Every year, it gets more and more difficult to describe the deep feelings of gratitude that I feel towards you. I am grateful, for everything tangible you have given me, yes, but especially for the intangible, the incommunicable, the imperceptible.

I am proud, to be able to hold my own in the elite circles of men. I am honored and humbled to be able to play the games — whether they be backgammon, cribbage, gin, and pool — and the other, more crucial and considerable challenges — of power and persuasion, of networking and negotiation, of debate and diplomacy.

Ultimately, I am amassing, building, crafting, and evolving the life I imagine and desire to live. And achieve to what I aspire: which is to truly be my father’s daughter.

Love,
Melissa

1) We have mail, you know, “snail mail,” which has to physically go to a location and takes “time.”

2) Then we have email, which goes electronically to a location without requiring “time,” only requiring the time between which it arrives and which it gets read.

Then there’s the path of development to Google Buzz.

3) At some point thereafter, we get one-to-one texting (and even, accidentally one-to-more texting, kind of like three-way calling gone way wrong). It is slow and laborious to catch on. I mean, who wants to type out messages on those tiny little keys? (Read: ADULTS.) Yeah, us crazy kids. Well, WE showed them.

4) Along the same time comes chat rooms and instant messaging, where there is no delay, everything is instantaneous and synchronous. Wheeeeee! (Like, OMG, IRL! Hey! Hi! What’s up? Nothing, you? Nothing much. Hmm, A/S/L? 18/F/California. Oooh, wanna cyber? (…Except with a lot more abbreviation and a less capitalization and punctuation. u no?)

5) Facebook, The All Mighty. Where we can all passively expel information about our lives to our “friends,” or shall I say, our “audience,” whoever they might be. These people, on the other end, can passively or aggressively or ignoringly consume your information. Facebook is like a me-to-you relationship, where “you” means everybody you know, have even known, kinda sorta know, or think you maybe might know, but you’re really not sure and you don’t care to verify, because, let’s face it, you like it when your friend count goes up. (Me? I have a pithy 1,927 friends and counting.)

Add me if you’re interesting, intellectual, and/or attractive, and we can eventually slash soon become best internet buddies!!~~@!

5) Yeah, yeah, so somewhere along these lines, we get Twitter, which is sort of like, I’m going to instant message “you,” whereby “you” means, like, the collective you, like the interwebs, like you and everybody I know and everybody you know and everybody else we don’t know. Cool. Look at me. Twitterdeeeeeeeeeee. I’m @melissa. Booya. I’ve got 1,734 followers, and I’ve had 2,448 short, witty bursts of intellectual banter. Much like this one:

Follow me. Then continue reading:

6) Then there is the cultural subtext of the Twitter Direct Message, which is like “you’re more special than the interwebs, so i message you privately, but instead of choosing a relatively more semi-synchronous communication (instant message, facebook message, text message, or *SHOCKHORROR* a phone call), I’ll send the shorter equivalent of an email. (Refer to Point #2)

7) And finally, on the 7th day, GODoogle created Buzz. A way for you, your friends, your family, and EVERYBODY YOU HAVE EVER EMAILED WITH (Like, hey yoooo, sup, you former-potential-craigslist-roomie-who-turned-out-to-be-a-WEIRD-TOTAL-CREEP-and-SMELLY), to have a theoretically no-reply function which is in all actuality a reply-all function, stuffed unceremoniously and randomly into your beloved, ferociously guarded inbox. (Cue theme song: “This is the song that neverrrr endssssss, it goes on and on MY FRIIIIIIIIIENDS…..“

8) There is no number eight. I’m not buzzed about Google Buzz. In fact, I’m not even buzzed. I’m drinking a glass of soy milk on the rocks.

Where’s my telepathy at? I THOUGHT THE FUTURE WAS COMING.

I stopped the first person I saw. It was an unsuspecting 16-year-old girl, who walked about half a mile out of her way to help me buy my train tickets. She was slightly plump, with a round, kind face, and told me she was still in high school. When I asked her what she planned to study in college, she struggled to find words in English. “Lawyer!” she said triumphantly a few long seconds later. I inquired what kind of lawyer, and she replied simply, “Children,” and nodded sharply to punctuate her statement.

