The unhappy truth

So... what's
your sign, babe?

I guess most guys figure out by the end of high school what kind of women are 'attainable' by them. i.e., not likely to laugh out loud if they flatter them or accuse them of stalking if they say 'good morning' to them.

But I had insufficient feedback in that area. I knew in high school I was nowhere near the top of the ladder, but I couldn't accurately estimate how far down I was.

I'm not an ugly guy, by any means. I am just extraordinarily ordinary-looking. Mine is a face that would disappear into a crowd, except for the fact that it's parked atop the 6-foot-tall slab of beef that is my body.

(I am overweight these days, but even when I'm not, I'm anything but thin. I sort of resemble Merlin Olsen, the late football player/actor, in body type.)

I entered college confident that I was somewhere in the broad middle region of looks and charisma. I was no Ryan O'Neal, who was the gold standard of hotness at the time, but no Ron "Horshack" Palillo, either.

Evidence began to mount that I had overrated myself. Women I approached inevitably rejected me and often took up with guys that I thought were a lot less interesting and attractive than me (although often wealthier or with a better supply line of drugs).

But then college ended, I entered the workplace, and I soon found myself on television reading (and hysterically hyperventilating over) the news. I was the least good-looking newscaster in town – that was obvious. But still, I had made the cut, hadn't I? That ought to count for something.

But it didn't.

I kept approaching women who were, frankly, much too hot for a shambling, beefy sloth like me, and I kept getting rejected. And then I started looking in that broad middle region of looks and charisma. What I saw were hundreds of women to whom I was not the least attracted.

I am aware that a lot of people end up married to people to whom they are not attracted. It's called "settling," and I eventually did it myself. It wasn't fair to me to have done that, but moreover, it wasn't fair to her, either. She loved me, but she would have been better off with a simple, slow-witted Baptist youth minister than she was with me.

Now, in my senior years, I am able to sort of comfortably say that which was evident from the late sixties to the present: I am really an unappealing, unattractive guy. I'm a lot lower on the ladder than I wanted to believe. That is mostly just the way the genetic cards were dealt – the Tao of mcarp, if you will.

But I'm still not going after the 'Aunt Bee' types, whether I'm 'supposed' to or not.

Some good news for a change

I have suffered from severe late summer allergies all my life. In my twenties, thirties and forties, my allergies were so severe between the last week of August and the first week of October that I would spend most of the time in bed, surrounded by tissues and sinus medicines. Some mornings when I woke up, my eyes would be badly swollen I couldn't open them.

But about ten years ago, the severity of my late summer allergies began tapering off, and they've been more bearable with each passing year.

This year, the August/September/October allergy season has passed almost unnoticed. I've had maybe three brief sneezing jags for the whole six weeks.

And now, an unsolicited testimonial

You may recall that earlier this year I was somewhat attracted to a woman much younger than myself. She sent me to the friend zone quickly, but that was what I expected in the first place, so I wasn't too broken-hearted about it.

She has since moved away with a boyfriend her own age. But today, she posted this comment on my Facebook wall in regard to my own posts about my daily activities.

" ...you remind me of the old man on Fraggle Rock mixed a bit with the Swedish Chef of the Muppets, with a hint of the man that Dennis menaces...lovin' the daily mcarp..."

Of course, she forgot to mention Dr. Johnny Fever.

But I think her description probably reflects the general feminine opinion of me in a much more succinct way than I ever could. I can sit at my computer and blather about the resurgence of my sexual prowess, but in the outside world most women look at me and are reminded of various cartoon characters from their childhoods.

T M Even More I

In addition to everything else, my stomach and GI tract have been giving me fits intermittently for about three weeks now. I've had this before, but it's been years ago. When I was in college, I took two doses of Pepto-Bismol every morning to just get through the day.

It went away by itself that time (after many months), and I assume it will this time, too.

I wonder if this and the renewed libido are somehow biochemically connected. Earlier in the summer, I also had the worst case of acne I've ever had in my life. It was minor – almost unnoticeable – but still worse than anything I experienced in my teens.

