One doesn’t weather dating into thirty-something without developing a sensory cache to navigate games, courtships, and dating/talking/seeing each other/hanging out that are all different words and silly definitions to cloud expectations and emotional investment for the same action – spending time with another person to determine if there is a long term future commitment. Not to mention bringing in seeing and interpreting all the red flags in dating that come along with the “games,” seeming if we want them or not.
I do not believe the many women who “just want fun” really want “just fun” unless there is a significant structural blockage to her emotional psyche (i.e. WALLS) for defense.
Which brings me to the topic of flags. Seen any of the World Cup lately? Well, I definitely have been watching and there have been flags flying around the pitch for sure.
I believe that I can surmise for anyone who has ever had a relationship (platonic, friendly, or romantic) with another person that hindsight yields the not before noticed red flags. Now about red flags? You know the kind – that moment when you replay events and incidents in your mind (always waaaaaaaaay after the fact) when you think to yourself “I knew it!!” or “how did I not see it??!!” In this moment you (or, I) reconginze that the little nagging was, in fact, a gigantic, big, billowing, blowing, red, red, red flag waving in my face. Often, for me, I have seen the flags. But little good has that helped me — noooooooo, that would be prudent, ad wouldn’t make for half of the goofy stories my girlfriends hear over martinis and margaritas.
As reactionary as I am, I tend to acknowledge red flags more like Ferdinand. This is humorous to me because with red flags I should charge like the manic Toro Bugs Bunny teases after he should have taken that left turn in Albuquerque.
I wonder, do I now operate in a heightened state with a radar-like projectile protruding from my head catching quirks and calling them flags?