Once I had tickets in hand, the girl walked me to the electronic turnstiles, and turned about-face to me, signifying her work here was done. I thanked her several times, bowing my upper-body ever so slightly towards her with each repetition of gratitude. I fumbled with my unwieldy bag to pull out a business card before I walked through. I said sincerely, “If you ever come to America, please let me know,” and her eyes lit up in surprise and delight as she slowly ran her fingers over the thick card stock, carefully examining the fine print.

A train was waiting at the platform, so I stopped a young, well-dressed guy to find out if it was the correct train. Showing him my ticket and pointing at the train, I asked, “This one?” He replied affirmatively in fluent, only-ever-so-slightly accented English, and for a passing moment, I felt very small and silly.

I was relieved to find a seat on the train, and I sat with my head resting to the side against one of the poles. A few minutes later the doors closed and the train started moving. I was staring intently down at my ticket, memorizing the characters, and waiting for them to show up on the screen, when a guy sat down next to me. He sees me studying the ticket, and tells me Yokohama is 13 stops away.

The right characters flashed up on the screen, and I jump up and out. Following instructions, I find some a big escalator and go up them. At the top, I know immediately that I’m not in the right place. There are some shady looking guys standing in the shadows of the corner, hawking brochures of some sort. I innocently ask them where I might find the Disney store where I’m supposed to be meeting my friends.  They point me in a direction, and I walk down an alley in that direction.

Coming out on the other end, there is an enormous lot, filled with rows and rows of taxis parked ten deep, all with their lights on, ready and waiting. The picture is just too good to miss, and I jump on a nearby ledge, and start playing with the shot through my viewfinder.

The outside world ceases to exist as I fiddle with focus points, adjust the exposure, and determine depth-of-field. A shallow man walks by and says, “Excuse me?” followed by something sarcastic in Japanese. His colleagues laugh. I turn around, and he delivers the punchline: “Nice view.” But he’s not talking about the scene I’m capturing. I turn back around without further acknowledging him, and go back to the task at hand. Deciding that I need a wide-angle lens instead, I am in the middle of balancing on this ledge and juggling my heavy camera and two heavy lenses, when another man stops near me.

In fast, broken English he sings out, “Excuse me, ex-coo-sahh me, are you lost?” I open my mouth to reply, but I don’t have an answer. I know I’m lost, but this fact doesn’t concern me in the least. I know I’ll get where I’m going. Eventually.

The persistent man asks again, “Are you loss-taaa? Do you need help?” I pause before hesitantly agreeing, that yes, technically, I am indeed lost. “Where are you going?” When I answer, he just stands there, scratching at the thinning hair on his head in confusion. He starts asking me about Queens, Queens Square, Queens Mall, and I shrug, nonplussed. He indicates my destination is at a different station, and he tells me the name, which is long, multi-syllabic, and starts with an M. I thank him, tell him I will take the train there, and turn away to start fumbling with my camera again, still determined to get my picture.

But the man isn’t reassured. He stays rooted to the ground behind the ledge, deeply concerned that I am completely not concerned about being lost. I start to suspect that he has Tourettes, because even though his English is passable, he beings to interject bursts of incomprehensible Japanese in the middle of sentences and sometimes in the middle of words. He insists that I must go back to the train station where I came from, and explain that I got off at the wrong stop. He is now very emphatic about the fact I’m at the wrong stop, trying very hard to convey the fact I am wrong and this stop is wrong. I assume he’s trying to tell me how to get back in without buying another ticket, so in a moment of sensibility, I reluctantly lower my camera from its poised position and ask him nicely if he could help me with this, since he speaks Japanese and I, obviously, do not.

His reaction is strange, and he startles me by waving his hands and quickly backing a few steps away from me. “Oh, no, no, noooo, I cannot do that, cannot accompany you.” I thank him, again, more firmly this time, and turn around, again, to finish taking the damn picture. He stands for a little while, watching me, unsure of what to do with this lost girl who is completely, inconceivably unconcerned with being lost.

He stays until i jump off the ledge and start walking towards the station. He walks off in the other direction, seemingly satisfied that I am finally going to do something about this being lost business. I think he’s gone his way, but a few seconds later, I hear the stochastic sound of dress shoes on pavement, as he runs back up to me, holding out a magazine in front of him, as an offering of, well, I’m not sure what. I look at it blankly, and my arms stay by my side. “I’s in English language. For you.” I take it him, thank him for the last time, and go along my way. This time, he doesn’t move until he ensures that I’ve gone back into the station to find my way, like any sane person would do when they’re lost.

