The Edge of Politesse

My eyes feel like fine grade sandpaper.  My tongue peels off the roof of my mouth with the sound of an armpit leaving your side on a hot day.  Organic Velcro.  I may have drunk too much last night.  I can remember everything that happened though, and in some ways it’s little comfort.  I had no plans, which some people take to mean I was looking for them.  I don’t consider myself so much of a hermit that a night inside watching old Seinfeld DVDs is more appealing than a night up at the local, but it is a very funny series.  You’ve twisted my arm.
 
  Truth be told, it was a fun night, I don’t have awful friends.  Of course, I probably shouldn’t have drunk as much as I did; it makes you more amenable to doing embarrassing things.  Mildly embarrassing like singing an off-key karaoke rendition of Rhinestone Cowboy, or terribly embarrassing things like agreeing to see a friend of a friend tomorrow, just the two of you.  Why would I do that?  I don’t even know her, and frankly I don’t even like her.  The kind of girl who discovered makeup at age 12 and has gotten very, very good at the liberal application of it since then.  Must be expensive to go through that much.
 
  It’ll be rude if I just blow her off, and I’d like to consider myself above such rudeness.  Surprising though it may seem, the terminally homebound do have a modicum of decorum and empathy.  We just push it deep, deep down inside us.  Then we tell jokes about it at the annual hermit get-together.  I can’t just cancel on her for no reason, it’ll hurt her feelings, but I don’t want to sell myself too much either.  I’m certainly not a shiny new beamer, but I think she may have long since stopped paying attention to that particular dealership in favour of the used car salesman down the street.
 
  “Meet at the art gallery at 12.”  It’s 9:30 now... how to make myself as unappealing as possible in two and a half hours?  I’ll save ten minutes by not showering, but I should at least brush my teeth.  There’s a lot of sugar in beer... oh, but maybe I can kiss her with bad breath?  Would that work?  OK, the teeth can take one for the team today, I’ll brush them when I get back.  If you put gel in bed hair, it looks cool, but if you leave it as is un-gelled, it looks like you’ve put in no effort whatsoever.  Thank the lord I don’t own any hair gel.  Add in the stubble that’s just short of designer and we have one truly awful sell on the face front.
 
  Track pants and thongs are a given.  The well placed ketchup stain, a little too close to the crotch, makes them truly wonderful “don’t even bother” pants.  The question is wife beater or frayed “Slayer” shirt?  If I had anything resembling upper body strength, the wife beater could be a good sell, but weedy shoulders and a liberal share of the world’s supply of arm hair makes it less wife-beater and more wife-cajoler.  I think the Slayer shirt works better; not only has it not been washed since the mid-nineties, but it has that magical mix of awful traits, “I am a metalhead,” “I have poor hygiene” and “I’m not even trying.”  It’s the trifecta of tremendously unappealing.
  I took a beer with me as I drove to the gallery.  It’s far too early, but who’s going to date someone who’s drinking a VB at midday?  I don’t know why I had a bottle of VB in my fridge, but who could have known it’d come in useful?  I’m not going to enjoy the drink, but it serves a greater purpose.
  
  I wait outside the gallery, sipping my beer, as she walks up to me.  I do not understand the dress sense of people, but it appears that she has gone for “sexy”.  Those pants are far too tight for her.  I suppose I should be flattered that she’s gone to the effort, but it’s barking up the wrong tree here.  Time to get started.

  “Hey sweet-cheeks, how’s it going?”
   
  She goes to answer, but she can’t respond to the pleasantry because my mouth is wrapped around hers.  Her lip gloss tastes like strawberries and lost youth.  I squeeze her bum for good measure.
 
  “Well, hello sailor!  You’re in a friendly mood today!  Got one of those for me?”
   
  Oh dear.  Takes a special kind of lady to want a VB at midday.  I may have made things worse.  No matter, push on.

 
  “Sorry love, none for you.”
  “Hahaha greedy guts!  Come on, let’s go in.”

  Hmmm... no mention of the clothes.  Either she’s biting her tongue or she doesn’t mind the latest in under-the-pier chic.  Maybe this is the latest craze.  Maybe she just has a fetish for unappealing men.

 
  “Do we have to pay?”
  “Nah, it’s free.  I wouldn’t be paying for you!”

  That seems like a harsh thing to say.  Hopefully she’s a little offended.  I half wished you did have to pay admission, I would have asked her to cover me.  She laughs at this.  I don’t know how that laugh didn’t turn me off her last night, it sounds like a cat being raped.
 
  “Wow, from behind you go up to a seven!”
   
  Now that is how you turn off a woman.  Or so it would seem, if it wasn’t for the fact that, upon hearing that, she turned to me, and wiggled her bum.  Apparently a seven is a compliment?  Layers of confusion.
 
   “Yeah, about a seven.”

