I sat in my car watching the minutes tick by, singing along to my radio, and pretending that I wasn’t nervous.  It’s difficult to say exactly where my nerves were coming from:  either the natural anxiety that comes from stepping out of your comfort zone or the personal disquiet in knowing that I was about to walk in to a dance studio full of preteen ballerinas.  “Just smile and act confident,” I coached myself as I stepped from the sanctuary of my Grand Prix.  “You confirmed the time of the class four times in the last hour.  You have just as much right to be here as anyone else.”

I walked down the back hall leading to the studio, holding tight to the straps of my book bag just to give my hands something to do.  To my great unease, the office to the studio was overcrowded and the mothers had spilled over into the hallway, so they were able to eye me the whole way.  I just nodded and gave a closed eyed smile, communicating that I was well aware of how out of place I seemed and felt the according sense of discomfort.

I walked into the office, already flushed with the embarrassment of having two dozen eyes fixed on me, most scanning my features with mild curiosity, while the more paranoid among them betrayed the obvious judgment flitting around behind their eyes.

“Oh, you must be Andrew!”  I looked up to see a younger woman with shoulder length black hair extending her hand toward me. I took her hand with a sheepish smile, taken aback by the fact that she knew my name at first glance.  I had only exchanged a handful of emails with someone named Nicole to narrow down the details of class registration.  How could she possibly be able to spot me without talking to me?

“This is the hip-hop instructor, Alicia,” the woman went on, presenting a girl no older than me, who was seized by a look of genuine excitement.  It was as this girl was shaking my already extended hand that the pieces fell together.

“Oh shit,” I thought.  “I’m the only–

“I was so excited when I saw that I would finally have a boy in class this year!” Alicia piped, finishing my thought.  “A lot of our styles are geared towards girls, but I’ll work with you to make them more–”  And instead of finishing the sentence, she puffed out her chest, furrowed her brow, and flexed; which I assumed was a charade for the word ‘masculine.’

“Can’t wait,” I said forcing a smile.

Sure enough, as the class got under way, out of twenty students, I proved to be the only with a y-chromosome.  A little more than a dozen of them were girls ranging from 12 to 18, who took turns staring at me like I was a unicorn.  Three were women somewhere between 30 and 45, eyeing me like I was a guy with mustache at a playground.  Then there was the redhead: petite with tattoos and fierce green eyes that settled on me like a cheetah scouting its prey.

This should be fun.

I’m sure the actual ordeal of dying is more often than not a horrific experience on both a physical and psychological level, but I’m talking in terms of objective pros and cons: cost/benefit.  I feel like people too often focus solely on the negatives when faced with the concept of life coming to an end: not getting to see your family again, not experiencing joy or love, being incapable of orgasms, or never getting to see the Browns win a Super Bowl.  I realize that some of those examples are more universally identifiable than others, but you get the point.  No one ever remembers that their are always two sides to that coin.  You may never feel loved again, but going along with that logic, neither will you feel lonely. You might never feel the touch of a loved one, but neither will you feel a broken bone or the torture of sitting down when there’s a zit right at the top of your tailbone:  not high enough on your back to avoid contact but not low enough to be safe within padding of your butt cheeks.

I should probably point out something that you may have already noticed:  my argument assumes that when we die, we’re absorbed into nothingness and everything we held dear is lost in the vast expanse of space and time.  I recognize that most of the major religions recognize some form of afterlife in which all the pain, sadness, and butt zits are swept into non-existence, leaving only peace, love, and unblemished complexions to reign through eternity.  I’m not trying to discount those ideas in anyway, and my previous assumption of death being equal to oblivion is not a reflection of my own system of beliefs, because honestly I don’t know what I believe; and I don’t know what I believe because there’s no way for anyone to answer the question of afterlife with absolute certainty.  Accordingly, I think that the inability to know for sure is exactly what scares people about dying.  They’re not afraid because they think their soul will be eternally raped by giant cheese graters, tormented in a lake of fire, or water-boarded by terrorist demons.  People are afraid because they just don’t know.

When you really sit down, accept the inevitability of your own death, and think about it’s immediate effects, you may realize that fear of one’s own death is actually a rather conceited instinct.  No matter what the outcome is for the individual, the people you leave behind are the ones who are most affected by the emotional aftermath.  They’re the ones that have to deal with the fact that someone in whom they have invested immeasurable amounts of their time and love has just been torn from them, leaving a scar that will never fully heal.  Nevertheless, personal anxieties about death occupy a large portion of our inner thoughts.  What will happen to me?  Where will I go? Will I even be me anymore?  Will I remember my life on Earth?

Who cares?  You’ll be dead, you selfish fuck.

I was recently introduced to this landmark achievement in the effort to streamline social networking.  This free and simple application champions the approach of quantity over quality in mankind’s relentless search for adequate sexual partnering, by encouraging its users to judge potential companions based on physical appearance.  I should probably note that the app does not outwardly advertise itself in this manner, nor does it encourage its users to use it that way.  However, if you’ve ever used it for more than ten seconds, you know what I mean when I say that superficiality is the name of the game.  All you do is indicate your gender preference and age range, and the application will provide you with photographs of people in your immediate area, who you either approve or disapprove with a swipe of your thumb.  If someone reciprocates your meaningless gesture, it will notify you of the match and give you the option to open up a private chat.  It’s pretty much the exact same social exercise that a (not necessarily) single man or woman engages in at a bar or night club, but without the need for interpersonal skills of any kind.