When i finally do arrive where I am supposed to be, I see the “big escalator” they told me about. This escalator is so large and so long, that the children of the mother who is standing behind me actually sit down on the moving steps, making themselves comfortable as they wait patiently, tiredly to reach the top.

Though I’ve arrived at my destination, I can’t seem to find my friends. So I step outside out onto the balcony, which overlooks the waterfront and a collection of small, old fashioned, brightly neon-lit carnival rides. I find another ledge, nimbly hop onto it, and begin taking pictures. Completely content to be exactly where I am at that exact moment in time.

I waved down an empty cab, and the friendly middle-aged man smiled widely. He impressed me by he pressing a button that automatically opened the rear passenger door. After laboriously pulling my baggage and myself into the car, I showed him the English name of the hotel. He repeated the name out loud a few times, transliterating it into Japanese. “Met-sa ho-tel-a.” He repeated it again, elongating each syllables as he sat deep in thought, quietly questioning if he knew the location. “Met-saaa ho-telll-aaaa?”

He pulled forward, asking a traffic controller a few questions in rapid-fire Japanese. After a few minutes, he merged into traffic and we were on our way. Turns out, the hotel was very close, but hard to find. We drove around the block a few times until we found it. I gave him 1250 yen, or about thirteen dollars, and thanked him profusely.

The following day, I set out to find a MUJI store that was fairly close to where I was staying, or so I had gathered from my online research. In the lobby of the hotel, I asked the receptionist to write down the address, so that I could take a taxi there. She seemed surprised that I wanted to take a taxi, and then seemed sorry for her surprise, shyly saying that it was “only maybe 15 minutes by walking.” She gave me a bad map with worse directions, and off I went.

I was lost practically before I even begun, and stopped somebody on the street right outside the hotel. He pointed me in the right direction.

After walking for awhile, I cornered a couple for further help. At this point, I realized I had forgotten to get the receptionist to write MUJI down in Japanese. I tried various pronunciations of the word. “Moooojii? Mewwwjiii,” I mused out loud. Finally, a spark of recognition crossed the couple’s faces, and they said, “Oh! MUJI!” I smiled at my success and nodded emphatically. The man put his hand on his chin, and then asked, “You mean, no name quality goods.” Yes. Exactly what I was looking for.

A few minutes of directional hand-waving later, I was on my way again.

I was told to cross a few intersections, and then turn right at the big intersection. The second or third intersection was fairly large, so I started to wonder if I would know which intersection was the “big intersection.” Then I happened upon what I later learned was called Hachiko Crossing, and realized there was no way I could have missed it.

It was quite possibly the biggest, busiest intersection I ever seen. And unlike China, these people were all waiting patiently. Nobody jaywalked, not even a single person. There wasn’t even jostling at the front lines, but I found a place out of trampling distance anyway, standing rooted to the ground in awe. When the walk light lit up, people poured onto the street.

With a lamp pole at my back, I contemplated what “turn right” even meant. There were no less than five different corners at this intersection. I watched several the lights change several times, before I spotted a gaijin, a foreigner, on my left. I turned to him and asked if he knew where I could find the nearby MUJI.  He furrowed his brow as he read some of the Japanese on my map aloud. At this exact moment, the walk light turned green again, and we were swept up and across along with the massive masses who were moving. He chatted idly with me as he led me, and I found out he was from Philly. As we parted ways I was left standing in front of LoFT, which I explored before continuing in my quest to find MUJI.

By this point, I had taken no less than 27 wrong turns. I was getting overheated from wearing too much clothing as the temperature of the day continued to rise. I was feeling tired from carrying my ten-pound camera around my neck and walking for miles wearing four-inch high heeled boots. I had been lost for hours, and the familiar feeling of anxiety was starting to well up in my chest.

Then I stopped in my tracks. I wasn’t lost. I simply had nowhere to go except exactly where ever I wanted to go. And I was enjoying the journey immensely.

First dates are completely, totally, and inexcusably obsolete. There is just no good reason for them to exist any longer.

Join me, my friends, in the quest to eliminate first dates forever. I am hereby refusing to ever go on a first date again.

