On Burning & Being Indoctrinated By One's Uterus

“Ohfooh ma, I don’t even want to get married!” The heroine vehemently exclaims, burring her milky, doe eyed face into her hands while the eternally maternal Kirron Kher figure pats her on the back going on about a certain boy who would be appropriate. Indeed, this is the very foundation of most of the Bollywood movies I’ve watched this week. However, even when the heroine craved to see the face of her hero – as when Kajol scampered about in her famous white outfit in the rain during the first song of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge – she eventually found him. So I guess someone always wins in these scenarios.

The issue, I find, is when women feel almost reserved about admitting that finding a hero falls into one of their life goals. As if, post-bra-burning, it is something to feel shy about. We whisper it to each other in our accounting lectures and throw hints by posting links to the songs we love from abovementioned cliché movies. Yet, I always feel as if I’m disappointing my gender by admitting to this. I mean, you barely see a male figure blogging about finding a lovely little Bindi-Binki-BCom-Babe to settle down with. So why should females say the same?

Personally, I wonder if it has something to do with the casual ability we have to carry life within our bodies for 9 months. We’ve quite possibly been indoctrinated by our own uterus – feeding us subliminal desires through hormonal changes. Furthermore, this organ will not be ignored, kicking us from within whether in anger form not being used through monthly cramps – or lashing out by a kicking baby when used. We can’t win – can we? But that’s another story. I digress.

Refreshingly, a few days ago, I read a line from The Carrie Diaries by Candace Bushnell, where Carrie asks herself whether there is anything wrong with her wanting to be with a man, and further questions the fact that she knows she would forever want to be with a man. In juxtaposition, we have the perpetual ‘I don’t need someone to rescue me. I have a job, an apartment, my own life. I don’t need any hero.’

I think the flaw there is that, in one frame of mind, Carrie seeks something of a lifelong friendship. She doesn’t necessarily want to be ‘saved’ from her invisible demons, but rather looks to perfect her otherwise adequate existence. However, when we begin to look at a partnership as hero and sidekick, the contention begins and we find ourselves mumbling uncomfortably that we don’t really care about being married because it would threaten our independence and sense of self-constructed confidence.  

In a world feeding off a buffet of love stories of every flavour, portion and appearance, how do we know whether we just want to order off the menu? Naturally, it is impossible to try each and every dish – and most are perfectly content to dine alone. But, this is about the awkward ones approaching the buffet, completely overwhelmed and confused about how to perceive all that lies before her.

The truth is, there is no definitive answer as with most things. I’ve observed that my opinion of the entire scheme of things changes with each pop culture item I am spoonfed and with each glace of Mr. Darcy that makes my heart stop. 

Indeed, the malleable temperament of opinion is what keeps relationships and our perception of reality in flux. 

The passage of time slowly etches away at our wood-hearts; some initials are engraved, some lightly written – and there are some names waiting to be brought to the surface.  

Edit:

In all honesty, I felt completely ashamed to have written this post. No, rather, to have published this post and I would feel far too shy to share it on a more public platform. It is completely soaked in the bittersweet taste of irony that, as mentioned above, I would feel ashamed to shout this from the rooftops. This all in a quest to protect my future felicity, for I know this would readily terrify any and every male who were to read this post. Naturally, you would all assume me to be some positively hormone driven lunatic whose sole purpose in life would be to get you to book out the infamous Kendra Hall.
But, I pray, do not flatter yourself.