domingo, 16 de octubre de 2016

The Beauty of Nonexistence

Por Estefanía Malpaso
Desde la Tierra del Nunca Jamás 

We met when we were six years old in a galaxy far, far away. We went to kindergarten together, laughed our way thru the preparatory years, faced the awkwardness of high school as a team, and eventually parted our ways when we started college. I never saw him again until last week when he surprised me with an impromptu visit to my work place. I didn't recognize him at first. I still remembered him as the shortest boy in class who suffered from severe acne and acute flat feet that forced him to wear awful orthopedic boots for years. Surprisingly, he turned out to be a hot ass human, an alfa male, a venti-pumpkin-spice-latte with foamy almond milk, a delicious chalupa.

My busy schedule, and the fact that I live in NYC -also known as the loneliest city in the world- limits my possibilities of finding appropriate mates; and by appropriate I mean attractive, heterosexual, and with decent manners. I can't stand the Homo neanderthalensis better known as the dude that burps, farts, and chest bumps his other Neanderthal buddies while watching football in a sports bar on any given Sunday. So if a hot man with an apparent interest in the opposite sex, that exposes a gentle demeanor knocks on your door (or shows up at your work place) you: a. Welcome that trouble-maker with a big grin on your face, b. Tell you friend Tina to shut the hell up with her never-ending "A man is not going to knock on your door, girl!" Well guess what Tina? He just did, he just did! and c. Give thanks to whatever superior force you believe in -or not- for this miracle because the possibilities of the described above scenario are almost none-existent (Hallelujah!)

I followed my very unreliable animal instinct and went out with my newly found hunk that night. After several glasses of wine and given the fact that I had recently ended my long term relationship –uh, three months- with whom I thought was my perfect match (the dude exposed early signs of what I like to refer to as tacañería crónica) I gave myself permission to indulge in the pleasures that only human male testosterone can provide. We danced, we drank wine, we kissed, we bit and sucked each other’s lower lip, we enjoyed each other, and we didn't want it to end. But it did, and at mid-night I turned into a pumpkin. I touched his perfect beard with my lips one more time and sent him -and his blue balls- home alone with the promise of calling him the next day.

Basilides, an early Gnostic religious teacher, believed that the best things are those that don’t happen. Things that remain in the “nothingness” are pure and perfect, away from expectations, degradation, decay, and eventually death. I wanted my "love story" to remain in the beautiful world of nonexistence. I wanted it to be perfect, I wanted it to never end, I wanted it to be magical and in order for that to happen it was better if it never occurred. Next day I woke up to three missed calls from "hunk". I kept my word and called him back but only to wish him safe travels. Shortly after he returned to his hometown he wrote a post on his Facebook page describing his experiences in The Big Apple: "New York City, you are such a delicious left me wanting more of you". With a huge grin in my face I typed back: "Cheers for the inconclusive cities, relationships, and situations that leave us craving a -hopefully- soon to be released sequel. Cheers for the never ending stories. Cheers for the beauty of nonexistence"