A couple months ago, someone declared to me that texting has become the primary form of communication during courtship. At the time, I didn't think much of that proclamation given how ridiculous it sounded. Why would you choose to place such a narrow and limited form of communication at the foundation of your courtship? Especially given how central communication is to that experience? Don't you want to be free to have a much more fruitful and robust experience than what mere texting can offer? However, the farther I get into the quagmire of 21st century dating, I see how prescient those words were.
Back in the good ol' days, it seemed like you didn't really text with people in the beginning stages of the courtship. Once phone numbers were exchanged, you moved on to the awkward first phone call. And, if you could tolerate speaking to each other for a sustained period of time, you moved on to an awkward first date. Texting seemed relegated to conveying administrative messages like, "Running late" or "Just parking now." Of course, if the courtship were to gain some momentum, texting could augment normal channels of communication, but even then it was used sparingly. Since then, texting has mutated from its humble origins to become the omnipresent presence it is today. The result is that you get short and oftentimes incomplete excerpts Frankenstein-ed together to form what loosely resembles a "conversation."
Now, I totally get why texting has become so popular in the realm of romance. Odds are, you are not going to end up marrying (or even seeing long term) the person you are communicating with. So, why risk getting your hands dirty with a face-to-face meeting or even a phone call? Like a latex glove, texting gives you a layer of protection while sampling these disposable, onetime interactions that oftentimes are kinda gross anyway. Plus, given the number of freaks and creeps out there, it's better to use caution than end up chopped up into little pieces and stuffed into a freezer. But still, it makes me a little sad that we've gotten to this point. And not just because texting relegates courtship into a turn-based video game a la Words With Friends, but because it removes the raw, emotional element from romance, sucking the life out of it and spitting back something bland and sterile.
My feelings probably stem from my continued and persistent belief in the "chemistry/spark" theory. Even though the theory has failed me over the past three decades, I still believe that you can tell fairly quickly after meeting someone whether you're going to connect with them romantically or not. So, for me, the face-to-face meeting is the most critical component of the courtship. I like the unpredictability and anticipation. I like having to ad lib a bit. I like that it's kind of awkward. Unfortunately, my eagerness to get to that first meeting is often met with trepidation, so I have to first survive a gauntlet of ambiguous and vague texts before meeting up becomes even a remote possibility. And, as you may have guessed, I am absolutely terrible at courtship via text. Primarily because my mind goes into overdrive trying to decipher and decode each and every text that's sent and received--"What does she mean when she says, 'I'm good ;) u?' What does 'good' mean?! And why did she write 'u' instead of typing out 'you?!?' And what does that little winky face mean?!!??!?!? Ah!!!" Needless to say, more than one of my text-based courtships has suffered a premature demise.
I guess all of this highlights once more that I'm turning into a crotchety old man. I was never the most technologically savvy person to begin with, but lately it's just been getting downright ridiculous. My only defense against the digital onslaught is to hold up nostalgia as a shield--"Remember when we used to talk to people face-to-face!?!? The 21st century sucks!" And yet, I can't say that romance is incompatible with technology. I mean, just take a look at the mixtape, for example. No, since the digital age is the tableaux for my modest romantic endeavors, I realize that some evolution on my part is necessary lest I go the way of the dodo. It's just a matter of finding my own balance, I guess. Even if it is just one text at a time.
--KM
"And I seem to find the happiness I seek when we're out dancing together cheek to cheek."
Showing posts with label Dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dating. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Valentine's Orphans
After an extended radio silence, I got an email out of the blue yesterday from the girl to whom I'd lent my Game of Thrones books all those many months ago. She'd found them in her house during some cleaning and was offering to deliver them to my doorstep. As soon as possible. And while I was at work. The request made me a bit uncomfortable, as I wasn't sure what to make of it. Did she hate my guts? Or was this just the routine settling of accounts? Given the uncertainty, I declined her offer, suggesting instead to meet somewhere in the middle to retrieve them. Well, as you know, a woman is not to be denied, so when I returned home today I found the books on my doorstep. That they were nestled snuggly in a basket reminded me of babies being left on the doorstep of the orphanage--the unwanted cast aways of a failed relationship. Although I'd purchased them, I don't really consider them mine at this point since they've been out of my possession for longer than I'd initially had them. On top of which I have a new set of books from the Apothecary. But of course, the girl didn't consider them hers either, so they were returned to their "biological" parent. Anyway, not wanting the little orphan books to be left out in the cold, I picked them up, brought them inside, and then spent the better part of the evening trying to extract the meaning out of their unexpected delivery. That the girl offered to return them to me herself instead of putting them in the mail suggests things are civil between the two of us. As does the fact that she didn't just throw them out or burn them into oblivion. Although, her lack of interest in meeting face-to-face suggests otherwise. But, the fact that she took the time to put them in a basket suggests otherwise still. On the other hand, maybe all the "nice" gestures are somehow a passive-aggressive way to show her disdain for me. But I thought we parted ways mutually way back when last July. Ah!
