For those of you just tuning in, go here for the beginning.
But OK, fine, you’re ready to be in some sort of relationship. Probably it’s monogamous, but that’s OK if it’s not. Here, check out my coat pockets: no ring there. We don’t need to move in for a good long time. Maybe we can look at puppies in the park, but I’m not planning on getting one and naming it after you. Honestly, I’d like to think I can express interest in you without you sailing to Isla de MySpaceNowBackOff, and if you can stick around, it could be fun. But make sure you don’t do this:
3) Keep asking me if you’re fat.
Look, we all have our self-esteem issues. My cranium looks like a Picasso rendering by way of Hieronymus Bosch. I’d never make it as one of those women who balances the urns of water on their head, unless Jai from “Queer Eye” got me a couture urn. Hey, it’s possible. And at least then he'd be doing something useful. I know I'm not asking for theatre tickets, Jai, so it's a bit out of your comfort zone, but come on man, I have faith in you.
So I get it, you have things you’re insecure about. But if you point them out on a daily basis, I might have to kill you. I never had a fat day until I met Jenny. Now I have them all the time. I got fat days through osmosis. This is so not fair. And my T zone won’t stop acting up. Someone please just kill me.
I’m your boyfriend/dating partner/boink buddy. You know, whatever we are. I’m not your therapist. I’m not dating only the good parts of you, I’m dating all of you. You’re not just dating my skull, and thank God for that, hunny. Earlier I said I didn’t have a specific visual type, but I do have a fairly specific interpersonal characteristic I cherish, and that’s self-confidence. Not saying you have to be Wonder Woman, but if you’re happy with who you are, most likely I will be. Unless, you know, you derive inner satisfaction from slaughtering homeless people. I think right about then we’d have to get into a trust tree and work things out.
When you point out a flaw of yours, generally you’re showing us something we never even so much as noticed before. So, you’re not doing yourself any favors, because now, I’m not gonna look at anything BUT that scar for the next hour, thank you very much. In addition, hey, one man’s poison, another mans’ J. Lo booty fetish. Accept the fact that I, and most guys for that matter, don’t expect you to have a triathlete’s body. Especially when we could stand to lose 20-30 pounds ourselves, let’s be honest. You wanna lose weight for you, hey, I’m there 100%. You wanna get a facial/new shoes/a bag because it’ll make you happy? Hey, go for it. But don’t do it for me/us. Hell, we’re barely able to wear different boxers back-to-back days. Let’s not waste effort on the wrong reasons.
One time, late at night, Jenny asked me the “Am I fat?” question. For the 1,327th time. For the first few hundred times, I put on my game face, smiled, and said, “No way!” Luckily, I believed that to be true, so it wasn’t hard. But Jenny didn’t have Jennifer Garner abs, and as such, never felt comfy with what she called her “chub”. Meanwhile, I was pushing 260 pounds, and while I wasn’t HUGE, you could almost pinch an inch…on my forehead. So we’re in bed, and by this point, I’m getting a bit annoyed by the whole process, because she either didn’t believe me the 1,326 times, had developed selective short-term memory loss, or had insecurity bordering on paranoia. So I formulated what, in my mind, sounded like a fairly lucid and explanation on how different body types were appealing, and that the media had contorted our general few of what “beautiful” is, and how I loved the way she looked and everything about her and let’s just go to sleep nestled in each others arms. It was gonna be profound, beautiful, and in the end bring us together as a couple closer than ever before.
What first came out of lips, however, was “Well, you’re not skinny…”
Yea. You can imagine where it went from there. But know what? After sputtering out some poor-ass version of my initial sentiment, she went to bed, and really never asked me again. So I felt bad, but I slowly regained that bit of sanity I had lost previously.
Point is, we’ve all got our foibles and insecurities. Me, I’d rather assume that the fact you grab my ass when I leave to get you a drink means you, overall, don’t hate me too much, and will be willing to deal with my imperfections. Likewise, I’m gonna treat you the same way. I’m there for support and validation, absolutely. Goes with the job description. We’re a couple, but we’re independent people. I want to be your rock, not your crutch. Big difference there, in my humble opinion.
