I'll take Happiness Squared. In which I Accept a Surprising Proposal...

Bermuda.  I was there.  Last week, actually.  This was not your usual break away to escape the gloom and build an early tan to boast to your friends.  It was not a girls' trip to read chick-lit, drink frozen margaritas and eye up shirtless male travelers.  It was not a solo voyage to clear my head, fill my lungs and relax; or one to inspire the little grey cells, imprinting them with vision anew.  It was, in fact, a trip I cavalierly agreed to, going with someone I barely knew, just... because... he...asked.  No prior dates, no uncomfortable flirtation, just an invitation... to Bermuda.

Let me back track...it was a cold January, I believe snow was on the ground and my fishnets weren't cutting it.  I needed a vacation, badly.  Recent relations had faded without feeling or fanfare; friends were largely unavailable to just up and leave and sally forth.  But then, this chap!   What a ballsy move to invite someone who, for all he knew, could have been a raving, bunny-boiling, non-armpit shaving weirdo.  I rather admired his savoir faire.  Lots of my friends said he was a decent fella, why not?!  And I spoke to a couple of pals who said they would take advantage of this great deal and we would go as a group!  TA DAH!  High seas and Sea Breeze(s).

So he booked, and I booked and... they didn't book.

Kinda, sorta interesting social experiment don't you think?  Can a girl and boy with a penis go away together?  Is that OKAY?

Apparently not, according to the flack I received.  Two people of the opposite sex can't possibly keep things kosher, can they?  What an interesting test, thought I.  So I didn't really let the lack of friends hold me back and I decided that this modern woman should and would go!  It could be Bon Voyage without Bon Vagina!

Flip through the next few three-ring circus-tour high-wire months, but needless to say talk of Bermuda and social activity did indeed bring us closer.  I really liked the Boyo.  And then... BERMUDA.

There is so much I could say about this small island: how I felt like a wide-eyed child to discover that over 500 shipwrecks fringe the coast; that the indigenous dishes were few and untempting—fish soup?  Anyone?  Anyone?; the Disney-esque, translucent aqua marine of the sea, too clear and too azure to be believed; the pastel hues of the painted houses peppering the hilly landscape; the fortifications on every corner of this much-invaded isle; the crystal caves pierced like a conjurer’s box with sharp stalactites and stalagmites; but you can see all that on the postcard, or the glossy brochure, if you care to look.  

Background: The Crystal Caves.  Foreground: 1980's Fame Retard.

I could tell you how I sailed there on a ship, alongside 2000 fellow passengers, enjoying nightly entertainment from Broadway Star, Liz Callaway, Las Vegas Illusionist, Jason Bishop, Bill Cosby entertainer-impersonator, not to mention the exhausting-to-watch singer-dancer cast from Blighty.  I was jazz-handsing in my sleep.  

Of course, the food was plentiful.  I think I feasted on more courses in 7 days, than I usually consume in 7 weeks, but all was sumptuous, unctuous, fresh and flavourful.  It was a gourmand’s paradise.  No, really, it was.  

But that's not what you really want to read about, is it?

I have been criticized before for being too public and too open, so I will seamlessly glide over the method and results, but this was my analysis: I think all opposite-sex friends or dating partners should go on a cruise early on in their acquaintance, because having to share a bathroom, that is about as big as my handbag, with someone who is not family or ultra close friend, will have major repercussions on the course of your friendship/relationship!  You have to share shit.

I can't imagine I am the easiest travel companion: I wake up early; I demand silence to write; I don't like it too cold; I want to go to every entertainment show; I don't want to lie on a beach; I want to run around the island and see everything, do everything, swim everywhere; and if I get the chance to see dolphin I will make you wait for hours in the rain while I watch them.  So it is truly a test for any sun-loungered male to join in and keep smiling.

Near Tobacco Bay, north on St. George, Bermuda.

