When my cousin Rick hooked me up with a gig at NBC/WB studios on the set of Friends and Mad About You, it was a dream come true. Suddenly, that appreciation for the "suit + tie = money" equation jumped to a whole new level. Execs and directors and management were bustling in and out, talking, demanding, making decisions; and even though I was only 16 when I started working there, I quickly understood that if you looked good, it was because you could afford to, and if you could afford to, it was because you were successful. Or so goes the illusion that we play to is presented.
Anyway. I'm obviously quite aware of the difference between fantasy and reality. I don't want to be Chandler Bing. After all, I've worked those awful retail jobs at Blockbuster, Kohl's, Office Depot and Petsmart in my late teens and early twenties. I've been a host, server and bartender at Red Robin and Applebees and was VIP at Disneyland during my mid-twenties. And I went on to cut decent paychecks touring with my band across the country for a couple years after that. But the desire to have a job that made money while also allowing me to look good has permeated into all of my goals towards a career. Even when I was with my band for a couple years, we wore suits onstage. Sure, it was a little tongue-firmly-in-cheek style, but I enjoyed it. Fast forwards to where I am now, I'm thisclose to finishing college after finally clearing away enough debris from my past to where I can see the elusive lights of my future beaming through the cracks. Life may have thrown a battalion of hell at me for thirty years causing me to stall, but I'm on the precipice of having a great job that can go on to become a fulfilling and lucrative career.
That said, I could make $300,000 a year (this is plausible) and none of it would mean anything to me if I didn't have something - someone - to come home to (also plausible).
|Yes, he seems miserable.|
I just... don't. I never have.
When all of my friends were out partying and drinking and smoking weed and generally being teenagers, I was the designated driver. I was the one with the job and therefore the one with the money and therefore the one that bought the beer. I never got blitzed or wasted with them every weekend. I was the "responsible one", which invariably led me to lose all of my friends due to the fact that I ended up being so dissimilar. Maybe I was deemed the "party pooper" at the time, but when the dust settled, they all came to me about their real problems. When all my friends were having fun and having casual sex and trying to compete with each other over stories and scores (both guy and girls did this), I was the one that sat with them afterwards, privately stunned, as they all complained to me one by one over and over again about all the mistakes they made, all of the regrets, how alone they felt, and the occasional STD anecdote. I simply did not understand the allure of casual sex and meaningless "hook ups", when all it did was magnify your shallow desire for human contact and your deep flaw of fear of more at the same time.
I'm a firm believer that no one can just have sex. It's either really good sex (in which case you want more, which it then becomes more) or it's really bad sex (and you regret it entirely). And if it's just average "eh" sex, then you wasted your time to begin with, since you could have done a better job yourself. At least, that's my philosophy. What I do know is, that across the board, to every person that's ever existed, the best sex is when both people care deeply about each other. There are no exceptions to this rule. You might be able to pull off wilder sex with that crazy girl or that asshole guy; Or longer sex with that slut or womanizer; A guy may find bigger boobs or a better body and a girl may find a bigger penis with some stranger. But none of those equate to the best kind of sex. When both people care about each other, every option is on the table. If you love her, you'll do that crazy move or say those things she wants you to say. And if she loves you, she'll put on that lingerie or do that fetish. Finding someone close to you that you can share and indulge your secrets - the ones not appropriate for the outside world - creates a hidden, sexual bond that coincides with love. And that sex is the best sex.
When it comes right down to it, if the fate of the world came down to you having the best sex, you would choose the person you love.
* * * * *
My point is, I'm not a guy who dates girls in bunches. Nor am I a guy that "sees" multiple women. I'm a serial monogamist. I am me, I am who the fuck I am, and that's it. Due to this fact, my friends used to call me Maverick in homage to the main character in Top Gun (was actually on my name tag at work). They quickly learned that I never "fired until something good was locked on to." Meaning, I never cast a wide net and chose quantity over quality. I was patient when it came to choosing a woman... probably too patient. In my early twenties I went almost four years without a girlfriend, and yes, by choice. It was when I was 20-24, and to put it plainly, not many girls were worth a damn. Few still are. This isn't to say the sea of men is any easier for a woman to sift through, by any means. It's slim pickings either way, which only magnifies the importance of hanging on to someone special when you find them.