And it’s not because I’m condemning myself to a life of isolation and celibacy. No, no. It’s just that I don’t want to ever again be in the awkward position of staring at the stranger in front of me and trying desperately to find something, anything, to talk to them about.

Think about the concept behind the word “relationship.” A relationship, of any kind, fundamentally can’t exist without something on which to relate.

That’s why you need context. To find out how to effectively achieve this, everybody should turn to us, the Facebook generation, and take an important lesson.

We wouldn’t go out with somebody before first checking out their interests to make sure we don’t have film or literary tastes that will direly clash, or you know, disagree about trite, trivial things like religion or politics. We wouldn’t agree to being confined to a dinner table with someone without cruising through their news feed to make sure they aren’t going to bore you to death by the time dessert arrives. And we definitely wouldn’t agree to a date before carefully examining each and every one of their 1,827 photos to extract hidden clues about their personality.

It’s just not efficient to sit around and tell your entire life story anymore. Not that it ever was, but there is certainly no excuse for it now. We invest an enormous amount of time, painstakingly documenting and sharing the stories and images of our lives online. A potential date should want to take a little bit of time to absorb all of that in advance, so that neither of you waste any time on something that wasn’t ever going to work out.

Sure, there will always still be a “first date,” but it won’t feel the same. You’ll be able to relate to each other already, because you’re starting out at a higher level. (That is, of course, assuming they still want to go out with you after finding you on Facebook. They could determine that you’re a total weirdo.)

So, next time, instead of giving somebody your number, give them your name and networks. Let them get to know you. Digitally.

Just don’t forget to look through their album of Profile Pictures. You can learn a lot about a person from the photos they choose as their Profile Pictures.

First dates are completely, totally, and inexcusably obsolete. There is just no good reason for them to exist any longer.

Join me, my friends, in the quest to eliminate first dates forever. I am hereby refusing to ever go on a first date again.

And it’s not because I’m condemning myself to a life of isolation and celibacy. No, no. It’s just that I don’t want to ever again be in the awkward position of staring at the stranger in front of me and trying desperately to find something, anything, to talk to them about.

Think about the concept behind the word “relationship.” A relationship, of any kind, fundamentally can’t exist without something on which to relate.

That’s why you need context. To find out how to effectively achieve this, everybody should turn to us, the Facebook generation, and take an important lesson.

We wouldn’t go out with somebody before first checking out their interests to make sure we don’t have film or literary tastes that will direly clash, or you know, disagree about trite, trivial things like religion or politics. We wouldn’t agree to being confined to a dinner table with someone without cruising through their news feed to make sure they aren’t going to bore you to death by the time dessert arrives. And we definitely wouldn’t agree to a date before carefully examining each and every one of their 1,827 photos to extract hidden clues about their personality.

It’s just not efficient to sit around and tell your entire life story anymore. Not that it ever was, but there is certainly no excuse for it now. We invest an enormous amount of time, painstakingly documenting and sharing the stories and images of our lives online. A potential date should want to take a little bit of time to absorb all of that in advance, so that neither of you waste any time on something that wasn’t ever going to work out.

Sure, there will always still be a “first date,” but it won’t feel the same. You’ll be able to relate to each other already, because you’re starting out at a higher level. (That is, of course, assuming they still want to go out with you after finding you on Facebook. They could determine that you’re a total weirdo.)

So, next time, instead of giving somebody your number, give them your name and networks. Let them get to know you. Digitally.

Just don’t forget to look through their album of Profile Pictures. You can learn a lot about a person from the photos they choose as their Profile Pictures.

So, you have to take notes.

I do believe that writing is something you need to set time aside for, but in order to succeed at it, you need to have a resource for finding something to write about. A method for figuring out your topic.

Personally, I do this by referencing a document called Topics, which is essentially a long collection of random statements, thoughts, phrases, and half-finished sentences that represent some larger idea that I have not yet found the time to write about. These fringe-thoughts are important to capture.

However, the content for my Topics documents has to come from somewhere. It’s actually just a compilation of all the notes I take. The best way to start putting together your own Topics document is to start writing down your ideas when you have them, instead of waiting until you actually have time to do something with them.

A few days ago, I Twittered that as much as I’d love to carry around a Moleskine to jot down ideas in style, I just can’t keep up with a notebook. Besides my wallet and keys, the only thing I can keep track of is my iPhone. So, I am always using it as my nerdy scratchpad.