Realizing I could stay up all night concocting different theories for this most-likely innocuous return of personal property, I decided to just leave it be. Especially since ultimately her motivation is irrelevant given that the net result is allowing her to pull an Eternal Sunshine and purge the last remnants of our relationship from her reality. And that the purge happened so close to Valentine's Day suggests a positive alignment of the stars for her romantically that she didn't want to jeopardize with "old business." The freedom of closure to a relationship is a priceless thing, and I'm glad she was able to find it just in time for an unencumbered Valentine's Day. May cupid's arrow strike true for her.
--KM
"I hit the sidewalk, and this is how it starts; caught in a wrinkle when things are fallin' apart."
Monday, February 11, 2013
You Say Valentine's Day, I Say Thursday
This year, as in most years, the odds of my Romantic Wheel of Destiny landing on "Valentine's Magic" appear remote as ever. Which at this point I've become accustomed to given the amount of time I've spent "between relationships." That's not to say I'm ashamed of being single (disappointed, maybe; ashamed, no). It's just that being single around Valentine's Day seems to get you branded as "sad." Whether that means "unhappy," "pathetic," or a mixture of both I've never figured out, but it's a label that's completely undeserved. The other 364 days of the year, there's no stigma attached to being single. But on Valentine's Day, if you've got no one to call your special someone, it means you're a failure. And not just a failure at any ol' endeavor, but at that which serves as the core of all humanity--love. Pretty harsh, no?
Much of this negativity is driven by singles themselves. I've never had any coupled-up people mock me or otherwise bring attention to my singleness in any negative way. At least not openly and certainly not close to Valentine's Day. No, my experience is that for whatever reason the prospect of a February 14th spent alone breeds a plague of fear and envy and anger that spreads uncontrollably through all Singledome. And as this plague begins to blanket the land in darkness, word spreads quickly that the only way to prevent it from infecting you is to find a Valentine's date. And so singles scramble frantically in the days leading up to February 14th to ensure they're not left out; that they're not stuck standing like a dummy when the music stops in Valentine's Musical Chairs. I've even known some who've gone so far as to prolong a failing relationship just to avoid being alone on Valentine's Day. It's a ruthless enterprise this business of finding your Valentine.
That's not to say I'm Anti-Valentine's Day. No, sir. The older I get, the more I see the value of Valentine's Day. As relationships mature and settle into the routine of the day-to-day, there's nothing wrong with an excuse to turn back the clock to the beginning, if not just for one night, and relive those early moments of courtship and romance. To the days of awkward first dates, getting caught in the rain, and electric first kisses. To remember why you fell in love in the first place. And if a bunch of chocolatiers, restaurants, and florists make a buck in the process? Good for them. Plus, when else will elementary school kids get to decorate a brown paper bag and then walk around their class handing out witty cards--I choo-choo-choose you!--to their friends, enemies, and future love interests? No, the world needs Valentine's Day.
So then where does that leave us singles? Well, I'm definitely not a proponent of raising the banner of "Singles Awareness Day," which I think is a futile and s.a.d. attempt to steal the spotlight. No, I think it's important for singles to concede that on February 14th the spotlight narrows its focus to shine most brightly on couples. No sense getting petty about the darned thing. But that's not to say we should shut ourselves up on Valentine's Day either. To the contrary, I think it's paramount that we band together. For us singles, Valentine's Day really is just another day of the week. Despite its aura, the power of Valentine's Day to make you feel like shit is just an illusion of roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolate. When you pull back the curtain, it's exposed as your familiar friend Thursday. And if we know anything about Thursday, it's that he wants you to be having a good time; not sitting prisoner in your own home.
So there you go, hopefully some inspiration for my single brethren out there; a little Valentine's Day battle cry for the single set. If you're holding out hope that you'll find last minute Valentine's Day magic, "Thursday!" For does not love at first sight require you to be seen? If you're miserable because you're single, "Thursday!" For does misery not love company? If you're just looking for an excuse to get really drunk, "Thursday!" For have you not earned that right for getting through four-fifths of the week? Whatever your desire, whatever your motivation, I truly hope that all you single folk are out and about on February 14th. And, that when you least expect it. . . THUNK! Cupid's arrow finds its mark. Hey, a little optimism never hurt anyone, right?
Thursday!
--KM
"Luck be a lady tonight."
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Off With His Head!!!
I finally got my second date with the girl. I was pretty excited to finally be seeing her again. Things had regressed substantially since the first date, and I was looking forward to an opportunity to recover with a smashing second date. But as soon as the girl arrived, I knew that something was amiss; that there'd be no recovery. Maybe it was the slight hesitation in her hug or the awkward angle to her smile. Whatever it was, I knew that although we may be entering the restaurant as dating potentials, we'd be walking out as something much less.
