Musings on the Nature of Attraction

[Look, look, I’ve still got an hour and a half left until December! …Yeah, I’m probably setting a bad example.]

Lately I’ve been feeling pretty skeptical about whether any kind of attraction actually exists independent of human creation. This likely stems from one of the classes I’m taking this semester – Sexuality in Western Culture – in which we’ve discussed sexuality and gender as social constructs. This idea immediately resonated with me. Being asexual and wtfromantic, I’d already been feeling dubious regarding sexual and romantic attraction. But once I started thinking about social construction and learned behaviors, I started to wonder about other forms of attraction as well. For example, the only type of attraction I experience with any consistency is aesthetic attraction. One day I thought to myself: Would I even find people aesthetically attractive if I hadn’t grown up surrounded by social cues suggesting that attraction as a “normal” human response? Does anybody know how to appreciate a quality film, beautiful music, good food, an engaging conversation, or even another person, until they’ve been conditioned by their surroundings?

I’m not really trying to make a definitive argument either way, because I myself am still not totally convinced one way or the other. However, I will readily acknowledge that just because attraction – in all of its depth and complicatedness – might be socially constructed, that doesn’t make it any less powerful. The same goes for sexuality, in fact. I wouldn’t dream of denying that people experience all kinds of attraction in many different variations, I myself among them. I believe that these thoughts and feelings are valid, whether they are inherent in human beings or not. But I do see great danger in assuming that any type of attraction is inherent in all people. Let me use my example of aesthetic attraction again. From what I can tell, aesthetic attraction seems to mean something different to every person who experiences it. It prompts different reactions, different responses. There may be similarities in our descriptions of it, enough that we can label our experiences with the same word, but the differences are still there. Deciding that everyone experiences one type of attraction in the same way – or experiences that type of attraction at all – means ignoring the copious variety of legitimate experiences that people actually have, as well as devaluing them.

That said, I think that the potential use in looking at attraction as socially constructed is that it reminds us that attraction is not innately the same for every person. Each person learns differently, right? Nobody is exactly alike, and thus, expecting everyone to fit into the same model regarding attraction (or relationships) is rather unfair and unreasonable.

So it seems to me, then, that the important question is this: Why do people experience or (construct) attraction in the first place? From my brief twenty years of existence and experience, I seem to be slowly concluding that the answer to that question is love. I think that everyone experiences love in some way, whether through family, friendship, or any of the countless kinds of attraction and relationships out there. Of course, love changes in its expression from person to person, from culture to culture. But it strikes me as the underlying force behind all different attractions and relationships. I suspect that people need to love, and to be loved, in some way. As a friend, a teacher, a student, a parent, a sibling, a partner, a pretty face, a great person to have a conversation with. The list could go on and on. We feel attraction because we are searching for love in some form. Love is the root of attraction, is the root of relationships, is the root of the human experience. At least, that seems like a plausible theory to me.

Friendship Break-Ups

So I was browsing Facebook the other day, and I happened to glance at the profile page of an ex-friend of mine. Our friendship effectively ended about a year ago, but I’m still mourning its loss. We had been friends for seven years. She was one of the people I was closest to, and one of the few whom I trusted implicitly. It wasn’t like we had fought over something, or lied to each other, or anything else that typically ends a friendship. With time, of course, we had been slowly drifting apart, but I still considered her one of the most important people in my life. Then she started dating another ex-friend of mine. Then they got engaged. Then she stopped talking to me altogether.

It still hurts – a hell of a lot, actually. When I think about how close we used to be, and how much I used to trust her, it’s like a dull ache in my chest that refuses to go away. That’s not to say I’m despondent, or depressed, or refusing to move on with my life, because that would be irrational beyond measure. However, it’s still a source of some pain whenever I’m reminded of it. As I sat pondering this the other day, something occurred to me: Most people put a much greater emphasis on the end of a romantic relationship than on the end of a friendship.