So what do I want? Same thing I've always dreams of since I was a kid: A house. A driveway. A yard. Decorations around the house. Nice neighbors. A crazy neighbor. A dog waking me up. A cat keeping me warm. And a woman to keep me humble. To wake up early, make coffee, put on nice clothes for work, kiss her goodbye, go to work, where I can make a difference in society and my community via teaching, art, advertising, and politics, and come home to my pets. And if she's not home by then, make dinner. Clean up around the house. Make her life easier. Go out and try new restaurants. New foods. Watch TV together. Keep her warm when her hands and feet are ice cold. Go out and see a movie. Talk politics and world views. Stay in pajamas all day and read. Plan for vacations; some luxurious, some more adventurous. But always enriching. I want her parents to be involved, and proud. I want my parents to be non-existent and forgotten (see, I'm not a complete romantic). I want to be around a family that I get along with, gets to see her happy, and invites us over for the holidays. I want to see what a real Thanksgiving is like. A real Christmas. I want my girlfriend to be proud of me, not ashamed of me. For once in my god damned life.
So many people throw away the and only thing I've ever truly wanted: Somewhere and someone to belong to.
And what about her? What do I want in my desired woman? Intelligent, first and foremost. This isn't everything I need (it never is), but it is the deal-breaker. She must possess it in spades. You could be Diora Baird, but if you're unable to dive even a few layers into a subject matter, cite sources or at least have an anecdote that relates to the subject, then I don't care. You lost me. You're a waste of time, at least on a relationship level. Am I an intellectual snob? Perhaps. It's just that if we can't sit and talk in depth about something - or at least you keep pace with me when the conversation hilariously veers off course for an hour - then how could I possibly justify spending the more important days and years of my life with you?
|α + α = <4|
Short or long hair, doesn't matter much, although I tend to lean towards long.
Hair color doesn't matter. Half the women out there aren't showing their true hair color anyway.
She can't be overweight.
Flip side, she can't be super-ripped and buff. Or 90lbs. and skin and bones.
I don't want to feel like I'm having sex with a small boy.
I want to be with a woman. Curves. A body.
She has to taste good.
Have a sexual drive at least on par with mine.
Height? I'm 6'2" when I'm not slouching like an idiot, so she can't be taller than me.
I think anything under 5'2" would weird me out. I dunno. At that point I suppose it would depend on how she carries herself.
Or open-minded Republi- No, no, scratch that. Democrat.
And she can't be religious.
Maybe... spiritual, but not religious (there's a difference, look it up). I don't believe in God and I don't want to have to deal with explaining why humans and dinosaurs never lived together and that man did not "ride on them like in the Flintstones."
* * * * *
I want to enjoy life. I'm free from the burden of some ethereal god's mythical judgement, and thanks to my childhood I don't have to worry about any parental or family approval of what I'm doing or who I'm doing it with. That said, I want to work, love, be loved, and learn as much as I can about this world before I'm forced to go. And I want her to be with me when I do all of these things. Whatever it is we do. We can go to places she's always dreamed of going and she can teach me all she knows and I can be constantly twitterpated in awe at her unending curiosity with the world.
She has to have drive. Want more out of life. Not be content with everything. To keep moving forward, higher, to keep learning. However, the tricky part is, she still has to have the ability to be happy and appreciate things. Her life, her health, the little moments that mean more than we remember, etc.
And me. She has to appreciate me. At the very least, for what I try to do.
I'm a giver. I buy gifts. I stop and think of little surprises. I write letters. I listen and pay attention to conversation and pick up ideas for dinners, birthdays, and vacations. I enjoy cleaning. Laundry, vacuuming, dishes, washing the car, mowing the lawn, setting up computers, televisions, fixing appliances, plumbing, everything. I like it. It makes me feel like I'm making the place I'm in my own. I've lived in five or six different places over the course of my life, and I'm inevitably always the one that cleans up. And it's almost always been with other guys and roommates, so I've always been the one that cooks and prepares and yes, even makes dinner. I used to find it incredibly annoying. There were plenty of times where things got into arguments with my friends and I just listed off everything I did while all they did was sit back and drink and play videogames while I cleaned the place up before going to work. I felt like a nagging wife. Or their mom. But I look back now with a bit of masochistic appreciation: It was a boot camp for being grown up. I learned how to live on my own and take care of myself by dealing with ungrateful others.
