Relationships and you...or uh me...Us, Relationships and Us

Relationships are not a subject I’m well versed on. In fact, relationships are a subject with which I have no versing, or experience, or whatever you’d call it when you haven’t had a girlfriend. Friendships, friendships with benefits, benefits without friendships, one night stands, booty calls, regretted calls, and an impressive amount of drunken dials, debacles, spectacles, and of course rejectacles (not a word but I was on a streak so forgive me) have been the extent of my forays into “romance.” When people find this out I usually get a quizzical look and the question, “why?” As if this had been a conscious effort on my part to avoid any sort of intimacy and security, not to mention a guaranteed lay on those oh so lonely Saturday nights.

It’s not a question, despite its frequency, that I’ve ever had an answer readily at hand for, probably because I still haven’t quite figured it out myself yet. Usually I make a joke about my inability to attract women (not entirely true) or something along those lines to which I then get more confused looks which only requires more explaining or jesting until they drop the subject and I’m allowed to drift back into my comfort zone of odious one liners and comebacks.

The life of a bachelor I find is not at all fulfilling or even half-filling for that matter. However, without ever having ventured into the chains on, shield drawn, taken world of having an exclusive relationship I will presume that being a bachelor is infinitely more interesting and enlightening. You learn more about yourself when your pushed to the edge of desperation after two months in a row without so much as a hug from a girl to the edge of rapture after going through four different girls in three nights. You learn more about people when you put yourself out there every time you’re out, from trying an assortment of overused, undersuccesful pick up lines, to sociological studies in the text from The Game to comprehend why it is that girls never talk or show interest in you. Not to mention the girls you do meet and actually start getting to bases with; it really is incredible, I find, how different every girl can be.

One thing I can say for certain is that it is much easier to be perceived as an asshole while rambunctiously courting every girl that shows the slightest interest…or eye contact. Growing up I never thought I would be that kind of guy. Having always considered myself a “nice guy” (with varying degrees of accuracy), I envisioned being with a “nice girl” (if there is such a thing) in a happy romance that could be taken slow and grow into something more. You know, the kind of wholesome development that Disney raised us on. This, however, has not been the case as should be abundantly obvious by now.

To be fair there are two reasons for this, me, and every girl I’ve ever met. I find that I take conversation, sense of humor, and personality entirely too seriously and have tastes so specific they’d probably keep me from dating Jessica Alba and the entire Pussicat Dolls (except for the blonde, I just feel like I could relate to her). That might be a bit of an exaggeration but not by much. Additionally, with my lack of experience at ever making it to a point where cheating is actually something I could be guilty of I am persistently unsure as to what the girl wants and usually succumb to my overwhelming self doubt in concluding she’s probably not interested in me. I’ve come close a couple of times. Times in which I found a girl that met my specific standards of humor, conversation, and personality and actually showed some interest in me as well. These are the examples that have probably most shaped my view towards women…and myself. I no longer consider myself a Saint to say the least and have come to the conclusion that I probably will not be challenging for any good character awards until I have graduated from the single life. I have also realized that of all the wrongs I’ve been guilty of, I have also been a victim of a cruel sense of karma which hovers over me and it’s only a question of who struck first my wrongs or theirs.

As for the future, will it bring more unrelenting sin and excitement or will I be at last rewarded with a boring, uneventful stability only possible in the midst of a faithful, funless relationship? I got my fingers crossed and my eyes peeled but most likely I’ll settle for my drink strong and my thirst welcoming.