Dinner itself was pretty good. The casual observer wouldn't have noticed anything wrong with the scene; just a guy and a girl enjoying some good conversation. But of course she and I both knew that a black cloud hung over our little corner of the restaurant. I kept waiting for her to deliver the bad news. Which dish would part the clouds and bring forth the fatal lightning bolt of rejection? The yakitori? The agedashi tofu? As it turned out, it came after we'd each had our fill, she having given me the mercy of a last meal before the execution. So after the last plate was cleared, her smile melted away and was replaced with a gravity reserved for the somber task at hand. Before my eyes the girl transformed into the headsman and I into the condemned. As she was leading me up the gallows, she gave her reasons for why things wouldn't work out--a miscommunication or two on the first date; an awkward text or three the week thereafter; a general unpleasant vibe from me. I made my last-minute plea for a pardon--"That's not who I really am! Truly, this is the real me!" I let her know how I felt about her--the squishy feeling she causes in my chest--and that in trying to pursue her perhaps I pursued too hard. That when we really, really want something to work out, we tend to overthink and overcomplicate things. But her decision was firm. "Off with his head!" ::chop:: Having done what she came to do, the girl and I parted ways soon thereafter. Now, despite the melodrama, that wasn't my first time up to the gallows. I've had girls tell me they weren't interested in all manner of words and mediums (nothing beats the formality of an e-mail rejection!). This one, though, is gonna sting for a while because deep down I knew that she hadn't rejected me, but a bizarro version me.
Having been out of "the game" for a while, I'd enlisted the help of my friends for advice on how to court this girl. All were willing to contribute to the cause and all seemed to have a new rule or protocol to add to my playbook--"Make sure you text her soon after the date, but not too soon after!" "Girls don't like nice guys, so try to be a little bit of a jerk!" "Talk about other girls you're seeing to make her a little jealous!" Some of the advice seemed to contradict itself and much of it made me uncomfortable. "The game," it seemed to me, involved a lot of trickery. But I put my concerns to the side, for all's fair in love and war!!! What I didn't realize was that as I continued to indiscriminately add things to my playbook, I became engulfed in a thick shell of artifice and deception. Getting the moves correct was critical. And getting the girl even more critical, even if it meant venturing away from True North on my moral compass. The net result was something distorted; something ugly. And that is how I presented myself to this girl during our first date and in our brief interactions thereafter.
In hindsight, I can see why it was such an easy decision for the girl to do what she did. A day or two before the second date, I'd realized how stupid I'd been and shed the shell of deceit. But by that point, the damage had already been done, and no amount of explaining on my part would convince her otherwise. "How can I trust what you're saying; that this is the real you?" A very good question. And one for which I had no answer (at least no good answers). Trust is the foundation of any relationship, romantic or otherwise, and when you're pouring quicksand to build that foundation, well, don't be surprised when it all comes crashing down.
I guess the lesson for me here is pretty obvious: just be yourself. Scrap all the artifice of the playbook. There's no need to complicate an otherwise complicated situation by trying to project some weird distorted image of yourself at a girl. Let her see you for who you are. If she's not interested, she's not interested. If she is, don't question her terrible judgment and just go with it. Either way, you're unlikely to regret it as it will have been organic. Plus nothing beats a clear conscience. I'm kicking myself that it had to take such a major blunder to drive that simple lesson home, but life seems to work that way. And, I suppose it's only fair that after bashing all my friends for their genuine concern I acknowledge that this whole time they've also been urging me to just be myself. Funny how sometimes you can be listening to people but not hearing what they're saying.
So as promised, the Third Act to my little tale. As it turns out, it ends in neither tragedy nor triumph. In fact, it doesn't really end at all. After a brief detour down the Dark Path, I've returned unencumbered. I feel lighter; free. I feel like me.
Now onward to the next Act!
--KM
"You say, 'Goodbye,' and I say, 'Hello.'"
Dinner itself was pretty good. The casual observer wouldn't have noticed anything wrong with the scene; just a guy and a girl enjoying some good conversation. But of course she and I both knew that a black cloud hung over our little corner of the restaurant. I kept waiting for her to deliver the bad news. Which dish would part the clouds and bring forth the fatal lightning bolt of rejection? The yakitori? The agedashi tofu? As it turned out, it came after we'd each had our fill, she having given me the mercy of a last meal before the execution. So after the last plate was cleared, her smile melted away and was replaced with a gravity reserved for the somber task at hand. Before my eyes the girl transformed into the headsman and I into the condemned. As she was leading me up the gallows, she gave her reasons for why things wouldn't work out--a miscommunication or two on the first date; an awkward text or three the week thereafter; a general unpleasant vibe from me. I made my last-minute plea for a pardon--"That's not who I really am! Truly, this is the real me!" I let her know how I felt about her--the squishy feeling she causes in my chest--and that in trying to pursue her perhaps I pursued too hard. That when we really, really want something to work out, we tend to overthink and overcomplicate things. But her decision was firm. "Off with his head!" ::chop:: Having done what she came to do, the girl and I parted ways soon thereafter. Now, despite the melodrama, that wasn't my first time up to the gallows. I've had girls tell me they weren't interested in all manner of words and mediums (nothing beats the formality of an e-mail rejection!). This one, though, is gonna sting for a while because deep down I knew that she hadn't rejected me, but a bizarro version me.
