Why Some Cheese Isn't So Bad
by Maia Livengood

More often than I would like, I'm afraid, I find myself in personal growth situations that would make for pieces titled "Widened Eyes" and "New Horizons."  Articulating, however, the sentiment and product of that growth is always a bit more difficult. In fact, non-cliché life-story anecdotes are nearly impossible to render, as the very word cliché seems to have become self-defined! While most of these stories seem neither personal nor honest, I'm allowing myself the self-indulgent opportunity to relate a very sincere experience of the ultimate cliché, love.

My childhood friends and I have always shared more than a little skepticism in regards to love. And while Erin was converted last summer in a swooping romance with a fellow white-water rafting guide, I've generally remained steadfast in my views on the futility of relationships.

Have I ever really, really liked someone? Indeed, and I think it's fair to say my track record in this department is painfully long for someone my age. But my ability to become attached (or disability, as some would see it), has been regrettably about the same as that of a sixteen year old boy. And not the high school sweetheart kind, either.  After growing up with many male friends, strong feminist female friends, and being raised by divorced parents, let's just say I was jaded from a little early on. Angst-ridden teen me was horrified at the thought of a whirlwind love story—or infatuation, rather, as I firmly decided it was—in stories of the Romeo and Juliet kind.

But like every female character in chick-flicks, I'm eating my words. Don't get me wrong, my stomach still churns at the thought of pet names, public hand-holding, and cheesy dinner dates. In fact, on a recent home visit I still had a very typical "me" reaction to the dreaded question: "Have you been dating lately?" A question that parents are always afraid to ask when you're too young, a question you become increasingly afraid to answer when you're old. I'm not old, but a "No" at age 20 is definitely either an indication that I'm lying, closeted, or socially awkward and, as such, incapable of meeting men.

So I take the safe route.

"Uhm. Kinda."

This reply rather nicely (and ambiguously) indicates that while I might be seeing people, I am certainly not obligated to offer any details.

 "Is any of it serious? Could you imagine yourself marrying anyone? You know, your mom and I had been living together by the time she was your age."

Deciding it would be too cruel to point out that it hadn't worked out so well for them, I tried to consider seriously if there has been something noticeably lacking in my life. After some short deliberation, I decided that in the age of Sex and the City, not having brought home a significant other to meet the parents is just fine. And while scared temporarily by the idea that I might have somehow fallen behind my many female cousins, who (all in their late teens) are already planning big white weddings, it seems to me that that's not the norm after all. Everyone needs their own time line. I'm thrilled that I'm not engaged to my junior high beau and I'm as perfectly happy being a single girl now as I ever was.

What I've rather embarrassingly come to realize, though, is that, while for a variety of reasons, conventional relationships don't seem to work for me, all I needed was a less-than-conventional partner to make me conventionally smitten. A partner who evokes as much happiness in me as would a game of peek-a-boo with a toddler. And if you have ever played peek-a-boo with a toddler, you know what's up: I just can't get enough.

As indicated, I can't claim to be well-versed in this area. It's my guess, though, that finding someone who returns your sentiments, even after you've been subjected to the most unflattering of circumstances, is rare. Mortified as I may be at the thought of stating any such feelings, I choose to do so because the consequences of not expressing oneself fully always seem more harmful. These sentiments I do have, this gross, disgusting, Erin-esque feeling, is the one that they write the books about.