I’ve been blogging for eight years, so you can imagine that I’ve gained and lost a lot of readers during that time. A few of my readers have been following me for up to six years, which is longer than I’ve known some of my closest friends. In addition to commenting on blogs, I have also gotten to know readers through email, chat messenger, snail mail, and occasionally, in person. Today I’m going to talk about one reader in particular with whom I have done all these things.

I stumbled upon PJ‘s blog in 2004 through the blog of her (real-life) friend, Tatiana. PJ was a very consistent commenter, and seemed to take a genuine interest in my life. After a year of following each other’s blogs, we became penpals. We wrote each other embarrassingly long letters every few weeks, and this lasted for several months. We even sent each other birthday presents by post.
At the time, PJ was studying in Vancouver, but in 2007, she transferred to Ontario for university to be closer to her boyfriend. So I took a bus to her university and finally met her. We spent the afternoon chatting and catching up with each other’s lives as if we’d known each other all along. Although she was not what I expected (I don’t really know what I expected), we got along extremely well and she remains one of the sweetest people I have ever known.
In 2008, she moved in with her boyfriend in UniversityTown, so we saw more of each other. We even had a baking party at her house, and that was when I met her boyfriend.
She had just gotten engaged when I first met her in 2007. I didn’t expect to be included in her wedding, but she ended up inviting me to her wedding shower, bachelorette party, and wedding. At her wedding shower, I also met Tatiana, the girl whose blog I had read in 2004.
In the summer of 2009, PJ had a small wedding of about 100 people in a country club on the outskirts of the City. I felt so honoured to be included in her special day and to be among the most important people in her life.

Looking back, it’s unbelievable how a few comments in 2004 sparked this friendship. Unlike my real-life friends, I am not worried about what my move to Singapore will do to this friendship; I know this friendship will withstand the test of time and distance because we have overcome that already. We did not become friends out of context or convenience. We made a commitment to each other when we were total strangers because we related to each other on a deeper level.

PJ is one of two bloggers I have met in real life. I also email/chat regularly with three people I met through my blog. Most of these relationships span over three years. Considering how important anonymity is for me as a blogger, this is quite a lot. Soon, I will be adding two more to the list, as I will be meeting The Girl is Goosed in Shanghai (and staying with her, in fact!) and hopefully meeting Nashe in Singapore.

These experiences, seeing someone make such a commitment to a total stranger, gives me faith in the human race. It also reaffirms my belief in the power of blogs. Blogging is not just for entertainment. When you share yourself truthfully with the world, the people who respond are ones who identify with you, regardless of background or context. And that can be a very powerful thing.

So I am very grateful to readers who comment, not just for the two-way communication, but because it leaves me in awe of the empathy and sympathy in this world.

Have you ever formed “real” friendships with readers of your blog or blogs that you read?

I arrived to find TM and BPB waiting for me at the bar. TM handed me a colourful striped box.
“What’s in it?” I asked him.
“Read the tag,” he said with a smile.
I flipped over the tag on the box. You drink, right? It read.
“Is this what I think it is? Is it a bottle of Gewurtzraminer?” TM had found out my favourite white was Gewurtzraminer during our Europe trip. I was pleased he remembered.
“I know you love it.”
“I do! Thank you!” I gave him a hug.

I hadn’t seen BPB in a long time, since he had been on exchange in Hong Kong all semester. I turned to him and gave him a hug too.

Moments later, the rest of the party streamed in, including Jasmine and Vin Diesel, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. I had never received flowers from a non-boyfriend before. And the bouquet had white calla lilies, which looked so beautiful and elegant. Of my Europe trip-mates, Jack Sparrow was the only one who couldn’t make it, but he sent me a text: “You are one of my favourite Asians.” Coming from him, that meant a lot.

Dinner was quite pleasant, and although the Italian food was not as good as what we’d had in Italy, it certainly reminded me of it, and that was enough. After dinner, we went to a penthouse lounge nearby for some champagne and astonishing views of the City.