Of course, at my age, stuff like this has the potential to be more serious.

But, as I've said before, I've done everything I was 'supposed' to do. I don't have insurance, and I'd frankly rather die and leave what money I have to someone who will use it constructively than blow it all trying to keep my worthless ass alive longer than it needs to be.

T M I

I used to have a couple of female friends who talked candidly, and at length, about their sex lives. It wasn't 'sex chat,' in any way, shape or form, although the details were usually rather explicit. Even so, I wasn't offended, and I didn't mind listening.

On the other hand, I had another female friend whose stories of sexual exploits, although far less salacious, always had me fumbling on my iPod for Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, so I could turn it up full blast.

(In my own family, discussion of sex and sexuality was strictly off-limits, as you might expect in any family in the late fifties and early sixties – although you might also think my folks would be a little more open about it than most, given that both of them were willing to fuck pretty much anything that walked on its hind legs.)

Anyway, you might want to put the 1812 Overture on before reading further.

For about the past ninety days, my libido has been functioning at roughly the same level it did when I was thirty, and I am at a loss to explain why. It's fairly frustrating, since I am in fact not thirty, but fifty-eight, built more like a Kay County farmer than a sophisticated, urbane metrosexual, and I am profoundly exhausted with the company of other human beings – even willowy, ethereal ones. I am, in other words, a lousy candidate for random sexual encounters.

The longest I was ever 'master of my domain', to use the Seinfeldian euphemism, was close to two years. I was depressed, heavily into meditation and Buddhist philosophy, and, as the coup de grace, affected by some sex drive-killing blood pressure medication. Everything still worked, biologically speaking, but I just didn't care. If Milla Jovovich had landed in my back yard wearing nothing but a parachute, I would have called her a cab. ("Milla - you're a cab!")

Even though I was still in love with my willowy Buddhist friend, I was mostly interested in sitting on a hillside with her, watching the clouds. I wanted a relationship, but I wanted it to be mostly intellectual – someone on my own level or close to it with whom I could have interesting and stimulating conversation, or just quiet evenings saying and doing nothing, while she walked around in gauzy, floaty clothes.

My perfect woman,
people tell me. 

Now, suddenly, it's like some sort of fog lifted. Unfortunately, there's not much I can do about it. As I've said many times in the past, one can realize that he's attracted to people who are not 'appropriate' for him, but that doesn't change the fact that he's attracted to them.

I am attracted to women who are, to put it bluntly, too good-looking for me. They're out of my league.

As I've written before, I am apparently 'supposed' to be with a burly, stocky, angry but gregarious woman – an "Aunt Bee" type – who will whip my fat stockman's ass into shape. But even with a thirty-year-old's libido, that still doesn't appeal to me in the least.

Random notes

I bought a TV this week. It's the first new TV I've had in 15 years, I guess. I haven't had television at all in a long time.

Pulled the thing out of the box, and the only thing I recognized was the screen. All the connections – and there are many – were foreign to me. I had never seen a TV with USB ports and a LAN connection. I misplaced the manual almost immediately. I guess I'll go online and try to learn more about how this thing works. I doubt I'll watch any actual television with it. I'm thinking about getting Netflix, and I can watch movies right now from iTunes.

In other news, I'm sitting at home almost all day, and enjoying it. Haven't been to the coffee shop in a couple of weeks. Went to dinner with my old Wednesday/Friday group the other night. I don't do that often, but it's good to touch base with them occasionally.

I've thought lately that I would like to make some new friends. I don't know where to look. Most people bore me. They have to be extremely bright or extremely eccentric for me to enjoy their company.

The blower in the central air unit has gone out. I haven't had anything done with it because the weather's been so temperate I haven't needed it, and probably won't need heat until December. It has to get below freezing and stay that way for a couple of days for the house to get cold enough to be uncomfortable.

Autumn

Wow — maybe autumn really is here. It's cloudy and 54 right now, with rain in the forecast. This is very welcome after the hottest summer on record for my state.

This is also the kind of weather that makes a guy wish he had someone snuggled up under the covers with him. But I'm going to do the zen thing here, which is to note that I am experiencing that desire, and then move on.

