Ladies…gentlemen…I implore you to stop this madness. Must we play this never-ending game of hormonal chess with each other? This delicate dance of P’s and V’s: all of us wanting the same thing but having to act like we don’t, because the only sure fire way to blow your chances is to say what’s really on your mind–to have a single moment of emotional honesty. After a year and a half away, I find myself inadvertently tossed back onto the field with a fresh crop of players, and the odds heavily stacked in the female favor. Around here, a pretty girl can march straight through the social scene like the pied piper, playing a chord that only the y-chromosome can hear.
Some are clearly more practiced than others, and given the desperation of some of my more youthful male counterparts, I can see why they so easily clean house. It doesn’t take much: a coy smile from across the room, or a gaze held just past casual eye contact; an animated giggle, and a light squeeze of the upper arm; or the careful turn of a phrase that says nothing, but implies everything. They give just enough evidence to inspire hope, but not enough to make a case, granting themselves built-in deniability on the off chance you get bold and make a public confrontation. So, not only do you get turned down, but you look like a jackass in the process. Folks, I’m no stranger to rejection, and I do appreciate that a woman has to keep her guard up when surrounded by this much unchecked testosterone; but, the nerve of some of these girls…is truly breathtaking.
Allow me to illustrate. I met a girl for a date, and judging by all of the traditional criteria, I assumed it was going well. This assumption was further supported by her agreeing to accompany me to a second venue. Nevertheless, we get five steps in the door when she runs into a guy she knows, and without another look in my direction, proceeds to leave with him an hour later. No goodbye. No raise of the glass. Not even an apologetic head nod, as if to say, “It was nice to meet you, but shit happens.” I’m sure she meant no ill will toward me, but she burned a bridge simply because she could. She had options to the point that my opinion of her was expendable.
Regardless of where you come from, that’s a dick move. And it sucked…to a surprising degree. Historically, in such circumstances, I would sulk over a beer (or six) and concoct some smartass remark designed to hurt her feelings and salvage my remaining pride. Instead, I did nothing. Because what’s the point? I’m sick of this game and all those who play it; so, for the first time since hitting puberty, I’m voluntarily opting out. I say ‘voluntarily’ because I think we all have a little abstinence forced on us from time to time; especially the boys, and especially in the beginning.
Hell, I even hated the game in college, where there was ample genitalia to go around. Where it didn’t matter what brand of swamp monster you happened to resemble; every twinkie could find a cream filling…and every Jack, a box. But here? In this place? Where lady parts reign supreme and my competition is young and reckless? I say nay! Nay to the countless hours spent trying to translate text messages like I’m cracking the Zion mainframe. Nay to the anxiety of seeing my phone light up and mentally prepping for another round of “what-the-fuck-is-that-supposed-to-mean?” And a most sincere nay to the manipulative way members of both sexes protect themselves from social backlash. A feat normally accomplished simply by avoiding definition, like the tried and true “but we never really defined what this was.” Which, for the uninitiated roughly translates to “I’m taking advantage of a loophole in social norms to drop a steamer on your heart and still save face.”
Look, it would be usless to say I’m not tormented by the exact same urges I’ve been demonizing, as these archives are littered with evidence to the contrary. I do have those urges, but I also have a steady supply of herbal apathy…a legal bag of “who-gives-a-shit,” if you will. Now, obviously, this is only a temporary solution, but it beats the hell out of the alternative: two weeks of passive aggressive ping-pong and a $60 bar tab just to hook up with an aspiring alcoholic who may or may not wet the bed? Thanks. I’m good.
And yes. Of course I realize I’m generalizing an entire population in an unfairly specific way…but I was pissed…and this is how I deal with my emotions.