The entire night, I made sure to spend some time talking to each person, and the more I chatted, the more it dawned on me how strong my roots in the City really were. When I’d chatted with PHB a few weeks ago, he had told me to see Singapore as not only a new chapter in my life, but also an opportunity for a fresh start. When I heard that, I was reminded of how excited I used to be when I was a little girl every time I switched schools (which was quite often). Every time I went to a new school, I had the opportunity to re-invent myself. If I wasn’t very popular in my last school, no problem, this time I would make the right friends and start anew.
But it’s different now. I’m not looking for a fresh start. I like who I am here, and I like my friends here. I don’t feel frustrated or suffocated such that I need to get away, that wasn’t the reason I took this job. I took this job because it was a rare opportunity to challenge myself, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss what I have here, who I am in this City. For the first time in my life, I had established roots.

And here I am picking up my life and moving.

I know, I know, I just came back from Europe and I’m traveling again? Well, yes. On what money? Haven’t figured that out yet.

I’m going to Nanjing first, to see my grandma and close relatives. Then I’m going to Shanghai for a week with WAF. If you’ve been following me on Twitter, you’ll know how excited I was to book our hotel in Shanghai, because it’s in a super good location and it was also super cheap – only $180 CAD for four nights! Ridiculous, I know. This is why I love traveling in China, it makes me feel rich even when I have never felt poorer¹.
WAF is excited to go clubbing in Shanghai, and frankly I am too, because I’ve never been to Shanghai without my parents/relatives. I’m sure it’ll be a very different experience to go with a friend, as adults, than my childhood visits. I’m a little anxious though, given WAF‘s track-record on going out. I tried to talk to her about some ground rules for our own protection, but I don’t think I’ll be able to control her. She told me flat out that she is looking to get laid, but what am I going to do if she leaves me alone in the club and goes home with some guy? And how am I going to make sure the guy returns her to me the next morning, alive and relatively unscathed? I am never as trusting around strangers when I’m traveling, especially when I don’t have male companions, but WAF is like a (drunken) train wreck with Daddy Issues stamped on her forehead, just asking for trouble. Luckily we’re only in Shanghai for four days so that limits the number of guys she can sleep with amount of mischief she can get up to.

From Shanghai, we’ll be flying to Hong Kong together, and I’ll be staying with FBB. FBB is the guy I am supposed to marry. My parents and his parents arranged our marriage when I was born (I know, what century are we living in, right?). I have never met him, although I’ve met his parents a few times and I like them. So maybe I will like him too, who knows?

FBB and I have exchanged emails from time to time since he’s an investment banker and I was going through recruiting and I had a lot of questions for him and his kind (before I settled on consulting). We have not talked about our parents’ ridiculous marriage arrangement though; I don’t think either of us take it seriously. And if we don’t talk about it, maybe it won’t be real. Right?

Originally, I was only going to Hong Kong because NB was getting an apartment there (he starts work there next month) and said I’d be welcome to crash at his place any time. But when I actually confirmed the dates with him to book my ticket, NB withdrew his invitation because his girlfriend would also be staying with him at that time. I was pretty bummed until… I remembered FBB had also offered, a year ago, accommodation should I ever go to Hong Kong. But it has been so long and I didn’t know if he was serious or just being polite. Well, he was surprisingly eager to host me when I mentioned I wanted to go to Hong Kong in August, and long story short, I will be spending a week in Hong Kong in the apartment of my potential future husband.

Arranged marriages can be useful after all.

1. This is the first time in four years that I don’t have an income, and my bank account has been so depleted after Europe.

A week after exams were over, one of our peers posted an inconspicuously titled photo album on Facebook: “Wedding Photos.”

Coco¹ was, apparently, getting both her HBA and MRS.

Most people said congratulations. I did not say anything, since I don’t know her that well. I was still reeling from shock that the girl I saw in class a few days ago was married.

And not just to anyone. She was married to a multi-millionaire. Practically Hungarian royalty.

It turns out she wasn’t actually married, they were just pictures from a photo-shoot that Coco and her fiance had done for their engagement. But why were they called “Wedding Photos”? Presumably, wedding photos means photos taken at a wedding, or else I am more out of the loop on weddings than I thought.

Anyway, this to-be-wed couple has offered to host us for our stay in Budapest during our Europe trip. My trip-mates jumped at the opportunity, “They’re millionaires!!!!” Vin Diesel² said in an email minutes after TuxedoMask announced the happy couple’s intentions to host us.
“They’re sending a driver to pick us up from the airport, and she’s going to take us to her favourite restaurant, and they’re millionaires!!!” Jasmine gushed.

