All My Single Ladies

Well, I guess it’s time to address the elephant in the room. 

I’m sure it’s the biggest question on everyone’s mind at this point.

Do I have a crush on someone.

Do I - to use the technical term - like-like someone. 

And the answer is yes. 

I do.

He goes to my church, is in University, likely does not have a firm commitment to God, and touched my hand the other day (for longer than a handshake, which is the usual method of greeting here - vastly preferable to the Three-Kiss Method, which gives me vertigo). 

It. Was. Awesome.

Aside from proving that I'm not suited to life on this planet, this summary should also put to rest the incredibly stupid question of whether I could like a Congolese/black guy.   

No. 

I find them utterly repellent; it's a major reason I chose to come to Africa and be surrounded by them.  Life is a daily struggle.  Thanks for asking. 

And because I like to go the extra awkward mile, I confess that I’m also crushing on a married man (and his wife).  It’s more that I love how he loves his wife and baby, how thankful he is to God for them.  I guess this is not something I should admit to, but as the truth is meant to set us free - I also had this ‘crush’ my old youth pastor (and his wife).  If there was any hint of either of these men flirting with any other women, the attraction would disappear...

Forget it.  Just keep praying for the salvation of the homewrecking missionary in Central Africa. 

If you’re wondering what inspired this, it was dinner with two young couples talking about how they met, fell in love, and made a commitment to keep loving each other. 

“They’ve put ideas into her head,” Pastor groused to his long-time South African friend on the way home after church.  I suppose I should be grateful he restrained himself from saying her silly female head.  I shouldn't be surprised; he had been singularly unsympathetic when I'd complained to him earlier that the males in his congregation were both too young and too smart to date me. 

“If it was a couples’ thing, why did they even invite you?” he demanded, likely terrified that I’d approach him in three months with a baby bump and sheepish look: I was just trying to integrate... 

The poor man’s earnest desire is to change people’s lives by the gospel of Christ, and this would be somewhat derailed by the evidently un-immaculate conception of the ‘white’ girl who runs the projector sometimes.  I imagine his daily prayers go something like this:  I want to love, serve, and inspire with the help of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Thank you, Lord, for my loving wife and 1.67 children; help me take responsibility where it is due and teach others to do the same.  Please, please, please help the white people in my church not do stupid things.  Why do they even come here; don’t they have their own countries to ruin with gay marriage and the ordination of women??

Actually, Carrottop and BFG had invited me to their dinner party out of sheer pity – and I’m thankful because, while I would have preferred to be alone, my mind is not the best place for me to be right now.  

I was lulled into a false sense of contentment by peanut butter and the imminent arrival of lasagna, but should have known things would go downhill when I lost miserably at Settlers of Catan.

When after-dinner conversation moved to their respective love stories, I hoped desperately that I wouldn’t cry.  This is not sarcasm – my sense of emotion is high and my eyes are unruly traitors when it comes to love or others’ tears.  It’s not that I’m desperately regretting my decision to wait for a tall, dark, and handsome disciple of Christ (yet); it’s that it is a joy to me when people recognise how much they need each other, how special it is that one loved the other and it was reciprocated, that they chose each other to have and to hold until death does them part. 

This isn’t a very common conversation in Indian culture (at least of the previous generation) - where marriages seem to be more about convenience and kids than each other – so I rejoice in it every time.

I busied myself with my phone to keep up my facade of cool evil. 

Eventually, they turned their gimlet eyes on me. 

Have you ever had a nightmare set on abandoned carnival grounds?  A rickety, creaking Ferris Wheel swaying in the chill wind, clown faces leering from the shadows, carnival music skipping and then bop-bop-bopping to an ominous silence?  Happily married couples with enthusiastic, slightly pitying smiles approaching, arms outstretched, some holding babies, all chanting, Why aren’t you married?  Are you dating anyone?  Do you want us to find you someone?  Just think: you'll be able to talk about how much you love him on Facebook!  And then come the awkward naked pregnant pictures.  Honey, you haven't lived until you've shared blistering indictments of circumcision / opponents of public breastfeeding / co-sleeping with holy fervour!  Join us... 

“Whom are you texting?” they asked archly.  I snapped out of one nightmare and into another. 

Defiantly, to prove that I was the most single of singles, I introduced them to bae – otherwise known as Tetris.