WHATEVER IT IS, IT IS

The other day in conversation it was established that this blogger qualifies as "mei git-jo-fan, loh". Meaning that whatever my actual circumstance, I have not succeeded in talking a female person into tying the knot.
Which, by itself, qualifies as a mark of sheer insanity.
A woman agreeing to marry me, that is.

I am NOT what you are looking for. Though a mature man, I am not settled. My habits are not standard and suburban in tone. My reading matter does not reverberate for most. My lifestyle is distinctly outside the norm for my age. I am stubborn to the point of pig head.
I'm not boasting about it, it isn't a great achievement.
But it is just the way things turned out.
It was probably inevitable.


I am, in too many ways, an unsuitable man.


Your parents would be quite upset if you and I were to associate with each other. Even if, hypothetically speaking, you had already divorced mister right and decided that you could not stand another moment of televised sports or handbag shopping, and were never going to become the doctor or lawyer that your parents always wanted you to be.
Or marry; they probably really wish that you'd marry one.
It would give them something to puff about.

Not that I'm, dangerous, please understand, but none of your relatives would ever consider me prime date material. Under any circumstance.

I am not a successful industrialist with status, connections, and a Beemer.

Not a promising young grad with prospects of a career.

Nor amazingly talented, likely to go far.


I'm quite okay with that.


The great fear of any single man is a relationship with an entire family. Not just the person of lovable qualities herself, but her snooty cousins and her possibly delinquent nephews, as well as the vulgar aunt, or the completely insane elderly relative who must be respected or else all hell will break loose.

I suspect that that fear works both ways. I am pleased to report that my all of relatives are located somewhere else entirely, and there aren't very many of them. To the best of my knowledge, they are all more or less sane. Some of them are quite brilliant. But again, I stress the distance: over a thousand miles away, a few considerably more than that.


Returning once more to hypothesis: if anyone were to go out to dinner or dancing with me, the chances of haphazardly bumping into nosey parkers from my side of the equation, for whom certain things might need discreet explaining, and whose confidentiality might require careful and diplomatic assuring, is so slim as to approximate zero, even a negative number. There are no cousins who would spill any beans, no uncles and aunts residing in any part of this city that would make association a secretive affair. There isn't a nephew or niece in this city who will ever breathlessly report that "cousin Bongo" has a tomato.
"We should hire a private eye, and possibly warn her of his regrettable tendencies."

Any dancing on tabletops will not be spoken of at my family events.

Lampshades can be worn without fear of repercussion.

Champagne drunk out of a shoe?

No one will know.



At some point I should like to take full advantage of this. Every family has at least one eccentric uncle, who is known to be highly individualistic, rather likable despite his peculiarities, charming at times, and not precisely the most social of creatures. A man who prefers to live his own life outside of the normal orbit, in a town or city where no other close kin can keep an eye on him. Or breathlessly report his latest misbehavior.

A person of adult years and habits, who relishes his privacy.

Who sometimes does risky things, which we will imagine.

But we don't know, because he won't talk about it.



It would appear that I am presently my kinfolks' most likely candidate for the "eccentric uncle" position.

Not something I would ever have expected many moons ago.

But I've probably had sufficient practice.

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