Was I the only one feeling awkward that we were so clearly taking advantage of the fact that they had money? Out of the five of us, only TuxedoMask knows Coco, and no one knows her fiance. Not two days ago, when TuxedoMask first mentioned that Coco was originally from Hungary, everyone’s reply was “Who’s Coco?” “You know, the girl with the wedding photos on Facebook. Her fiance is a Hungarian millionaire.” And now we were all apparently best friends? I mean yes, I’m always thrilled to have locals show us around on any leg of our trip, but this seemed a little ridiculous. Didn’t they have any pride? Could my trip-mates be more obviously impressed by their wealth? It seems like at The Business School, you really can’t get away from money, whether it’s how much you get paid for the job you get, or how rich your boyfriend/fiance/husband is, or how rich your friends are. This is what I get for going on a Euro trip with Business School peers.

Then again, why am I complaining? They’re millionaires!!!

1. All names have been replaced with fictional names.
2. FYI, I have decided to name the four people going on this trip with me as follows: Jasmine, TuxedoMask, Vin Diesel, and Jack Sparrow.

When I received the first two messages, I thought she was drunk-texting me. I have never been drunk-texted by a girl, much less on Sunday morning, so I was quite amused.
The Drake Hotel, I texted back.
She asked if I could join her for brunch.
I am with some guys from last night but they are leaving, she said.
I raised an eyebrow but only texted back, No problem.

Two hours later, CMA and I arrived at The Drake Hotel (I invited CMA at the last minute because she was a classmate of ours that had just moved to The City and I knew she was dying for me to take her to The Drake, or anywhere for that matter). I spotted BI immediately, lounging with – not one, not two – but four guys on the couches by the window.

BI introduced them as friends of Friend X who had shown up for Friend X’s birthday party last night. There was a German, a Russian, a Portuguese, and an Indian. It was like a bad racial joke. The introductions were awkward, seeing as we didn’t know them and BI barely knew them.

“Sorry for the last-minute notice,” BI said after we ordered. “I’m really glad you made it. This may be the last time I see you!” She has said that the last three times we’ve seen each other.

But it’s true, since classes ended, each time we see each other feels like it’ll be the last. Neither of us are sure how long it’ll be before our next get-together (after I go off to Singapore that is), so while we’re still in the same country, we make the most of it, which explains why I dropped what I was doing and drove all the way downtown after getting her text. I was hoping the boys would leave quickly, I wanted girl-talk time with my girl.

In the meantime, I concentrated on the food, an overflowing platter of scrambled egg whites, bacon, home fries, and toast, a breakfast burrito, and blueberry scones with raspberry jam and whipped cream (to share). What? We were eating for three hours okay?

After the food and the boys were gone, BI broke the news about her apartment-hunting woes. She was starting a job in The City in a few months and had originally planned to take over her cousin’s apartment, which was in a great location downtown (at a great price). Her cousin was supposed to move to Brazil with his wife, but he called her not 24 hours prior to say that he was probably not going anywhere. In fact, he might be getting a divorce.
This, of course, spurred a whole discussion about marriage, monogamy, and relationships. It’s strange how all my discussions with BI these days lead to the topic of marriage.
“I read this book called ‘The Myth of Monogamy‘ and in it, they say that most animals, humans included, are not meant to be monogamous. In fact, there are only seven species of monogamous animals in the wild,” BI said conspiratorially.
“Yes, I don’t know if monogamy is necessarily the key to a good marriage,” I said, surprising even myself. “Perhaps a polygamous arrangement could be just as successful, if people know what they’re getting into and have the right expectations.”
“Really?” CMA asked, looking doubtful. “I mean I know marriage is a social institution, but don’t you think the point of this practice is to elicit the promise of devotion?”
“Well if marriage is just about tying down someone who promises to devote himself to me, then I might as well marry my dog!” I said, a little too loudly.
Suddenly, BI burst out laughing, breaking the mood of our overly serious discussion. Seconds later, I was laughing with her, until we were making such a ruckus that our neighbours started shooting us angry looks.

