Getting back on that dumb, stupid, dumb horse

I’m starting to think that ‘moving on’ isn’t a result of the healing process, so much as a final step of it. There comes a point where you finish digging out the cracked foundation and you build up scaffolding in your mind to help you traipse around this massive hole. But the hole remains. And you know how things go – all it takes is one inattentive schmuck to fall in, break something, and sue you out of your own mind for damages.

So don't wash off those hands, because the work’s not done. You’ve gotta fill in chasm, not just bit by bit, but by willful and sweaty labour.

I am, of course, talking about dating.

I’ve been holding off on it for a few months now, under the guise of “I’m too busy” and “It wouldn’t be fair to her to start so soon.” There might be some truth in both of those things, but I think the underlying and unavoidable reason is that I’m afraid of trying. Afraid of failing. Afraid of getting hurt.

Alas, the whole world is worried about those things, so what’s my problem?

I writing this on a bus as I travel home for the holidays. The mountains are incredibly, vividly, overwhelmingly white. The snow is magnificent. Everything’s beautiful when it’s under a coat of soft, silent ice.

I have a friend who’s all about this new-wave gender equality and respect. No kidding, the thesis project for her Master’s degree was an illustrated compilation of anonymous stories about various incidents of sexual assault, as a way to draw attention to and humanize the issue (powerful stuff… it certainly made for a bleak read, though). She’s shared with me the many stories of her weird encounters and the creeps that create them. It’s kinda scary. As a result, it's made me hyper-aware of being a creep.

Like, is it even okay to approach a girl out of the blue, give her a compliment, and ask for her number? Or is that some kind of unwelcome invasion of their space for courting purposes? If I pay for a meal and hold the door, does that mean I’m confining a girl to their gender role? If I don’t do those things, will I be seen as a self-centered schmuck? Do girls want to be approached if you think they’re attractive/interesting, or do they already get more than enough of that? I want to be a respectful/decent guy, but I think if I follow every single piece of fine print I’ll never get off the launchpad.

Women, man. Magnificent creatures, and somehow utterly mystical to me. I have no idea how this stuff works, so I suspect a lot of trial and even far more error will be required to get anywhere. It’s scary. It’s almost as if I need to measure my progress not by successful dates, but by the amount of rejections.

The truth is that I’m afraid of girls. Or rather, I’m afraid of how easily I can be hurt by them, and that fear prevents me from approaching them.

I was chatting with another friend, and the topic of dating came up. They mentioned a friend of theirs in their mid/late 30’s that was trying to find someone decent, and how difficult it is. “It’s hard, because most of the single people at that age are single for a reason.” Oof. I mean, yeah, it’s easy to talk about the faults of the dating pool at large, but things go both ways.

I kinda hate this idea of how anyone past their 20’s are somehow second-tier stock. Divorcees, momma’s boys, druggies, douchebags, single parents… Everyone has baggage and needs to be approached with caution.

What are my problems? How come I’m still single? What do other people need to watch out for in me?

I’m really afraid of finding out I’m just as boring as I think I am. I don’t climb mountains or paraglide or play in a band or backpack around south Asia. I’m a white dude that watches some movies, plays some video games, reads about cars, browses some internet. I don’t enjoy partying, I’m not well traveled, and my wit isn’t particularly sharp. I think part of why my last relationship fell through is because she realized I wasn’t quite as stimulating as she needed from a partner.

I’m a ‘nice guy’, which is about a bad of an insult as can be had in this context. I’m nice, like a bowl of freshly steamed rice. No one gets offended at rice, and nobody is surprised by it either. It just does its job in the most unremarkable way possible. Never unexpected, always… there.

But I’m not that bad looking, am I? I’m by no means buff or built or whatever, but I’m kinda fit. I try to dress well and take care of my appearance a bit. Mind you, under those clothes I’m also covered in the dermal equivalent of perpetual surface rust. Everywhere that isn’t present has been lovingly painted over in scar tissue. Mm, yes, I sound like quite a stud.

