That Jen Kim

A good rejection is truly a dying art form. More and more, cowardly people are relying on technological tools to do their dirty work for them. Why suffer that awkward, “I’m just not that into you…” when you can BBM it? And the reasons make sense: It’s easier to type than it is to talk and it’s scary. Especially, when the person you are rejecting is highly emotional or slightly to moderately crazy.

A brief glance into my own history of dating psychosis, and I’m the first to shamefully admit that I have on occasion, exhibited delusional and/or psychotic behavior. Even back in 7th grade, a time when only Melrose Place characters were allowed to curse, an ex-boyfriend accused me of being “a psycho bitch.”

Warm cuddly memories like these do not sit very well with people. So, it should not come as a surprise that rejections are becoming outmoded, just like last season’s fashion trends. Moreover, who likes rejection? Nobody. Whether you are receiving or giving – both are terrible and difficult under the circumstances.

The most common type of rejection is getting dumped. Instead of a quick and immediate rejection, someone rents you out for a while, then decides you’re not worthwhile after all. This is similar to buying a cute dress, only to return it two weeks later, because you suddenly realize that it makes you look fat. Store mirrors always distort the truth. Relationships have adopted the same policy.

But which is worse? Getting dumped after dating and being “in love” or facing rejection before that stuff ever had a chance to happen?

The last real rejection I experienced fits in the latter category. Joe Schmo was somewhere near a 6.9 on 10-point scale. Still, he was able to score very pretty girls. I don’t know how, except for the fact that he exuded that whole, “I’m a vulnerable-indie-rock-listening-tech-nerd-asshole” charm.

Asshole-y is a requisite characteristic for any desirable or attractive boy. This coveted personality trait comes in a wide variety of flavors and types, including: stupid asshole, fucking asshole, nerdy asshole, cheap asshole, athletic asshole, pretty asshole, rich asshole. I’ve found, every girl has her own personal preference.

Joe rejected me in a really strange way. To be honest, the entire Joe debacle still plagues me.

                                                                ******

I met Joe at a temp job. He had a girlfriend at the time, but there was undeniable chemistry between us. I didn’t want to admit it, mostly because I didn’t find him all that attractive (recall that he was only a 6.9). But Joe got my humor, and I got his. And we were friendly, hardly even flirtatious – all in all, a perfect office relationship.

I was perfectly content with our status as “just friends,” because I had just gotten out of a less than satisfactory relationship a few months prior. And let’s not forget, Joe had a girlfriend.  Even if he hadn’t, I wasn’t all that sure I could truly be attracted to his nerdiness. Ever since Al Gore invented the Internet, boys have become incredibly cowardly in the girl-wooing department. Phone calls have turned into text messages. Nowadays, Facebook wall posts and Twitter updates have become the most popular tools of seduction. I hate this. I grew up when late night phone calls and love notes stuffed in lockers were the ways into a woman’s heart. That was romance.

Joe’s dependency on technological communication was a real turn-off. Still, we would g-chat all day, rarely exchanging verbal salutations even though we’d be sitting right next to each other. There was something hilarious about it, and I began to look forward to our daily conversations.

The first conversation that made me think romantic thoughts was when Joe suddenly typed: You make me weak in the knees. I was taken aback. It was cute. Had I really thought that it was cute? Yes. Perhaps it was a bit more flirtatious than usual, but he had a girlfriend, so it was probably harmless. Right? Right. I wrote back: Shut up.

The topic of conversation ended, just like that. But something had changed. We developed a strange and inexplicable tension that continued to gnaw at us between clicks of the keys. An hour later, he confessed that he was having problems with his relationship.

Dating experts and sane people will tell you that when a boy you like starts complaining about his current girlfriend, the wisest course of action is to run for the hills or very far in the opposite direction. I like to stay. Actually, I bring a sleeping bag and camp out right there with him. Unfortunately, I’m that girl.

Still, 25 years of life had taught me some modicum of decency. I typed: If she’s a great person, you really shouldn’t let things go with her so easily.