Having been out of "the game" for a while, I'd enlisted the help of my friends for advice on how to court this girl. All were willing to contribute to the cause and all seemed to have a new rule or protocol to add to my playbook--"Make sure you text her soon after the date, but not too soon after!" "Girls don't like nice guys, so try to be a little bit of a jerk!" "Talk about other girls you're seeing to make her a little jealous!" Some of the advice seemed to contradict itself and much of it made me uncomfortable. "The game," it seemed to me, involved a lot of trickery. But I put my concerns to the side, for all's fair in love and war!!! What I didn't realize was that as I continued to indiscriminately add things to my playbook, I became engulfed in a thick shell of artifice and deception. Getting the moves correct was critical. And getting the girl even more critical, even if it meant venturing away from True North on my moral compass. The net result was something distorted; something ugly. And that is how I presented myself to this girl during our first date and in our brief interactions thereafter.
In hindsight, I can see why it was such an easy decision for the girl to do what she did. A day or two before the second date, I'd realized how stupid I'd been and shed the shell of deceit. But by that point, the damage had already been done, and no amount of explaining on my part would convince her otherwise. "How can I trust what you're saying; that this is the real you?" A very good question. And one for which I had no answer (at least no good answers). Trust is the foundation of any relationship, romantic or otherwise, and when you're pouring quicksand to build that foundation, well, don't be surprised when it all comes crashing down.
I guess the lesson for me here is pretty obvious: just be yourself. Scrap all the artifice of the playbook. There's no need to complicate an otherwise complicated situation by trying to project some weird distorted image of yourself at a girl. Let her see you for who you are. If she's not interested, she's not interested. If she is, don't question her terrible judgment and just go with it. Either way, you're unlikely to regret it as it will have been organic. Plus nothing beats a clear conscience. I'm kicking myself that it had to take such a major blunder to drive that simple lesson home, but life seems to work that way. And, I suppose it's only fair that after bashing all my friends for their genuine concern I acknowledge that this whole time they've also been urging me to just be myself. Funny how sometimes you can be listening to people but not hearing what they're saying.
So as promised, the Third Act to my little tale. As it turns out, it ends in neither tragedy nor triumph. In fact, it doesn't really end at all. After a brief detour down the Dark Path, I've returned unencumbered. I feel lighter; free. I feel like me.
Now onward to the next Act!
--KM
"You say, 'Goodbye,' and I say, 'Hello.'"
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
All I Got For Christmas Was Freedom.
January and February of last year were particularly rough months for me. A combination of it being the depths of a bitter winter, the heater in my apartment being broken, work being out of control, and a very close relative moving into the afterlife. Of course, because the universe moves as it does, just as things were darkest and coldest, a girl entered my life. She was wonderful--smart, funny, beautiful--and given the timing I had my suspicions as to her origin. Heavenly, perhaps? Oddly enough, we'd known each other in college. Not well, though. At best she and I were acquaintances, each of us perhaps having attended a house party thrown by the other. And I'd venture to guess most of our communication back then was in the form of AIM chatting. You know, back when Internet stalking consisted primarily of decoding cryptic Away Messages on AIM. I suppose in that vein we reconnected through the magic of Facebook--thank you, 21st Century! Oh, did I mention I also had a major crush on this girl way back then? It kind of developed late in the game. Like "a few weeks before graduation" late in the game. After graduation I was off to Japan and she was off to not-Japan, so I figured no sense in making my affections known. Moving across the sea is complicated enough without injecting a long-distance relationship, right?Anyway, fast forward to last February. A friend request accepted turns into meeting for pancakes turns into dinner turns into a budding relationship. During the course of that relationship we discover that we both enjoy Game of Thrones. "You also like amazingly-written and superbly-acted plot-driven fantasy genre television serials!!??!?! I thought I was the only one!" But although she'd seen the HBO series, she'd never read the books. So I let her borrow mine. All of them. Hey, this thing was going to last forever, so I figured I might as well.
But alas, forever forever turned out to be several months. Things began to sputter as the relationship progressed, and one balmy July afternoon I was summoned to her residence and informed that "we need to talk. . ." Needless to say, the talk ended in an agreement to mutually part ways. For the best, really, given the relationship's recent trajectory. It was as civil as separations go; the work of true professionals. In fact, we sealed it with some Tasty Noodle House.
Now, unfortunately, as with most separations, there are loose ends that needed tying. And in this case that was my Game of Thrones books. It's funny because the second I started driving away from her place on that July evening I realized that she still had my books. I was tempted to turn around and collect them, but didn't. I mean, that would be a tad bit awkward, right? "Hey, I'm not even sure if you're done reading those books, but I need them back so they can sit on my bookshelf and collect dust. K? Thx. Bai." Nah, it didn't have to be like that. So I waited for her to contact me, for surely this is the correct protocol for post-relationship exchange of belongings, right? The borrower must contact the lender. Plus I figured she'd need time to finish all four books (no need for me to get them piecemeal). And so I waited. And waited. And waited. July became August; summer became autumn, and I continued to wait. All the while silence from the girl.