This is why I love BI. She laughs with me (at me, with me, same thing), she makes me see the absurdity of some of my more extreme statements, and she makes me feel endlessly amusing, albeit a bit naive. For the last year and a half, BI has been my best friend at The Business School. We’re not best friends in a wearing-BFF-bracelets-and-having-sleepovers kind of way. But I feel like we can talk to each other, truthfully and without judgment. She’s the closest thing I have to a confidant at TBS. And of course, I love the fact that she finds me hilarious. She will often burst out laughing in the middle of our conservations at something I’ve said, something that I wouldn’t have otherwise found funny. I like the fact that she finds me amusing, lovable, sassy. I love seeing that me through her eyes. She makes me feel really special, like a true Sassy Girl.

Moreover, she’s five years older than me, and that much wiser, so she can give me advice about boys like she knows what she’s talking about. Having a friend like BI makes me honestly start to wish that I had an older sibling. Because seriously, I would love it if I had an older sister to tell it to me like it is without the bullshit – a trooper of the “He’s Not Into You” camp – and prepare me for the heartache that’s sure to come. I guess what I’m saying is that I want to keep BI as a friend, but I’m afraid that it might be difficult once we’re oceans apart with no shared context. Friends can care about you when it’s convenient but the commitment isn’t unconditional.

Unfortunately, I can’t force BI to be my older sister and care for me unconditionally. She’s been a great friend, whether or not our friendship stands the test of time (and space). I’m not supposed to feel bad about moving on with my life, even if that means leaving some people behind (kind of par for the course when I choose to move halfway around the world), but as she said at our last meeting, “It’s like the end of an era!” (and then I squealed with delight for hearing a quote from Friends, my all time favourite TV show ever) and I gave her a tight hug because I knew in that instant that she got me. She was the only person I met at TBS who ever really got me.

And now I have to make new friends in a completely different city with a completely different culture on a completely different continent. Will I still be considered witty? Funny? Sassy? Will they get me?

Even though we were poor, my parents didn’t want me to miss out on North American traditions, such as Halloween and Christmas. For my first Halloween, I dressed as a garbage bag. You see, my parents thought that the point of Halloween was to be as ugly as possible. So they cut out some holes in a garbage bag, smeared my face with something black. and I was off. I was a six year-old girl. I could have been a princess, a fairy, a Disney cartoon character, but no, I was a garbage bag. I didn’t care, I was overjoyed that perfect strangers were giving me candy – for free!

At least my parents got the Santa Claus story right. They told me that I could write a letter to Santa, asking for what I wanted, and on Christmas morning, it would appear in my stocking. Since I had seen with my own eyes that people here give out candy for free, a fat jolly man coming around with free presents didn’t seem like a far stretch either. North Americans sure were generous! So, I wrote a letter to Santa, asking for toys that I never asked my parents for. At that age, I didn’t understand the concept of money, but I did understand the shadow that fell across my parents’ faces on the few occasions when I pointed to something I liked in a store. I was a smart kid, after the first few times, I never ever asked my parents for anything again. But Santa Claus was fair game, right? All the books and commercials seemed to make his generosity seem endless. I saw picture after picture of stockings filled with toys, and I could hardly wait for Christmas Day to check out my own stocking!
Christmas Day came, and I got up extra early. When I ran into the living room, I saw that the stocking was as it had looked the night before, flat. I felt around in it, but it seemed empty. What had happened? Did Santa Claus forget about me?
I woke my parents up and told them that Santa Claus didn’t leave anything for me. “Check again,” my mama said. So, I checked again, more carefully this time. And I found a shiny gemstone ring deep inside the stocking.

I was angry.
How come all I got was this one stupid ring? I thought heatedly to myself. All the pictures I saw showed stockings overfilled with toys. All the other kids must get tons of stuff. How come this was all I got?

I remember that moment vividly. Every time I think about that memory, I want to cry. Because, ten years later, after the Santa Claus myth had been dispelled, my parents told me how they had gone into a big department store to look for a ring for me. They didn’t know what I had asked from Santa, but they knew I liked rings. And I did, I loved rings (I still do). They spent $20 on that ring, which was a lot at that time – $20 could have bought a month’s worth of groceries for our whole family. When I remember how cheated I had felt, how angry I was when I found nothing but a ring in my stocking, I feel so utterly ashamed. I was six, I didn’t understand, I couldn’t know the lengths to which my parents had gone to make Christmas special for me, but I still feel so ashamed to have been ungrateful in that instant.