Wise words. More importantly, honest words, and I meant them. I really did. I don’t know if it was my advice or not, but he continued dating her. Meanwhile, we continued g-chatting everyday, both of us trying to ignore the palpable tension that was still very much present. About a month passed, before he asked me to go get ice cream with him during our lunch break.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but I was so attracted to him at that point, I couldn’t help it. I was legitimately smitten, 6.9 or not. Still, I am no home wrecker. Well, not really. He admitted that things were rocky again with the girlfriend and that he had been developing uncertain feelings for other people. I thought to myself, “Of course there are problems! You have been flirting with the temp for two months now.” But I kept my mouth shut. My heart was fluttery.

We sat at the beach gazing at dolphins, while we discussed work, politics, his preference for Ben, and my fondness for Jerry. He asked if this was a date. I laughed and said, “No. Three things are preventing this from being a date: First, you did not pick me up in BMW. Second, we are not on a hot-air balloon ride. Third, you have a girlfriend.”

We both laughed; the whole thing was kind of lovely. Two days later, he g-chatted me at home: “Things are over. Mark your calendar – we’re going to start dating.”

We had our first date the following Monday. His hair was a mess at arrival, but I was still enamored. It was nice to feel something for a boy other than disgust, pity, or rage. We dined, then drank, then fell asleep together – all very PG. I definitely made some dating gaffes, like admitting to him that I didn’t think I was very special.

Ladies, no matter what, please don’t ever admit to a guy that you are insecure – especially at the outset. You must exude pure, unadulterated confidence in EVERYTHING, including but not limited to your body, your job, your mustache, your herpes, your cankles… everything. Women hate insecurity in men, so it only makes sense that guys feel the same.

Despite my gaffes, he asked me for a kiss, and held my hand as we fell asleep, watching Wet Hot American Summer. It was perfect.

The next day, he left on a business trip to New York and promised he’d call. New York came and went, but I didn’t hear from him. I was worried, naturally. Actually – I was confused as hell. I do not get rejected, at least not by someone who is a six-point-fucking-nine.

I contacted him a week later (via g-chat, of course), to ask him if he wanted to grab dinner.  He replied that he was really busy with work and other various projects.  I waited a few days. No word. So, I g-chatted him again to say “hi,” only to have him blow me off for drinks with his roommate.  I am ashamed to admit it, but there was a third (thankfully, final) g-chat attempt. Since I was already an accomplished gold medalist in dating Special Olympics, I decided to just go for it. I typed: “Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé entre nous?”

Yes. At the time, typing in another language seemed the smartest and safest decision. I was so afraid of the looming rejection that I thought it might be more bearable in a foreign language.

It was not.

He confessed that he was really sorry, but he had decided that he wasn’t over his ex, after all. However, he said he felt guilty and terrible because he’d blown his chances with me.

Though he also speaks French, he wrote that in English. I was pummeled. If he had been a hot guy, I would have understood, but to have that crushing blow come from someone who wasn’t even conventionally attractive— I was truly baffled and offended. Okay. And sad.

A week later, while stalking his Facebook profile, I saw that he had updated his relationship status with some new girlfriend, some girl that I had never seen before and who was, even more alarmingly, not his ex-girlfriend. Obviously, I clicked on her profile, but it was set to private. The only sliver of public information revealed that she belonged to the New York City network. Hmmm.

They have been together ever since, and I have been excommunicated. No more g-chats, hand holding or shyly awkward glances. My temp job ended soon after, and I realized that I would probably never see him again. I felt sorry for myself, but also peeved. It was a rejection that only occurred because I had to extract it out of him. He was too spineless to tell me the truth, even though I really did deserve better. We were friends at one point after all. We didn’t even sleep together. Is it still considered a one night stand if he only gets to first base?

This is what technology is doing to society. Even rejections have become half-assed and lame. And I always thought that forgetting to putting the toilet seat down was the epitome of male indolence.

I still peruse his Facebook profile occasionally. I feel a pang of hurt each time I see them together in their photos. I can’t help but wonder if she makes him weak in the knees.

Thanks so much for reading my Hong Kong story. I appreciate all the notes, e-mails and reblogs. 

This is just one of the many stories from my hypothetical memoir-in-progress that is coming along very slowly, to say the least. 

