Me : Humungus :: Anakin : Darth Vader

Prologue:  The purpose of adding a disclaimer at the beginning of this post is to explain a little bit about the process that I have gone through to get this finalized for public offering.  I composed this blog post last fall when I was in a much darker, more hopeless place in my dating life.  While in school, I was so busy and had so much work to do.  And yet, my mind always seemed to find time to contemplate the solitary nature of my existence.  Over the last six months, I've returned to work on the post a number of times.  In that time, I followed some of my own advice that I wrote in the original version, subsequently bumbled my way into a somewhat more positive place, and have actually been on a handful of decent dates since I graduated.  I guess the takeaway is that I have changed my outlook for the better, and have necessarily changed some of the content of this very personal post.  For better or worse, it is part of my journey in life. Enjoy it.  Or don't, see if I care.

 I've been feeling a bit defensive lately about my lack of dating life.  People occasionally make comments about it, express wonder that I haven't brought me home a Woman.  As though I should just walk down to the Womenz Store and throw the first pretty young thing that makes eye contact over my shoulder like a side of beef and get on with it.  These comments usually come from married people who got out of the dating game at an age when it was still played in 2-D.

Their concern is genuine; they just want to help me find a plot o' land next to theirs in that sweet little piece of paradise called marriage.  As a result, they love to give advice that fits easily on the back of a Laffy Taffy wrapper.  I get a little tired of being spoon-fed B.S. lines about marrying your best friend or choosing the right person to take into a foxhole in a battle [a favorite among The Olds].  I've never wanted to shag my best friend and I'd never take a woman into a foxhole.  [Apologies for the sexism.]  But whatever.  The simplicity that their advice implies is an attractive fairy tale.

When I was younger and more sensitive, I took my inability to find a spouse as an indication that there was something wrong with me.  Then I realized that, yeah, there probably is, but when I find the right Woman, all that wrong is gonna become soooo right.  I took comfort in knowing that this ugly duckling would one day blossom into a...slightly less ugly duckling.  And I got on with living, doing my thing the only way I know how.  Yet in all honesty, I've been adrift for a while now, moving even further in the direction (relationship-wise) of grim solitude.  I'm willing to own up to a significant portion of the failure being mine, and I'll address some of that later.  However...

I am also operating in a pool that is, how can I say this nicely...not optimized to my search engine.  Aside from the milquetoast profiles of the internet world that I discussed in my shameful confession post, the real-life dating world of Mormon singles wards is not much more hospitable for me.  As evidence, I offer an anecdote.

In preparation for a combined Sunday School lesson on dating, the elders quorum leadership in my singles ward sent a survey to the men about dating.  Please take a look at the content detailed below as Exhibit A:

1. What is your age?
2. Please indicate the level of importance for each of the following choosing criteria when deciding to ask someone out on a date : 
1. Common Interests
2. Virtuous Behavior
3. Physical Attributes
4. Work Ethic/Intellectuality [not a real word, BTW]
5. Spirituality/Testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ
6. Kindness to Others
3. Please rank the following criteria in order of most importance to least importance in choosing someone to ask on a date:
1. Same attributes as above
4. How likely would you ask out a young woman who dresses immodestly?
1. Very Likely
2. Somewhat Likely
3. Somewhat Unlikely
4. Not Likely
5. Would Not At All
5. Please describe the characteristics of women that you admire (eg. mother, sister, leader, etc.)
6. How often do you go on dates?
1. At least once a week
2. 1-2 times a month
3. 1-2 times every six months
4. 1-2 times a year
5. Wait...I'm supposed to be going on dates??
7. What are some of the reasons you, or others you know, do not date?
8. What do you think are the most important qualities to consider when choosing an eternal companion?

Are we having fun yet??  I mean, putting aside my fancy market research critiques of this survey design, it really drives home how much I don't really miss having an active dating life.  And did you catch that little joke at the end of Q6?  Ungh.  Good stuff.  I tell ya, I'd totally forgotten, but dating is just the bees knees.   Why, I oughtta be packin' my days and nights with all the lovely kindness and intellectuality I can.  Or I could start inhaling whip-its until I go brain dead and pass out.  Similar sensation.  

