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The Neurotic Stage occurs after that really awesome first date (or first hang-out or whatever it is you call it these days. Part of the confusion in the Neurotic Stage comes from not knowing whether what you had was really a date or not). You’ve had a lot of first dates before, but this one was different. There was so much electricity in the air, both of you could have powered a nuclear plant. You felt a strong connection with him that you’ve never experienced with other guys. Despite all this, you’re still unsure about what this one thinks about you and if he felt the same connection you did. That’s when the neuroticism kicks in.

In the Neurotic Stage, you experience and deal with the following (usually with Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap or a similarly depressing song playing on repeat):

The uncertainty of waiting, the mixed signals in gestures, the double-meanings hidden in words.

The fact that no matter how many friends you ask, their interpretations of the conversation you had last night might never come close to what he really meant.

The false sense of security you get after finally accepting the possibility (the certainty?) that maybe he’s just not interested in you.

Then he YM’s.
Or texts.
Or sends you an mp3 his favorite love song.

Which brings you back to the paradoxical situation of not knowing what to do next because you’re over-thinking about what the fuck just happened.

That he made his presence felt opens up many possibilities. Especially the possibility of getting your emotions and ego smashed. For all you know, that text message/YM conversation/love song might have meant absolutely nothing. When you are in the Neurotic Stage, it’s still too early for confrontations and a definite answer. When there are no answers, everything becomes a sign that points to him. Because that is the answer that you want.

So you realize the futility of trying to rationalize your emotions. You swallow your sleeping pill and wait for the chemicals to silence your thoughts. But the goddamn pill takes forever to kick in. You let out a heavy sigh and cry out, “I hate you!” The crack in your voice betrays your suffering. But anyone who sees the dreamy look on your eyes and that dopey grin on your face knows that whatever it is just happened made your day a little brighter.

Last night I attended a Dado family dinner at a fancy-schmancy Spanish restaurant because one of my aunts is getting married to a chef from Tuscany. At the gathering, half of my female relatives were telling me to have fun while I’m still single; the other half joked about how I’m probably going to get married next. Hah! I can’t really blame them for thinking that because the last time I attended a Dado family wedding, I caught the bouquet. I was twelve years old.

So all that talk about marriage reminded me of this meme Aileen tagged me to do. Eight traits my ideal guy should have, off the top of my head:

1) Good-looking and attractive enough to make me want to make babies with him. Contrary to what a lot of people say, looks are very important. If you’re going to spend the rest of your life with one person, he might as well be eye candy.

2) Emotionally stable. I don’t want someone who’s depressed and who still cries about how his father didn’t make it to his kindergarten graduation ceremony. I tend to become emotionally volatile and I need someone who’s calm, rational, and sane to balance me out.

3) Intelligent and articulate. I don’t just want someone I can mate and procreate with. I need to be able to talk to him too. An intellectual connection is essential.

4) Artistic tendencies. People who aren’t creative are the most boring people on earth. But I don’t want somebody who’s all temperamental and angsty, either. My ideal guy can either play an instrument, write, sing, paint, make movies, sculpt, or blow glass without being such an artist about what he does.

5) Faithful. Words cannot stress how important this is to me. I have a jealous streak and the notion that I’m not the most important woman in his life would just kill me. My ideal guy might check out other women every now and then, but he never chases skirts. Ultimately he considers me a goddess among girls and he wouldn’t even think of sleeping with someone else.

6) Honest. I think the root of a lot of problems in relationships–and even with friendships, actually–is that both people involved can’t bring themselves to be completely honest with each other. I can’t stand being lied to. My ideal guy has the balls to call out my mistakes and let me know if I’m doing something that hurt him. If there are problems in the relationship, we talk about it as rationally as possible. Also, if he no longer loves me, he flat-out tells me instead of faking it and keeping a 19-year old college chick as a mistress or something.

7) What is the opposite of chauvinist? Well whatever that is, my ideal guy is it. Nothing screams “Tiny penis!” louder than guys who act like alpha-male assholes.

Enjoys doing the dishes. Washing the dishes is my least favorite chore in the whole world. Cooking takes effort, and the only proper way to thank me is to clean up after. Unless of course he’s a better cook than me; then I’ll try not to look at the clumps of food that gather up on the kitchen sink drain when I do the dishes.

Don’t get me wrong though. I’m definitely in no hurry to get married or to even be in a serious relationship. It’ll happen when it happens and I highly doubt it’ll happen anytime soon, simply because I’m not ready for it (and because no sane guy ever gets attracted to me :P). Although if I happen to find the ideal guy by some miracle, I will ditch everything and go for him. Decent guys are a dying species these days.