[And if you’re interested, a new story begins next Wednesday! :)]

<3 Jen

“Oh my God.” He slapped his forehead.  ”It is Cyril.”

“What? Cyrus?”

“No, Cyril.”

“Oh, I’m Jen. Enchante.”

“Yes it is.”

I thought he was beautiful and all, but it was really impossible to think about anything beyond this chance meeting and the current conversation. I was unshaven and already in need of shower No. 2 even though shower No. 1 had taken place just hours ago. As unlikely and unbelievable as it sounds, I was just really enjoying our conversation and his company. Salacious behavior was not on my mind. He told me that he had to meet a friend at 3 p.m., then asked, “What are we going to do next?” I smiled. Clearly, being charming was effortless for him. He took me to the park, where we lounged near a fountain that spritzed water at us. It was refreshing in the scalding heat. 

Our conversation flowed in and out. At some points, I couldn’t help but imagine living in Paris/Korea/Los Angeles with him, while at others, I devised easy segues to get the hell away from him.

It was obvious. We were different people with different thoughts and paths; still, our reasons for being abroad were the same and it seemed like we both recognized that. It was unnerving, because he was exactly the unavailable guy that I always seem to want, yet his heart seemed so in unison with mine—we shared the same uncertainty and longing for answers that I had been searched for during those last six weeks. 

He said he wanted to be a painter and that he he had even written a book. When I asked about what, he told me, “Someone like you. Someone lost, seeking answers.” He explained that the only reason he was able to go abroad was because he was single— no attachment to anything. He proclaimed, “Youth is the time to be happy.” 

That was the second time this year that someone said that to me— equated happiness with being single. Am I crazy for thinking that one can be attached and happy? Travelling solo can be incredible, but sharing those experiences with someone you connect with— isn’t that better?

He smiled as I talked about time running out for women as we got older. “It’s all bullshit,” he responds. “Women can have babies whenever they want. There is no clock. It’s all commercially-crafted social pressure—men and women are the same— they both want to be free and they both want to be attached, equally.”  I wondered if it was naïveté or wisdom that had shaped his views. He seemed smart, but then again, this was only hour two of knowing him.  

He was also dark. Behind that lovely exterior was a jaded, hard view of life. I nudge him, “You’re too young to be so dark.” He shrugged then accused me of the same. I couldn’t disagree.  

In the heat, I began to feel the familiar symptoms of attraction; giddiness, nerves, and anxiety bubbled in my mind. Still, I remained strangely at ease. After all, our (tenuous) relationship had an expiration date— six more hours. Realizing this definite end was grounding.

The only problem was that he was still getting more gorgeous by the second.

On love, he shared with me that all he wanted was someone he could talk to. I told him that I just wanted someone who would make me laugh on demand. He replied, “That’s impossible.”

I explain to him that he’s not funny, so he couldn’t possibly understand. That he made me look hilarious, when I was only mildly funny at best. We laughed together.

He forced me to speak French for a while, which slowed the conversation down considerably. I made a mental note to become fluent. There was nothing I wanted more. I told him about the film Before Sunrise, which revolves around a Parisian and an American who meet in Vienna by chance and spend the entire day talking and kind of connecting with one another. I hesitated to use the words, falling in love, mostly because it makes guys run for the hills. Also, I sometimes doubt the validity of love, in general. I shyly commented that our encounter remind me of the couple in the film. He wrote the movie down in his phone and promised that he would watch it, just for me.

There was silence as we watched each other through tinted sunglasses. Actually, I watched him; I had no idea what he was looking at.

“I hate your sunglasses,” escapes from my mouth. “I can’t tell where your looking.” He grinned and pointed at me. There was at least 10 minutes of this back and forth. My heart started to palpitate wildly when he moved in to sit closer to me. Suddenly, it hit me that he might actually be attracted to me, even in my sad disgusting state.  

Instantly, I became unduly self-conscious—dripping with shyness and nerves. I didn’t feel confident at all. I felt smelly and sweaty, mostly, because I was. 