I’m still pretty sad over the loss of this friend, but I haven’t told that to anyone because I’m sure most people would think it overdramatic or absurd. About a month after I initially realized our friendship was finished, I also realized that I no longer felt comfortable talking honestly about how upsetting it had been; I felt like I was simply supposed to be “over it.” If I do talk about it now, it’s because someone else mentioned the subject first, and then I’m careful not to sound too emotional about the whole thing. I have this sneaking suspicion, though, that if we had dated instead (especially considering how long our relationship lasted), my not being entirely over her would be a bit more socially acceptable.

I believe that a friendship break-up can be just as painful, if not more so, that a romantic break-up. And maybe this is just my experience, but it seems to me like most people don’t acknowledge that fact. Perhaps they do feel it internally, but they don’t talk about it, and I wish that weren’t the case. I wish it were more acceptable to talk about the loss of a friendship, and how painful and upsetting it can be. It’s devaluing to friendships not to recognize the strong effects they have on the people involved in them. Any relationship that plays such a huge role in your life, especially for such duration, is bound to leave somewhat of a hole in its absence.

How have you reacted to the loss of a friend? Did you feel like you could talk about it? I’d really love to hear other people’s thoughts.

Experimenting with Self-Love

On Sunday I went with a couple friends to a Mary Kay party. I wasn’t particularly interested or excited to go, but I wanted to make sure one of my friends didn’t have to go alone. There ended up being three of us, so I needn’t have worried. We met with a consultant and were taken through the process of washing our faces and applying simple makeup. And we bought stuff, of course.

Despite my low expectations, it turned out to be rather enjoyable. I’d had a rotten morning, which had included getting splashed to the point of dripping while I waited for the bus. I got splashed because it had rained the night before, and when it rains, my bus stop floods and turns the road into a mini-lake. Usually drivers are friendly and will swerve into the turn lane to avoid splashing you; on Sunday, I think they were feeling especially spiteful. Anyway, after spending the morning feeling muddy and furious, it was nice to be able to clean off and make myself feel “pretty.”

At one point during the session, the Mary Kay consultant asked us what kinds of make-up and face-care products we use. For simplicity, let’s call our consultant Mary. My friends all told Mary what kind of make-up they wear (truthfully, they don’t wear a whole lot). I told Mary that I’ve recently stopped wearing make-up. When she asked me why, I said that I want to be able to love myself as I am. I explained that I don’t want to depend on make-up to make me feel attractive; I want to embrace myself and feel comfortable being me.

Mary didn’t say much to me at the time, and we simply moved on with our make-overs. I figured she didn’t really approve of my explanation; after all, her job is to sell beauty products. But I met Mary again today to pick up some face-wash I ordered. She had another consultant with her (let’s call this one Kay). When I arrived, Mary promptly said, “Emily, you have to tell Kay what you told me Sunday about why you don’t wear make-up!” Somewhat bemused, I explained again. Mary smiled the whole time, and once I had finished, she said to Kay, “Isn’t that amazing? She’s only nineteen, and she’s focusing on loving herself! Usually girls tell me they don’t wear make-up because they’re too busy or lazy, but she’s doing it out of self-love!”

It was actually kind of sweet to see how impressed Mary was by my choice, and it definitely made me feel better about what I’m doing. I’ve always had problems with self-esteem – enough, in fact, that they probably warrant their own separate post. When I was in high school, I dyed my hair constantly and wore a ton of make-up because it made me feel prettier. But I started growing out my hair about eighteen months ago (I’ve got a lot of natural color back now), and I stopped wearing make-up this past May. After a lot of thought, I had realized that I wanted to stop trying to change myself. I wanted to learn to feel beautiful without eye-shadow, mascara, or hair-dye.

Anyway. Upon hearing my explanation, Kay remarked that “by the time I was twenty-five, they’d probably get me back.” For a couple seconds, I began to feel tense and uncomfortable. What made her say that? Who was she to judge my decisions? Then I took another look at her. She was in her late forties or early fifties, dressed in a neat beige pants-suit, with her hair done up and her make-up caked on. I wondered what she had experienced in her life, and what kind of choices she had made. And I realized then that Kay could think whatever she wanted, because her thoughts and opinions had no bearing on me or my life. Right then, and right now, I feel good the way I am. That feeling, not the snide comment of a middle-aged Mary Kay saleswoman, is what’s really important.