Alcoholics Unanonymous

I want to be an alcoholic not for the self destruction, not for the vomiting, not to disappoint people, not for rehab, and not to be like an A list celebrity. I want to be an alcoholic to keep things interesting. Some might think, “Matt, that sure is a silly thing to do just to keep things interesting.” And they’d be right, but I still wouldn’t like those people because they say the word silly and that frankly is not ok. Now, from my highly educated knowledge on alcoholism (via VH1 True Life and the tabloids of course) I can gather that alcoholism is an excellent way to have a story made about you and since I’m always looking for a chance to keep my life as fascinating as possible this seems like an excellent opportunity. It also follows a very linear path and requires little to no transition from the previous stepping stone of my life story, college. I’m fairly certain that I could simply continue the rampant drinking habits brewed during my time in school and be classified as at least a novice alcoholic. Drinking 4 nights in a row in college isn’t alcoholism its finals week. Blacking out isn’t amnesia it’s Friday morning. And Beer before Liqour makes you sicker isn’t common sense it’s commonly disregarded. Plus, and perhaps most importantly there is always someone to drink with before that 2pm lecture and always someone that has had a rough Monday and could use a vodka tonic cocktail. Now as the only place college can be found in my life is the past I’m not surprised I still savor that rambunctious chaos that eight too many can bring. Moderation is for pussies you might live longer, but myself, I’d die of boredom much quicker than liver deterioration.

Tales from a Stamford Soiree

Along with fixed condescension, botox and jewelry seemed preordained in this epicenter of high society frivolity conveniently located at an ostentatious Stamford waterside restaurant. The superficial stares of interest plastered on these wealth stained middle aged to just aged merchants of high class pretension warranted at the least a cautious awareness of my company and at the worst a self inflicted shotgun blast to the head. The shotgun blast option gained steam early on as two elderly gentlemen in specially tailored white slacks matching their crisp oxford, collared button downs disdainfully brushed me aside without even a “thank you” while I stood holding the door for them. The night, without the availability of an infinite supply of alcohols, some stronger, some tastier, but all nonetheless alcoholic, would likely have concluded with a gradual self bludgeoning to the cranium with any blunt object within reach. Somehow I doubt this would’ve caused the slightest stir among these people so ingrained in a culture of denial, deception, and ignorance to the plight of men outside the top 2% of net wealth. Needless to say at this point it was a stage set for obnoxious self gratification of the undeservedly wealthy as they all simultaneously gave themselves unwarranted pats on the back for their “charity.” They called spending a miniscule amount of their daily income on some pompous fundraiser “volunteerism.” They were engrossed in celebrating their own humanitarian ideals and simultaneously drinking and enjoying the very affluence which their supposed benefactors would never touch or taste. It was truly mutual masturbation in the most unholy of ways as they lubricated themselves with mutual funds and long term assets and ejaculated out whiny diatribes of thoughtless reflection revolving around the disenfranchised workers across our great nation and the possibility of an aided youth putting these injustices to rest. I now disgustingly wiped off these very “injustices” from my just dry cleaned shirt. So long as you don’t shine a black light on me I thought.

The outdoor terrace on a lofty wooden deck over looked a bay of mansions and yachts gently swaying in the calm breeze. It was a “White Hot Night Party.” It certainly was white I observed. Aside from the Indian co worker that joined us on this unfortunate foray the only non Caucasian attendees were the courageous service corps of waiters and bar tenders. They really did promote “diversity” at this charitable event. The mood was uplifting as conversation centered on second and third homes, what Maggie had done with her new Mercedes, and how Rebecca really looked dashing with that new stylist from Romero that took 10 years off her age. I’m sure the plastic surgery had nothing to do with it nor did the thousand dollar spa treatment including a facial.

If only I had given these sheltered aristocrats my idea of a facial I would’ve at least humbled them to the real treatment of the people they step on while wasting more energy than a West African Village and spending more on dinner than the GDP of Ethiopia. To the end this is just thoughtless ranting at a segment I blindly dislike and am unable to tolerate. They don’t know me, and if I’m lucky they never will.

Canadian Bacon

Eccentricities abounded in this bristling pastiche of metropolitans. Tables lined the right of the venue with amber lights oozing up along the walls of this dark lower east side scene. The waitress had long, wavy black hair and a backless dress. I spotted the table with our neighbors to the North by a fierce aroma of cigarettes and high pitched “ehh’s” and “yahh’s.” The five beers I’d drank at my apartment before arriving proved essential in order to withstand the dull, tasteless conversation flowing across the table. Something about a girl’s job and what she did, working with “two full departments” and managing human resources…you know something along those lines. There were bright spots though. The sister of my only acquaintance at the table actually had an attention rousing past and sense of humor far beyond that of the two gentlewomen sitting across from me. Regardless, as I heard tales from Lebanon, France, and regretfully, Toronto I quickly ordered a drink, a touch of bourgeois class with a Stella, the everyman’s elite. I smiled persistently and drank constantly.