Do I even stand a chance? Who would want a boring AND unattractive person in their life?
I read an online comment by someone who was lamenting that they weren’t good boyfriend material so much as good husband material. Not that exciting and different, but honest and respectful and hardworking and caring. Something about that resonated with me, and I wonder if I’m of a similar make and model.

At the end of the day, if I’m going to convince myself to do this, I need to do the equivalent of plugging the ears of my inner consciousness and going ‘LA-LA-LA-LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU’ while my insecurities and self-doubts hold a heated conversation inside my own head. Just gotta get out there and pretend to be… What, smart and handsome and interesting?

Pretend to be worth loving.
-Cril

Shirt Stories

Get it? I'm implying that these anecdotes will be both short and of low quality.

So I have a tendency to hang onto things. I'm a bit of a 'pack rat' if you will, and recently stumbled on an interesting book about how to minimize your possessions. It recommends getting your entire category of possessions into one place, and you keep whatever makes you happy. And the rest of it can be let go. This last part is hard, because I find I keep things which are tied to a memory or sentiment, and I worry that getting rid of them will somehow destroy those thoughts and feelings altogether.

Most of my discarding was surprisingly easy (I figure I bagged up half of all my clothes). But I had four shirts that I really struggled with. Alas, they were either ill-fitting and/or falling apart, and I knew I didn't actually want to wear them so much as just appreciate what they represented.

I decided to get rid of them, though. But before I did, I shot some quick pictures. I figured I should record their impressions, lest those memories leak away like a fistfull of sand.

Communist Party
My brother got this one for me for Christmas one year. It was goofy, and it generally got a lot of good reactions from people who saw me wearing it. A lot of "Hey, I have that shirt too!" It was also probably one of the brightest/most colourful shirts I had. I need more of those.

Cowboy Bebop
This was the very first thing I purchased with my very first credit card. Yeah, it's just a dumb anime shirt, but it nevertheless reminded me of being all growed up. I liked the colour of it (a chocolate brown t-shirt? Awesome!), as well as the subject matter. In fact, I just finished re-watching the series recently. I took my time with it rather than binging in a hurry, and appreciated lots of small things I had missed before.

Bad Altitude
As a graduation present, one of my uncle's bought me a free introductory flight lesson. Me and my folks drove out to a small airstrip on the outskirts of the big city, and while waiting for the tiny Cessna to be prepped, we puttered around the gift shop. I saw this shirt and laughed, and then went for a flight. I even got to take the stick, and we puttered around Vancouver's coast for an hour or so before returning. It was beautiful and the sense of freedom up in that cloudless, sunny summer's day was exhilarating. After I had returned, my parents presented me with the shirt. It was clearly too large, but I wore it anyways.

I don't stumble back on that memory very often, and that shirt was really my only gateway back to that adventure. I flew a plane!

Half-Life 2 Deathmatch
Probably the only garment that got me more attention than the Communist Party one. Except with this, it was mostly along the lines of "Is that a guy getting hit in the head by a toilet?".

I bought two of these - one for my brother, and one for myself. I think it was for his birthday, and I was missing him after moving away from home 6 months prior. We were gaming buddies for most of our time growing up: we could only afford one gaming computer (I bought the parts with my summer job money and he built it), so while one of us was playing the other was watching. Those were good times.

Our family refers to them as 'The Toilet Shirts'. I always liked the goofy image and the peculiar burgundy hue. I think my brother might still have his and uses it as a grubby-around-the-house shirt. The collar and fringes on mine were quite tattered, the fabric was thin and stretched, and it just smelled like... Old. I probably haven't worn it in a year or two.

