July. 2020; Needle In A haystack

I remember when I was in my early teens, all those moons ago, and thinking about the year 2000. Over the course of my lifetime I’d worked out that when the clock struck 00:00 on 01/01/2000 I would be the grand old age of 24. But where would I be in the world when I was such an ageing gentleman? What would I be doing? After dozens of careful considerations my prophecy was that I’d be married, at least one (possibly two) little monsters with aforementioned wife person, bought my own house (and working up to the second) and hopefully cracking the whip in my own company. Well the years flew by, and in the second before that colossally anticipated moment struck I think the whole world (or everyone in the pub I was in) simultaneously held their breath. In the months leading up to that second when Big Ben tolled his most glorious of dongs, the worlds media had predicted floods, locusts, the end of the world as we knew it. But no, at 00:00 nothing happened, just more drinking and pointless pretend new years resolutions, dreams of fresh starts and new beginnings. And here I was, 24 years old, single, no house or wife or monsters, a musician driving from gig to gig to earn not much more than enough money to cover the gas and buy a pint or two. My year 2000 was nothing to write home about.

Another thing that had been mentioned scores of times over the years was grandchildren. I guess the first time was in my early twenties. My mother was far from the most paternal of all ladies, but seemingly she seriously desired me to release some little Jays into the world. “When am I gonna have some grandchildren from you?” she’d ask. (Not “when are you going to have children,” for that would have required a collaboration with some form of female human to make happen, and I was far too busy riding motorcycles and playing pub rockstar to have enough time for that. Perhaps she thought I might buy/rent/steal some grandchildren for her amusement.) “One day mum, maybe next year,” was to be my unwavering retort. This same question would invariably be asked every few months throughout my twenties, and just before I hit 30 that same question was asked handfuls of times, and my sheepish answer went unchanged. Unusually she never asked much after I turned 30. I questioned her just before I moved to Germany in 2009 why she never asked any more, and she calmly replied “it’s ok, I know you’re gay.” To this day I’ve never confirmed whether she was joking or not, I think in her mind she wasn’t entirely sure herself. Which to me was fine, there were no more awkward interrogations about my part towards increasing the worlds population problem. But isn’t that what we’re all obligated to do? Further the species, live long and prosper?

I lead up to this as over the years here, I’ve had (and continue to have) hordes of friends who are intelligent, attractive, confident and charming, and painfully single. Being single is awesome, if that’s what you want, but many of the people I know don’t want that, they actually want exactly the opposite, yet blissful unions somehow continue to elude them. In some cases I understand how people can be excruciatingly shy and introverted, which must make it unbearably difficult to waltz up to some gorgeous looking lump of sweetness and ask for their number. In other cases I know all too many people who, as soon as someone shows interest in them, automatically resigns that person to the infamous “friend zone.” Once you’ve been dumped in there it’s real hard to break out. But apart from these scenarios it sometimes baffles me how, in a city of millions upon millions of less-than-middle aged people, how can so many be seeking the same thing, but not find it?

One crystal clear difference in our cultures is the dating game. When it comes to finding a miss right, or at least a “miss right now,” English and Guangdong dating rituals (I daren’t say all of China, I haven’t explored that much and I’ve been told Northern girls are very forward) are chalk and cheese. Let’s elaborate shall we? Example 1; London, in a cafe/bar/bookshop/museum/whathaveyou. Person A spies person B and likes what they see. Watches for a little while. Person A walks nearby, makes eye contact, smiles, tries to strike up simple conversation, most often infused with humour and/or compliments. Casually slips into the conversation “would like to have coffee/lunch/drinks sometime?” and person B either declines or accepts. If acceptance graces person A then date will ensue, and it’s up to the gods of love what will transpire. If person B declines then person A moves on, no big deal.

Example 2; Shenzhen. In the same cafe/bar/bookshop/museum/whathaveyou. Person A spies person B and likes what they see. Person B notices person A, feels awkward and hides their face in their phone, checks weixin for absolutely no reason, and hurriedly walks out of cafe/bar/whathaveyou. The gods of love are not pleased. There could be lists of other examples ending with much the same outcome, but in my humble opinion it seems that Shenzhen singles are a little backwards in coming forwards. But unusually (to me at least) one of the main reasons I see lovely people remaining single is that big old ugly word that keeps weighing down on the delightful citizens of this tropical metropolis; Pressure.

Being a non-native gentleman in this gorgeous land means I’m pretty much exempt from many of the obligations ladened on the shoulders of the working single men here. Work hard, buy a house, find a wife, buy a car, make some babies, be successful, look after parents, die. Does anybody really consider just how soul-crushingly onerous it is for an average guy to achieve all that? If he has the financial help of a family then perhaps it’s plausible, but a huge percentage of people here do not come from wealthy, or even slightly wealthy, families. Many of the 20-somethings here are the first in their family to graduate (or even attend) university. And it’s equally as hellish grueling for the ladies. Work hard, find a good man, be successful, get married, make some babies (all before you’re 30 or you’re considered an unwanted old spinster) then try to keep your outward appearance by endless hours at the gym, simultaneously praying your husband isn’t making whoopee with some pretty young thing behind your back. This is all hardly the perfect recipe for endless love.

So what’s the answer? How do we find that needle in a haystack? If I had the solution to that I’d be sipping champagne in my country mansion, one servant fanning me while another feeds me grapes. There is no silver bullet to solitude. City life is millions of people being lonesome together. As an outsider my only words of wisdom would be to ease down a little. Not to lower your expectations as such, but to go after what you want, do what makes you happy. You can’t live your life to please other people. Eventually your parents will go, and you’ll spend the rest of your days staring at a person who made them happier than they ever made you. If you want to live with 15 cats when you’re over 40 and drink gin out of a tin mug then good for you. So what if the guy you like works in McDonalds and rides a bicycle to work. Who cares if the girl who gives you butterflies in your tummy has a tattoo of her ex-boyfriends’ name on her neck. To hell with judgments. Nobodies perfect, but there’s someone perfect for everyone.