I left the café where I met them feeling happy and content.

So far, I think this self-love experiment is working for me.

On the Subject of Friendship

[This post is for the 4th Carnival of Aces.]

I’m asexual. From the first moment I read a description of asexuality, I was certain of my asexual identity. However, I have no freaking idea what my romantic orientation is. This used to bother me somewhat, but now it doesn’t. I don’t feel the need to have that aspect of my identity set in stone. I know for certain that I have no interest in romantic relationships, and that’s enough to function with.

But just because I don’t want romance in my life, that doesn’t mean that I don’t want any kind of relationship. I don’t want romance, no. But I do want friendship.

I’ve always wanted friendship, even before I fully realized how much I wanted it. I want close friends, friends who seem to hover in the space between friend and family. I want friends who value our friendship as much as I do, and who will happily put just as much work into our friendship as I will. I want friends who won’t drop me in favor of another relationship, romantic or otherwise, but will strive to maintain our friendship because it is important and meaningful to both of us. I want friends who will share their thoughts and opinions and interests with me, and who will be willing to share my thoughts, opinions, and interests as well. I want to value someone as an integral part of my life, and have them value me in return.

Is this a queer-platonic relationship? I’m not entirely sure. I imagine it could be, and I would be okay with that. It doesn’t matter to me so much that I have a specific name for the relationship. I believe that a relationship is whatever the people involved decide to call it; no one can decide what a relationship is except for the people who are directly involved. Right now, I have at least one friendship that could probably be called queer-platonic, except that we don’t. Maybe we might in the future. The name of the relationship is not as important to me as the relationship itself. Also, many of my friends don’t have the same kind of vocabulary I do.

But truly, I don’t think that any of my friendships have quite reached the level I want them to reach. I have a ton of acquaintances, a lot of friends, and a handful of best friends. Even with my best friends, though, I feel like I’m missing the kind of trust and interdependence I long for.

The closest I’ve gotten, I think, is my relationship with one of my younger sisters. We talk about everything. We share our joys and worries and frustrations and dreams with each other. We watch movies together, listen to music together, sometimes even exchange books or fanfiction recommendations. We have serious conversations about life, in person and by text message. We spend time together in the same room, not talking, just doing our own things and enjoying each other’s company. We randomly hug each other or say ‘I love you,’ for no other reason than because we can. My little sister is probably the one person I feel the closest to right now. I think it helps that I can count on her to be around, since we currently still live in the same house.

Still, I want to be able to count on my friends in such a way. I want to have relationships like the kind I have with my sister, but with people who aren’t related to me by blood – and without being romantic. People put so much weight on romantic relationships, trying to make their romantic partner meet all of their needs in life. Frequently I wish I could take a bit of the intensity and attach it to friendships instead. I’m not asking for one friendship that will replace a romantic relationship; I don’t want to become so dependent on one person. No, instead I’m desperately hoping there are other people out there who feel as I do, who want friendships that mean something. Friendships that will last.

The problem is that I have no idea how to articulate this need. I don’t know how to explain to my closest friends that, maybe, I wouldn’t mind if our friendships were a little bit closer. Part of me fears that, if they’ve never felt that longing for friendship like I have, they’ll relate to it in more familiar terms and end up correlating it with romantic attraction (which it definitely isn’t). Part of me worries that they simply might not be interested in being closer than we already are. I’m terrified that I could lose a friend by attempting to create a deeper bond. And I’ve never handled the loss of a friend – particularly a close friend – very well.

It's probably worth mentioning that I’ve always been rather a solitary person. I like solitude, and I find intense joy in time spent with only myself and my thoughts. But still, I have this need for people – people with whom I can non-romantically share my life. And I’m not sure how to find them.