  It’s not working.  Maybe I’ve misjudged her.  Maybe I’m not as disgusting as I thought.  I’d kill for a woman that was properly put off by overzealous tongue hockey.  A woman who had enough self respect to be properly turned off by a master class in uncouth baiting.  Lord, give me a woman I could drive away properly.


  “This looks like a guy wiped his arse on a piece of canvas.”
   “Hahaha, I know, right?”
 
  That laugh.  That shrill, mindless laugh. The laugh of peroxide blonde high school hook-ups and a love of the Spice Girls.  I’ll never drink again.  I’ll never believe someone when they tell me you need to go out more, meet some new people.  I have this friend, you’d love her, she’s sooooo funny.  Yeah, I’ll bet she is.  I’ll bet she’s such a catch; you try to set her up with your asocial shut in friends.  All those popped collared hair gelled walking machismo aerosols squirting testosterone into crowded deafening clubs must not have noticed her charms, or maybe she’s just not their type.  Maybe a high school education is far too dynamic for the average man.

  “I’m having a lot of fun; I’ve never been to an art gallery!”
   
  Stop the fuckin’ presses.


  “Woooow, this one is pretty!  I love the colours!”
  “Yeah, it’s pretty sweet.  And those flowers look a bit like tits.”
  “Haha yeah, you’re right!”

  Oh come on.  She paused a little there, I thought I’d hit a sweet spot, but apparently the word “tits” is really a selling point.  She brushes her hand over the small of my back as she walks by me.  Darling, calm yourself.  I am but a man with the wittiest of observations.


  “You’re a cool chick, you remind me of my ex.  She was great in bed.”
  “Well, I’m not too bad myself.”
  “I’ll bet, but she had a better arse than you.”
   
  It’s foot in mouth gold.
 
   “Oooooh that sounds like a challenge... but you’ll just have to wait.”
   
  Lady, what the hell is wrong with you?  I don’t know how your brain works, but it’s probably broken when you think that is a come on.  She keeps shooting me these sneaky looks over her shoulders.  What is she trying to say?  Offend me more, I like it.  I’ve been told hetero courting looks strange to the outside observer.  I must not be hetero.  This is the opposite of courting.

 
  “So, do you watch much porn?”
  “Oh... uh... not so much...”
   
  We have an opening.

 
  “Oh man, you’d like it.  Some of the stuff those chicks do, man it’s crazy.”
  “Mmm”
  “Yeah, there’s this one thing, where the chick stands on her head, right...”
   
  I could not hate myself anymore than I do right now.

 
   “...and then drinks it, right from the glass!”
  “Eeeew, that’s gross.”
  “Yeah, it’s pretty hot.  There’s this other thing I saw, where this chick takes a big rubber...”
   
  Part of me is asking why I even know this.  Part of me is hoping this doesn’t come back to bite me.  All of me wishes it didn’t have to go this far.

 
  “Man, that sounds painful; you couldn’t pay me to do that.”
  “It pays pretty good, I reckon you’d be alright at it.  Not one of the really good ones, but you could be alright.”
   
  Is that an insult?  I don’t know.
 
  “Well, thanks for the support.  You never know what the future holds.”
   
  I hope she’s joking.  She probably is, I’m probably overreacting.  She’s grinning.  She keeps looking at me.  This isn’t cute conversation.  I must be the only person that thinks pornography is a private and sparing enterprise.  What a free spirit he is, he just says what comes to mind.

 
   “I had this ex; she used to love the stuff.  I caught her watching it a couple of times.  Having fun without me.”
  “Oh that’s harsh!”
  “Nah it was pretty hot.”
  “Right.”
   
  Her smile fades.  I’m floating in an ocean of relief.  I’d love to watch the dawning realisation that the person she’s been flirting with this whole time is an unpleasant man child break in her mind.  As awful as I feel, it’s nice for the frustration to melt away.  Push on.


  “I bet you love having fun on your own, hey?  Flicking the bean?”
  “That’s... that’s a little personal...”
  “You love it!”

  I give her a shove.  It’s too hard disguised as playful that came off too hard.  You have to push with just the right force.  Too much and you’re just pushing a lady around.  Too little and it’s just a playful shove.  One or two steps out of pace.  The accretion disk of faux pas.  She smiles awkwardly and my heart sings.

  “Hey, there’s a little tour group, we should join in.”
   
  Translation:  I don’t want to be alone with you anymore.  The sad bit is, I’d love to go on a little tour with someone I actually like.  I hope they don’t remember me.  We sidle over and catch the tour guide in the middle of discussing a Picasso.  I shouldn’t sink this low.  She already looks at a complete loss.  Surrounded by people she doesn’t know, standing next to a walking stereotype.  I catch a look at her face... her eyes are inky tide pools of disappointment.

  “It doesn’t even look like anything!”
 
