No progress. Enough whine. Reading and writing after quality time with The Spouse tonight.
I so did not want to work out last night. I kept thinking about all the errands I had to do since my life began 35 years ago. But I decided to be selfish and devote two hours to the body: cardio followed by arse-busting weight-training. And you know what? I found religion.
”I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in Filipinos.”
This remark, in response to my question about dating, drudge up old memories. Back in junior high, I was interested in one of my classmates, S. I vividly remember the scene: we were at her house, outside, chatting on the curb. Day was warm but not uncomfortably so with some cloud cover.
We got on the topic of dating and, as barely teens will do, discussed our friends dating lives (or lack of). Out of the blue, she looks at me and says, “I don’t believe in interracial dating.”
I felt hurt. Not devastated, but more let down than anything else. And very, very confused. I had not been aware of my ethnicity for a long time. Being very tall (at the time), awkward, and wearing glasses, yes, but not being mainstream. That remark would make me keenly aware of my hair, my skin color, and my eyes for the rest of my days.
The remark about Filipinos is not quite the same. I understand dating preferences: that person is not attracted to Asians in general. (Personally, I think it’s his loss, but that’s my opinion.) But it’s another example of how difference, and being different, has its roots in one’s path to adulthood, namely on judging what is this and that.
The Zen mind is a child’s mind, wondering and opening. Sigh. I need to do more zazen.
(Image found on the Internet and all rights belong to its owners.)