I once read that Jerry Seinfeld keeps a notepad on the dresser next to his bed, because concepts for comedy frequently come to him in the middle of the night when he’s dead asleep. His notes don’t always make sense when he reads them with fresh eyes in the morning, but when they do, they’re always valuable material.

I have similar experiences. Oftentimes, ideas for essays come to me just as I’m drifting off to sleep. But of course, by that time, I’m too tired to get up, find a notebook, locate a pen, and laboriously write down the idea. And forget about getting back to sleep once I do all of that.

Fortunately, I sleep with my iPhone tucked under my pillow. So, it’s easy to just pull it out, open up Notes, and tap-tap-tap out whatever interesting thing I might be thinking about.

In fact, the iPhone has completely changed the way I approach writing, because my iPhone is literally never more than three feet away from me. I always have a way to record my thoughts, so the time at which I have these thoughts is now irrelevant. Because even when I’m in the shower, my iPhone always within the reach of my arm. (As long as I towel-dry my arm first.)

In an alternate universe, where I could actually succeed at carrying around a notebook, I still wouldn’t have it with me when, say, I’m standing naked in my bathroom and blowdrying my hair.

But I do have my iPhone. Which is exactly why I remembered to write this post.

For me, it’s much simpler than that.

1) Food Acquisition

Acquisition is not preparation. I enjoy cooking, especially with and/or for other people. That part is fun. It’s the going to the grocery store part that I despise.

When I’m intensely focused on something (which is all of the time), I can hardly remember to do normal, human things like, you know, eat. So, when I finally do realize that I’m hungry, food needs to be ready and waiting for me to prepare and promptly consume.

And it’s not just that I can’t be bothered with the acquisition of food. It’s that I am literally incapable of it. Acquiring food is an activity that I find acutely stressful and time-consuming. My life would be significantly better if I didn’t have to do it, and I cannot wait until the day I can afford to pay somebody to do it for me.

2) Laundry

This is another part of life that I know people just have to suck it up and do, but really, honestly, it’s something that I’m largely unable to accomplish.

I think this probably wouldn’t be a big issue if I had an in-house washer/dryer, but I’m not yet at the point in my life where that’s really an option. So, the whole sorting, separating, saving-all-of-your-quarters thing is too much for me to handle. Not to mention desperately hoping somebody doesn’t steal my favorite pair of jeans.

I hate laundry so much that I actually have a persistent personal mission to purchase new pairs of underwear. All the time. Because, really, I have such a ridiculous amount of clothing that I could probably dress myself for like an entire year without even wearing the same thing twice. So, the only time I am actually forced to do laundry is when I run out of clean underwear.

I’m probably up to about a hundred pairs, so currently, I only have to do laundry about once every three months. Score.

3) Chauffeuring

I used to love to drive. I guess I still do, if it’s a pretty day on an open, mostly deserted road. But after getting into a fairly serious car accident a few years ago, I am a much more nervous driver now.

But I still love being driven around in a car. Really. It’s relaxing for me to collect my thoughts and gather myself. Especially after the last two years of riding on public transportation, I crave that feeling of spending some quality alone time with yourself in your own personal bubble of your car, before you have to get on with the day and start interacting with people.

I’m also addicted to the feeling of constant motion and changing scenery. I think this could be contributed to the fact I spent a LOT of time in a motorized swing as a baby, but it’s also a pretty apt metaphor for how I live my life.

In any case, going to the extent of hiring a private driver isn’t really required. I just mainly like to rely on my boyfriend to take over the responsibility of driving and transport me to-and-fro. In return,  I always offer good conversation, great music, and navigation assistance.

* * *

And that’s it. Three stupidly simple things.

Maybe this all sounds trite. To put it into perspective, I probably won’t ever need a secretary or a personal assistant. Because daily life activities like answering email, scheduling meetings, and making phone calls simply do not ever stress me out.

To each their own. I know that those might be the bane of other people’s lives, but they’re not the bane of mine.

In describing our relationship with relationships on Facebook, people might say “it’s complicated.” However, it seems pretty simple to me.

The truth is, if it’s on Facebook, it’s truth.

