations, the gifts of cash and blenders and houses, and people fussing over you because it’s your special day; not on the very instant, but at the thought that this is something you can never have. And in the sense that it allows people to have an option, good on everyone who came out and supported gay marriage.

That said, why is it so important for us to live by rules other people have imposed on themselves? Why is it not enough–and really, in the gay world where a vast majority of the denizens consider anything beyond an eight-hour stay a long-term relationship–why isn’t it enough to love someone and to know you’re loved, and to be content with that? I can’t even imagine marriage because I can’t imagine being in a position where someone turns to me and says “I love you”; in that wonderful phrase the corporate world uses with such gay abandon (no pun intended), where does getting married “add value” to a relationship that has already reached a particular level of commitment and trust and love?

Because I’ll tell you–for some of us, it’s mythical for no good reason. If you’re fortunate enough to come to terms with your sexuality at an early age, as I was, you get some sort of vague buffer against that intense roller-coaster ride, the emotional battering that comes as your body, your instincts, your mind, your heart all tell you that even though you’re doing everything you can to be “normal”, to conform and figure out what the hell you’re supposed to be doing, where you’re going, how you’re getting there, and all the while, you keep thinking to yourself as people talk (in Pakistan, incessantly) about marriage and weddings and kids and families, you’re never going to have that. Not here anyway.

And you always feel like you’re never going to be a real person. Real people have husbands and wives, and kids, and complain about the cost of diapers. They mutter imprecations against expensive private schools that cost the sun and the moon and the stars, and stumble around in the middle of the night with half-filled milk-bottles. Real persons are the ones who have the stamp of “you’re fitting in just fine, with your 2.3 Labradors and 1.8 children”, but we homos, we faggots and fudgepackers, dykes and lesbos, we’re always the ones who wind up–in the face of all our pride, such as it may be–feeling on some level, that there’s something wrong with us. Sometimes, maybe, that we’re not worthy of the approval or love that marriage is supposed to represent, because if we are, then why aren’t we allowed to get married too?

So on some level, I get it. I don’t necessarily agree or empathise with the amount or degree of importance being given to the notion that we can now be just like straight people (because to me, on some level, that’s what it comes down to), but I understand. (And who knows, maybe I will one day, but I’m not holding my breath.) What I don’t understand, and never will, is the notion that some asshole somewhere opposes the notion of treating other people equitably because s/he believes that s/he has a direct link into the mind of his/her deity and allowing two homosexuals to enter an artificial societal structure (stricture even?) so shaky that allowing the certification of commitment between two people–not gay, not straight, not men, not women; just people–is some sort of apocalyptic portent.

Fuck that. You want to get married, get married. You don’t, you don’t. You love each other enough to know you’ll be there forever, then you know it. But don’t let anyone else tell you that you’re not good enough.

And it’s not just about the family members I need to take care of. Hell, in a weird way, that’s the easiest problem to get around. It’s the simple logistics.

When you’re Pakistani, between the age of 18 and 40 and male, you tend to be subject to a very special kind of regard in matters relating to travel, relocation or employment outside of your home country. Not that it’s significantly easier for too many other nationalities, but simply put, it’s a bitch to get a job in a foreign state. Getting a company to sponsor you for a work-permit involves their having to justify (in the UK for example) hiring you, and said justification has to basically state that nowhere in the entire EC could they find someone with an equivalent skill-set.

I like to think I’m special, but I know I’m not that unique.

So sometimes, although it’s suggested with the best intentions in the world, packing my steamer trunks and heading out to the Wonderful Liberated Rest of the World isn’t an option. Certainly not the US, if only because I don’t think I have enough in the way of spare body-parts and kidnapped offspring to get through the whole bloody visa application process. It’s just not that easy to get up and go. There are hierarchies of acceptability, with me as a piece of paper coming in very low on the totem pole of immi/emigration. And so, while there’s always the tendency to wax eloquent and nostalgic about the good times to be had outside of Pakistan, in countries where 14-hour power outages aren’t treated as standard occurrences and the sight of a policeman doesn’t immediately send you scrambling for your wallet’s “bribe” compartment, well…there’s not a great deal to be done about it. This reality, in turn, feeds into the sense of malaise and general resignation to living and–if only in one’s imagination–loving in Pakistan, because the alternative genuinely is sometimes too difficult to contemplate.