Our family has come a long, long way from those days. We moved from one room in a house shared with six other tenants to an apartment to a house in the suburbs with two cars and a dog. It’s a typical immigrant story, I’m sure.

I think my life could be a series of novels. And this entry would be the first chapter of the first book. And everything since then, elementary school, high school, and university – my life as a student – would be part of that first book. Now, it’s the summer after graduation, and I’m going to travel and see the world, that could be a second book. And four months from now, when I start my first real job halfway around the world, that will be the beginning of the third book.

So how would I like the first book to end?

I have achieved a lot in the first twenty-one years of my life. I have come a long way, and my future looks very bright. But there is nothing more humbling than to remember my beginnings, to remember how I got here, to remember what it was like to have nothing, absolutely nothing, except the love of your family.

As an infant, I was what one may call a vegan. I disliked meat – it was never tender enough – and I would chew a piece of meat in my little mouth until it was all fiber, and then spit it out. I never swallowed. I also disliked seafood – it was never fresh enough. Basic human instinct should tell us not to eat something that smells like ammonia. I would throw up if I even glimpsed dairy (my parents had to feed me milk when I was asleep).
Food-wise, I was a difficult child to raise, and I have been making up for it in other aspects my whole life.

My father, to his credit, was and is a great cook. When he made something I liked, I loved it. The thing about food is that it always tastes better when prepared with care and love. That is why the best restaurant-food will never beat great home-cooking, and that is why I am so confident that I know what good food tastes like.

As I grew older, I learned about things like respect and obedience, which softened my edges as a picky eater. Nonetheless, I was rarely chastised for not eating a dish I didn’t like, or picking out certain things in my food. For the most part, my taste buds dictated our home-cooking. I was not a spoiled as a kid, but my taste buds were.

So it comes as no surprise that I grew into an amateur food critic. I know what I like and what I don’t like, and on that basis, I know what tastes good and what doesn’t. I have not lost my infant stubbornness – I rarely swallow anything I don’t like. This is what I call the “food critic diet”, I am not restricted by certain ingredients, I am simply restricted by what I deign worthy enough to eat. As such, I will try almost anything once, but after that, I may seek it out or never touch it again.

What worries me is that after I have been to Europe, I will never touch North American food again.

1. This was in China in the late 80s, so supermarkets did not yet exist, and everyone bought their groceries from farmer’s markets. When it came to meat, for example chicken, you had to buy a live chicken and slaughter it yourself at home.

• Number of cigarettes: 5
• Number of lesbian kisses: 2
• Number of lap dances: 1
• Number of unattractive strippers: 6
• Number of attractive strippers: 1
• Number of slices of pizza: 3
• Number of units of alcohol: what do you think?

Zee is back from Australia for a few days, so we called up our old crew for a little get-together¹. Zee transferred there for medical school in early January. It was pretty sudden and there wasn’t much time for proper goodbyes. I hadn’t seen EnigmaticRebel for over a year, but when I called him up, he was game for anything.

Originally, we planned a low-key night at my place. Order some food, open up a few bottles of wine, and catch up on each other’s lives. That was not at all how the night went down.

Although we had said we were staying in, I knew that going out after dinner was fair game with this crowd, especially after a few drinks. So, as I was getting ready, I decided I might as well get ready for anything².
When Zee and DubaiGirl saw me, they decided they wanted to dress up too. And what was the point of dressing up if no one was going to see it?

So, following my recommendations, we ended up at a fairly upscale restaurant downtown. My friends thought the food was fantastic, but I, of course always being the food critic, thought it didn’t reach its full potential. Over duck, pasta, and risotto, I told them about my recent deflowering incident. This led to a length discussion on sex, everything from oral sex and foreplay to girth, stamina, and technique (I wanted to know, compared to ‘average men’ and ‘average sex’, how good/bad my first time was). Given the upscale setting that we were in, ER was unsettled by how openly we talked about penis sizes and blowjobs.
“SassyGirl, you’re scaring me.”
“Why?” I asked innocently.
“You’re the manliest person I’ve ever met! Most girls would be a lot more sensitive about losing their virginity, but with you, it’s like you just went to a hockey game!”
We laughed, and then I said, “But seriously, how big is big?”