Think about it. For instance, everybody knows that it’s not real until it’s on Facebook. So, it’s not really a relationship until it’s proclaimed as such on Facebook. When recently asking a friend about a new love interest, he said they were dating, but weren’t “Facebook serious” yet. It’s a big deal to be serious enough to put it on Facebook. (People not on Facebook need not apply.)

My boyfriend and I have been dating on and off for about four years now, but last year, when we got serious again, we had the DTR (or, “Define The Relationship” for the uninitiated) conversation on the phone.  We determined that we were indeed together, and ultimately decided that Facebook needed to reflect that we were together. So, the conversation ended with him telling me: “Let’s see who gets to Facebook first.”

Similarly, I know that if people are dating somebody and it isn’t quite “Facebook serious” yet, they change your relationship status to reflect the ambiguity. “It’s Complicated” might suffice, or oftentimes, just removing the status completely. My generation is defined as much by what they don’t share as by what they do share.

I have a handful of friends who have gotten married over the least year or so, all of which had updated their Facebook relationship status to reflect “married” before they left for their honeymoon. Sometimes even before they had left their wedding! Obviously, it’s not official until it’s on Facebook.

I wonder if anybody has ever asked someone to marry them via Facebook. You know, like, “This person would like to enter a relationship of marriage with you. Can you confirm that you want to be married to them?” I know that when a couple gets engaged, it shows up on the news feed as something like, “So-and-so have gotten engaged and they would like everybody on Facebook to know!” If Facebook is going to act as the digital engagement announcement, they should at least let you customize the text.

Conversely, you aren’t really broken up unless you’ve broken up on Facebook. (Enter the sad little broken heart icon that shows up on the news feed.) In this case, it just doesn’t feel real until you’ve clicked cancel, and then selected “Single” from the drop-down menu.

Back in the dark ages of Facebook (see also “TheFacebook.com”), I once broke up with a guy via Facebook. I found out later that by ending the relationship on Facebook, my newly exed boyfriend received an email that said, “Melissa Sconyers has canceled your relationship.”

I would assume verbiage for such is a bit more politcally correct now, but I don’t want to find out.

Although since the class was, fundamentally, about linguistics, one assignment required us to write about an incident where language causes a humorous or humiliating misunderstanding. My short story involves both.

An Alien Courtship

A year ago today, on August 8th, 2048, an alien species landed on Earth.  Their spaceshoe crashed down in the small Chinese city of Xi’an, barely missing the excavation site of the famous army of  terracotta warriors.  China was only mildly annoyed at the near-loss of their two-thousand year old historical relics; they recovered quickly to realize that they would be the first country in the world to have contact with an honest-to-science alien species.

In the beginning, China called these aliens Xingren, meaning ’star people’ in Chinese.  The entire human population of Earth waited breathlessly until Chinese linguists were able to learn of the alien language to have rudimentary communication with them.  Soon, we learned that the species called themselves Qiguai.

Though the details were predictably classified as top secret by the Chinese government, it unfortunately became clear that the Qiguai could not survive on Earth indefinitely.  To continue our contact with the Qiguai, we had to find a place for them to live.  In a great act of generosity, the World Governing Organization sectioned of a small area on the planet Mars as a habitat for the stranded Qiguai to live.  This alien reservation was called Xing, in honor of the first name that was given to the Qiguai.

It was my first intergalactic flight.  As a moderately famous linguist, I was one of the people selected for a highly specialized and diverse group of humans to observe, document, and learn from the Qiguais.  In the time leading up to my departure, I voraciously studied what little knowledge we had of Yuyan, the Qiguai language.  On the day that I boarded the spaceshoe flight to Xing, I was armed with a relatively small vocabulary, but its size continued to increase quickly and exponentially.

Yuyan is a tonal language, a fact that lent the Chinese people, and myself, a large advantage during this first contact.  However,  as the powerful spaceshoe engines powered up, I realized that I was not well-versed in interpreting the tones that my stomach was making as a last-ditch effort to talk some sense into the higher powers.  It didn’t take a genius to understand why my hands trembled as I fastened my shoelaces.  I was going to have an interesting adventure, indeed.

For those of you who are reading a translated version of this account, ‘interesting’ just so happens to be the most non-committal word in the English language.