His face moved in slow motion next to mine. Inches away and I started giggling like a madman and turned my face away. I kept my sunglasses on and told my heart to shut the fuck up. I needed to be calm and collected. I needed to exude the same confidence I had that time my best friend and I bypassed the line at Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard and walked in like we had business there. I tried to concentrate, but I spotted my salient rash, and I started to panic, at the thought of him seeing or accidentally touching it. In other words, I quickly turned mildly retarded.  He teased, “You are so Korean. I see it in you. You are acting so Korean. So shy.”

I quickly told him to shut the fuck up.

He corrected himself immediatley, “Oh, no, you are an American. I see.”

That made me laugh. Oh God. He was funny. Shit. From my peripheral vision, I admired his entire outfit: white shirt, jeans, Lacoste shoes, Diesel watch. I had never been with someone who dressed so well and was so God-damn beautiful. He looked like a fucking model or something, especially in those sunglasses. I realize that I had forgotten what he looked like without them on.  

The reverie ended when he glanced at his watch and told me it was 2:30. I looked away and tol him that he was going to be late meeting his friend. He didn’t budge.

Our faces were practically touching. I couldn’t handle this tension, as a kiss seemed inevitable. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to kiss him, I just…. hadn’t kissed anyone in almost eight months, and I didn’t know what this was, so I got up to leave.

He gets up and starts to follow, but instead of walking, he grabbed my arms and pulled me into a quick embraced and put his lips on mine. I know how horribly cheesy that sounded, but it was horribly cheesy and deliriously romantic.

I sighed deeply, because while it was a surprise, I still wanted it very badly.

We made out in the park for five minutes in front of all the conservative Hong Kong patrons who were probably reviled by these young foreigners and their exhibitionist habits. I pushed him off me and took some deep breaths. He pulled me in again, but pulled his head back so I couldn’t kiss him. I grab his head and forced our lips to meet. I had never kissed anyone like this, like we were starving for each other’s mouths.

But I kept pushing him off. For some reason, It felt wrong to do this in the park. Actually, the whole thing felt wrong—maybe it was because we weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend.  Maybe it was because I wasn’t completely sure that his name was Cyril. Was it Cyrus?

Finally we started walking, hand in hand, stopping every few seconds to revert back to sucking face. God it felt good. I told him that I needed a shower, and he asked if I wanted any company. I laughed and say that was an absurd idea. And anyways, he had to meet his friend, right?  I assured him that we would meet later and head to the airport together..

He kept on insisting that he wanted to shower with me. I laughed and kept on saying no.

“I never do this. I’m not this kind of girl,” I said.

“I’ve never done this before, either,” he replied. 

I didn’t believe him. I still don’t. I imagined any number of beautiful women sacrificing limbs and their first-borns for just a glimpse of him. 

I especially didn’t believe him when he embraced me dramatically and reassured me, “You don’t owe me anything. I don’t owe you anything. Like you said, we have six hours together. Just go with it. Stop thinking so much.”

In America, this was the familiar language of one-night stands and poor-quality romance. In Hong Kong, it felt oddly the same, even coming a Frenchman. I didn’t like that. Not that I was thinking marriage and babies, but to have that option so quickly denied… was insulting. I began to suspect that I was little more than a quick lay during a layover. 

My romantic experience has taught me to avoid these circumstances.  On the other hand, he was absolutely right. What future was there? We would be thousands of miles apart in less than 24 hours. Even the Before Sunset lovers had to say good-bye at dusk, and my mind didn’t always make the smartest decisions.  I had been thinking too much. The results of thinking too much in Los Angeles made me burn out. Thinking too much was bad. 

We made it back to the guesthouse, where I swiped my key to get into a semi-private hallway. I assumed he would drop me off at my door like a proper gentleman and be on his merry way. Instead, he threw me against the wall, lifted up my skirt, and started to grope me. He began to kiss my sweaty forehead and neck, even though I begged him not to— I was so dirty. But the more I protested about my uncleanliness, the more he kissed me. Of course, he remained perfectly dry and smelled like apples throughout. I started to resent how gorgeous he was.