Around the beginning of October I thought something must be amiss. Had something happened to her? Or maybe it was just taking her a long time to read the books? She is a busy person after all. Still, how long does it take, right? So I decided to contact her. Which then opened up a completely brand new can of worms labeled: "How?" Should I call? Text? Show up unannounced at her place in the dead of night? Should she bring them to me? Me go to her? Meet in the middle? It's a delicate matter this business of getting your belongings back. In a sense they're hostages, and I was in the worst position having no hostages of my own to trade. No, this would take some delicate negotiation, projecting a firm desire to get my belongings back without crossing into pettiness. Also complicating the matter was that I was still completely happy with the separation, and given a lack of any communication from her, I could only assume the same was true for her. So I didn't want any communication from me to be interpreted as an attempt to rekindle things. But I also didn't want to convey my desire not to rekindle things too directly.
Ultimately I decided on email, a happy medium between texting and calling. As luck would have it, I received an immediate response from her. And acknowledgement that she still has my books! This was progress. I quickly replied with a request that she let me know of her availability so we can coordinate an exchange. But no response came. Only more silence. And at that point my honor forbade me from initiating contact again. So there I was back to square one. October became November; autumn became winter. All the while I waited, and all the while more silence from this girl.
During that time I thought a lot about those books and enlisted the advice of many in how to retrieve them without losing too much face. Perhaps one of my most trusted advisors was the Apothecary, one of my oldest and truest friends. Now, when presented with the facts of my situation, the Apothecary responded as most girls tended to do--"Why don't you just ask her again? They're your books and you want them, right?" Perhaps she was right. Take the direct approach--Man up! But in my mind, it was too late for that. Plus, you know, the whole pride thing. I'd like the books back, but not to the point where I need to beg for them.
As winter progressed and the Holiday Season arrived, the Apothecary and I exchanged gifts. As is my custom I prefer to wait until the big day to unwrap anything, so her gift sat on my coffee table, perfectly wrapped and . . . sparkling. Was her gift winking at me? It did have a certain twinkle in its eye. It was a decent weight, cube-shaped, and made no sound when shaken. What could it be? I pondered that in between planning sessions for "Operation: Tyrion's Liberation." When Christmas Day finally arrived I opened the Apothecary's gift first. As the wrapping paper melted away, and I realized what lay beneath, I couldn't help but smile--with Santa's blessing she'd snipped the cord to the past. Time to move forward. And just in time for the Year of the Phoenix.
I sat there and looked at those four nondescript paperback novels for a good while. They were a lot smaller than I'd remembered them. Or at least how I'd recast them in my mind's eye--four giant leather bound tomes requiring separate skeleton keys to open. I guess it made me realize how quickly mortal possessions can become shackles in the context of a relationship (even one long over). I do think that a little bit of our essence rubs off on whatever we give to our significant other, which perhaps make the whole "getting your stuff back" part so difficult. You're not simply retrieving "stuff;" you're retrieving little pieces of you that no longer have any need to be with the person who took custody of them. Those little pieces were exchanged in the light of a promise now broken, and you want them back. I dunno, maybe I'm a bit too sentimental. I suppose books are just books. Still, ever since opening the the Apothecary's gift, my spirit's felt lighter; unchained. I feel . . . free.
--KM
"Apologies for losing my cooling. Losing today, tonight."
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
It's What's On the Inside That Counts (Sort of).
I feel like when we were kids, the world bombarded us with stories meant to teach us the importance of looking beyond the superficial and judging people by what's inside their hearts. My favorite was about this fellow named Goro who lived in medieval Japan. Goro was short, fat, ugly and just plain grotesque, real freak show stuff. But despite lacking in the looks department, Goro had a gift for pottery. Now, there was this hot girl in the village who all the men desired. Even Goro. For although he was grotesque, he was still a man. At some point he works up the courage to talk to her, but his advances are met with laughter and derision, for freaks are not permitted to court hot girls. This is known. Now, I forget a large part of the middle of the story (I imagine it's a lot of Goro hemming and hawing about what to do and the hot girl realizing that all her attractive suitors are douchebags) but I do recall that in the end Goro gives the girl one of his cups as a gift. The cup is badly misshapen and just plain weird-looking, so the hot girl is like, "This cup is grotesque like you, Goro!" But, when she takes the lid off and looks inside, she sees the most beautiful artwork---cranes and tigers and other creatures delicately painted on a golden background (I think it was real gold!). Upon seeing this, the girl finally realizes what the audience knew all along--you can't judge a Goro by its cover. I forget whether Goro and the girl fall in love and live happily ever after (looking back on it, I hope not because the girl was kind of a bitch--you can do better, Goro!). But I do remember the moral of that story--It's what's on the inside that counts.