I hope that made some sort of sense, because it was all really bloody cogent in my head as I typed.

Articulating all of this is what led to my friend Coco sitting me down over coffee and biscotti today after work, and led into the explanation as to what was/is/will be stopping me from calling up Curfew Boy to ask him what his take on the two of us is. The short version? I’d rather not rock the boat before I know it’s actually sailing. The slightly longer version? I’m scared that he’s not into this whole thing as much as I am. Coco’s version? I’m a dumbass who not only needs, but also deserves after the effort/time/energy put into this, to ask him whatever the hell I want, especially if all I’m trying to do is sound him out.

Which is all very, very confusing.

I hate being pushy. I hate being needy. But I think about him, and I think about me, and I think about the last decade or so I’ve been alone, and I think about lying in bed with him, giggling as we watch bad TV together, or making him try a bite of sushi, and even though he’s pretty much a straight man in terms of communication/bonding, etc. what with the no phone calls (Coco on his career prospects: “No sales jobs. Ever.”) or text messages, I still like him. I don’t think I’m in love with him, but I think–quite realistically–that the lightning strike of love is rare and infrequent, and as such, I tend to believe in growing into love versus anything more dramatic, no matter how much it may appeal to my sense of drama.

So I’m a little scared that asking questions will precipitate answers that’ll only serve to confirm my innate cynicism about how life is generally out to get fucked, and I’ll spend the next fortnight sobbing into my pillow because, quite frankly, I don’t feel confident enough in myself to sit back and think “OK yeah, you know what? I’m a catch.” Fuck this self-empowerment shit, the last couple of years and the last two decades (give or take) have demonstrated–quite amply–that when push comes to shove, very few gay men give a toss about personality and wit and charm. It’s about six-packs and long flowing locks, and clear skin, and Ken-doll-like waxed chests. I just don’t want to (once again) lose out to that, to re-confront the idea that I am physically unattractive to someone, and to be sad and lonely again. Because I’m not ashamed of that, and I admit it freely: for many years, I have been sad and lonely. Very sad. Very alone. And I didn’t hate it at the time, but that’s because I didn’t let myself feel much during that time.

I’m starting to now. I kind of like it.

On the other hand, two things about this weekend make up for this situation. The first is that I spent the last 20 or so hours with Curfew Boy, ensconced in my hotel room, watching the original UK Queer as Folk TV series, amid cuddles a-plenty. More on that later. The second is that for the first time in many years, I feel a bit like a “real” person. And I mean that in the best possible way. Flying to Lahore for the weekend to see the guy I’m…well, I’m scared to death that if I say we’re dating, he’ll never want to see me again, but I’m also not sure how long I can keep playing the “getting to know” card, since we’re on our third meeting in as many months, and for something long-distance, that strikes me as somewhat substantial. Anyway, deciding to get up and just go; to be able to afford, for the first time in forever, the ability to do something like this, somewhat spontaneously without saving up for it (or having to!) in a massive way (although I really should have, still, fiscal responsibility be damned)…well, it’s pretty fucking liberating.

I think what frustrates me most about living and working in Pakistan is the lack of essential economic parity. I mean this in the most selfish manner possible, but not without some sense of reality; I’m well on my way to 30, barring any truly mad benders, in a relatively senior job at a pretty good corporation, and because I live/work in Pakistan, I’m probably never going to be able to afford to buy my own place. For the sake of perspective, I make less money at this job at a significantly larger company than I did fresh out of college, working for a university as an administrator. To me, that’s just absurd. Obviously, pay scales aren’t anywhere nearly the same the world over, but it’s more than a little infuriating to have to think that unless I’m willing to take out some hefty leases/mortgages with interest rates that are almost as high as my age, it’ll be well-nigh impossible for me to buy a car or an apartment (or even rent, really) without saving about 3/4 of my salary for the next few years.

