I write this as matter-of-factly and as dispassionately as one can imagine.
Evolution and its core principle – the survival of the fittest - is taking its toll on me. I know if I don't perpetuate my genes in the next 5 years, or at least secure somebody to do so with, my substandard genes – namely, the fat one - will be eliminated from the gene pool for good in about 5, 7 years' time.
There were simpler times when people settled. Men settled for that scrub next door, who might be squat, bushy, short, pricky, hairy or all of the above. But there were only so many scrubs to choose from, because globalization hadn't set in. It was a golden era when globalization hadn't commoditised sex and by the same hand killed true love (which, as you know, is supposedly blind thus giving scrubs that one shot at reproduction.) Now, exposed to and excited by the teeming exotic flora flourishing in every part of the world, the global nomad is perfectly disposed to sniff and lick at any flower he so desires. It's fun and in line with the evolutionary best practice of perpetuating one's genes far and wide.
A lot of us are good human beings in many ways: self-sufficient, independent, pay taxes on time, converse coherently without drooling from the sides of our mouths. Some of us can also be fairly attractive in disguise, i.e. in a well-cut dress. Then inevitably, some time, some day, somehow… the clothes come off. Face it. Even if they don't, people these days never wait till they realise that they've ended up with faulty goods, left high and dry with no warranty and when, "goods are non-transferrable and non-refundable." Why? It's not news, but Love Is Dead.
And Eureka, that's it: I am a faulty good. I have The Fat Gene. I am an evolutionary disaster, the carrier of a gene deemed worse than herpes. While I am highly unlikely to be stoned by an angry mob for being fat, I am almost certain to be condemned to keep my gene to myself, to be vulnerable prey to series of unhappy, emotionally-abusive relationships in which men could make do with holes in tree trunks.
I know a lot of women like me. Who are better than me. Who are at better places in their careers, who buy Max Mara dresses like it's This Fashion. But they are united by the condemning factors of being an owner of a flaw - age, weight, unstrategically placed mole, etc - and that of being single, alone and lonely. As such, they tell me "I no longer have any expectations", "Men nowadays only want to get you in bed. Forget about candlelight dinners", "I am desperate in this Sin City, I only want to have some company over the weekends."
It's fucking scary. They - and I - will be left to die alone in due time, like the weakly and sick individuals of any pragmatic herd, pack, flock, tribe.
One of Marius's cheesier breakup lines resound in my head: "You deserve better. I don't want you to keep lowering your expectations for me. "
Do I, really? Bullshit.
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