The love life of a cultural schizophrenic

I once had an arranged marriage with Kuala Lumpur. That was over a decade ago. I remember entering the union with willing reluctance, and curiosity. Although there was no passion, a friendship developed between us over the years. He was fun, and I admired his crazy ways. It wasn’t enough to keep me. I left, and we had an amicable divorce. There can be no hard feelings when there are no strong feelings in the first place. I will always remain fond of KL – he will always be family.

I soon began a relationship with Kingston, who was the complete opposite of my former husband. KL was brash, messy, and full of contradictions; my parents hadn’t chosen the most stable man for me, perhaps that’s why they let me leave. Kingston was wise, clean-cut, organized, knew what he wanted in life – and he wanted me. But a couple of years into it, I grew restless. Kingston was a dear – a good reliable partner, who always gave me a shoulder to lean on. But it wasn’t enough.

Like women before me, I betrayed the good guy by having an affair. Passionate and fiery, Singapore was the steamy, sexy stranger I needed in my life. But like any fling, it didn’t last. He lost the charm and glamour, and became the selfish kiasu climber he’d pretended not to be. Heartbroken, I went back to Kingston’s dependable arms. He knew about my affair, but forgave me, took me back. We all make mistakes, he murmured into my hair that night. I clung to his unconditional love.

I was loyal to Kingston for years. He was good to me, and I tried to repay his kindness. In the end, I had to admit to myself that I was staying out of obligation, and guilt. He’d forgiven me something terrible, so how could I leave again? It also seemed like the most practical thing to do. Kingston was a decent man who wanted marriage, a family. Reason said I should stay. But I wasn’t ready for such commitment; I wanted excitement, adventure. We dreamed of different things, and I knew I’d make us both miserable if I pretended otherwise. This is how I explained it to him the night I left. He looked solemn, and nodded as I made my points. He didn’t try to stop me. Kingston was special to me, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Single for the first time in years, I continued to move around and meet new people. Although it’d been the right decision, I grieved a little for what I had lost with Kingston. Then one night, I bumped into London. Oh, it was a shock. We had a couple of one-night stands in the past, right after my divorce, before I met Kingston. I hadn’t thought about London in years; there hadn’t been much between us, those few trysts aside. But after this accidental meeting, he kept calling, I kept calling, we kept meeting up for coffee, and of course, we ended up in bed together.

For the next year, London was my in-between man – not quite a rebound, definitely not a relationship. Perhaps he was my friend-with-benefits, but not quite a friend for there to be any danger of unrequited love. I didn’t call him when I failed my thesis defense, or when my friend died; I did call him when I was sick in bed, and he’d bring me soup. He didn’t call me when he had problems at work, or when his daughter needed female guidance; he called me when he couldn’t decide what to wear for an important meeting, and I’d head over to inspect his closet. When he told me he’d met someone he did want to confide in, someone he wanted his daughter to meet, I stepped back gracefully, with only the slightest twinge of sadness. I wished him the best.

After London, I drifted. I didn’t see the point in trying to meet someone new. It would just be the same, wouldn’t it? Love, lost, love, lost, love lost. Marriage, relationship, affair, carnal companionship. Too much. I was also tired, and my body heavy, as if I and it had borne the weight of too many men. Too much history. Too much experience. After all I’ve been through, I am still a traditional girl, deep down – I believe a woman should have enough experience to form her, but not so much as to weigh her down. Double standards still apply. My men were all the more experienced – and thus valuable – having been with me; I felt I was worth less, and had nothing more to give, so I drifted.

When you’ve given up, when you expect nothing, the unexpected happens. I’ve met someone, at a dinner, through a friend. His name is Shanghai. He’s a lot like me – caught between East and West, modernity and tradition, conflicted values. He has had a hard life, a painful history. But he has hope, and that’s what I see when he looks at me. He reminds me that most of my life remains unwritten. It’s those pages that he wants to help fill, if I’ll allow him to. We’ll see. No promises. For once, I’m taking it slow.