The word “passionate” is sure getting thrown around a lot these days. People are passionate over which presidential candidate to elect. People are passionate over the issue of gay marriage. Heck, people are passionate over “The Passion of The Christ”. Me? I’m just still wondering why the definite article was needed in the title of the movie. It’s pretty clear which Christ we’re talking about here, right? Did someone write down on a focus group card: “Unclear if Christ in question is THE Christ or Christ Waynard down at Home Depot”?
I wonder about such things because, for the first time in a while, I’m finding it pretty hard to really be passionate about much of anything, and this makes for an excruciating time here on the site. After all, this is supposedly my one consist passion: writing. And it’s laborious lately to the point of being…well, labor. Never good when that happens, neither for myself or for you. Happens about once a month, and make any analogies that you will. But like MC Hammer, you can’t touch this.
You can’t will yourself towards passion any more than you can really will yourself towards any emotional place. Circumstances and actions may lead you down a certain path, sure, but to actively engage your mind to truly, through sheer force of willpower, be happy/sad/irate/baroque is a tall order at best, and an impossibility at worst. Now, I’m not denying any form of autonomy here, far from it. It’s just that, at a certain point, when you’re in a particular emotional place, you are for all intents and purposes lost somewhere from which you really can’t find your way out.
In my case, I’m stuck in the women’s shoe department in Sak’s Fifth Avenue.
Let me explain.
I talked a bit ago about routines, and how those can become ruts. Well, going to the gym is certainly a routine for myself these days. Whenever possible, I go five days a week. Each time, I go the same route: from my office, up the hill, through the Sak’s, into the Prudential Center, and then into my gym. I cut through Sak’s since it saves me a bit of a walk-around. It's always the same: they intuitively know I'm not there to shop, and they give me the evil eye beneath their Botoxed veneer, but smile all the same…because after all, they are Botoxed and have no choice in the matter.
Now, I cut through due to convenience, but the store itself is just the closest thing to "Hell on Earth" this side of a William Hung-based a cappella group. Just drives me insane. It’s a combination of the fascist staff, overpriced clothes, and the 50-something, spend-all-their husbands-money-even-though-they've-clearly-never-worked, fake fur/fake eyelashes/fake soul harpies that frequent the 37 paces from door to door that I travel. (Wow, I guess I do have some passion…passionate hatred for all in my 37-step path.)
And it’s gotten to the point where these 37 steps are just part of my day. Another thing to check off the list, after “eat coffee and bagel” and before “make sure you’ve called your folks in the last 48 hours”. There’s a checklist we all have: we don’t need to write it down, although some of the scarier of us do so. The truly scary ones keep it updated on their Palm VII, but let’s just pretend those people don’t exist right now, shall we? We have lists, we have routines, we have ways to fill up a 24-hour space that either fulfills our need to justify our existence or does a really good job at keeping the fear of a wasted life away at arm’s length.
In a way, it’s great. I've been going to that gym for seven months now, and I can definitely see progression. But progression towards what? A more lean body mass? That’s all well and good, but really, that should be (as is) a progression of secondary importance. What happens between those first 37 steps and the same 37 taken on the journey back to work is an example of how one can take active steps towards creating positive steps without truly being able to transcend the monotony of everyday life.
I mean, it’s good. But I want great.
And I don’t mean a better diet, nutritional supplements, ephedra-free pills, and the ilk. I’d rather be stronger than weaker, skinnier than fatter, and since I am both of those things in the two years I’ve started treating my body better, in that sense I’m happy. But it’s all only a means to a end. Problem is, I don’t quite know what the end is. And yea, we never really know, in some cases. But I’m seriously, unequivocally, in the dark about it all.
I think it’s because I all too recently thought I saw that end, only to have it snatched away before I had a chance to even look at it up close. I’d always scoffed at those who say they just “knew” Person X was the one for them. A lot of that has to do with my upbringing. I mean, we’ve got my folks, and each of them have two siblings, and nary a one of those six made it through their marriage. All divorced at least once. Kaput. (I mean, c’mon, let’s let my cousin Larry and his boyfriend get hitched, they can’t really do any worse, can they?) So I never bought into that romantic notion, even with my own romantic streak intact. But I fell for this girl, and for better and worse, I haven’t been the same since.
The interesting thing about the two-month plus aftermath of the fallout with her has been the oddly never-ending line of people who suddenly have “friends [I] simply have to meet”. Now, I have a basic rule about blind dating, and it’s pretty much the same rule I have when presented with the possibility of performing a tandem base jump with Louis Anderson: “Don’t frickin’ do it.”
It’s real easy to be a smart-ass online, but there’s no such thing as an extroverted online existence. It’s by its nature introverted, and no matter how many people you reach, no matter how many IMs you send and receive, and no matter how many emails pass back and forth, it’s different than face-to-face interaction. A pretty unoriginal point, but one that always needs to be restated every once in a while. It’s just not the same.