My Love-Hate Relationship with Romantic Comedies

So I’ve been watching a lot of LGBT films recently. This is because my local library doesn’t carry many of them, and I’m trying to watch as many DVDs through Netflix as I can before they up the price in September and I’m forced to downgrade my plan to streaming only. Oh, the woes of a broke college student.

Anyway. Last week I watched a movie called Gray Matters, starring Heather Graham, Tom Cavanagh, and Bridget Moynahan. The best part of the movie was the spectacular cameo from Alan Cumming. He plays a quirky, sensitive, and very Scottish cabbie who also gets to act a brief scene in drag. But I digress. Gray Matters, while obviously intended to be uplifting in the end, left me feeling somewhat livid. The main character, a lesbian named Gray, is portrayed as moderately dysfunctional; she’s ditzy, demanding, and a bit manic. She lives with her brother, Sam. Both of them are searching for love. One day Sam meets a woman named Charlie, and after one evening out, he proposes and she accepts. Brother, sister, and fiancée all go to Vegas so Sam and Charlie can elope. But the night before the wedding, Gray and Charlie get drunk and end up sharing a kiss. Gray flips out, but in the morning, Charlie doesn’t remember what happens, and marries Sam just as planned.

The rest of the movie is spent with Gray coming to terms with the fact that she’s gay and in love with her brother’s wife. Yes, the plot is completely irrational and utterly improbable. That isn’t automatically a turn-off for me. As long as the characters in a film feel realistic and relatable to me, I can suspend my disbelief enough to enjoy the story. Example: Love Actually is one of my favorite movies of all time, and that movie is CRAZY improbable. That scene with Thomas Sangster running through the airport after Olivia Olson? So unlikely, but so amazing.

No, what pissed me off the most about Gray Matters was the end. I won’t describe it in detail, if anybody out there wants to see the movie. Basically, it ends with the implication that all Gray needs to do is fall in love, and everything will be magically fixed. Even if she’s in love with her brother’s wife, she has to find someone else who’s actually available, and then her whole life will fall spectacularly into place. It is also implied that she needs to accept herself in order to be happy. That part of the message I very much agreed with. But there was a definite hint of, “You’re only accepting yourself if you’ve got a romantic/sexual partner,” that I found annoying and unnecessary.

This week I watched another lesbian romantic comedy called Imagine Me & You and, to my surprise, I completely loved it. Piper Perabo plays Rachel, a woman about to get married to her best friend and fiancé, Hector (the lovely Matthew Goode). At her wedding, as she’s walking down the aisle, Rachel happens to lock eyes with a florist named Luce, played by Lena Headey (who reminds me of a healthier, prettier version of Keira Knightley). It’s love at first sight, and even though Rachel still marries Heck, she spends the entire movie struggling with the strength of her developing feelings for Luce.

I’ll be the first to admit, it’s not any more probable than the events of Gray Matters, or the events of Love Actually, for that matter. In fact, there were a few scenes in Imagine Me & You that distinctly reminded me of Love Actually. But what I really loved about Imagine Me & You was the realness of the characters. Even though the plot was a little unrealistic, I felt like I was watching real people living their lives. They were sympathetic, they handled themselves in logical ways, and I felt a sincere liking for all of them (at least, for the ones you’re supposed to like, anyway). And after all, isn’t real life sometimes a little unrealistic?

Perhaps most importantly, while watching Imagine Me & You, I didn’t feel like I was having a judgement shoved down my throat. I didn’t feel like the message was “you aren’t being ‘the real you’ until you open up to romantic love.” Rather, the sentiment that stuck with me was “love is important and worthy of honoring.” That’s something I can stomach a lot more easily. I much prefer to watch people being true to their feelings than following some predetermined formula for societal normality.

Furthermore, when a movie implies that love is worth honoring, it feels a lot more open to interpretation – as if, whatever type of love you feel or don’t feel, as long as you find happiness in the end, that’s what matters. When a movie implies that you are only being true to yourself if you’re searching for your one true love, well… That’s when I take issue. But it’s likely that different people may have gotten different things out of these two movies than I did. I would be very interested to hear anybody else’s take on the films – or on romantic comedies in general.