* * *

The Qiguai were strangely similar to humans.  I found that I settled in far faster than I ever could have imagined.  Within a matter of weeks I could function fairly well in most basic social situations in this budding, bustling settlement.  Still, surprisingly enough, the tones in Yuyan language were more challenging than those that I was familiar with in Chinese, which often led to embarrassing moments with the Qiguai.  Most of these mishaps were fairly trivial and harmless, until one blustery morning on the red planet.

“Qing wen,” I interrupted a tall Qiguai male as I fumbled in my purse to retrieve my map.  When I straightened back up, I was surprised to see how handsome he was.  As I was idly pondering the fact that I had not previously been attracted to any of the Qiguai, he leaned down and kissed me.

I jumped back in confusion.  “Aiya! Dui bu qi, dui bu qi!!” I apologized breathlessly, shaking my head in an attempt to make sense of this odd situation.  The attractive Qiguai male looked puzzled and ever-so-slightly amused, or so I thought.  He could have been looking angry and possibly homicidal, for all I really knew.  In addition to the challenges that I was facing with learning an alien language, I never anticipated the trouble I would with interpreting alien facial expressions.

“Uh, ni wei shenme wen wo ne?” As I made my inquiry, I stumbled over the word for ‘kiss.’  Suddenly, the situation dawned on me.  Though I had been trying to politely ask him to pause and give me directions, I had used the incorrect tones and had mistakenly asked him to kiss me.  At least he obliged, I thought as I slapped my forehead and shook my head again.  With some luck, my actions were portraying bewilderment and not informing him of some underlying intent to kill.  I hoped that it was at least adorable sort of bewilderment.  Shit.

“Ah, wo zhidao.  Mei wenti ba!” He simultaneously realized my error, and his, too, though he showed no outward sign of regret.  Not that I would have picked up on it anyway.

“Ni xuyao bangzhu ma?“  He grinned in what I thought was a winning way and offered his assistance.  I returned his smile and opened up the map that had been hanging, forgotten, in my hands.  In my continual and varied attempts to increase my vocabulary, I was trying to find the specialty food market to educate myself about Qiguai cuisine.

“Ni… renshi… umm, zhe’ge shichang ma?” My face flushed red as I stuttered through my words again.  Thankfully, his face lit up in recognition (or possibly, in utter disgust) and he offered to lead the way.  With a quickness that surely betrayed my innermost feelings, I happily obliged.

* * *

That wayward kiss was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between two entirely different types of carbon beings.  I inwardly smiled every time I remembered what my college best friend used to say about learning a new language: “You just need to find a cute native speaker and make him your boyfriend,” she always insisted.  That was the way she successfully learned French, Spanish, and Italian, the last of which ultimately landed her a husband.  Though I would have never admitted it to another, I had an ever-growing crush on Nanren and began to wonder about the radical and almost inconceivable prospect of marrying him.  Although the population of Earth had finally come to terms with gay marriage, it greatly amused me to wonder what they might think of inter-special unions.

At this thought, a sly smile crossed my face, and Nanren immediately inquired about what I found so entertaining.  He demonstrated an amazing capability for studying the facial expressions and interpreting the body language of humans; in fact, the skill he had acquired rapidly eclipsed my slowly evolving ability to pick up on the context clues of his culture.

“Uh… meiyou.” I hesitated as I considered explaining it to him, but we had never even discussed the possibility of a relationship beyond our friendship.  It seemed awfully forward to discuss marriage at this point.

Instead, I shrugged in a semblance of apology, and his response was to shrug quickly three times in a row, pause, and then shrug twice again.  These actions could possibly cause another human to question his sanity; the wide, lopsided smirk that belied his intelligence did not help.  Yet this was one of our many inside jokes.  Shrugging was an art he had not mastered so quickly, but he was keen on the fact that I found it so humorous.  Though he could correctly execute this body movement in the company of other humans, between us, his initial over-enthusiasm had become the norm.

I turned my attention back to the American history textbook that Nanren and I were poring over.  The lifespan of Qiguai was easily three times as long as a normal human being, so human history was always a subject that fascinated him.  Our great accomplishments seemed even greater to him, for they were achieved in what he perceived to be such a short lifetime.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, came The Question.  “Ni riqi ren ma?“  Did he really just ask me, in plain and simple terms, whether or not I date?  I flushed a deep shade of crimson, something that would have normally enchanted Nanren, but this particular time, he just looked somewhat befuddled by my reaction.  At this point in my time on Xing, I was no longer entirely unsure of the emotions reflected on his face.  There was obvious confusion in his violet-colored eyes, which in turn, completely confounded me.