Predictably it was mid drink when I noticed some odd gender arrangements in the near corner of the bar. My friend mentioned to me that the entire corner had been rented about by a party of seventy. Looking over I audibly questioned what kind of party it was if they didn’t even have any girls. Of course, my question answered itself as I scanned the party and fell upon a graphic make out session taking place in a not so private area between two of the guys at the party. “Good for them” I thought, they’re already enjoying the night and it’s not even eleven. When I turned my gaze back to my party I realized half of them had left the table for their fifth cigarette break, each returning with a refreshing fragrance of incinerated toxins.

The entire time I was trying to decide whether the nausea induced by the stench of cigarettes was enough to keep me from being attracted to this fascinating mutt of clashing cultures, curly brown hair, and a sizeable chest. Her case certainly wasn’t helped by us needing to be so close to each other to speak at the next bar that I actually felt my own heart rate slowing from the residual nicotine on her breath. However, again the conversation we did engage in proved to be that hard to find mix of limit pushing punch lines and harsh observations of lesser beings around us. As we each watched in shameless entertainment as some twenty something in a long sleeve button down with the top three buttons open and half a bottle of gel in his hair approach one of the girls we were with, the human resources one, with an obvious intent to “pick up.” We enacted the conversation among ourselves dubbing his own lines with those of our choice, a very possible blog entry in itself as we leaned forward listing an assortment of disastrously dumb and unattractive pick up lines. Without going through the entire array I can tell you that “So, what are you drinking and can I buy you your next one.” As well as “You’ve got really great skin, moisturize?” did come up as distinct possibilities that if nothing else deserve further study.

After more drinking, some choice music and accompanied poor dancing I ended up waking between two girls, neither of which had been introduced up to that point in the night. There was, it seems, a distinct shift in which I went from lucid and partially appropriate, to blacked out and mildly offensive. Luckily I entered that transition only after reuniting with some long lost friends and leaving the group I had been with earlier. To avoid any misconceptions, there was no sex involved and the sleeping arrangement was completely consensual.

Middle Age

What is middle age? I think to myself. One year ago I had a simple answer, 30. Simple enough, 30 from a college student’s perspective embodies all those essential characteristics of one in old age…it’s half of 60, at which point we all decided life was no longer worth living anyways. 30 is when one should be in the midst of a budding career, and should at the precipice of starting a family. From what I’m learning though, 30 has a much closer resemblance to my college escapades than it does one’s proverbial middle age archetype, their parents.

When my elder coworkers go out drinking more than I do; when they descend to more juvenile humor than immediately occurs to me, and when I find myself utterly speechless at the unapologetic vulgarity of these hard to place thirty somethings I’m reminded that I still have much to look forward to. Old enough to have thoughtful and intriguing conversation, young enough to hit on my friends…and their younger sisters, and confident enough to come into work more hung over than a frat boy after homecoming I might very well see this become the prime of my life.

Having only been working for a mere six months I already feel I have more in common with these limbo dwelling souls than I do with some of the peers of my age. We relate in thinking back fondly to our college days, days with similar tastes yet limited responsibility and an abundance of time to “find ourselves” which of course is not what we were doing, but who’s to say that was wrong. Does this mean, I, now a man occupying a full time job, have also hit the dreaded middle age mark? Is it more of a lifestyle than an age? Personally I think it makes more sense to sort our lives through particular relatable themes then vague expressions like “middle age” and “over the hill.” I have pre and post high school, pre and post college, and now first job out of college. There are similar things we learn at each of these posts and not everyone will go through them at the same time or go through them at all, but it is the stage of these events much more than our biological age that shapes us, our lifestyle, and our future.

Am I afraid of middle age? No, because now I know it won’t be forced on me by the ticking of a clock but will come to me only when I’ve let it