  It’s just loud enough to echo.  Those shocked looks.  They’d probably be less shocked if I hadn’t selected that exact moment to scratch my nut sack.  Not a passing scratch, a few seconds of committed digging.  Enough time for everyone to see.  The tour guide hustles us on to break the silence.
 
  I like this gallery.  I come here on my own sometimes, just to unwind.  If I had a shotgun I’d plaster the caricature I’m wandering around as all over the latest installation piece by another unnamed art student.  I don’t even know why I’m doing this... is this polite anymore?  Whose face am I saving?  I’m worried I’m having fun.  The tour guide says” modern art” and my brain disconnects.
 
  “Modern art?  More like modern I-fucked-your-mum!”
 
  Her jaw drops.  The group hastily shuffles along but she stays put, shocked and appalled.  OK, I can finish this now.


  “Why are you being such a jerk?”
  “Baby, it’s just the way I am!”
  “You were so much nicer last night, what happened?”
  “Well, you were showing a bit more tit last night.”
  “You’re a dick, I’m leaving!”
  “Are you sure you don’t wanna come back to mine, we can have some sex?”
 
  She storms away.  I can’t help but feel as if I’ve really done something good today, saved her feelings.  I can’t imagine how rejected she would have felt if I had just blown her off.  At least this way, she left with her dignity.  As I leave, the woman behind the counter comes up to me.  Apparently they feel it’s necessary to ban me from the art gallery.  That’s a shame, I like it here.

                                                               *                             *                             * 

  I got a call from a friend today.  The dialogue went something like this:

 
  “So, I hear you were on top form at the art gallery.”
  “Yeah, I know, I felt bad...”
  “You should feel bad!”
  “Yeah, but I think I did the right thing, blowing her off would have hurt her feelings.”
  “Wait... what?”
  “I felt bad making her think I was interested, but I think this way, it’s all worked out for the best.  She can find someone else more her style and her feelings weren’t hurt.”
  “I think it’s best if I don’t see you for a while.”

  I understand why he’d want some distance; it might be a bit awkward between us, especially if she happens to be out with us.  But at least he can rest safe in the knowledge that his friend’s feelings weren’t hurt.  It’s a shame; she seemed a nice enough girl, but just not my type.  Sometimes, it’s hard being polite.  But it’s just something you have to do.

"First World Problems" Is A First World Problem

  Somewhere out there, in the giant throbbing biomass that is the human race, someone has it worse than you.  Objectively, someone has more negative phenomena affecting them than you do.  It's the nature of existence; as long as there is at least two people alive, there will be pissing contests.  Now, you'd think the fact that you're doing better than some other people would be an incredible pick me up.  Life isn't so bad, just look at that guy!  He sucks.  Unfortunately, some of us have brains that just aren't helpful to the "feeling good about life" cause and want to turn positives into negatives, so in the spirit of over-sharing on the internet, here is a list of reasons why not being the least fortunate man on the planet makes me feel terrible.

1)  The suffering of others makes me sad.  I know I've opened with a very lame sentiment, but to be fair, if you aren't at least a little upset that other people are suffering, I envy you.  I wish I could not give a shit like that.

2)  I'm not doing better than others by any work of my own.  I'm a white male from a middle-class family in a first world country.  By default, I'm doing better than billions of people.  As such, the fact that I'm not the least fortunate person on the planet doesn't feel like a miracle I should be eternally thankful for, it just seems statistically likely.

3)  The quality of life I enjoy should bring me a lot of happiness, but because it's been ever-present for my entire life, the fact that it continues to be doesn't actually do anything to change my mood if I happen to feel crappy.  The idea of thinking to myself, "oh, I shouldn't be bummed, I have running water!" just seems asinine to me, because I managed to go from feeling good to feeling bad without the running water ever doing anything different.  I know I should derive some degree of happiness and satisfaction from the relative comfort of my life, but that doesn't actually make me feel any different, which makes my sadnesses and frustrations seem unjustified and out of my control, which feeds itself.

 4)  Sadness, difficulty, frustration and hopelessness aren't objective, so even if someone does have more difficult circumstances than I do, there's no metric to compare how they feel to how I feel, so it's distinctly possible I feel worse than them, which is again totally unjustified.

5)  Their suffering might not be their fault and they may lack the necessary tools to alleviate their suffering, which reminds me how much I take for granted just how many tools I have to alleviate their own.

  I realise just how easy it is to look at this list and say "this is completely selfish and trivializes the very serious suffering of others," but look at number 3.  I know this.  I know that navel gazing and beating yourself up because you're beating yourself up is stupid, but I also know that even if no-one else knows exactly how you feel, you'll still feel the same, and if you feel shitty, you're gonna feel shitty.  It surprises me that society is not more open about emotions in general; we all have them and we all know just how much they can affect you, but yet, we rarely (if ever) talk about or acknowledge them.  And doesn't that just make you sad?