Parolles: He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.
King of France: How is that?
Parolles: He loved her, sir, and loved her not.
-All's Well that Ends Well
For such a pattern of indecision among males to be prevalent even when Shakespeare was the man about town, it stands to reason it really must be a genetic trait.
It made me laugh hearing the line because for me, faltering wishy washy indecisive men are the bane of my existence.
There are a lot of both wonderful and wretched qualities men possess but the I Don't Know Virus is the one that makes my skin crawl.
And is also the one I seem to draw nearest to me.
The irony is that I'm everything but wishy washy.
Even men have told me it's attractive when a woman is confident enough to know who she is.
But what about men?
Why don't they know?
And why do I always like the ones who don't?
Once again my masochistic tendencies rear their ugly head.
I want to be the type of woman content enough, self assured and self respecting enough to trust the men in her life, to trust they will figure out who they are and what they want one way or the other.
The problem is waiting around for their indecision to transform into certainty leaves room to be desired.
It's fucking ridiculous is what it is.
But see the tragicomedy is on me.
What these men need is space and time.
What I've always failed to give is space and time.
The villain may be them but the equal culprit in fact is me.
I'm an accomplice to their muderous dance of uncertainty.
What we women, surely I'm not alone in this, fail to fathom is the only way to really love is with open acceptance, with room to breathe, with lives of separation.
If I'm honest, those I grow fondness for at increased rates are those I miss.
Those I long for and seek to find.
Why must I forget my desirability is proportionate to my individuality?
It is I who entices.
I who must be had.
I who captivates every fragment of his mind.
How dare I forget the power in my every cell.
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