I like grocery shopping. I like making coffee in the morning. I like giving massages - feet, shoulders, back, everything - every day. I love hearing a girl moan and groan when I rub their tight and tense muscles, because I know how good that feels. I love listening to every absurd and ridiculous moment that happened throughout her day. Your boss said something stupid? Tell me about it. Your co-worker wore something awful? Let's make fun of her. Your sibling did something infuriating? Let's analyze it. You're just flat-out having a bad day? Let's take your mind off of it over some wine and chocolate. I've sat and watched some terrible shows with girls solely because I know it comforts them; Jersey Shore, attending church, Sex and the City - for fuck's sake, I went to the midnight showings of the Twilight movies for one girl. Do I get any rollover credit?
|The show where every guy is a ripped, hung, wealthy bank investor |
that's amazing at sex and still not good enough.
This doesn't mean I'm perfect. I still have my "guy" moments. I swear pretty casually. That's a bad habit. The good news is, after meeting dozens of ex-girlfriends' parents, I can shut it off instantly. I was with my last girlfriend for about five years, and for half a decade, not once did I slip a single bad word around her ultra-Christian family. So that's a badge. I watch basketball sometimes. Mainly just during the playoffs. But never with a crowd of guys in my living room, screaming at the TV, spilling buffalo wings and ranch on the carpet and yelling at my woman to bring me a beer. It's usually just me and my brother watching the game somewhere else while we talk about life in general. I don't drink (I've only been drunk once in my life), I've never done drugs (not even weed), and I don't smoke (though I did, briefly, for a few months after my beloved godmother died).
I have a terrible time dealing with sadness. I overthink. Though I'd gladly stop if the worse-case scenario would stop coming true. I'm paranoid about making her feel bad (and hence, finding me undesirable), that instead of yelling and fighting, I'll grab my keys and go out and drive alone for a couple hours. In a weird way, this shows how much I love her. With anyone else - friends, family, etc. - I'll just rip on them and bomb them and logic and facts, and I'll do so for hours until they concede I'm right or we can at the very least come to a concession of where a misunderstanding took place. And that fire in me was planted via decades of living with my family. They're almost all vindictive, volatile and venomous people. And just to survive there you had to know how to scrap yourself out of a corner. So that's in me, and I know it, and I never want to subject the woman I love to that heat. So I drive. It's not healthy, but it's the only solution I have right now that helps me find my center and put perspective on a situation. And it usually works. Usually.
I'm getting older now - I'll be 31 in a few months - and I'm running out of time to be relevant. Both to society and the opposite sex. If I'm being completely honest, I'm not worried about ending up alone. It's not hard for someone like me to find a girl to like him. That's easy. A smile, a wink, a dash of philosophy, and lowering my bar just enough to pick someone up that doesn't know any better. That wouldn't be difficult. So I'm not worried about ending up alone.
No, I'm worried about ending up not happy.
Not ending up with my house that I work on and spend money to improve. Not ending up with my dog, my cat, my huge bed, my guest bedroom, my new guitars, and good food every day. Not having someone home to ask me how my day went. Or introduce me to new things. Hell, I'm not even worried, really. Just quite simply afraid.
I don't want to go on vacations with someone empty inside. With someone that doesn't know the depths of me. I don't want to continue to build my life without someone important and incredible. I don't want to come home to someone I have to hide thoughts from. I don't want to establish my mini-empire in my little corner of this world with a broken heart. I want to go out and have fun with someone I can cry with, share secrets with... go on road trips for hours, days, and weeks to new places... fly to new countries with, make fun of people with, exchange glaces over the heads of 99.9% of the population, have nonsensical inside jokes with... have sex with on good days, fuck on those crazy stressful days, and make love to on those nights when she appreciates me as much as I appreciate her.
It's impossible, I know.
But it's what I want.