And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one
Those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who smile are lost
from The Shape of My Heart by Sting


Of course, people only meant well. . . .

Ever since some friends realized that I was back in the mainstream again following the conclusion of the 2005 Bar, it seems that one of their prime preoccupations is to get me out dating. I'm not quite sure whether I should be flattered with all the attention— either they think that, after all those years of studied solipsism, I am finally "ripe for adjudication," or that I am too much of a loser to find anybody on my own. In any event, the message I get is clear: Get yourself out there, Peej. Date around. Live a little!

I would just smile at the suggestion, feign embarrassment, and say, in a sheepish voice, I don't think I'm ready, e. Sorry. And I give out a hearty laugh: it was too showbiz an answer, even for my tastes.

In my younger days, this resistance and skepticism to dating around was probably fuelled by this purely ideal conception of how falling in love should be. Then (and perhaps, still now), I felt that dating around was purely unnecessary, because the person I would fall in love with would be my best friend, in the Harry-met-Sally serendipitous sort of way. I imagined myself just waking up one morning and realizing that I love her. And we'd live happily ever after.

I knew, also, that this resistance and skepticism came from a purely mental prejudice spawned probably by insecurity and considerations of practicality. Indeed, meeting an almost total stranger, spending an afternoon or evening with her, the whole while making mental calculations on whether she is worth a second date— it was just not worth the stress, or even embarrassment, much less, the gastos. I felt that the whole proposition was just too artificial, even contrived. And while one may have been motivated by initial attraction (one did ask her out, after all), this was pretty much the start and end of it: the realization of finding out at date's end that she was only really worth a second passing glance was too disappointing (I imagined) that it was enough to dissuade me from even going through with the effort in the first place.

Now that I am twenty-six and less maniacally melodramatic, with so much time on my hands, and the idea of the rest of my life beckoning just over the horizon, the idea of dating around now presents itself again with alarming reality. Everyone I know seems to be encouraging it. Put yourself out there, they say. Date around. We're all grown up now, anyway. Live a little.

Have I been missing out on something?

When I was still in law school, I would often hear my non-law school friends tell stories about their latest dating escapades, down to the last sordid detail. They were pretty excited about it, every time; sometimes they even thought they were finally in love. It didn't matter where they'd meet them: at a bar, in the mall, in internet chatrooms, for chrissakes! Date after date, week after week, they seemed intoxicated with the independence and the sheer complication of it all. They would often even tell me about certain and occasional anonymous make-outs. And these friends of mine were girls!

I'd voice my concerns, of course, telling them to be careful. They said, they knew what they were doing. They were young, they said. It's not like they were going to get married. Live a little.

Looking back on those conversations, I realize now that my then youthful skepticism on dating around has now somewhat been softened by the ambivalence and toleration of growing older; yet, I also find that this same skepticism is still strangely reinforced.

Indeed, while I am wont to understand the mechanics and motivations behind people's fascination with hooking up and dating around, I am also now more keenly aware of the reality that the activity is really just a game people choose to play to keep one's self occupied on a Saturday night, perhaps, while waiting for the right one to come along. It is a diversion— albeit an effective one— from the oppression of waiting.

Not that there is anything wrong with this. After all, there is much to be said about having company without complications; getting together without getting tied down. (Some would even say, coitus without commitment.) The ease with which some give in to these "meantime meetings" is equaled only their willingness to become "meantime men" and "meantime women," just for the sake of having. I am reminded of a quote from the TV series, The Wonder Years, which I think captures this same quiet desperation: "All our young lives we search for someone to love. Someone who makes us complete. We choose partners and change partners. We dance to a song of heartbreak and hope. . . . all the while wondering if somewhere, somehow, there's someone perfect . . . . who might be searching for us."

Indeed, I make no judgments. I think I have known enough of loneliness to understand their reasons. But still, I remain skeptical of the idea, if only for myself (and for myself only).

You see, I realized, quite suddenly, that I am not getting any younger. A friend thoughtfully pointed out that on my twenty-seventh birthday in June, I will officially be entering my late-twenties. Imagine that! Closer to thirty than ever before! It was as though my last living memory was being twenty-two, with the world at my feet, and without realizing it, I turned twenty-six, without much to show for myself. For me, time stopped, but the world continued turning. And while this fear of growing old alone may be an exaggerated over-rationalization, the point is that I do not have much of myself left to spend. Conquests are costly, and I have too much to lose.

In short, what I am trying to say, I guess, is that I do not want to waste my time with meantimes. In short, I want to play, for keeps.

Make no mistake about it, though. I do respect those people who have the energy to plunge headlong into relationships, if only for the meantime, just as those who can meet total strangers and shortly afterward feel that they have found their soulmates. I envy those who are not afraid to go after their happiness, damning the consequences, simply because it felt right. I even sometimes envy people who can go from one conquest to another without feeling diminished by it. But I guess that's not the shape of my heart.

Not that I won't go out, or that I won't meet people. Or that I won't find the courage to, one of these days, take that crazy leap into the darkness. But always, at the back of my head (or perhaps, at the bottom of my heart), I will be thinking of forever. Life is too precious to be played by trial and error.