So, I can talk to the entire Internet but I can’t chat up that girl at the end of the bar, is what I’m trying to say.
But my friends, God bless ‘em, they have these other friends, and these other friends either read the site, or they heard about the book, or they heard I was starring in the Christopher Nolan “Batman” movie, or something, and now, according to these booty intermediaries, these bonny lasses wanna meet me. So I do the mature thing...which is swell up like I’ve eaten the wrong part of the blowfish, start sweating, put my hands over my ears, close my eyes, and start shouting, “LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOUUUUU!!!”
So I’m resistant at first, but then I realize something fairly important: It’s become pretty darn obvious over the past year that while I have many talents, “picking out a girl who won’t wreck my soul by the end” is not one of them. So, if I can’t judge a proper girl to date, perchance my friends can. And in most cases, I secure the intermediary as a wingman of sorts on the first encounter. In public. With lots of lights. And security cameras. I tend to do OK when others are around. During blind dates, though, English becomes my second language, and I start to think that in my past life I was a spy, since I find myself looking for every possible exit in the room. I also wonder if the waiter’s a Communist mole. Hmm.
Point is, I don’t do blind dates well. At least when I semi-stalk a girl, I know at least one of us likes another. But during a blind date, well, it’s possible both of you are just being “polite”, and really, I can’t stand being polite. I tend to avoid it whenever possible and engender myself towards situations where I can blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Historically, I’ve dated people I’ve known for a bit of time first, when I wasn’t trying to get them into bed, nor they me, and as such, I kinda know the person I’m going to wake up next to if and when that step gets reached. And like GI Joe said, knowing is half the battle.
So sure, having the wingman there is better than the dreaded BD, which sounds a lot like VD, and there’s probably a reason for that, since both make me itch uncomfortably. Still, I'm meeting this person for the first time, to quote Queen featuring David Bowie, “under pressure”. Doesn’t mean that it affects my interactions overtly, but I know there’s a layer there, and she knows there’s a layer, and we end up in a 7-later dip of a date and it gets so meta that I swear that Charlie Kaufman is writing the dialogue.
And I’ve met these girls, and they’ve all been quite smashing/cool/fun/positive adjective, and I just simply don’t know what to do about the fact that I can’t get passionate about any of it. I can’t get passionate about the good, really can’t be bothered with the bad, and am fairly indifferent to the “what the hell...”. And I can’t decide if my wingman friends want the two of us to be together more than we two actually do, if the blog-Ryan exceeded the real-Ryan, if I’m being way too critical about them, or some combinations of matters therein.
It’s a tangled mess, and usually I’d be first in line to untangle it, but really, it boils down to this, methinks:
I’m crystal clear in who I wanna date, and it’s abso-frickin’-lutely nobody.
Now, I’m down with going on dates, which is what I’ve been doing. I’m down for meeting new people. It’s just that maybe I’m going about it all wrong. I’ve never been one to try and “play the field”, mostly because I don’t know where the field is, or how I would play if I ever found it. Firstly, I don’t have the energy, plain and simple. Secondly, I don’t have nearly the esteem to walk up to one person, never mind multiple per night, and say something akin to, “Strap yourself onto the Ryan Rocket Express of Love.” Just not gonna happen. Thirdly, and maybe this is an unpardonable sin to say, being male, but: I kinda dig monogamy.
I do. There, I said it. Feels like I’ve come out of the closet.
I think I’ll touch a bit more on the monogamy thing later in the week, but sufficed to say that yes, I realize such a relationship could come from lots of dating. But I’m not counting on it. Fact of the matter is, these girls haven’t seemed to be counting on it either. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but there’s little to be passionate about in these cases. They are fun people, and I’ve had some fun times. It’s always something new, to be sure. There’s just not much raw emotion (good or bad) as of yet. It’s nothing you can force, it’s nothing you can manufacture, it’s nothing against any of the parties involved, although if anyone wants to blame me, go for it. All good by me.
The “good”s lately are never great, the “bad”s likewise are never really that terrible. I’m not on a roller coaster so much as a gentle ride through some hilly countryside, like the ones you see in truck commercials set in Vermont. I go up a bit, down a bit, but I’m never far from the sea level. And some days, that’s preferable. Insomuch as I seemingly will my life to resemble “Space Mountain”, the current pace won’t kill me. I know that in my head. Recovery is definitely needed. Doesn’t mean life stops, but parts of it are on hold until further notice.
As for the passion…well, something will strike it again. As per usual, in the unlikeliest of places. And when it comes, I’ll have the seatbelt fastened, ready for the plunge once again.
In the meantime, one step at a time.
Posted by Ryan McGee at March 16, 2004 12:02 AM