Tu le parles?

Tu le parles?

I don’t do tests. Not academic tests, although if I had it entirely my way I would never have done those either, but the kind that tells you what kind of person it thinks you are, what your underwear says about you, and what kind of language you speak. I don’t do them because I’m somehow afraid the results will tell me I’m a frigid control-freak or that my underwear screams slut. But I was asked to do this yesterday, so, tired of rewriting Dato’ Abdullah’s speech and fending off product owners who were assaulting me with calls for their creative approvals, I consented. I’m not sure whether to be contented or horrified by the results…

The Five Love Languages

My Primary Love Language is Quality Time

My Detailed Results:
Quality Time: 11
Physical Touch: 9
Words of Affirmation: 7
Acts of Service: 2
Receiving Gifts: 1
It kind of makes me out to be a needy, amorous, self-absorbed narcissist, which, if any of it is true, is too mortifying to think about. On the other hand, it kind of says that I just need the good ol’ TLC, which is a much more comforting notion.

It’s true that I don’t need gifts. All the previous men bought me things and they all accounted for nothing in the end, because it appeared that I wasn’t the only one they were buying things for. I’d much rather buy my own things, because as certain gifts have proven, it saves a lot of money, time, and embarrassment of buying a gift that I will never use or look at, on the man’s part. Besides, very few men in their right mind — or the right financial status — would actually fork out the money for a pair of Christian Louboutins or Manolo Blahniks (import tax really does kill you).

The acts of service don’t really matter either, because nobody wants to be put through the misery of being made to do something they don’t want to. Unless it’s an absolute emergency, like fixing my closet door or running out to buy tampons (which will only ever happen if I’m in the shower and I know full well that I was too lazy to get them when I had the chance, and even then I would never put the poor man through that kind of public humiliation) or doing something I can’t bear to do — like stamping the life out of a cockroach because it scares the life out of me — I’m perfectly capable of doing most things on my own or hiring someone to do them for me.

So really, my love languages don’t cost a single penny to learn. In fact, after taking away the neediness and narcissism (because let’s face it, what man doesn’t want l’amour?), they’re really not that difficult to understand. Tell me every now and then that I look as normal without my face on as I do with so there’s no need to put it on before I step out of the house for fear of being shamed, and I’ll tell you that you really don’t need to be built like Ryan Reynolds to rock my world. And I won’t drag you out to watch the Sex & the City: The Movie sequel, so you can’t make me join a gym.

Although to be fair, I really am (occasionally) thinking of joining a gym.

See? Not that difficult.

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