A Hiatus from Husband Hunting II
Bittersweet Honey
‼️ DISCLAIMER ‼️
One of my less significant yet enjoyable pastimes is giving people (often men) nicknames they will never know of. I create them based on where a person lives, what they do for work, or perhaps even something jarring they have said or done. In the course of my writings, you will see many nicknames highlighted with an asterik (*).
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Herein lies the story of the first time I fell victim to a stoic man. A baptism by fire in a certain way. It is a canon event that most women must experience at least once. It builds grit.
Eighteen. That’s where it started. I started my computer science major at UGA, so I had something to occupy me. The thoughts started faintly at first:
“I should try to meet someone. After all, Mom was married at this age.”
As time progressed, I met with a potential love. His name was Honeywell*. I met him through my favorite uncle, who became like a father to me. Honeywell checked my boxes at the time: charismatic, popular, gainfully employed, educated, tall, and religiously on the same page. He was Nigerian and Igbo like myself (not a necessity for me, but a plus). What wasn’t there to like?
His lack of emotional availability. That’s what there wasn’t to like. Much time was invested exchanging messages and laughs to and fro, sometimes trivial but many times meaningful. They meant something to me, at least. And I thought the same of him. Never a call. The one time he did, he said it was an accident. He found it hard to say he liked me. It was as if I had to drag it out of him.
How could one be so fickle? I would ask when he would make out time to see me, and he always had a reason that was valid to him alone. I was a broke student, so I wasn’t going to him. (Sidenote: we eventually did meet by happenstance because of a man named Grandpa*. More on him later.) My concerns were met with the dismissive response commonly proffered to many women: that I was being “too emotional”. This endeavor was doomed. Ultimately a nonstarter that I allowed to drag on a couple years on and off until late 2019. I’m still embarrassed to this day that I went out that sad. As I put these words to paper again ⸺despite having written extensively in my personal journals, which are far more crass and unhinged⸺ I recognize my resentment lingers.
The voice was there, but remained at a place, not getting too close but still making its presence known:
“Honeywell didn’t work out because he just didn’t like you enough.”
Though Honeywell wasn’t someone I dated, the lack of reciprocation stung, and I felt small and insignificant. I was not the right type of woman that would make him want to commit, so that must have meant I wasn’t good enough period. I struggle with these feelings even now. It took me a while to unpack why I felt this way.
Usually, when we talk about objectification between men and women, we primarily see it in a sexual context. Men see women as objects for sexual gratification. While that is a common case, I found that it can be the other way as well. We just don’t call it what it is: objectification. I can admit now that I was vain and superficial for some of the things I liked about him. He was a rarity, almost like a collector’s item.
I spoke with my friend Marcus about how I felt, and he said I coveted Honeywell. Like he was something I could pin down and own. At first, I was taken aback by that; I only ever heard of coveting in the Bible. A man coveted another’s wife or possessions, among other things. A woman coveted another’s husband or children. It was disgusting, greedy, and dark. And I could never be any of those things. At least, not in my own eyes. The more I sat with myself and my heavier thoughts, the more truth I uncovered behind what Marcus said. Honeywell was the object of my affection, but still an object nonetheless. I romanticized the idea of him without having enough knowledge of his substance. So when he wouldn’t behave the way I envisioned, I would be upset. While he had flaws of his own, I accept it was unfair of me to have those ideas to begin with.
The second, arguably more profound, layer to the Honeywell matter is this: I was wildly insecure in myself. How else can I explain letting a man be this unintentional and inconsistent for that long? Or getting my emotions involved despite the lack of action? Or getting got with a false sense of intimacy? I struggled deeply with my self-esteem at this time in my life, which left the barriers to entry to my heart abysmally low. Therefore, forcing a relationship became my top priority. I didn’t feel worthy of him, and his actions showed he shared that sentiment.
Since the Honeywell fiasco, I have made it my mission to beg God to save me from the clutches of nonchalant men and people at large. I don’t wish the experience on anyone. They know that they either don’t give a damn or don’t have the emotional ability to and yet watch others contort themselves to please them. Not necessarily because they are bad people, but because they are emotionally-stunted people. But the onus is not entirely on Honeywell and those like him. My experience of him taught me to increase the standards of those I call friends, both platonic and potentially romantic. Why deal with anyone you feel you must beg for time or attention?
No one can change on a whim, they have to be moved to do so. Perhaps if we express how their aloof attitude impacts us, it will give them pause to reconsider. It requires balance. We can help to the best of our ability, but alas, we are not rehabilitation centers for others. In the end, it is our job to know when to say when, close shop, and invest back into ourselves. I am learning to apply this to all my relationships. Dealing with people that are “too cool” leaves you wondering what they truly think of you, and the overthinking that results is a waste of energy. Life is too short to question one of its simplest, sweetest pleasures: genuine human connection.
I implore you to use my vulnerability to take stock of your own relationships, and find only those who consciously seek you out. If you can’t, it is much safer to be alone for a season. I hope you stay a while as I continue my husband-hunting series.