Am I inadvertently revealing the "my fault" stuff too early?  I guess we'd better get on with it then.

In my fall post about my internet date, I asked the question "How did I get here?"   This question, combined with some recent conversations, has led me to think that perhaps the word "here" could benefit from a broader defining.  Where is "here?"  To say that "here" is "on an internet date" is too narrow in scope.  How about defining "here" more according to The World's expectations:  thirty-something, single, no dog, no house, no kids, no romantic prospects.

A clown with no dog is a sad clown indeed.

One of the recent conversations mentioned above occurred at a game night with a table full of married and "sorta married" people.  The design of the game was that one person would choose a question prompt and read it aloud.  Everybody else at the table would write an answer on a scrap of paper.  Then the answers would be gathered up and read aloud to the person who chose the prompt, and that person would have to guess who wrote each one.  The prompt that got me in trouble was something like "What accounts for the poor communication between men and women?"  I thought my answer was obvious enough, but when it was read aloud, it caused much consternation on the part of the women at the table.  For some reason, "Women are crazy" did not sit well with them.  I suppose this is as good a place as any to clarify and offer an apology for the Humungus-ness of my response.

I don't believe that all women are crazy.  Not even most.  The response comes from having seen far too many of my dear friends and loved ones locked in relationships where the crazy didn't come out until after the marriage contract had been signed or the first child born.  And then it came out in force.  Somewhere deep down, my hope is still in the notion that women are the fairer sex, (depending on the definition of fair, of course.)  The women present at the table that night were every bit the fairer of their respective relationships, and are the shining stars of hope in my sky.  But the "sorta married" guy at the table was living through a perfect example of the wifey-go-crazy phenomenon, with her burning the marital edifice to the ground around them.  I don't know how many of you have been around a burning building or even a campfire at night.  The flames are mesmerizing to watch.  The stars in the sky above are numerous and beautiful.  Yet they are stationary.  They don't dance for you.  After watching the bonfire, your retinas are desensitized, making it difficult to see the beauty and brilliance of the stars when you look skyward.  I know I shouldn't internalize the struggles of others so much, but I do.  I see the destruction, and the horror burns itself into my memory. 

For me, this is "here."  Retinas seared with the images of marriages in flames, struggling to see all of the good relationships surrounding me, hesitant to trust that Woman is who she says she is.  Can't blame Woman for holding back her whole self.  I build walls around my inner garden as well.

I think I would be far more risk-tolerant in my relationships if I thought "Yeah, if she goes nuts, I can just get out."  But the whole forever-ness of Mormon theology makes me really hesitant to take a flyer on getting along beyond the honeymoon stage.  I'm not always the easiest person to understand or be with over long periods of time, and the thought of "time and all eternity" tends to agitate the snarky region of my brain.  Which is what "they" told me would happen.     

In my experience, most of the things that "they" warn you about staying single into your thirties is generally true.  You get set in your ways.  You become very independent, a bit jaded, a bit cynical.  You become more discriminating in personality traits of people you date (assuming I dated at all).  Yet it's not like I have some sort of grocery list of things I'm looking for.  I can't honestly tell you physically what I'm attracted to.  I'm not sure I can even tell you what personality traits attract me.  Attraction for me is like good art:  hard to describe, but you know it when you see it.  Dating in Mormon single wards is like being in a traveling circus.  You should just marry the limber trapeze girl and get out while you both can still look back fondly on the magical time you had taming tigers and swallowing flaming torches.  I've been riding my motorcycle in the Sphere of Death for so long, nothing excites me anymore.  Add any wrinkle, it still feels like I've been there, done that.  Because no matter what comes into the Sphere with me, there's still me riding the same bike.  It's difficult to generate much excitement for another first date when you've been doing the same routine for more years than you care to count.