---

I'd rather these shirts get some actual use from someone in need rather than living a lonely life as a crumpled bundle of cloth in the back corner of my dresser. Time to smile and move on. Thanks for holding onto my memories for me.
-Cril

Me, Three (Point) Oh

I was in New York, taking the train back to the airport before flying home. The whole trip I had kinda been wondering, "Where am I?" Yeah, sure the subway can disorient you something fierce and do strange things to your mind, but my physical location wasn't in doubt. I think my mental location was - the trip I had been feeling half a step removed from reality. Like the world was coated in a single, eternal sheet of plastic wrap. Wherever I was, I just wasn't quite... there.

Then a peculiar thought found me: "My presence has been conspicuously absent from my own life".

Hm, yes, this had all the makings of a grand philosophical and existential quandary, if a bit self-absorbed and pretentious. The idea itself was, of course and frankly, dumb. But it followed me through check-in, sat next to me on the plane, and followed me all the way home.

I guess I'm a person of constraints, almost to a fault. You could probably say that I'm predictable and never unexpected. My spirit animal is white, sliced bread.

I go to work, I save for retirement, I pay taxes. I drive home and eat the same 4-5 meals over and over again, then I do a varied mixture of practicing an instrument, watching/playing the show/game that's in season, or puttering away on some uninspired freelance work. Every other week I get groceries and fill up the car. I check my budget and mind my finances, and do it all again. Ever onward to... Somewhere.

I have more routine than not, I think. And to be honest, there's a lot of good ol' comfort inside that bubble of safety. You don't gotta think much, just keep trudgin' along the track.

Over the course of my birthday, my mom sent me a bunch of photos she dug up of me as a kid. It really made me wonder... What would he think of me? Maybe he'd be happy that I have a good job and have not one, but two cars (fun fact: when I was little I had a breakdown where I was certain I'd never ever make enough money to buy a car). I got a degree, and even spent a year of my education far away in a big American city. I know how to play a couple instruments, I'm in decent physical shape, I have a computer that can play any game I want, and I even have a Lego kit bigger than my brother's Deep Freeze Defender. I'd like to think that my young self thought I turned out alright.

What about the other end of the spectrum, what would my deathbed-self think about me now? No girlfriend. Working lots, accomplishing little. Saving lots, maybe too much. I haven't travelled off the continent, I'm not taking my mandolin lessons seriously. I have no mortgage, no spouse, no kids. I live inside my routine. I'm a bit too introverted, and don't pursue new experiences. I have a small social circle, and I'm afraid to talk to girls. I waste too much time on the computer. My budget dictates how I live.

Would my future self think that I've wasted my 20's? I don't have any grand perspective yet, but I already kinda feel that way. I spent those prime years studying hard, working hard, and saving hard. I've been productive, but I haven't done much in the way of living.

Basically, I've cracked open my standard-issue Human ration of self-doubt. I'm sure everyone goes through some flavour of this uneasiness once they hit certain milestones. I once told myself that I was never going to be so self-conscious about my age, but then I got older.

I think things have compounded by the murky puddle of ennui I find myself wading through right now. I don't have anything in particular to look forward to (in comparison to, say, when I was in school). I haven't been... failing at anything. I guess that's a symptom of fearing the world - I've been playing my life really safe and avoiding challenges. Following the rules and best practices, but at the same time completely missing out on those spicy opportunities that add flavour to life. I feel like I'm doing everything "right", and nothing memorable.

In the grand scheme of things, we'll all be scattered atoms in a few billion years when the sun decides to blow itself up. What will even the most influential legacy mean when there's no planet left for it to live on? I could be an old solitary man with a healthy retirement fund, or a strung-out rockstar. Do your life right, or do it wrong. In the end, there's absolutely no difference.

But I still want to do make the most of things, whatever that may look like. It seems to me that I've hit of a peak in my life; sure, the view's great, but I'm not really movin' anywhere at the moment. I need a valley. I need a little momentum.

Things need to change, and they will change. One day at a time.

One thing the younger me would be disappointed in was that I still don't have any idea what's going on. But that's alright. Where would be the fun in that?
-Cril

Ophelia, she's 'neath the window for her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday she already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic she wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion, her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking into Desolation Row

Bob Dylan - Desolation Row