So who knew a man in his midlife could revert immediately back to a frightened tween upon entering his own college cafeteria? All the emotions and salient feelings of a junior high nightmare comes rushing back like vomit hitting the back of your throat. I know I can’t function an hour without constant social referencing — determining how much more attractive every other male else is than me — in any setting. Put me in an interrogation room with a one-way mirror then show me to room full of Carmelite nuns and it’d still be no different … I’m that good.
You can see why I detest going to the mall full of nubile, cornfed quarterbacks in their Aéropostale™ hats (they’re the reason Macy’s™ opted to abbreviate their oft-misprounced brand to four letters), Hollister™ shorts (simply couldn’t mow the lawn last week so they could buy it at Abercombie and Fitch™ instead), and requisite blonde, semi-buxom underclassman (who will have gorgeous 44DDs like her mom but will be irrevocably rendered undesirable from her 38″ waist right after their second child at 24) with the oh-so rebellious pink Mossy Oak® iPhone® OtterBox® (in case she drops her phone from the blind while choosing precisely just right playlist while drawing back her bow).
Then there’s the community gym I attend (you knew I wasn’t a member of LA Fitness or Bally’s, c’mon) where every month but January is full of devout acolytes from the career-set sacrifice themselves daily on the altar of allusion in hopes of attaining the nirvana of eternal youth. Puhleese . . . as if you need 21″ guns to get your spouse of 7 years to relent on that one fateful night she drinks too much at your friends’ BBQ when the kids are spending the night at Granny’s. Oddly enough you’re both silently picturing your secretary in that backless Christmas party dress from last year during the obligatory . . . wait it’s not in . . . wait . . . 3 minutes of monthly intercourse . . . and . . . sploosh . . . oh never mind. But at least getting your beast mode on at CrossFit is worth the $85/month, right . . . right?
Hell, I have two preschoolers, no job, waning academic appeal and that means maintaining an average body at best. How do I accomplish that minimum? Mostly I run anorexic rhetoric on a constant feedback loop in my head and if I do slip up and consume too many calories I’ll just exercise excessively for the next few days. I will never be anyone’s version of stroller meat and mostly receive slights in the form of hushed praise for not being a deadbeat dad. Even if I donned the uniform dirty tank top and lived in a double wide on the near west side, I have primary physical custody and I refuse to abandon my offspring. It is not a consolation prize to have women deign to acknowledge my reverse societal role. I have the chest to pin it on — there is no medal for this.
I write most passionately and produce my most vulnerable pieces when I’m either feeling low (common) or extremely fed up (rare). Today you have the Double Happiness of benefitting from both. I woke up happy enough to rival Holly GoLightly, sang my favorite new love song (immediately changed the channel from emotive tunes for the last year) at the top of my lungs in the car fully knowing others were staring, attended an intriguing lecture where my extemporaneous comments (yup didn’t read any of the book the last few weeks) nudged the class interactions to exciting new places. Then I considered eating more than a handful of popcorn all day so I walked back to my parking spot — mistake. I’ve been eating alone for over a year. I see couples and attractive single individuals everywhere laughing superficially and enjoying each other’s presence over greasy pizza and deep fried goodness. Excessively buff nursing students (who I swear must be physical trainer washouts) and dashing future dentists (evidently midwest oral hygiene and earning potential has a strong positive correlation) litter the far end while newcomers sit with like-attired and like-interest displayers of social hierarchy while I sit quietly near a outlet charging my devices.
Yes, I realize that none of these guys think like I do and that’s probably why the females misinterpret it as self-confidence. Even guys with a gut and a little fake swagger seem to be more marketable than a decent guy like me. WTF is my problem? I should get over myself … truly. The key, from both a subjective and objective longitudinal perspective, is to not give a rip. Assholes actually get ahead and, pardon the sailor in me, get head. Is it a lifetime soulmate they find? No, but they’re also not looking for marriage material as much as they are focusing on cleavage and temporary, relative easiness of access to sex. The ultimate compromise arrives when he realizes he is 3 Years From Settling and should actually attempt to grow a heart or risk being bald, fat, and self-pleasuring for the foreseeable future.
You may ask where all this self-loathing is headed and I too am wondering the same thing. Introspection and $4.50 plus tax will get me a cup of coffee. Maybe it is circumstantial? Admittedly I finish last but who labeled me a nice guy? Or should I fault nurture or nature? My cognitive dissonance would give Freud a migraine.
Death By Context 