Today I woke up really, really late: around 1.15 in the afternoon. I lay in bed for a while, staring up at the yellow spirals on my purple ceiling and marvelled at the fact that I had an entire day to do this--just lie there and dream. I haven't dreamt in a long time, there used to be one point when my dreams were so vivid, so real that I would wake up the next day still half ensconsed in my dream, thinking about it for the rest of the day. But now, when I get home so late, I'm usually exhausted by the time I get into bed and my sleep is dreamless.
You can tell a lot about people by the way they sleep. I usually sleep curled up, in foetal position, my knees almost touching my chin. But these days, I sleep on my stomach, half sprawled, half tucked in. Sleeping alone has its advantages, I have only a single bed and I'm used to my "happy spot", the one part of my bed and my pillow where I'm instantly transported into dreamland. The couple of nights I have spent with other people have been uncomfortable, because I don't really want a pair of limbs next to mine when I'm sleeping, I don't really enjoy having a warm body next to mine. I like my space when I'm asleep and I don't want to cuddle or whatever.
Sometimes when the guy would try and put his arms around me, somewhere in my subconcious I was aware of this and in the morning I'd always wake up back in my foetal position, pushed against the side of the bed that faced the wall, my entire body language going, "Don't touch me." I suppose it's natural, if I can't give in completely to being held when I'm awake, it's even harder for me to deal politely with that when I'm sleeping.
The game of love involves so much diplomacy, doesn't it? There are all these little games to play, and you have to know the rules. You are in a position of power--at least one of you is, and you know that you have the ability to hurt the other person. That power is slightly intoxicating, you know the other person is probably thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him, you know that if you call someone everyday, not calling them would indicate therefore that you're pissed with them, you know that you have to make an effort, if you want this to work--to know his friends, and he must woo your friends in order to be completely with you. And then you know, when the two of you are alone that there are certain things that just must not be said. Because saying them would shatter everything. I don't know where we pick up these things, certainly there wasn't a "Rules Of Love" class taught at school (though I wish there was!) I don't know how I learnt about the "right things" and "wrong things", I don't know how I learned to flirt, I don't know how I learnt to kiss even.
When I was much younger--around fourteen or fifteen--I was chafing to have a Boyfriend. All my friends did, and their Boyfriends were marvellous creatures, who seemed to be at their beck and call! At the beck and call of my young gawky teen friends who really didn't seem to know what they were doing anymore than I did, whom I had seen weeping and in family dos and at sleepovers--they were my ilk. What then did these boys see in them? What set them apart, lent a star quality to their bodies that I was so evidentally missing? I hung out with them a lot, trying to see if I could put my finger on it. Perhaps if I pitched my voice low like Garima, perhaps if I smiled a lot like Leela, perhaps if I wore the tennis shorts I usually reserved for around the house like Priya--perhaps then the boys would pick up on the fact that I was a star too, someone to be worshipped. But that never happened---the boys I loved looked at me distantly and the only ones who came to my doorstep were the pre-pubescent variety, who only wanted to get a grope in, so that they too could sit around and disect that with their friends. Leela once very wisely told me, "A boyfriend isn't just there for entertainment value, y'know. It's a relationship, and it takes a lot of hard work." But obviously I didn't believe her--she who always had someone to go to the movies with.
And then when I turned 17, the boys did come--but by then the magic had worn off somewhere. I was used to being the "backseater", the one relagated to the backseat of the car while my friend and her boyfriend sat up front and conversed in low murmurs. I was used to being the clown of the group, the one whose statements had everyone laughing while someone said indulgently, "Oh, eM." I was used to being basically in the background, the audience for everyone else, someone who could make conversation on awkward first dates, someone who the Boyfriends respected, someone to be patted on the head and then prompty forgotten about. This new Girlfriend role didn't suit me at all, though I did try. I did everything I had watched my friends doing, I was sulky when I didn't really feel like being sulky, I simpered, I hung off appropriate arms and of course, I dissected my relationships with all my gal pals. But then, we weren't always with friends. And I didn't have a clue what to do when we were alone.
Not much has changed since then (oh my god, how many years since I was seventeen? SIX!!!!) then. Well, I suppose the rough edges have been smoothed out somewhere, but still I yearn. Still I want to be the star. And still I wonder why I'm not.