I kept on pushing him off me and insisting that I had to leave, but he just kept me against the wall. I began to feel helpless, because I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to resist this seduction. My brain was off and my body was at war with itself. God, everything about him was delightful. He felt strong against my body, and I won’t lie— there was  a definite carnal urge to undo his pants, take off his shirt, and go at it in the hallway like wild animals, but another part of my body was screaming—” NONONONONONOOOOO!!!”

In the blink of an eye, I panicked and suddenly began to fear: He’s so strong; he could do anything to me… Anything…Is he going to rape me? He could. I don’t even need to let him into my room; it could happen in this very hallway. And I am completely powerless.  Terror hits as I pushed him off—hard— and breathlessly exclaimed, “You’re kinda freaking me out. “

Silence, before his breathing subsided and he finally let go. He looked at me with sad, scared little boy eyes.

“No I’m not,” he whimpered..

“Yes you are. Look. I am so attracted to you, but I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I can’t. I can’t. I just… don’t want to.”

“Okay. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t. I don’t want to make you do anything. I just thought…”

More silence.

“Now things are weird, why did you say that?” he lamented.

“Yeah, things are kinda weird now. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I…”

He seemed genuinely concerned and uncomfortable, while I remained flustered. It was horribly awkward. All the intense passion from moments before coagulated into awful discomfort. As soon as I realized that he wasn’t going to rape me, I pretty much fell in love with him completely. There I said it. There’s nothing like misreading an attempted rape to make a girl fall for you.

But it was too late. He was already walking toward the exit. I meekly called out after him, “Do you still want to go the airport together?” He turned around and flashed his grin, “Of course.”

I walked into my room and took another scalding hot shower. I wondered why I didn’t want to sleep with him. It could have been incredibly romantic, in spite of my rash.  I have had less than meaningful encounters in my past; why would this one be different?  I didn’t really know the answer, except that a part of me didn’t want to be the person that settled for unavailable people anymore, no matter how extraordinary the circumstance. I had never been more attracted to anyone before, and yet, it was the first time that I had exercised some kind of restraint. 

I was growing up, maybe. Perhaps, I valued my body more… or maybe a part of me didn’t want to add another number to my list of temporary trysts… or maybe we were just in different places in our lives.

It was in shower No. 2 that I realized that I would never see him again. We hadn’t exchanged any information except our first names, and I was still only 80 percent certain about his being Cyril.

I waited for him at reception for about 15 minutes that night but he never showed up. It wasn’t really a surprise, yet I was more emotional that I expected. I didn’t give him my gently used flower or anything, but I did open up to him. He was the first person in two months that I had shared an intimate conversation with. I was vulnerable with him. We didn’t have sex, but I still felt abandoned and rejected.

At the airport, while waiting at my gate, I saw him pass by on an escalator. He was listening to his iPod and didn’t see me. I wondered why he was in my airport wing, since his was located at the other end of the building. Was he looking for me? Wishful thinking, right? I didn’t call out to him or chase after him. If fate wanted us to be together, we would get another chance.

Two hours later, I told fate to fuck off.

I took Cyril’s advice and “stopped thinking.” I simply did what made me happy. I ran over to his gate ten minutes before my own boarding. A simple goodbye would have to suffice. One final stare off to commemorate this bittersweet story: a little beautiful memory on a day that didn’t really count, since technically, I would live it again in a few hours. I have always wanted to live in a movie. I’m an actress, after all.

I searched frantically through the crowd of Air France passengers, but was unable to find the gorgeous Frenchman— that was my fate, I guess.

I hurried back to my own gate, which had already begun boarding. I was the last person ont he plane. And my heart was beating rapidly again— those familiar pangs of regret, restlessness and confusion swirled in my head.

I was still the same self—I thought I could be a minimalist, an ascetic, foregoing love, self-doubt and other unmentionable insecurities. In Nepal, it was too easy to live outside of yourself and make others your priority.

But real life is having to live with yourself, reconcile your selfishness and self-absorption, and understand that it’s all okay. And even when you think you have everything figured out, something happens to tell you that you were completely wrong. 

Fourteen hours later, I arrived in Los Angeles on September 2. Just like that, September 2 in Hong Kong vanished into oblivion.