There’s probably a thesis of sorts in here somewhere, but the short version is that most companies in Pakistan are inherently terrible classist. The assumption on salary scales is that if your family can’t afford to subsidise your lifestyle, you’ll probably be happy to settle for whatever is handed out to you, and if you’re in a situation where your family can cover your rent etc., you don’t need a whole lot of cash in any case, because all your essentials like rent/utilities/transport etc. are already covered, and so you’re basically just working to earn spending money. It’s remarkably annoying. Not quite as annoying as having to be constantly aware of the fact that in order to continue living a reasonably comfortable lifestyle in Karachi, I have to maintain an uneasy balance between doing what makes me happy, and not doing something that would–even unintentionally–piss off my family and lead to the withdrawal of car/rent privileges, because I can’t fucking afford to rent a clean, well-maintained apartment in a decent part of town and eat anything other than ramen and/or fast-food at the same time.

Which is why flying to Lahore for 36 hours, to see someone in whom I have an interest that could be classified as romantic (is that vague and safe enough?), is a remarkably liberating sensation. It’s temporary and on a tiny scale compared to what I’d like to be doing in an ideal world, but it feels, at long last, like a start. Like I’m finally starting to go somewhere with my life, both in terms of how I’m doing financially and how I’m doing in terms of emotional evolution. This last day and a half have cost me about a third of my monthly salary, but for the first time in a while, I don’t really care. Well I do, in that I’ll have to be a little careful with my spending (and my grossly large credit card bill, courtesy of three international trips in five months, the last involving the purchase of about 50 books in ten days), but I don’t in that I feel like it was worth it. It…it feels good, if that makes sense, this having thrown caution to the winds, having spent time with someone I like, having done this for–I would like to think–not just myself, but for that person also.

It’s all crazily, desperately, irrationally wonderful. Or so it feels.

I’m not floating high on the cloud of endorphins from extended cuddling though. I’ve been missing this whole situation for a while, the sense of being attracted to someone who reciprocates that. Of if not being loved, at least being liked, with nudity a major factor in that particular equation of charisma. And unlike the farce that is unrequited passion, there’s at least a sense of purpose to all this, even if everything goes pear-shaped in the end. Which is not to say that I’ll be all calm and collected if/when this ends (because all good things do inevitably come to an end, be that final or metamorphic), because I won’t–I’ll undoubtedly go off my head. But hopefully, it won’t feel like it was time wasted. There’s growth here, I feel (leave off the jokes), growth in an area of my life that has been stagnating for so long that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to touch someone and have meaning, not just purpose, behind that contact.

Time to go home. And wait for next time.

I’ve spent the last week with family. A lot. In a strange way, that has probably been the highlight of my trip, if only because the older and more single I get, the more I realise that I’ve not really got a lot else in my life that will provide unconditional love. Lord knows I still don’t want kids, because it’s hard enough taking care of myself without having other people in the mix, but being an uncle has some super high-lights. There are two moments from that in particular that stand out, mainly because the outpouring of love I’ve felt during them is possibly unparalleled.

The first, when my elder nephew (who is truly brilliant but I think a little poorly socialised) told me that no one in school plays with him; I suggested that perhaps, instead of talking about trains to everyone (his constant fixation), he should try just…well, playing. He came back from school, and when I asked him how his day was, looked at me with these huge almond eyes and said “I didn’t talk about trains at all, all day, and still no one played with me.”

I wanted to cry.

The second was when I put on, at the younger nephew’s request, “Hey Delilah” as we were driving home from Harrods this morning, and in his three-year-old lilt, he sang along. It was possibly the single cutest thing, including kittens and puppies, that I have ever seen.

I need to be around them more. I don’t want to be the uncle who shows up every once in a while. I want to be the uncle they call and come to all the time, and I think that to be in that space, I need to spend even more time with them. Between work and their early bed-times, we haven’t logged as many hours as I’d have liked, but in conjunction with the fact that my brother is–at heart, I believe–fundamentally lonely without his family around, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to him and some of my co-workers about transferring to the London or Middle East offices in another year or two if possible. I need to feel like there’s more to my life than…well, than just me.

