I’m single. Yep, it’s true. In this age of overwhelming media choices and lifestyle complexities, I worry that I’m becoming boring. It’s just plain old me. Am I good enough and compelling enough to keep a dude, or anyone else, interested these days?
I remember a few years ago, at a time when I had the luxury of having weekly therapy sessions, that during one such appointment I caught my therapist nodding off. I couldn’t believe it. Her eyes, ever so momentarily, rolled upward as her head dipped forward. And then she caught herself. I asked if she was falling asleep, and she denied it. It must be maddening to have to sit and listen, ad nauseam, to a different set of problems every hour all day long. Still, it’s hardly a confidence-booster having your therapist fall asleep while she’s sitting up and directly across from you.
Then yesterday, while I was at an appointment with my regular doctor, she nodded off as well. I’ve been going to this woman for the last few years, and I’ve never seen that. I was concerned. When I mentioned it to her, she also denied it. Only in this case her head flopped like a wilting tulip at least four or five times during the 45-minute appointment. The irony is that the last time she popped a nod she was in the middle of writing me a prescription—for Ambien!
Hence the question: Am I that boring or is life that exhausting? I amuse myself terribly, both in action and words. I find myself laughing at my own jokes and thinking the most entertainingly absurd thoughts, for instance what if we called everyone by what they wore or how they appeared, like Bad Shoes or Dead-in-A-Year? Why can’t we talk to ourselves, without seeming bent? I mean, babies burble endlessly and that’s normal. Parakeets have mirrors in their cages and chitter away. Speaking endless nonsense words to your pets is a way of life. Certainly a blog is a nattering reflection of self.
Unfortunately, if you talk to yourself, you tend to attract others who talk to themselves too. Craziness, I have discovered, is a state of mind that’s a matter of very fine degrees. Today when I was at Coscto, I actually went up to a woman and told her that I wanted to remark on how attractive she’d made herself. I prefaced my comment by telling her I hoped she didn’t think it too weird. Her face actually lit up at the compliment. The really bizarre thing is she picked up my hand, kissed it and told me I had made her day. Could talking to yourself and talking to a stranger be two sides of the same coin, the act of a person with a deep desire to reach out and connect?
Next, a guy came up to stand behind me in the prescription pickup line (Ambien!). I heard him say, “Hi, how are you?” I thought he was talking to me, but then again it was to my back so I wasn’t sure. Maybe he had one of those bluetooth devices in his ear, and I certainly didn’t want to presume that it I was me was addressing. But then, when I didn’t hear any other conversation, I turned and asked if he was saying hello. Sure enough, he was.
We chatted only for a few seconds before I noted the eyes that didn’t quite move in synchronicity. He then edged away slightly. Next, as the line moved forward, he broke out and walked in circles. I asked if he had OCD, and he asked what was wrong with a person walking in circles. It’s just as right as talking to yourself, I realized. And then he was gone.
It struck me that this one guy was a metaphor for all men. They bound up to you with resounding energy, but the moment you engage they back off. If you ask a question, just because you are interested in the answer, they feel they’re being questioned and poof! They vanish. This guy came, he circled and he disappeared. But a circle is a perfect thing, singular in appearance yet dual in nature just by the sounds of its soft/hard syllables. Women want perfect things in their lives. And we want those perfect things to want us. Forever.
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