It would be nice to find a Woman that rattled my cage again after so long.  Right now it's the Wasteland, the great blue yonder of the world, that still excites me.  There I ride free, but I ride alone.  And I'm generally pretty comfortable with this.  More comfortable than I should be.  Throughout my 20's, I could always make more friends that were more or less in my age range and station in life to ride the wasteland with.  After my mission, all my high school friends started getting married.  I made college friends.  Then my college friends got married.  After college, I made Colorado friends.  Then my Colorado friends got married.  I moved to DC and made DC friends.  Then my DC friends...well, some of them found their way out of the circus.  Some are still juggling swords for the bearded ladies.  But I moved here to AZ at age 31, and lost their daily company anyway.  

I've been busy enough with school to make involvement in my ward on a social level difficult.  Beyond that, though, I've had some hesitation in remaking friends there.  I've got great friends at school, but we've all dispersed since graduation last week, and I'm back to square one.  I could date non-Mormons.  It's been ages since I've gone outside the tribe to date, and I'm not sure I would be any better at navigating the terrain out there.  Lord knows they are a heckuva lot more skilled in putting out signals than my sisters-in-faith.  They may even be willing to get on the big happy Mormon bus one day.  But currently they play by a different rule book.  Eventually they're likely to want to get their hands on my Charlie Browns.  Which is a really exciting prospect, but I'm trying (pretending?) to be a good Mormon boy.  There's a part of me that thinks I've more than fulfilled my duty to virtue; there's another part that is very reluctant to discard the years of faithfulness so flippantly.  It would be easy to give up, if not for belief.  If not for faith.  Mine is admittedly weak right now, not really due to doubt in my religion as much as to fatigue.  I'm tired of fighting the same battle every day interminably.  My church leaders tell me I'll be blessed in the long run for staying strong.  But that's a thin gruel to subsist on, and I'm a man who likes his steak.  A large source of erosion of my defenses is found in the principle of value: fruit that is two months from its expiration date is significantly more valuable than fruit that is only two days away. And let's face it, the fruit of my loins has been left on the shelf for a long time.  The value of my long-cherished virtue has been diminished over time.  Yet I guess in terms of spirituality, it's still the long-term vision that wins out over short-term wants.  For how long, I don't know.  Either way, this is a very real part of "here".  Sitting on a fence between Fro-Yo Boredom dates and Forbidden Fruit Loinfire dates.  And the battle doesn't get any easier with time. 

I'm not good at letting people into my life to begin with (says the guy in the middle of a massive over-share on his public blog).  As I get older, it becomes even more difficult starting from scratch after all my friends get married.   Lately I've been reluctant to engage in conversations about my dating life with friends other than my very closest.  I prefer to avoid the awkwardness.

Which is an interesting development in itself.  I didn't used to feel awkward in these conversations at all.  I've always genuinely enjoyed the freedom that single life offers.  But besides the "women are crazy" conversation mentioned above, some recent discussions with female pursuers have made me realize how far out to sea I've sailed my dingy, and it has started to make me a little self-conscious.  Through my mid-twenties, the word I frequently heard used in describing my romantic presence was "elusive."  The word that one recent pursuer used was "evasive."  The words "Elusive" and "Evasive" are similar in definition, but vastly different in tone.  They are as different in tone as the Current Me is different from the Teenage Me.    

I can remember as a boy, my mother used to sing "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys" to me, despite [or perhaps as a result of] being married to one herself.  I was a lot more sensitive at that point.  I cried at the end of E.T.  And Lonesome Dove.  And Rainman.  Mama tried her darndest to follow Willie Nelson's advice.  And I did my best to make her proud for as long as I could.

My gawky adolescent years incorporated a giddy, paint-huffing sexuality to the mix.  Teenage Me thought heaven was all whipped cream and thigh-highs.  Yet at the core, my sweetness remained.  I was a closet romantic George McFly-type who dreamed of winning girls' favor by buying flowers and writing love letters.  As it usually goes with these types, I always felt far too much anxiety about such expressions to pull them off smoothly, and I spent most of my high school years being walked on, over, and around.  High school girls don't want sweet guys.  I pined openly for a girl in high school, only to have her tell me that I was "the kind of guy you marry when you grow up."  Which translates roughly to "call me when I start wearing Spanx."  The unabridged version would be "I need a few years to really get a sense of what it feels like to be treated like a piece of garbage by a slab of shredded beefcake in an Abercrombie shirt.  That way I'll be able to fully appreciate the great qualities that I have already identified in you."

