Oh Where, Oh Where, Can You Be?

Where are you? Seriously, I am getting older and I think my looks may only have, at most, the better part of this decade. That line of thought being brought on by finding my first grey hairs, but I may luck out and end up like Anderson Cooper, minus skin cancer, or George Clooney. God, let be like George Clooney, but without the lack of commitment. I have dated off and on for most of my life and now I have the feeling I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. I see people getting married and they always do that bullshit “They’re my soul mate” line during the wedding and all I can do is try and figure out if mine is the room; or what they are doing at that moment. (Or after a rough break up, create a pool on the divorce date… Kidding keep those invites coming, I love open bars). I know the line isn’t bullshit when they say it, it just feels that way in my self-loathing think-tank that is drowning in whiskey at the time. So, where are you soul mate? When are you going to pop up?

Were you that girl I saw waiting for the bus reading a book, when I was driving to my cousin’s restaurant to consume an overly large bacon cheeseburger? I am a grocery store enthusiast, but I don’t really think that is where I’m going to run in to you. I mean, I get a lot of looks but I’m not the over 40 type. No offence ladies. Although, if the teaching job market continues this way, I’ll be trying to sign up for Gigolos on Showtime in no time. I just don’t believe that somewhere between a sack of potatoes and the mist of the produce, you are going to reveal yourself. You know what I mean, those moments where everything in the perceivable area, and presumably the world, fades away and all of sudden it is just the two of you. No one else is there. The world is yours. Just like the scene in Titanic on the bow of the boat, but without Celine Dion, a boat that will inevitably sink, and me ending up freezing to death somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That small moment of perfection that ushers in the honeymoon phase of a relationship that always creates this bar that everything after will be measured, judged, and for some will become the executioner. But you’re soul mates, right? You make it through the lull that follows; find ways to make everything new even when it isn’t. So where are you?

I believe at this point, everyone I’ve come across is damaged goods. I do NOT mean that I’m not. I’m fucked up, that is certain. I'm probably more fucked up than you; I just hide it better, or at least until it swallows me whole. If we get to that point, just tell me to write or sit on the beach. It’s like my version of Prozac, or whatever those moody people eat by the handful these days. I just mean that I’m not a bellboy at hotel and I really don’t want to carry around your baggage, you shouldn’t have to carry mine. I understand that the past haunts more us than we would like, or more than we are willing to admit, but there is fine line between acceptable and unacceptable.

Where was I? Right. I can’t get to the magical moment, the honeymoon phase, and whatever comes after because I don’t know where you are. Remember when you were little and the kids in the neighborhood all used to play hide-and-go seek? I always, no matter my pre-game ritual, had to really take a piss while hiding. Somewhere in my body the anticipation was so overwhelming that it demanded urination. Only thing that has ever been close to that is calf raises, not sure why my bodily functions are linked to my calves or hiding. So really, I’m getting older and I’m getting tired of pissing.

Where are you? Sometimes I think I’ve already met you. Even to the point that we have dated. We probably had a horrible break up that involved an onslaught of emotions, vulgarities, and blame. We may still be friends, or not. How many times have you just walked right by me without me noticing or not acting on it? I sometimes hope we haven’t met. That I can get that world fading moment and be in complete disbelief and look around like a jackass to see who it is you’re really looking for, because it cannot be me. But then, the opposite scenario plays out on the old eye-lid picture show. We’ve met before. You or I know someone that knows someone who knows one of us. Then one day we see each other and randomly end up walking around the town like time just stopped for us. Then as we drag our feet to part our separate ways, because the tension of the thought of what happens next is something we don’t want to face just yet. Then it happens. BAM! Just like that… the world fades… and it’s just us. In my mind this is usually followed by the hottest and most passionate sex that would melt celluloid and make Jeff Buckley come back to life. But hey, that’s just me. The one thing I do not want is to meet you in a damn bar. Seriously. I’m not gushy romantic type of guy, actually that’s bullshit, I am. I just don’t want to have to weigh out whether or not the world is fading away, I’m blacking out, or you’re trying to date rape me. If we do, we should end up talking all night only stopping for refills and empties, letting our respective friends pass by the wayside. Then I ask for your number, only to be nervous wreck before calling to set up a date. Everything after that is amazing, melting, and happily ever after.

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