And yet, said Bermuda Boyo, made the adventure so much more fun, by being there, always at the ready with a terrible pun, an equally awful joke, a witty commentary on odd sightings and sayings, "She has a smile in the face!"--the Captain's introduction about one of his crew, that Boyo repeated throughout the trip, making me snort with laughter.  Maybe I just love that someone over 35 would race me down 11 flights of stairs and slide down the banisters on the last flight to fall headfirst into the elevator door! ;)

I am an independent 33 year old woman and it’s an internal struggle to admit to needing someone there.  Not a need, I’m fine, as long as I have words I could survive as a hermit, but crikey life is more fun when you have someone to share it with.  (Maybe I need a dog.)  I am reminded again of Into the Wild the true survival story of Jon Krakauer “Happiness is only real when it’s shared.”  So maybe, if a problem shared is a problem halved, maybe happiness shared is happiness doubled?  Is there an equation to calculate one’s happiness quota?   If we all just shared a bit more, would we be happier?

I don’t know, I’m just trying to work it out and not sound like a Hallmark card, or a high Julie Andrews, but maybe there's truth in there them cliches?  I want to proceed through life on the path that is fun and exciting; that helps others most and hurts others least; a path where doing the right thing and the good thing are one and the same. 

Conclusion: I want to "race" to "adventure," to sweat through the foot hills and speed along the coast road.  I want to find the hidden bays, with rock pools teaming with anemones, starfish, crabs and green things that go "squelch."  It really doesn't matter if it rains, or if you are conned into buying the local tourist trap overpriced rancid cocktail, with good people at your side you will always be sure of someone to share with.  I suppose the difficult question is sorting the wheat from the chaff, and finding the most compatible peeps to adventure forth with.  I’m working on that, and I think I am getting there.  But a companion who likes to share appetizers and desserts, is always a good sign.

The Conversation... In which I discuss Exclusivity (and die a little inside).

Overheard in the ladies bathroom of a well-known Masonic building, an enclave of slightly well-beered and overly-blurry females:

“Sweetie, you owe him nothing.  Nada.  Nicht.  He may think what he likes, but unless you’ve had the conversation you are just dating and therefore you can see who you like, when you like.” 

I cringed as I hovered silently over the toilet seat.  It’s hard enough to pee in a public bathroom, but throw in a juicy conversation and a gaggle of on-listeners and it’s urine shut down.  I emerged, sheepishly from my stall, wanting to look up, but English repression forbidding it.  Hurrah for many mirrors!  It was as cliché as it gets: one holding the glasses, one the purses, one taking her turn in the mirror and smearing her come-get-me gloss lavishly across her lips. 

Under the loud flow of the faucet I missed a bit, but never did a pair of average-sized hands take so long to dry.

“But you’re missing the point!”  Said the one who had now reinserted the wand to the gloss and was wiping the smudges of shimmer off her lip lines.  “If this were two weeks in, fine!  I’d agree with you.  But it’s not and I’ve slept with him.  That redefines everything.  There may not have been the conversation, but there was conversation alright.”

I ferreted in my purse—my Mary Poppins hearse purse is enormously useful for such time-stalling situations; it takes minutes to find anything in there it is so cavernous—and finally drew out my hairbrush.  I began to fuss and count the strokes.  (I wasn’t really, of course.)

“DIS-A-GREE!” The slightly more looped of the three, triple-fisting the glasses returned, “No conversation, no exclusivity!  Sex makes no difference, it’s neither here nor there.”

“No, believe me.  It wasn’t here.  But it was definitely there, and in the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room …” They cackled, gave one last nod to the mirror, and the three drifted from the basement bathroom and back into the hubbub of the Brews.

I looked at myself in the mirror: I was not meant for this harsh, unfeeling world of dating.  I brushed my locks and considered the issue.  Had anyone ever broached the conversation with me?  No.  Relationships had just… happened.  Organically.  There had never been any verbal contract of exclusivity, I had just—rather foolishly I realized then—assumed it.  If someone wanted to spend their time with me, it had really never even dawned on me that they would on the other nights—while I toiled like a dung beetle—be other with other women at the same time.  It never occurred to me that there needed to be an agreement made, insisted on.  I was wide-eyed at the thought that one could be sleeping with one and dating many others—that just sounds exhausting.  Of course, I know people do, but I was thinking of it in relation to the anti-romances I had had.