After dinner, we drove to Zee’s and started drinking. We continued the discussion on sex, this time involving ethnicity (black vs. Asian). When I was satisfied with the information I solicited from my friends, I came to the conclusion that the reason the boy I slept with didn’t realize I was a virgin was possibly due to his own ego – i.e. that I was tight and he was too big for me, and therefore I bled. Because obviously it wouldn’t occur to him that a virgin would ask for a booty call.

We went clubbing at our favourite new club, but it was surprisingly empty (maybe because it’s exam period for all the university students). However, it was ladies night and there was a bachelorette party there, so we actually had a good time dancing with the girls without being bothered by creepy men.

By the way, did I mention that Zee is a lesbian?

That explains how we ended up on the patio, kissing each other. And by we, I mean all four of us. I don’t really remember how it started. One minute we were smoking, the next minute DG was asking whether kissing a girl was any different from kissing a guy. And I piped up that I had never kissed a girl before so I wouldn’t know. Next thing I knew, DG was kissing me.
“How was it?” Zee asked.
“It was… wet.” was all I could say.
Then, Zee kissed me, and it was also… wet.
DG and Zee also swapped kisses, and at some point ER got some lip action too, so he wouldn’t feel left out.
“Why is it so wet??” I whined loudly.
I heard laughing behind me, and that was when we noticed the bouncer standing right beside us, staring bug-eyed. We all laughed awkwardly.
“Wow, I can’t believe we just kissed our friends,” DG said, “and we can’t even deny it because we have a witness!” .
“I definitely was not expecting to see that,” the bouncer admitted with a chuckle. “I’m feeling pretty lucky tonight.”
Although we’ll never see him again, on someone’s camera, there is a picture of us with this bouncer.

After clubbing, our feet were tired but my friends weren’t ready to call it a night.
“I want to do something sketchy tonight!” DG kept announcing, over and over.
“We’ve already kissed each other, isn’t that sketchy enough?” I asked.
“Let’s go to a strip club!” Zee piped up.
My friends liked this idea, but I was definitely not up it. In the cab, they tried to convince me to go with them, and even the cab driver joined in.
“Come on SassyGirl, it’ll be an interesting experience,” DG said. “Plus, I need you there with me while Zee and ER ogle.”
“You know I’m all for new experiences, but I have a feeling this is the kind that will leave a scar in my memory. I just don’t want to see fat old ladies with their clothes off³. It’ll be burned into my mind and I don’t want to carry that image around for the rest of my life.”

Despite my protests, I was somehow dragged into the strip club with them. It was dark. There were a lot of men, the kind that leer at you from the edge of the dance floor, they were here in packs. The women were trashy, to be expected, but unexpectedly unattractive. Most of the women were fat (like literally, pregnant-looking), and the skinny ones looked like anorexics (wrinkly skin stretched over small bones). It was like they had gotten all the ugly girls from the club to come here and take their clothes off. Were the men really enjoying this?
Zee didn’t seem to mind and asked one of the anorexics for a lap dance. It was over pretty quickly, and in her state, Zee didn’t remember much of it, other than the fact that the woman told her she was allowed to touch her. “The way her boobs looked like balloons on her chest, I didn’t want to touch them at all,” Zee said to us later.

We ended the night at DG‘s place, with a delicious feast of pizza, wings, and shisha.

Our night went from fancy upscale restaurant to trashy strip club, but I would expect nothing less from this particular group of friends. We’ve always been known for being spontaneous and ridiculous, and if I remember any of our nights together, it will definitely be this one.

1. Zee, EnigmaticRebel, DubaiGirl, and I were in the same residence in first-year university. We partied a lot together, knew each other’s sketchy stories, took care of each other as we were adjusting to life at university, and have basically become the kind of friends around whom you have no inhibitions.
2. Plus, I have a habit of over-dressing. Always. Which is not a habit I mind at all.
3. Zee had been to this strip club before, and I’d heard things from others, that it did not have high-quality girls. In fact, some of my guy friends went more for the breakfast buffet than the women. Apparently most of them were overweight or way too old to be in this line of work. I wanted to spare myself from ever seeing saggy boobs, thank you very much.