So since the days of Goro "It's what's on the inside that counts" has been the Mantra, a sword to pierce through society's unjust and superficial darkness. I wielded this sword with great care, making a conscious effort to get to know someone before judging them (Well, except for those people with vacant, soulless eyes ::shudder:: ). The extra effort's served me well in that I befriended people I don't think I would've without the Mantra. For example, the kid in elementary school who ate crayons and spoke in a weird accent. The consensus in the class was to shun him. Shun him and his crayon-eating ways! But as it turns out, his weird accent was just British, and he ate crayons because the box advertised them as "non-toxic" (who could argue with that?). So we became fast friends until his family moved back to their side of the Pond. Or how about the crazy lady in Japan with the creepy foreigner fetish? Shun her! Shun her and her creepy stalker ways! As it turns out, she was the sort of lady who sends letters with Dragon Ball stamps. Just a few of the many friendships attributable to the Mantra.
Anyway, I guess this whole Mantra thing's been on my mind recently because I'm starting to find it less and less effective in the realm of romance. Of course I continue to judge girls based on substance, but I'm starting to wonder if that's being reciprocated. Chemistry with the ladies flourishes over the phone, email and text, but then suffocates and dies upon meeting face-to-face. And the one holding the pillow is usually not me. So why? I mean, the face-to-face conversation goes well enough--we laugh; we cry. But at the moment of truth, she insists we split the check--the death sentence!!--and we go our separate ways.
Now, those who know me know that I'm definitely not some kind of player or anything, but I must say that this did not occur in the past. Or at least not at the frequency it does today. No, back then the hard part was always everything before the face-to-face meeting, overcoming my social awkwardness to convince a girl over the phone to meet me in person. The face-to-face meeting was usually the victory lap. So what's the deal now? Don't girls still value a man of substance?
Enter the Persian sage, D.D. (I guess we can call him "Double D" for ease of reference). Me and Double D were friends in high school (another pairing attributable to the Mantra). We lost touch over the years, but recently reconnected through the power of the Internet. So anyway, Double D has been acting as something of a swagger coach for me, for I'm sure as many do he wishes to see me happily paired up with some lovely lady. At the very least he wishes to be rid of my incessant bemoaning of singledome. Anyway, I presented Double D with the conundrum that'd been occupying so much of my time, and his response was . . . well, read for yourself:
"Bro, of course girls value a man of substance. But they also value a man who looks sharp. Yeah, superficially clothes are about looks--of course a guy who can dress himself well is going to be physically attractive to a girl. But that same well-dressed guy also signals to the girl that he has his shit together (a plus) and provides her one less thing to worry about (a double-plus). In essence, it's a tool to accentuate what's on the inside; an augmentation of your Mantra, my friend."
And there you have it. A simple solution to what turned out to be a simple conundrum--get some new clothes, buddy. And truth be told, this is some advice that was sorely needed. In the past three or four years I'd taken the Mantra to an unhealthy extreme by investing zero effort into maintaining any wardrobe apart from what I needed for work and what would keep me from falling too far below societal norms should I need to venture out of the house for non-work purposes. I guess I can blame a part of that on letting myself become somewhat of a recluse over that time period, my existence consisting of an infinite loop of: apt --> work --> apt --> work --> apt. And, while caught in that loop, I wielded the Mantra not as a sword, but as a crutch--"It's not me, it's them! Damn the world and their judging ways!" Now that I've reentered the world of the living, I see that it's time for some tweaking to the wardrobe.
"But what of the lesson of Goro?" you may be asking. Well, I guess it's become clear that the Mantra needs a slight adjustment. Perhaps something to the effect of: "It's what's on the inside that counts after what's on the outside has been counted." Meaning, if you can't get someone to notice you, it doesn't really matter how damned golden your heart is. And I suppose even with Goro that was obvious. I mean, the hot girl only liked Goro because he made her a badass cup; not because she suddenly realized he wasn't grotesque and disgusting. The cup was his foot in the door to her heart, and his golden personality was what ultimately swung it wide open. But he needed the cup.
Unfortunately, I can't catch a beautiful girl's eye by handing her a hand-made cup brimming with metaphor, so I must do so the old-fashioned way: plumage. After all we're just very complicated animals, and evolution and indecency laws having robbed us of any natural means to present ourselves to the opposite sex, we must use clothing as a substitute. Part of me feels a bit strange modifying the Mantra, but I suppose it was inevitable, especially with age. The vitality of youth can go a long way toward covering up minor superficial blemishes, but as you get older and those blemishes become more noticeable--droops getting droopier and sags getting saggier--more care to plumage can help tip the balance.
So there you are--Resolution Three: Fashion More. I think of the three--write more, cook more, fashion more--this resolution will be the hardest for me to keep, but I am relishing the challenge, despite what I anticipate is a slow and painstaking process ahead. Whether I will end up as some type of fashionista is unknown, but I will at least strive to bring myself back to where I used to be. Well, maybe a bit past that ;)
--KM
"Turn up the lights in here baby. Extra bright, I want y'all to see this."