I have been accused of not being in touch with my feelings. Actually, I'm quite aware of my feelings, and it's a very Buddhist thing to be aware of one's feelings. But it's not a Buddhist thing to be ruled by one's feelings.

Transitions

Another person and I have dissolved our friendship of six or seven years. Frankly, it feels like a relief.

She would have her own interpretation of the events leading up to this. My interpretation is that we had reached the point where she expected me to be on 24-hour hot standby to help her with emergencies, anxiety attacks and minor crises that were usually the direct result of her own negligence or lack of planning.

She had done this previously with a couple other of her male friends, and I knew it would eventually come to me.

My list of close friends is shrinking. But I am more comfortable with solitude than I have been in a long time. I guess I like myself better than I used to.

A few days went by during the past couple of weeks in which I did not think about the willowy and ethereal Buddhist woman. That's significant because they were the first days in probably six or seven years that I did not think of her even once. It used to be an every day occurrence.

A return to normalcy

It gets harder and harder for me to be around other people. I spend more time than ever alone, and I'm happy and grateful to have that time.

The flurry of angst I felt about women and relationships seems to have subsided, and I am almost back to my old comfortable indifference. The outburst of resentment shared here over the past few weeks harkened back to the late 1990s, when I carried on like that all the time.

More Blog Changes

You may have had some trouble accessing this page recently. Blogroller, the service that auto-loaded the list of blogs maintained by other members of the Well, has apparently shut down. When this page tried to load the Well blogroll, it was led instead to redirect to the parking page for blogroller.com.

The problem is now fixed, but the long list of blogs maintained by fellow Wellperns is no longer available.

The Pillows Arrived

And they work. The drawback is that they feel like a toilet seat. So it sort of feels like I'm sitting on the can while using my computer.

That's what I have my iPad for.

Heart Is Contrary To The Way

Via Sweeping Zen:

Emmon: If (the way) cannot be conceived by the heart, how can it be conceived/thought of?

Mster Nyuri: As soon as a thought arises, there is also the heart. Heart is contrary to the way. No-thought is no-heart. No heart (the empty heart) is the way of Truth (True Awakening.)

I Don't Want It Very Badly

Sometimes being alone sucks, and I guess I've been more keenly aware of alone-ness's general suckitude over the past several weeks.

But nothing is going to change in that regard. I close my eyes, and try to visualize things being somehow different, and I can't. I can't even imagine it. I can visualize myself living on a space station more easily than I can visualizing myself in a relationship. In fact, imagining myself in a relationship is a little like imagining myself at the dentist's office.

Mind Over Mary is right, or almost right, when she says I don't want anyone in my life. I do want someone in my life, but not very badly.

The Reluctant Waitress

There's a place I go many mornings for breakfast. I've been there so often, most of the waitresses know my name, and I theirs. They say hi to me, even if I'm not at one of their tables.

Except for one. She's pleasant enough if I'm her customer; otherwise, she'll look the other way when I come in, or studiously examine a check until I pass. If I say 'good morning' as I walk by, she'll pretend she didn't hear me while everyone else says 'good morning' or 'hi'.

Naturally, I'm somewhat attracted to her. Is it because she so clearly dislikes me, or does she dislike me because she senses I'm attracted to her? Or maybe it's both — kind of a closed feedback loop?

I'm not pushing it. In fact, I'll avoid sitting at her tables if I can, because it's so obvious I make her uncomfortable.

She seems to chat up the guys who have short hair and NASCAR-logoed windbreakers. I wouldn't put on a NASCAR windbreaker to get close to Milla Jovovich dressed in nothing but three strategically-placed cups of chocolate pudding, so I'm certainly not getting one to wear to breakfast.

I wonder though, what it is that makes about one out of twenty women kind of cringe when they see me coming.

Hemorrhoids

Had 'em since I was in my twenties. Maybe that's why I'm go grouchy.

Until recently, they've never been more than a nuisance. But now, when they're being feisty, I can't even sit in a chair.

I ordered a couple of those donut-shaped cushions today. They support your ass while letting your 'rhoids just sort of float free.