This was the exchange BI and I had on Saturday night. She bumped into me as I was leaving The Club. I must have had a stupid grin on my face, because she guessed right away that it was boy-related.

“Why don’t you just pick one?” BI asked incredulously.
“They’re leaving tomorrow, what’s the point?”
“That’s even better! You should take advantage of tonight.”
“Believe me, I have had enough attention tonight to last me months. I’m good.”
She could see that I meant it, so she let me go.

I went home feeling particularly pleased with myself. Sure, I was flattered by all the attention I had received, but I couldn’t be too attached. Because it felt too good to be true, it couldn’t be real. And I wanted to walk away before something brought me crashing down to earth.

Rewind back four days and I’m standing in the middle of a crowded banquet hall, greeting forty-four students from eleven different countries and glad-handing eleven advisors (professors that accompanied them) from their respective business schools. It was the beginning of The Case Competition, and I, as one of the main organizers, was feeling relieved to see that everyone had made it and that Opening Ceremonies went without a hitch. I had been planning this competition for months, emailing back and forth with their advisors and business schools, so I knew their names by heart and was only now meeting them in real life.
They were an incredibly friendly group, not to mention astoundingly good-looking. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we had invited a group of international vampires as opposed to business students.

Although I was exhausted for the next four days, running around from 8am to past midnight every day, going home only to collapse on my bed for barely five hours, it was totally worth it. The delegates that came were all open to new things and eager to make friends. Everyone was having a great time, and I was having just as good a time becoming fast friends with all of them, which was exactly as I expected.

What I didn’t expect was that I would be such a hit with the gentlemen. For example, for most of Friday, I hung out with the German team because I found them to have a surprising sense of humour. Friday’s events included going on a brewery tour, dinner at the campus restaurant, and having an egg drop challenge. By the end of the night, NGB was asking me out. I couldn’t believe it. Although he was cute, I didn’t like him that way, but I didn’t turn him down immediately. He was leaving a day later than the rest of his team, so he wanted to take me out on his last day. I said I would check my schedule and get back to him.
The fact that he asked me out after only hours of getting to know me was shocking, not because this sort of thing never happens, but because I was starting to take the game-playing tactics of most North American boys for granted. I mean, PLB liked me for months and yet he was still pretending not to like me until the very last moment. Here, it would take months of flirting and text-tagging and pretending not to be interested before a guy would ask me out. But it took NGB less than eight hours, and he was very upfront about it. He wasn’t hiding the fact that he was into me. In fact, it was written so clearly on his face, his actions, and of course his up-front question, that by North American standards, I’d say he was completely smitten.

The next day, the other boy on his team, SGB also made up his mind to tell me he liked me. Wow, two boys in two days? This never happens to me.
What really boggled my mind was the fact that their two other teammates were by far the best looking girls at the competition. They were fair, perfectly-proportioned, tall, beautiful, long-haired German goddesses. Next to them, I looked like a gorilla. So how was it possible that these two German boys both set their sights on me? I couldn’t make any sense of it.

On Saturday night, after the case competition was over, we booked out a VIP area of The Club and everyone was in full party mode. The Brazilians and New Zealanders were going absolutely wild, and everyone else was caught up in the frenzy. I danced with more gorgeous boys in one night than I have in my entire life. There was the incredibly tall and unbelievably well-featured Mexican, the handsome Norwegian that looked like a sculpture, the strong Brazilian that could pick me up with one hand, the dancing Mexican that spun me round and round, and the unbelievably good-looking slim Norwegian boy who I spent most of the night with. SNB was the second best looking boy at the competition, second only to his teammate, the Sculpture Norwegian. When SNB started dancing with me, I could see all the girls (and even some of the boys) watching us. I was thoroughly embarrassed, made even worse when one of my co-volunteers, a guy, came up to us and shouted to me over the music, “Hold on to that one, he is way too good-looking.”