It’s really not like me to be so optimistic about love or whatever, so I shall add a dash of cynicism to this entry and end it with yet another poem by Dorothy Parker.

Men I Am Not Married To

No matter where my route may lie,
No matter wither I repair,
In brief - no matter how or why
Or when I go, the boys are there.
On lane and byways, street and square,
On alley, path and avenue
They seem to spring up anywhere
The men I am not married to

I watch them as they pass me by;
At each in wonderment I stare,
And, “But for heaven’s grace,” I cry
“There goesthe guy whose name I’d wear!”
They represent no species rare
They walk and talk as others do
They’re fair to see - but only fair -
The men I am not married to

I’m sure that to a mother’s eye
Is each potentially a bear
But though at home they rank ace high,
No change of heart I could declare.
Yet worry silvers not their hair;
They deck them not with sprigs of rue.
It’s curious how they do not care -
The men I am not married to

L’Envoi
In fact, if they’d a chance to share
Their lot with me, a lifetime through,
they’d doubtless tender me the air-
The men I am not married to

There are two type of guys that I find myself attracted to.

The first type of guy is the Brooding Artist. I happen to be a huge sucker for them, but I’m betting it’s because they’re the only type of guys that move in all my social circles. Despite that, I am hopelessly drawn to them. How can I not melt at the sight of that messy-haired boy, smoking his cigarette with long tapered fingers while he sits and broods about the state of the world? The Brooding Artist is an amazingly intelligent and creative individual who can play a thousand instruments while razzle-dazzling me with trivia about my favorite authors or bands. He has a taste for obscure indie films and anime and he burns me DVDs of his favorites labelled with “Must see before dying!” in thick, black ink. The Brooding Artist and I can stay up until dawn, talking passionately about philosophy, love, and life. He makes me fall in love with his words.

Though he might know a lot about the aesthetic and metaphysical, the Brooding Artist’s intelligence drops down to a zero when it comes to his personal life. Wherever he goes, he leaves behind a trail of weeping, brokenhearted little girls and furious knife-wielding women, thirsty for his blood. Sometimes he does this intentionally. Sometimes he doesn’t.

He tells me about his past, of course, because we talk about everything. I’m not stupid enough to fall for someone with such a crazy history. But I love the Brooding Artist anyway because he’s just as spontaneous, insane, and dangerous as I am. “Let’s look for sushi, I’m starving,” I’ll tell him. “Only if we can go out of town after,” he replies. “Right now? Sure, let’s go!” He understands that it takes a tremendous amount of effort to go out in the world and pretend like you’re not about to fall apart by the seams. It’s a struggle he has to go through every day as well. He says the right things to make me get out of bed each morning and to keep myself going, going, going. But when it’s his turn under the bell jar he falls silent, withdraws into himself, and I’m left standing outside unable to do a thing.

The next type of guy is the Normal Guy. I have nothing to say to him and he has nothing to say to me because we’re both so different. The Normal Guy is about as normal and mainstream as you can get. He’s got a few skeletons in his closet, but nothing as scandalous as the bones hidden in the crypt of the Brooding Artist. He doesn’t understand the way I think and why I do the things I do. I don’t understand how he can never once dare defy society’s norms and do the unconventional.

He likes hip-hop; I like good old-fashioned rock. But we both love to dance. In the middle of the dance floor, with the beat of the bass pounding through our bodies, it feels like we’ve been doing this dance all our lives.

The Normal Guy is the man I will marry. He is interesting and intelligent without being insane. His moods are steady and his mind is clear, and that helps me stay calm and steady more than pretty words ever could. I know I’ll function well with him backing me up because he will be that one consistent, predictable factor that I desperately need in my otherwise chaotic life. Like that song by Oasis says, “Because maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me.”

The Normal Guy will never understand me, of course. He’ll never understand the thoughts that race through my head when I go quiet. He’ll never know what to say to make me feel better. It will be a little unfair to him, I think. But for his sake and mine, I’ll do my best to keep from snapping.

I met a Normal Guy last night, which is why I’m writing this silly entry. I’m not sure if I’m falling in love with him or if it’s just a very deadly crush. Either way, I’m pretty fucking doomed. I don’t know if my existence registers a blip on his radar and if anything I said to him made the smallest imprint on his memory. For some reason, it doesn’t seem to matter. I will see him tonight. I will see him tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. I haven’t felt so eager and excited about seeing anyone in the longest time.