Is this, The Conversation, something that one should insist on?  If so when?  And what—oh dear God—if one wants to say “no thank you very much, I do like you, you’re a jolly nice bloke, but actually I rather want to consider other penises right now.  No offense!  Tally ho.”  

Or what if—Heaven forfend—a chap says to you, a lady, “Sorry there Toots, but I want to explore my… options.”  Does one smile, shrug shoulders and continue, after one has been so snubbed?  My mind was a whirring cosmic fire of unrest. 

I just find the whole topic unsettling, because it is so far from my romantic ideal.  To use James Fleet’s expression, from Four Weddings and A Funeral, I rather hoped it would just be “Thunderbolt City,” and he would forget all ideas of anyone else, as I would.  And nothing would corrupt this mutual feeling of yearning, not conflicting schedules, not friends of the opposite sex, not long absences, not all the little fucking stupid things that are thrown up by the projectile vomit of our past; that there would be this mutual acceptance. 

I suppose that’s what happens when it is Thunderbolt City.  Maybe the ones that get so easily derailed, and need such contracts and verbal reassurances, are the ones that were never headed anywhere anyway.  Regardless, it makes me sad.  Sad that I've never asked for this conversation, but that maybe it would have saved many hurt feelings.  This oral tornado would blow in and sweep misunderstanding up and away. 

I have discussed this with a few friends this week. 

“So…Shera, Princess of Power, what’s your take on exclusivity?”

“Non-negotiable. I sat He Man down and said, ‘Look, Mister, are we together, or are you screwing every underage cutesie at the Backyard Ale House on a Saturday night?  Because if you are, ding ding, stop the bus, you are getting off.  And not with me.’”  I applauded her bravado, but knew I could not be so forthright.  Mainly because, I am not sure I would like the answer.  If one asks, but is told there are others--gulp!--is it so easy to walk away if one is invested?

I asked my dear male friend on his take, “Absolutely, there needs to be a conversation.”  He said adamantly.  “I wasn’t always like that.  But I got burned, and that means now I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket, so-to-speak.  I can date more than one woman at the same time with no remorse.” 

And then there was a third and final take on it, without me even asking he told me clearly where he stands, because he will not even allow the female he is dating to have male friends—even if her intentions are well meaning and she only has eyes, lips, heart, longing for him.  He has little trust in her, because of his prior experience.  Can a partner not have friends of the opposite sex?  Can she/he not meet him/her for an uncontracted, but understood, mutual friends drink?  Do we need to classify every interaction we have just to make sure intentions are interpreted correctly?  "Hey, Will, Buddy-oh-friend-of-mine, fancy meeting for a beverage and a non-sexual-interaction-because-we-are-friends-who-don't-share-bodily-fluids?"  Not every male-female friendship turns into Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis reaping the benefits!

GAH!  I would that we could start every relationship as if we’ve never dated.  As if this is new and we haven’t become jaded, mistrustful, cynical and sad.  Forget what has gone before, damn it!  That's not to say don't learn from experience, but don't assume the new partner will be like the old. We are individual, different human beings, who strive for success and make mistakes; we are largely just as confused as each other, because, guess what, we are not mind readers!

Trust, jealousy, longing, contracts.  I suppose, the conversation--however unromantic it is, as much as I’d prefer to plunge my fist down my throat and rip out my heart as more eloquent proof—is necessary.  Maybe there are so many mixed signals these days that one simply can’t trust the organic process.  Maybe there needs to be that clarification that both are singing from the same hymn sheet.  That one is not getting overly invested in a heart that is overly invested in many other mutual funds.  And maybe the triple-fisting girl, swaying slightly in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, was right all along, her unromantic, practical negotiation stamping on my open heart.