Maybe BI didn’t understand why I would pass up an opportunity to make the most of a night like that, but by 1am, I knew it was time for me to leave. It was almost straight out of Cinderella, as if my clothes would turn to rags and my carriage would turn into a pumpkin if I stayed any longer. On nights like these, I want to end on a high note, and there was nothing that could possibly happen to improve my night. What BI didn’t know when she ran into me was that I had already received more than my fair share of male attention:

• Dirty dancing with the hottest Mexican I have ever seen: check.
• Being the only girl to be picked up and spun by a Mexican, a Brazilian, and a German in front of everybody in the club: check.
• Flattery from a ridiculously good-looking Norwegian: check.
• Kisses from a ridiculously good-looking Norwegian: check.
• Confessions from two cute Germans: check.

Of course, I was the epitome of “that lucky girl” that night. But what made me smile the morning after was not just because I felt flattered, but because I realized that there was hope.

After all my experiences with boys in university, and all the shows you see on TV like Sex and The City, I was really starting to believe that all men played games. That no one would put themselves out there and be true to their emotions. That even if they liked you, they wouldn’t admit it unless someone put a gun to their head. That even if they admitted they liked you, they wouldn’t do anything about it.
All of these mind-games were making me beyond frustrated. I think one of the reasons I have been relationship-less this whole time is that I haven’t met anyone that made me feel like the hassle of all those mind-games was worth it.
And now, within a few days, I had met at least three eligible, absolutely date-able boys who were not afraid to say they liked me and do something about it.

Of course, I haven’t forgotten the fact that they may have felt they had to move quickly since they were only in Canada for a few days. But nonetheless, it gave me hope.

The question I still haven’t been able to answer however is, why the hell did they pick me? Seriously, the girls at this competition were just as stunningly beautiful as the boys were handsome. I have never felt less attractive in my life than when I was standing next to them. Of course, I still loved them because they were friendly and interesting. I mean, they were beautiful and had good personalities. As far as I’m concerned, they were perfect.
Yet these boys (more than one, incredibly) were smitten by my charms. Was it my friendliness? My humour? My weirdness? Regardless of the reason, they were willing to put themselves out there even if they weren’t quite sure whether my over-friendliness was flirting or just the way I am¹.

So, clearly, there is hope. Just maybe not in North America.

1. I.e. I could have been overly friendly because I’m Canadian and that’s just the way we are. Or it could have been because I was one of the organizers and I had to set a good example for the other volunteers and be a good host.

I was reflecting on this over coffee with BI yesterday, using it as an example of how I’ve changed since high school.
“I was so ignorant about what it meant to be in a relationship. I had no idea what was considered normal behaviour as far as showing one’s feelings. Sure, I showed him I cared in my own way, but maybe by missing out on all the cliched things, I made him feel more unsure about our relationship.”
Like a horse being whipped, words started tumbling out of my mouth at lightning speed. “I was so clueless! I didn’t know what it meant to be someone girlfriend. I didn’t know what to expect of anything. And I never talked about my feelings – not to him or to my friends.”
I took a breath.
“But now, now I know it’s ok to talk about my feelings. In fact, it’s expected that you tell your partner how you feel about them – they want to hear it! I also know it’s ok to talk to your friends about your relationship, I mean I’ve seen Sex and The City, which taught me all I need to know about commiserating. Since then, it seems like all I can talk about on my blog, with my friends, is boys! Boys, boys, boys!”
BI nodded with comprehension.
“Given that I’ve come such a long way in terms of understanding relationships between men and women, you’d think that I’d be better at it. But guess what? In the last four years, my longest relationship lasted two months.
That is the greatest irony of all. When I was in high school, I didn’t plan to have a relationship at all. I didn’t take high school relationships seriously and would have been just fine if I had graduated without ever having a boyfriend. Instead, I ended up in a three-year relationship.
But when I went to university, I was totally ready for a relationship, and guess what? In the last four years, I haven’t had a single relationship where I would actually call the boy ‘my boyfriend.’”

BI chuckled and shook her head. “Maybe ignorance is bliss after all. Once you knew what to expect, those expectations may have actually been a barrier to you falling for someone.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s why first loves seem so perfect – because they’re easy. We’re all clueless with our first love, and it’s a clean slate. Our expectations only grow from there.

But my own statistics still left me baffled. “Four years. Hundreds of boys on campus. I mean, you’d think I could find one genuine love interest, right? Even if my expectations have changed, what are the odds that I would not like a single person in four years of university?”

For that, BI had no answer.