The Peppercorn

Admittedly, my first day as a law student was not a distinguished one. I found my way to class (an easy enough task when there are 50 other people who share your schedule and, thus, gazelle-like pivot in the right direction, eventually). I even had managed to purchase the proper books ahead of time and to read the assigned cases (though my relative comprehension may have been dubious as I did wonder why certain paragraphs at the beginning were preceded by keys and seemed extremely repetitive). No, my lack of distinction became inescapable in the first 10 minutes of my first class on my first day as a first year law student, as my contracts professor began a lyrical meditation on the essential parts of the contract: "First, one must have an offer -- the bridge to formation of a contract. Second, one must have acceptance -- the car to drive across that bridge. And last, but certainly not least, one must have the essential ingredient for formation of a contract -- that which seals the deal -- the oft-touted, much beloved, supremely utilitarian Peppercorn. Or as it is more conventionally known.... Ms. [______]?" Roused from my shell-shocked stupor by the sudden mangled mispronunciation of my last name and the realization that my attempt to wear nothing but neutrals was not going to save me from whims and vagaries of the Socratic method, I dissembled. Actually, more accurately, I spluttered in what I imagine was a keen, yet undecipherable, imitation of Porky Pig: "I, I, I, I.... ddddon't kn-kn-know." Two beats. Seamlessly, the professor continued: "Well, Ms. [______] that is a shame. A peppercorn is the legal metaphor for the concept of consideration. It is the payment of the toll to drive your acceptance car across the offer bridge. If you act without consideration being extended to you, in the end, there is no agreement. I hate to inform you, but Ms. [_________], if you act without consideration, then no matter what was initially offered, you are on your own."

How true. In every respect.

******

Embarrassing as that episode was, it instilled in me a lifelong respect for the peppercorn. Or the "mere peppercorn" as it is so often lovingly referred within the halls of the legal academe. An appreciation which is only tempered by my continued amusement at the ridiculousness of the term "consideration" to describe the inducement to enter into a contract (usually money, but can be as amorphous as a promise to do or even not to do something).

But at the juncture of here and now which is my life today, the concepts -- arcane and silly as they may have seemed at first blush -- take on a new meaning and singular importance. I should have known. I have always had a love for the supremely absurd.

******

I have been attempting throughout my life to have romantic relationships in which no peppercorn -- not even a mere one -- was exchanged. There was no consideration. In any sense of the word. And everything, inevitably, would fall apart. I had no recourse. But that is as it should have been. In truth, there was no agreement.

******

No bargain, no benefit.

******

My struggle has always been that I did not know what to bargain for. I did not think I was entitled to consideration, let alone to think about defining what form of consideration would be best for me. Whither my peppercorn?

Recent events, from my Goodbye to All That moment to Client No. 9 making a splash in the news to my new appreciation for St. Patrick's Day, have led me to a greater understanding of what that peppercorn might be. Or at least now I am fully cognizant of what it is not. It will not be someone who dazzles but holds me at arms length. It will have to be someone who leads with their heart. It can be a confused heart, it can be an unknowing heart, it can even be a frightened heart (mine is certainly all those things and more), but it must be an earnest heart. All the rest is just meaningless noise.

******
So I have discovered the peppercorn. And I am, without a doubt, utterly beyond terrified. Knowledge which I would have assumed would bring me comfort instead fills me with dread.
I know the truth now, so to the extent that things do not work out from here, there is only one target upon which blame can be placed: It is my fault. Every additional day that I am alone -- continuing on that relentless march into spinsterhood -- another indictment: Broken. Irreparably broken.

A singular life as damaged goods.

******

I will never be confident enough. I will never be laid-back enough. I will never be thin enough. I will never be interesting enough. I will never be put together enough.

I really am at a loss for how to fix these things. If I could snap my fingers and make them so, then it would be done. If I knew what book to read or what course to take or what service to enlist so that I could work my way toward the solutions for these things, I would be well on my way. But I really have no clue. Obviously. It shows.

*******

Every day, I try not to care. To be indifferent. To laugh at the oddities of my life. To chant silent internal cliched mantras about life working itself out and things being for the best. To harden my heart and prepare for a life ahead that looks very much like the life behind, and to negotiate a peace with that.

Every day I fail.

Perhaps my efforts are not entirely wasted. Perhaps, I am getting closer by fractions of millimeters to such goals. And such movement, as minute as it may be, is a victory. But I cannot see it. Mostly because I find my eyes blurred by the ever-welling tears because as hard as I try to toughen it and make it impervious, there is no escaping my heart and how much it hurts. All of the time. Every hour. Every day.

******

It is funny. It has never been about getting married. More so when I was younger and did not know any better. Now, much less so, as it seems so inconsequential to the real point: All my life, all I have ever wanted is that enduring love. To have someone love you, and you them. I just can't imagine anything more precious or more amazing. I really cannot imagine it. I have no idea what such a concept would look like when I am part of the equation. My actual involvement in interpersonal relations of the romantic kind is always a swift precursor to rejection and pain.

******

It bothers me that I am so weird. That I am horrifying to men across the spectrum. Tolerable enough to sleep with on occasion, but daylight is out of the question. In my quieter moments, I dare to ask why they think me so monstrous, but as I don't have an answer, I am back to welling with tears. Of course, the fact that I ask the question is probably a good one -- indicative of the fact the in my heart of hearts I must not believe I am a monster. And so that is a victory.

Pyrrhic. But victory nonetheless.

******

I know there are other things to be concerned with in this world. All so much more important and consequential than this. And I want to turn my attention to them. I just need to get my damn heart to stop hurting.