Unfortunately for those girls, and perhaps more unfortunately for me, youth has a way of moving on.  Trying to capture that sweetness in a Mason jar and preserve it on a shelf is just a slow, sad suicide.  And so I moved on.  The heavenly whipped cream dreams of youth have been tempered by a long, steady diet of Valyrian root and monk's pepper.  Hope gave way to cynicism somewhere along the way, and now I sometimes question how much interest (or requisite communication skills) I have to carry on a long-term relationship.  Even though I don't totally feel this way today, for a while there it felt like I had crossed an emotional Rubicon of sorts.

I noticed it in the small things.  For example, I've always been a fan of older music.  I love Elvis and Billie Holiday.  But I looked around last fall and realized I rarely listened to any of that anymore. I listened to far more Doors and Black Keys.  It was formerly "That's Alright Mama" and "All of Me"; those had been replaced by "Back Door Man" and "Your Touch".

I used to set my alarm to wake up to random Stevie Wonder and James Brown songs.  For the last five months of 2011, I woke to the same bleak song every morning:  The End by The Doors, complete with chopper blade sound effects from Apocalypse Now.

          

Five months of that and you'll begin to believe you really do know what it feels like to wake up in some armpit hotel in Saigon.  I slowly came to the conclusion that "here" was not a good place to be.  I was slowly, aimlessly morphing into The Humungus in real life.

Cultivating such a bleak outlook on your own romantic future is a soul-robbing exercise, a slo-mo slasher show in three acts.  Act One, you start out with the best part of yourself, your love, your heart, to give.  And you give it freely, carving it out piece by piece over the years until Act Two arrives to find you with blood on your hands and stone in your heart.  This is when you stagger to center stage, bathed [symbolically] in a lone spotlight, to deliver your monologue in which you rage at the gods and threaten them with your own self-destruction.  Act Three is where your fate is decided.  Too often, people find themselves in a tragedy (aren't all slasher shows tragedies at the core?) wherein they find that their strength is insufficient to stop the slide into hard-set cynicism and/or full moral nihilism.  I think that toward the end of last year, I was perhaps at an uneasy intermission between Acts Two and Three.  I've been wrestling mightily to pull myself back from that, with some significant success.  Now, most days I think, "Marriage couldn't be so bad next to that alternative ending."  

[NOTE TO MARRIED/DIVORCED/DIVORCE-CURIOUS READERS:  If being married is worse than a slow-mo slasher flick, don't tell me.  I'm trying to talk myself into engaging one of the she-beasts in conversation/flirtation, palpitation, and perhaps (eventually), rhythmic gyration.  I don't need any negativity obstructing my return from the Wasteland.]

The problem is mine.  My residence "here" is my responsibility to fix.  My neuroses, my cynicism, my insouciance, my lack of effort, my guardedness, my difficulties with emotional intimacy.  I don't like the idea of assigning fault or blame for any of these things, but for better or worse, I own them all.  I certainly can't put the blame for my station on the saccharine sisters I attend church with.  Their sweetness is just what they've been taught to be.  All their lives, they've been told that that is the ideal.  So they shouldn't be faulted just for following the program.  The problem is mine. I've built high castle walls around myself, and made it intentionally difficult for women to get close to me.  I can get only so far flirting with them from atop my wall,  but I don't know how to let down the drawbridge, even with women I AM interested in.  I know I need to find a way.  