I will report back on my results, because I know you want to hear every precise detail.

It's All Tits And Ass From Here On Out

A few months ago, I noticed a young woman with an awkward, sort of stiff gait crossing the street. I remarked to the woman who was with me that she had the stride of a gymnast or swimmer.

My friend's lower lip started to quiver, so I asked her what was wrong. I got about five minutes of weepy argle bargle about the marginalization of women above a certain age, and something about patriarchy, and something and something.

I hadn't commented at all on this young lady's attractiveness or lack thereof. But by merely noticing her long, stiff-kneed walk, I had oppressed and undermined women everywhere.

My mother, as I mentioned in previous posts, was 'way ahead of the curve on this stuff. As early as about 1967, she was lecturing about weak, irresponsible men — which included, presumably, all the ones she was fucking. I was taught that I was, simply by virtue of my gender, both guilty and impossibly, irredeemably weak, and that the best I could hope for was the opportunity to clean house and do dishes for some woman who was intrinsically better than I could ever hope to be.

As a result of that upbringing, I was bending over backwards to avoid objectifying women long before the term 'objectifying' came into currency. From adolescence through my late forties, I wouldn't even compliment a woman on her clothing, because that would mean having some inappropriate awareness of her gender, appearance and, perhaps, her sexuality.

Even so, I seem to be objectifying women by simply taking note that they're ambulatory. So, once again, fuck it — I'm done. It's all tits and ass from here on out, folks.

Done With It

I am a heterosexual male. I am attracted to women. I may not trust women, but I am attracted to women. More specifically, I am attracted to certain kinds of women, and they are mostly of the willowy, ethereal, Stevie Nicks archetype I have posted about so many times before.

That may be shallow and superficial, but it's the way it goes with me.

I was discussing this with a female friend a few days ago, and for the first time in the years I have known her, she cut me off and said the topic wasn't open for discussion. She was upset, I think, because she believes, as many of my female friends do, that I am 'supposed' to be attracted to sturdy, sensible, scowling women who will straighten me out and make me be disciplined and productive. Or, alternately, that I should be that completely asexual 'bean bag chair' on which they flop down for a good cry when their boyfriends have shit on them.

The first paragraph of this post strikes me as being fairly tepid and noncontroversial. Yet I posted it with some trepidation, because I know if I had said something like that in front of my parents, my father would have squirmed nervously and my mother would have come completely unglued.

"You're not going to be like your father!" she would have scolded. "You're going to learn how to do laundry, and wash dishes, so that if you ever get married, you'll know how to be a dutiful husband and supportive of your wife!" My mother thought I should aspire to be a maid or housekeeper, largely so I could take care of our home while she was out getting hammered. I think she figured I would never marry; in fact, she once suggested to me that I was gay.

The housekeeping training didn't stick, as anyone who has been in my home knows. But I think what did stick was this notion that I was supposed to be some sort of groveling servant who existed only to try to please women by being the always-patient listener, always available to do favors, always willing to put her needs and interests before my own. The eternal rescuer, in other words.

Well, I am 58 years old now, and fuck that. I am done with it. And I am done with apologizing or feeling guilty because I like feminine women. If that's not 'nice' of me, too fucking bad. I am old and frumpy now, and not capable of playing Jake Danger for anyone, but someone else is going to have to be Big Brother/Daddy.

I Almost Forgot!

A few weeks ago, I found the 'eat shit' woman on Facebook. Hadn't talked to her since 1982 or thereabouts. Sent her a friend request. She never answered, but she imediately upped all her Facebook security settings to Threat Level Red.

I guess that's the way we say 'eat shit' in 2011.

More On Depression

From the New York Times blogs – Dick Cavett on depression:

...when you’re downed by this affliction, if there were a curative magic wand on the table eight feet away, it would be too much trouble to go over and pick it up.

More here.

More on Introversion

From The Atlantic, 2003

Caring For Your Introvert

Follow this link to a 2006 interview with article's author, Jonathan Rauch.

And another Jonathan Rauch story on introverts and romance.