Then again, I am a single guy who’s spent the last year repeating the same mistakes. But while I’m the first to admit I’ve put myself in a lot of these circumstances, I refuse to believe I have sole culpability. To say I’ve been led on in certain cases is an understatement on the par with, “The Titanic had a bit of a problem on its first voyage.” So, please, please, and can I say it again, please, don’t do the following:
4) Lie about your feelings/intent because you think you’re sparing my feelings.
Look, I’m 28, and yea, I cry every time Shane West builds Mandy Moore that telescope in “A Walk To Remember”, but all in all, I’m a fairly mature guy. The fact that you “don’t see me that way” hardly puts you in a unique category. It’s all good in the hood. I can’t believe the number of women (and yes, guys) who string people along—not out of malice, but out of genuine concern for the soon-to-be-departed’s feelings. That, or they just want some good sex until the guilt is unberable. Hey, I’ve been on the end of both of these over the past year. I mean, um, hi Dad. Hi Mom. Wow, how long have you been there? You’ve been reading this whole essay, huh? This is, uh, all fun, and stuff. I’m, like, still a virgin. Wow, this is embarrassing.
True story: soon after Jenny and I split up, I had my first fling. First girl in the post-Clinton era who wasn’t Jenny. One of those amazing, everything-is-in-sync, you can’t say anything wrong, you can’t do much of anything wrong, and before you know it, the sun’s come up. Just awesome.
And when the sun came up, I dropped her off at her place so she could pack for a weeklong trip. And while on the trip, she found her way onto the ‘net like 4 times, and we spent maybe a dozen hours instant messaging, with her also sending emails when possible. Hey, I thought, it’s too soon for another relationship, and I know she’s skipping town in the Fall, but hey, this might be fun as a dating prospect anyways.
But when she got back into town, it was almost utter radio silence. She was hardly ever online anymore, didn’t really reply to emails, and did a few other funky things that didn’t at all jive with her attitude while away. Turns out, in her mind, our fling was a one-night thing, and rather than tell me that, she decided the best way to let me know was to treat me nicer than every before.
OK, kids, all together: what the FREAKIN’ HELL?
That’s what I mean about misreading signs. Women, think of men as a variation on the tag-line to the MTV show “Diary”: “You think we know, but we have no idea.” Really. No clue. And you should know we have no clue, since you spend most of the time telling us how stupid we are. Yet, what it comes down to the mysteries and vagaries of the female mind, we’re now Mensa members. Sorry, Homey don’t play that.
I’ve given up on signals and assumptions. I have no need for either of them. Firstly, signals. I’ve discovered, and I think a few of my friends will back me up on this, that signals come in two varieties:
If we’re in some sort of courtship/dating period, and you treat me nicely, I’m going to go out on a wild limb and assume you’re interested. Call me nutty that way. If you’re doing it to spare me the letdown I’m going to have eventually, you’re doing neither of us a favor, as you’re only putting off the inevitable, and making it more painful along the way. I’m a big boy, I can totally take it. My heart, like Celine’s, will go on. My hairline, like hers, will not, but that’s another story entirely.
And I guess, if we get to this point, and you’re OK with a basic proximity to my person, and you’re ready to share a part of yourself with me, and you’ve got the esteem thing working for you, and you’re being honest, I guess there’ just one more thing you think about not doing to make this whole thing work:
5) Show up high for our date.
I don’t really have to explicate this one, do I? Didn’t think so. Don’t do it. Makes me unhappy.
***
Well, there you have it. The cheat sheet that none of you in particular clamored for. Past it amongst your friends; there will be a quiz later on. As for now, I’m going to ice my wrists. Gonna be even harder to pick up da ladies if I inherit those carpal tunnel wrist bandages.
Cheers.