So since the days of Goro "It's what's on the inside that counts" has been the Mantra, a sword to pierce through society's unjust and superficial darkness. I wielded this sword with great care, making a conscious effort to get to know someone before judging them (Well, except for those people with vacant, soulless eyes ::shudder:: ). The extra effort's served me well in that I befriended people I don't think I would've without the Mantra. For example, the kid in elementary school who ate crayons and spoke in a weird accent. The consensus in the class was to shun him. Shun him and his crayon-eating ways! But as it turns out, his weird accent was just British, and he ate crayons because the box advertised them as "non-toxic" (who could argue with that?). So we became fast friends until his family moved back to their side of the Pond. Or how about the crazy lady in Japan with the creepy foreigner fetish? Shun her! Shun her and her creepy stalker ways! As it turns out, she was the sort of lady who sends letters with Dragon Ball stamps. Just a few of the many friendships attributable to the Mantra.
Anyway, I guess this whole Mantra thing's been on my mind recently because I'm starting to find it less and less effective in the realm of romance. Of course I continue to judge girls based on substance, but I'm starting to wonder if that's being reciprocated. Chemistry with the ladies flourishes over the phone, email and text, but then suffocates and dies upon meeting face-to-face. And the one holding the pillow is usually not me. So why? I mean, the face-to-face conversation goes well enough--we laugh; we cry. But at the moment of truth, she insists we split the check--the death sentence!!--and we go our separate ways.
Now, those who know me know that I'm definitely not some kind of player or anything, but I must say that this did not occur in the past. Or at least not at the frequency it does today. No, back then the hard part was always everything before the face-to-face meeting, overcoming my social awkwardness to convince a girl over the phone to meet me in person. The face-to-face meeting was usually the victory lap. So what's the deal now? Don't girls still value a man of substance?
Enter the Persian sage, D.D. (I guess we can call him "Double D" for ease of reference). Me and Double D were friends in high school (another pairing attributable to the Mantra). We lost touch over the years, but recently reconnected through the power of the Internet. So anyway, Double D has been acting as something of a swagger coach for me, for I'm sure as many do he wishes to see me happily paired up with some lovely lady. At the very least he wishes to be rid of my incessant bemoaning of singledome. Anyway, I presented Double D with the conundrum that'd been occupying so much of my time, and his response was . . . well, read for yourself:
"Bro, of course girls value a man of substance. But they also value a man who looks sharp. Yeah, superficially clothes are about looks--of course a guy who can dress himself well is going to be physically attractive to a girl. But that same well-dressed guy also signals to the girl that he has his shit together (a plus) and provides her one less thing to worry about (a double-plus). In essence, it's a tool to accentuate what's on the inside; an augmentation of your Mantra, my friend."
And there you have it. A simple solution to what turned out to be a simple conundrum--get some new clothes, buddy. And truth be told, this is some advice that was sorely needed. In the past three or four years I'd taken the Mantra to an unhealthy extreme by investing zero effort into maintaining any wardrobe apart from what I needed for work and what would keep me from falling too far below societal norms should I need to venture out of the house for non-work purposes. I guess I can blame a part of that on letting myself become somewhat of a recluse over that time period, my existence consisting of an infinite loop of: apt --> work --> apt --> work --> apt. And, while caught in that loop, I wielded the Mantra not as a sword, but as a crutch--"It's not me, it's them! Damn the world and their judging ways!" Now that I've reentered the world of the living, I see that it's time for some tweaking to the wardrobe.
"But what of the lesson of Goro?" you may be asking. Well, I guess it's become clear that the Mantra needs a slight adjustment. Perhaps something to the effect of: "It's what's on the inside that counts after what's on the outside has been counted." Meaning, if you can't get someone to notice you, it doesn't really matter how damned golden your heart is. And I suppose even with Goro that was obvious. I mean, the hot girl only liked Goro because he made her a badass cup; not because she suddenly realized he wasn't grotesque and disgusting. The cup was his foot in the door to her heart, and his golden personality was what ultimately swung it wide open. But he needed the cup.
Unfortunately, I can't catch a beautiful girl's eye by handing her a hand-made cup brimming with metaphor, so I must do so the old-fashioned way: plumage. After all we're just very complicated animals, and evolution and indecency laws having robbed us of any natural means to present ourselves to the opposite sex, we must use clothing as a substitute. Part of me feels a bit strange modifying the Mantra, but I suppose it was inevitable, especially with age. The vitality of youth can go a long way toward covering up minor superficial blemishes, but as you get older and those blemishes become more noticeable--droops getting droopier and sags getting saggier--more care to plumage can help tip the balance.
So there you are--Resolution Three: Fashion More. I think of the three--write more, cook more, fashion more--this resolution will be the hardest for me to keep, but I am relishing the challenge, despite what I anticipate is a slow and painstaking process ahead. Whether I will end up as some type of fashionista is unknown, but I will at least strive to bring myself back to where I used to be. Well, maybe a bit past that ;)
--KM
"Turn up the lights in here baby. Extra bright, I want y'all to see this."
