I had a conversation with a friend today on the various disgruntlements and angsts of dating. Naturally, being a fellow, he thinks I’m fortunate to have as many dates as I’ve had; regardless that each and every one has been experiental evidence of a number of broken themes amongst men that continue to annoy. He told me of the time he made a profile for his cat, just to see if it were true that women get more responses than men. The ad, of course, was flooded; he was immediately convinced that women have no cause for complaint because, hey, at least they’re getting attention. I told him that was rather like telling a woman who had been raped that hey, at least she got laid.
Point: The issue is not quantity, but quality. He groused as he acquiesed to it.
His point was that he thought I shouldn’t stop trying. I, on the other hand, am tired of it all. Utterly. I am sick of fearful men who never seem self-aware enough to know they’re not ready until they’ve dragged who knows how many women into the mix. I am sick of men who are eaten up with neurosis and self-loathing but who, somehow, fancy themselves the world’s best catch and oh! by the way, only a super-model will do. I am sick of men who rake women into the basket of possibilities based not upon any sense of commonality or potential compatability, but more for the ignorance of thinking that the scattershot approach does other than tell any woman who recognizes it that she’s just so much meat on the counter.
Admission: I have rounded the corner and found bitterness. I’m practically a persimmon, a lemon, a green apple happy to watch the world look away. I dare someone to try and change my mind. And I sincerely pity the next poor fool who makes the mistake of loosing the “You know, you’re a really good/brilliant/caring/[insert positive adjective here] person, but….” in my direction.
I’ll take the friends I have and be the one who goes where she wants, does as she pleases, and has a cheerful “Fuck you” at hand. Especially if you’re trying to tell me you’re interested. Especially then. I don’t need to make you jump through hoops, I don’t want you to chase me. I’m not interested in your soulful eyes or your heavy sighs. Spend your effort on someone who hasn’t figured out just how ridiculously superficial it all is; someone who doesn’t notice that you leap from one possibility to another because you’re so afraid of missing something that you don’t know how to appreciate anything, anyone, anytime, anywhere.
Oh, karma! Let me see you at 50, at 60, at 70, all wistful, pensive, lonely, and thinking about the ones you let slip away because your compass was too interested in magnetic north. I’ll be old, wrinkled, gray, and laughing for hobbies and humor I’ve found since letting the ludicrous idea of “you” go.
In this moment, I can’t think of a single thing a man might bring that I can’t find with less deceit, less posing, less scheming in friendships, in social groupings, or by my own hand. (chuckle) Oh, I am annoyed and angsty and bitter for it!! Admitted, accepted, and so what? This too, shall pass. It may take a while to soothe the tartness, but I manage it quite nicely, just as I do anything to which I set my mind.
I’ve decided that whenever the hormonal tide rises, whenever there’s a moment in which I feel that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t be quite so resolute, I will take myself to the local bars and remind myself there, in the middle of the meatmarket. Or I will donate a few hours at the local women’s shelter. Or I’ll just swig some merlot, shirah, or sangria and sharpen my claws on the digital page. I’ll howl, motherfucker, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same thing you always do, pretend you don’t understand why and walk on by.