Some thoughts on affairs of the heart from earlier this spring.
My friend—I don’t think she’d mind if I called her that—is trying to explain to me exactly how men pursue relationships with women. This is not my area of expertise, so I am all ears.
When Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus came out decades ago, the title captured my attention, and though I never managed to read the book, I remember thinking: Oh, that might explain things. Later when He’s Just Not that Into You surfaced, I thought: No reading required there; the title says it all.
Now, all these years later, my friend explains her theory. “Men are all about the chase. They like identifying high-value trophies and the subsequent pursuit of them,” she says. She posits that I—little ol’ me—am current quarry in the scope of several men’s crosshairs. I’m not buying this part, but I play along. She goes on to say that in order for the ritual to reach a successful conclusion, I need to act my part—stop trying to rush things along.
This is a problem. While I have zero problem encouraging a relationship with someone of interest, I feel ill-inclined to role-play in order to facilitate matters. I don’t, for example, see myself as anyone’s prey, and should I happen to find myself in anyone’s crosshairs, my instinct would be to shoot back in self-defense—or more likely—run away.
Yeah. Running away sounds about right to me. And also, didn’t most of civilization exit the hunter-gather stage with the Neolithic Revolution, eons ago?
My friend is well-educated and a feminist. Her profession mandates that she understand these matters, so I am paying attention, but frankly I am skeptical—disappointed, even. I mean, what century are we in, anyway? Can’t affairs of the heart be a bit more civilized? Equitable, perhaps? Do I really have to gaze through this crude lens of man-as-hunter and woman-as-trophy? If this is how it works, I’m not sure I want in on the game. I’m not some four-legged doe foraging in the cover of the forest.
My lord, this metaphor.
But because I have known my friend for decades and trust her, I cautiously consider her stance; review what she says. If a woman wants to end up with an attractive, suitable partner, she accepts this construct…
In a moment of desperation I blurt, “I’m game.”
The double-entendre. Didn’t see it coming, but sometimes a big fish lands on deck, and you just can’t throw it back. I’m game—both in my willingness to accept the rules of play and my role in the play.
In fact, Game on.
Early summer. I’ve crossed the ocean on a sailboat and sit waiting in Sao Miguel, Azores for a flight to Paris, gazing at all the attractive age-appropriate Frenchmen.
Already coupled.
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