Wading in the Velvet Sea

Now, I’m not saying that I was suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that I’m single and I’ll never date again or any other BS like that. Just not the case, sorry to disappoint. What struck me, more than ever in the short time I’ve been single again, was the following: In my mind, as I scanned the club, my mind pulled a Peter Jackson epic sweeping shot which started in the club, then zoomed out to Avenue B, then to Manhattan, then New York City itself, and even in that microcosm, I saw hundreds of scenes exactly like the one before me. People partying. People dancing. People out largely to connect in some fashion with one another.

And that’s where the paralysis set in. In some vases, singledom can liberate a person, free them up to any and all possibilities that come down the pipe. For others, the sheer size of the playing field is so enormous that you simply have to shut your eyes before it blinds you. It’s very hard sometimes to make the effort to even say hi to someone, or try to get to know them in the confines of the sweaty basement room, when you know that you’re being as unoriginal as possible, a copycat for the literally thousands of interactions happening concurrently.

This assumes, of course, that you want to look. At the time, I didn’t. Today? Still not terribly interested. I did, however, think about when I do maybe want to pick up the dating thing again, sling it over my back, and go on another Outward Bound excursion. OK, that’s a lie. My refrigerator-filled backyard is as outdoors as I get. Point of the matter is, the sheer scope of the endeavor is almost enough to make one wonder whether it’s even worth any cursory effort. It’s not even like finding a needle in a haystack; it’s like finding a good film in the Freddie Prinze Jr. oeuvre.

Now, some of you may be thinking that I’m talking about a search for ‘The One’. Not true. I don’t believe in ‘The One’, because really, I’m daunted enough by the prospects of eventually ‘getting back out there’ to worry about finding some perfect person. Firstly, I’m not perfect, although I give off a DAMN fine cover, don’t I? Secondly, I refuse to believe that I’m missing out on true happiness because someone I’m supposed to be with lives in Dallas and I’m stuck here in Beantown.

It’s very easy to say that fate guides all of this. That X happened because Y preceded it and Z went before that to place you in position for Y. I don’t think that’s quite it. X happened because of Y, yes, but simply because that’s what happened. Plain and simple. It’s extremely easy for someone like me, with their obsession over pop culture objects that strive for lengthy story arcs (from ‘Buffy‘ to ‘Dark Side of the Moon‘), to assign some grand theme to the course of my life, but really, stuff happens. Yes, you have autonomy, I’m not saying we’re ‘N Sync in the ‘Bye Bye Bye’ video, cuz really, that would be a stupid comparison, so I won’t make it.

Maybe it’s because I’m used to simply falling into relationships. Everyone I’ve ever dated in the past seven years have come from the same basic dating pool. As my cousin said recently, ‘Dude. GET OUT OF THE POOL. FIND A NEW POOL.’ Which was funny, but true in some fashion. Hard to do, however, because I know how to swim there. Hard to do, because as wrong as it is to swim there, it’s easier that way. Pretty sure I’ve toweled off by this point, though. I hope.

Many things have gone down since I’ve been single. Some are directly related to it. Some have absolutely nothing to do with it. Most have been, to quote Dorothy Parker, ‘not much fun’. But to blame the causality of my incredibly bad April on my breakup is both selfish and stupid. I don’t wish to still be in a relationship that was failing just because the alternative has proven to be in some ways worse.

So the bottom line, I guess, is: Don’t take me clubbing. It gets me all thinking and really, my brain hurts at this point.