When this app was first explained to me, I immediately adopted an air of moral superiority.  Then I tried it, only to find that I’m significantly more shallow than I had previously chosen to believe, mainly because the app allows you to reject someone without actually rejecting them, freeing the user (me) of all guilt and responsibility.  Not that I was naive enough to think that I’m not shallow, because I am. Everyone is to some degree, but the severity of it boils down to how many repulsive personality traits you can ignore simply because someone is hot; and adversely, whether or not appealing personality traits can redeem an individual’s lack of aesthetic beauty.  Personally, I cannot stand ignorance or conceit no matter how hot a girl is, but a strong sense of humor can make someone exponentially more attractive.  Nevertheless, personal attraction begins at the physical level, as people tend to focus on individuals who are as, if not more attractive, than they perceive themselves to be.

If you’re intrigued by their looks, but not entirely sold, you can peek under the surface for a few more pictures and a short blurb that each person chooses to serve as representation of their entire personality.  I know it’s not the most effective way to express one’s self, but if you know how take the pictures and words at rhetoric instead of at face value, it can tell you much more about the person than they would have preferred to let on.  For example, I noticed one very popular pose that requires two girls (I assume for structural support).  They each put an arm around the other’s lower back, which connects them like a hinge as they’re bodies swing outward with one knee bent and their free hands placed firmly on the opposite hip.  These girls are traditionally donning tight skirts, heels, and these manufactured Stepford smiles that in no way suggest an original thought has ever entered their head.  It’s solely for the sake of these individuals that I wish the app would notify you when you’ve been rejected, and I wish I could tell them why.  Not because I take pleasure in tearing people down, or am secretly vengeful for some personal rejection I received from the Barbies in high school*, but because simply being hot gets you no respect, only a shallow form of admiration.  Even prostitutes get that.

*I reserve the right to retract this particular statement upon further, hypothetical examination of my subconscious.

I had a conversation with a co-worker the other day during which I felt equal parts pity and dissent: a not uncommon reaction when opinionated idiots take a stand on something.  Although, it really isn’t fair to call him an idiot because that would mean I’m taking an equally opinionated stance, but it’s hard to respect someone’s point of view when you passionately disagree with their entire system of values.  He was explaining how he always assumes the worst from every situation, and while I can see how that sort of mindset has it’s practical uses, I couldn’t help pointing out how depressingly pessimistic it seemed.  My co-worker responded by saying “I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”  It wasn’t what he said that bothered me, so much as how, and how he said it was with a smug satisfaction, complimented perfectly by the self-righteous smirk on his face.  He made it sound like it was a worldview to be admired, like the word itself gave it credence, like he was clued in on something to which the rest of us were foolishly ignorant.

However, while he saw himself as a man who had it all figured out, I saw a man who found a way to justify the abandonment of hope.  I saw a man who realized that following his dream was going to be a lot harder as an adult than it had seemed as a child.  I saw someone who had been hurt once or twice along the way.  He probably dusted himself off the first time, and maybe even the second or third, but soon realized the heartaches wouldn’t stop, that they were an unavoidable part of the human condition, and chose to withdraw from the game and play permanent defense, like a paranoid old man sleeping with a shotgun pointed at his door.  He chose to invest his talent and energy into work he despises, and for what?  For constant residence within the financial buffer zone:  an economic state of existence in which you never want for anything, yet are forever consumed by the things you want.

There’s a famous quote, by an unknown author, that reads “Reality is for people who lack imagination.”  It’s a motto that I’ve personally taken to heart, because reality sucks, and I find it astounding why anyone would want to spend their entire existence confined by it’s limitations. Life is difficult, and suffering is inevitable; but accepting that fact as a part of your reality, and tailoring your reality around that fact are two vastly different approaches.

Now, am I being unreasonably cynical and blowing this out of proportion in order to avoid discussing the shortcomings of my own viewpoints?  Probably.  I realize that being realistic has it’s advantages and that my particular brand of optimism has a tendency to border on delusional; however, in this case I don’t think I’m being unrealistic, and I’ll tell you why.  In the second part of our conversation, as I defended my idealism, I mentioned that I am in a constant search for the love of my life, and will not stop until I find her.  My co-worker responded by saying, “I’m sorry but I think all girls are deceitful, lying, sluts.”  And then with a shrug, “that’s just how I feel.”

Well, I guess nothing says bad personal experiences like stereotyping half the planet’s population.  I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I’m some altruistic acolyte for gender equality, but if anyone has ever deserved a solid kick in the testicles, it was that man in that moment.  All girls are lying sluts? Really?  Funny, how that conveniently absolves you of all wrongdoing before the relationship even starts.  You’re perfect, but 3 billion people are inherently flawed.  Sound logic.  Real fucking realistic.