Much of my wanting to look for–at the risk of sounding all New-Agey–more depth to my life is also, I think, the fact that Curfew Boy hasn’t texted or e-mailed me since I left Karachi almost two weeks ago. We spoke online for a bit once; I’ve messaged him a few times and all I’ve got so far is radio silence. I don’t really know what to make of it any more, but I think that I’m going to rest assured in my belief that since he has both finals and a job hunt coming up (or already underway), there’s a lot on his mind. And I’ll just breathe, for now. Deal with it when I go home, if in fact there’s anything to be dealt with, which is not necessarily a state of being. I don’t believe in giving extra chances, but I do remember what it was like for me when I was trying to juggle both finals and my own search for employment, and I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

The other highlights of my trip (and it’s not over yet, but I feel like with only another day or so to go, and much shopping to be accomplished, I may as well pretend that it is) were two gorgeous afternoons spent in Soho Square with people who despite having not seen in a while or with much regularity, I find myself considering friends. This poor handsome devil was forced to follow me around the huge Waterstones on Piccadilly as I raged through their fiction selections, and then to lunch at Busaba in Soho, followed by conversations in Soho Square (we scoped out deliciously sweet little gay boys who were all BFF4EVA with each other) and drinks at the Yard before we went our separate ways.

The other afternoon was with this man, also in Soho Square, during which we purchased a bottle of wine and chatted for about half an hour before I sent him off to grab another bottle (well, more accurately, he volunteered to fetch it if I’d hold our space, because let me tell you, one ray of sunshine and every bitch in this city is out there trying to get a tan). To be quite honest, I was enjoying the company so much that I don’t even know what we talked about (there was some mention of brain cells, but as mine were rapidly reeling from some rather good white wine, it’s a bit of a lost cause), but as we were joined by old classmates and a former flat-mate, I found myself lying on my side at a side of the square, eyeing some cute young things and just relishing the feel of being able to go outdoors and have a pleasant evening that didn’t involve dressing up, informing family of where I was or with whom, and reeling home later at four in the morning, since I also wound up (a) drinking another bottle of wine, (b) eating dim sum with friends until REALLY late, and (c) forgetting who or where I was for about two hours because I was loving just staggering around Soho and Piccadilly Circus and that whole tragically touristy neighbourhood.

And finally of course, there was dinner with one of my favourite non-couply couples. This cute young thing made all sorts of convoluted arrangements for us to meet up, and we may yet see each other again tomorrow. All of these men want me to go roller-blading in Hyde Park, but I don’t think that they appreciate my perspective just yet…given that I’ve never bladed before in my life, about all I’m planning to do is squeak and fall over onto attractive men within arms’ reach.

Maybe, if one of them catches me, I’ll think about moving back. Maybe.

But I’ve been insanely busy at work all week, preparing for my trip to Europe next Tuesday, and so I haven’t had the chance to call him. After spending over six hours each day on teleconferences, the very thought of calling someone is repellent, and so I’ve been coming home late and just going to bed, intending to call or text but never getting around to it. So in a way, I’ve not taken advantage of my own agency to call him, and I get that I could have picked up the phone at any point to speak to him.

But why does my heart sink so heavily at the realisation that he hasn’t once called or texted me either?

But I can’t.

It’s been a week since I last saw him. And in that week, I’ve driven myself up (down, and all around) several walls, trying to figure out what next steps, if any, there should be. What does one do with a nascent relationship, other than try to avoid calling it a relationship for fear of putting too much pressure on the other person involved?

I’m a relationship virgin, I admit it. But I’m also intensely focused on being able to have mile-stones or some sort of markers by which I can measure my progress (blame it on the influence of the corporate world), so I find myself wondering what the demarcation is between “seeing someone”, “going out”, “dating” and “being in a relationship”. Ironically, that sort of pat categorisation would normally hack me off like you wouldn’t believe, but now that I’m gingerly treading the bounds of non-Platonic interaction, I find myself fixated on figuring out where I stand. And where he stands. And where we can both stand without stepping on each other’s toes.

It doesn’t help that he’s not much of a talker. A wise man said to me, upon meeting him, that I was (a) lucky to be around someone who’s a listener instead of a talker [true--Karachi is chock-full of whingers who consider themselves the ultimate topic of conversation, he says writing a blog all about himself], and (b) that there’s much more to him than meets the eye; that he listens and observes. But all my friends and family are…I was going to say garrulous or verbose, but loquacious is probably a better word, and when I’m confronted with someone who isn’t really big on joining into a conversation of any sort, it worries me a little. Because I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling, and then I overcompensate by trying to initiate as many rounds of conversation/communication as possible without actually veering into the realm of being a stalker.