So am I stepping back from the brink?  I'm trying.  When being crushed by ennui, how do you get motivated again?  People try semi-regularly to set me up with friends.  I'm game if they're willing to subject their friends to the brain damage of me.  But the hunter went out of me for a period.  With all of the faith/marriage/crazy conversation I spoke about above, the endgame has become unclear.  It's a struggle to get the hunter back.  A mother's shame can only fuel my efforts for so long.  If I'm gonna get out of it, it'll take a girl that really kicks me upside the head, and I've been on some good dates that have helped.  Beyond that, I guess I've started with the small things.  I'm getting re-acquainted with Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong.  I'm trying to focus on healthy relationships.  I'm giving up Cormac McCarthy books for Jane Austen (yeah right. Not a chance.)  Maybe if I can be consistent in these efforts, I can soften up enough to get beyond the jaded joker and resuscitate some of the romantic in me.  Fingers crossed.    

You Have to Believe We Are Magic

You ever have an experience where an item you've had for a long time suddenly feels completely outdated and in need of a wholesale change?  Like a bed or a car or something you use every day and don't give it a second thought.  Then one day you walk into your room or garage and think,  "Wow, I really need to upgrade."

When I got back from China last week, one of the first things I did was stop in to look over the current state of this blog space. As you may have noticed, I experienced that outdated feeling when I looked at this site.  Has it really looked the same since 2009?  Shame on me.  

I've been busy since I got back, so I set out some time today to update the blog's look, right after I went to the gym.  On the way back from the gym, I heard some Electric Light Orchestra on the radio.  ELO tunes have a certain infectiousness.  As I sat down to work on the revamp, I couldn't get the song out of my head.  And for some reason, from the time I was probably eight years old, when I think of ELO, I always associate them with Xanadu, even their non-Xanadu stuff.  There's a reason for this.  

See, when I was eight, that was about seven years after Xanadu was released.  I must have been in about third grade and my brother Griswold was in high school.  Our family had this enormous piece of furniture that housed a record player, a sprawling monolith to melodious vinyl, entombed in 70's-shiek carved maple.  The thing must have weighed over 400 lbs, and was showcased in our main family room.  Most of our records, as far as I can remember, were classical or stuff my mother would listen to, like The Carpenters.  But us kids were rock and roll kids.  As the youngest, I was raised on the tastes of my older siblings, which meant Van Halen and AC/DC ruled, or even some classic rock bands like Boston.  I had never heard of Eurasure or Depeche Mode until I went on a mission and had to live with kids from Utah.  Listening to that synth-pop stuff might have gotten me an economy class trip down a flight of stairs, courtesy of Big Brother Airlines.  

One day I came home from school, and through the front door I heard the sweet harmony of Olivia Newton-John and ELO.  I curiously opened the door and walked into the living room to find Griswold sitting in front of the record player intently studying something in his hands, (what I later discovered was the vinyl jacket for the Xanadu soundtrack).  I piped up and asked what he was listening to.  He flinched and hurriedly turned the music off, as though I'd caught him looking at a dirty magazine in the living room.  "Nothing.  Just go away.  Forget about it.  Nothing."  He stuffed the jacket back into the stack of records and headed downstairs to his room.  I doubt Griswold even remembers this incident, but for some reason it has remained vivid in my mind for 25 years.  

Anyway, I'd never seen the movie until today.  With ELO jamming in my head, I decided to look up Xanadu on Netflix and watch it while I worked on the blog.  I'm about an one hour into the movie and one thing is becoming increasingly clear:  there is a drug imbalance here.  Either I need more of them, or this movie needs less. I guess this is about the time that Hollywood was experimenting with a lot of split-reel overlays and neon lighting.  I also never realized how big roller skating was around the start of the 80's.  Probably because I missed out on the phenomenon on account of I couldn't even walk back then.  

Am I blowing your mind yet?

The second half of this is developing into a cinematic stew, with chunks of Saturday Night Fever, Tron, and Superman 2, and just a dash of Clash of the Titans thrown in for seasoning.  Which is to say, totally mind-blowing.  Not sure if it's in a good way.  But man, Olivia Newton-John is spectacularly hot in this show.  I'd don some plum smugglers and pull on my roller skates if I could curl up with a woman like that on a couch like mine to watch shows like this.  

Unfortunately for me and my roller skates, if I dressed like Michael Beck does in this movie, I'd likely be drawing a whole different crowd (hello Miami, here I come!)