“Duuuiii… wo riqi ren…” I responded slowly, taking a chance and shyly offered the affirmative.  Sure, I had been on Xing for awhile now, I rationalized, but I had been known to date people in the past.  ”Ni ne??” My eyes flashed indignantly as I returned the ball to his court, yet my heart skipped a beat in anticipation of his response.

“Dang ran.“  Of course, he answered with an obvious air of confidence that further muddled my understanding of the situation.  Well, of course of course, I silently huffed.  What was I thinking?  How could a stunningly gorgeous alien life form not call on similarly attractive alien females?  I had seen plenty of them on Xing, their tall, lithe, impossibly thin and chiseled bodies gliding effortlessly in the atmosphere.  Well, hell, I was not someone to scoff at.  I was reasonably attractive by human standards for sure, but Nanren had previously confirmed my allure to aliens.

I opened and closed my mouth several times, but the sound of my breath was the only sound that escaped my jaws.  I was at loss on how to continue with this uncomfortable, yet significant conversation.  Fortunately, though he was slightly disconcerted, he looked as if he felt significantly less awkward about the topic than I did.  “Na’ge zhidu, ni juede ne?” He politely asked me what my thoughts were on the process.

“Bu tai jiandan.“  Despite his apparant ease, I stubbornly asserted that this particular matter was really not all that easy to discuss.

“Wei shenme bu??” He raised his eyebrows as he asked me why not, and his eyes turned a deeper shade of purple as he struggled to identify the emotions in my answer.

That was it.  I just couldn’t dance around the obvious anymore.  I went off in a long discourse about why matters of the human heart were just not as straight-forward and clean-cut as he obviously thought they were.  Afterwards, I asked him if he understood where I was coming from.  Nanren responded that he didn’t quite grasp what I was saying, but he lamented that these so-called “matters of the heart” seemed much simpler in his culture.  When I asked him why not, he shrugged.  Only once, and with such human perplexity that I momentarily forgot that I was in the company of an alien from outer space.  I knew now, that he was not playing games.  My heart ached as I prepared myself to ask the question that had been hanging in the air, thus far still left unsaid.

“Ni yao riqi wo ma?“  There.  I had done it.  I had mustered the courage to inquire if he wanted to date me.  I closed my eyes and tried to stay my nerves as I waited impatiently for his response.

“Dang ran.” Of course, he said.  When he said it this time, his voice was soft and he pronounced the words with delicate care.  My eyes were still closed when he spoke, but they fluttered opened when I felt the warmth of his hand on the left side of my chest, above my heart and near my collar-bone.

I quivered at his gentle touch.  “Zai zher?  Xian zai??“  I couldn’t believe it.  Right here? Right now?  Nanren wanted to date me?  A tiny amount of uncertainty that remained in his eyes, as he nodded his consent.

“Okay.” I said, using the utterly universal phrase of compliance. “Okay!” I repeated the word with a sudden, over-whelming sense of enthusiasm and anticipation.  Perhaps we would go down in history as the first ever inter-special couple.  I could get used to that idea.

He nodded briskly, acknowledging my return to good spirits, and offered me a number.  “Wo juede er’shi sui.  Chabuduo.“   He estimated I was in my twenties, give or take a few.

Though I stood rooted to the ground, my body began to waver in a dizzy, worrisome way.  I was dumbfounded.  Furthermore, I was humiliated.

In an attempt to save face, I sputtered out a confirmation.  Because Nanren was, of course, entirely correct.

In my giddy infatuation, I had entirely forgotten that the Qiguai were equipped with a special sensory system that let the immediately and accurately identify the age of a being by merely touching an area close to their heart.  The practice of carbon dating, as we humans call it.

I smiled in private amusement at my folly.  Nanren looked greatly relieved that his guess had been successful and that I had returned to a seemingly normal state of emotions.  A few minutes later, during a lull in the conversation, I locked eyes with him.  Great affection filled the depth of my stare, but I doubted that he picked up on this nuance.  Someday, I knew he would.  Someday, I knew I would have the opportunity share this story with him and I knew we would laugh about it together.

Until then… The End.