Then I freak out because I’m afraid that my behaviour’s just adding way too much stress to the whole situation.

And it’s complicated because we live in different cities, we’re at very different stages in our lives; there’s a disparity in terms of income, family dynamics, social structures (not in an elitist way, just in a simple “we’re different” way); and I know that no one will ever find a perfect match in every possible way, but there are so many inherent complications that I sometimes lie in bed at night wondering (and tossing, turning, tangling myself up in the sheets) whether it’s actually worth all the effort. I know that if nothing else, I should see it through just for the experience of letting someone into my life–and conversely, being a part of someone else’s–but sometimes it’s difficult, especially when you’re as pragmatic as I am, to justify the investment(s); literal and metaphorical. So I want to make sure I’m doing everything right, if only for the sake of looking back at this in a year or two from now (assuming it doesn’t go well, but hoping otherwise) and feeling somewhat reassured as I plow through a carton of butter pecan ice-cream that I didn’t fall down on the job somewhere. That I did whatever I possibly could have done to make it all work.

It’s a first for both of us. But I’m ready for it to be my last–and terrible though it may sound, that’s not all due to him specifically, but to the fact that I’ve been single and lonely long enough–so when I contemplate the notion that this could be experimental, it makes me tense. Finding someone to be with in Pakistan, no matter how you describe that state of being, is an odyssey both temporal and emotional; the market (such as it is) tends to be both highly limited and remarkably stagnant, so it’s not as though jumping right back into the pool is a real option.

I don’t want to spend another decade waiting for someone to make me feel happy.

When you write though, that’s all completely counter-productive. After all, how in the world are you supposed to come up with something worth reading if all you can do is compose nebulous statements?

“The weather in a city other than my home-town is pleasant.”

“When I am not sitting at home, which may or may not be due to travelling, either domestically or internationally, I may or may not have liaisons that could be presumed to be of a sexual nature with some individuals.”

I mean, really. It’s like your life takes on enormous legal overtones, with disclaimers peppering every situation. And part of that is because you have to be extra-careful about accidentally exposing people to other people, but really it’s because sometimes you don’t really know what it is you want to write about–or more accurately, you know what you can’t or shouldn’t write about, but the kosher stuff is too hard to figure out. Which means you’re up at 2:00 a.m. on a week-night, blithely ignoring the fact that empirical evidence indicates that without at least five hours of sleep, you’re a fucking zombie for more than half the day, and no amount of caffeine can really bring that issue to a happy resolution.

The first steps in trying to establish common ground are tricky, but not as tricky as the second, third, fourth (and so on). The first three go well, but then there’s this odd hurdle, a little wooden stile of emotion that blocks rational thought. You want to try and understand what your next step should or could be (more should than could, because this is as far as you’ve ever got in your life, and the very thought of restarting sends chills up and down your spine, it gives you that queasy feeling in the gut of your stomach like when you’re trying to hold back tears, it makes you shiver with anticipation and fear all at once); and more than that, it paralyses you in a bizarre holding pattern of expectation and dread.

What do I do next?

So if you’re me, you try not to send too many text messages, or at the very least, you keep them as light-hearted and non-pressure-creating as possible. You don’t call much or very often, and you try to stop your mind from whirling away on a maelstrom of worry, of why hasn’t he called? and is it too much if I tell him that I really enjoyed his company, and he’s in a totally different place in his life, what if he decided that it wasn’t going to work? or worst of all, as a special someone might panic, oh no what if he thinks I’m fat?

I mean, the fact that I am as a matter of objectivity about 20 pounds overweight only adds to this angst.

So for now, after multiple cups of decaf and hand-holding, deep breathing definitely seems to be the way forward. Over-thinking things comes naturally to me, which is why at this point in time I’m lying in bed playing online Risk and trying to maintain the oxygen content of my blood at an optimum level. And hoping, with only a slight whiff of desperation, that he likes me as much as I think I’m finding that I like him.