Friday, January 11, 2013
He Sleeps With the Fishes (?)
For those of you who didn't know, I'm a novice aquarium enthusiast. What started off as "winning" a goldfish at the Orange County Fair a few summers ago has evolved into the 20 gallon tank above. A lot's happened since then (rest in peace, Poseidon), but the current iteration is "Davy Jones' Locker." Aside from functioning as some living artwork, the aquarium has been a useful tool in helping unlock some of the mysteries of the universe. Where did we come from, and where are we headed? What lies beyond The Glass? Who's that giant, distorted face that appears from time to time? I guess there's a Zen element to it.
So anyway, the other day I was showing a picture of my aquarium to my dad, meticulously detailing the fish and their characteristics:
- There's Hanza and her bullying ways. I tried reigning in her bad behavior, but as the girl at PetSmart told me, "If she a boss, she a boss." 'Nuff said.
- There's Junior, a descendant of two other fish I used to have who herself has gone on to deliver some new additions to the tank. She and Hanza are somewhat of rivals.
- There's Sparky, a red little devil who's smaller than the rest, but has some real fight in him. He ain't no punk!
- There's Dotty, a spotted beauty who, not to be outdone by Junior, has added a lil' baby Dotty to the tank. Dotty arrived with Sparky, so I suppose they're step-siblings at the very least.
- There's Bert, descendant of the now-departed big Bertha.
- There're The Twins, Junior's two offspring (unnamed for now as it's been bad luck for me to name offspring too early).
- There're The Tetras, six neon tetras that stick together in a school and zip around the tank together in a red and blue streak. Think Blue Angels. Of the sea.
- And last but not least, there're the ghost shrimp, tiny little crustaceans haunting the aquarium floor like lost spirits (it's cool--they're friendly).
But of course I couldn't help but ponder the deeper meaning in his joke. As a Japanese person, I know that what is not said often tells just as much (if not more) than what is said. And, also as a Japanese person, I know that we don't spill our guts out to our parents. So, I must decipher my dad's one-liner without speaking to him directly about it. I don't think there was any malice or ill-intent to the joke (and certainly none was taken). Still, it's true that every joke contains a kernel of truth, and I did sense some fear/worry on his part. Worry that he will leave this mortal plane without having held a grandchild in his arms. Worry that his only son has taken on a shit hobby and forsaken his friends in the process; that he will die alone. No wonder my dad's been nudging me so hard to be less of a recluse.
So there it is. A father's worry gift-wrapped and delivered as jest. The point is taken by the son--"Less fish; more people." Go out there and live life. Meet people. Be happy.
And for Pete's sake, leave those poor fish alone.
--KM
"Troy McClure?! You said he was dead!" "No, what I said is that he sleeps with the fishes. You see. . . "
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Option: Unknown
After a mild pursuit, I established second contact with the girl, and we reached an accord:
WHEREAS, pursuer, having enjoyed the first face-to-face encounter with pursuee, is interested in setting up a second face-to-face encounter;
WHEREAS, at this time pursuee does not object to a second face-to-face encounter with pursuer; and
WHEREAS, pursuee, by the machinations of the universe and other powers beyond the control of mere mortals, currently possesses an inhospitable social calendar that makes impossible the setting of a second face-to-face encounter in the near future.
NOW THEREFORE, the parties hereby agree to enter into a two-week long hiatus in order to accommodate the inhospitable social calendar of pursuee. The parties further agree that toward the end of said hiatus, they will reconnect to explore the possibility of a second face-to-face encounter, possibly over dinner. However, given the uncertainties of the universe's machinations, in no way is a second face-to-face encounter, dinner or otherwise, guaranteed at the end of the hiatus.
The accord was reached via text message, a form of communication at which I struggle. Lacking the social cues of talking in person, the vocal tones of a phone call, or even the subtle clues in a letter or email, I am really bad at reading a person over text message. So, the girl's true intentions remain unknown to me. Not that I'm questioning her integrity or anything, but is anyone really that busy? Perhaps it's just me and my lack of any social life, but it seems a bit fishy that someone is completely booked up solid for such a long time. Unless, it's with other pursuers.
And the plot thickens.
Ah, the other pursuers--the legendary Super Gentlemen! But then why even agree to reconnect with me down the road? It's certainly not for a lack of ability on her part to be direct/blunt with me. So I can only infer that it means I'm still in the game! Perhaps not as Option 1 or Option 2 or even Option 99, but as an option. A mystery option--Option: Unknown.
Unfortunately, although it's a pretty catch moniker, Option: Unknown is not the ideal place to be positioned. To borrow an analogy from sports, I feel like a team "on the bubble." It's the last day of the regular season, and I've done all I can to advance to the post-season. However, I won't advance unless another team (or teams) falter. My fate is no longer in my hands, an excruciatingly frustrating situation that lends itself to a healthy dose of second-guessing--"If only I'd said this or worn that! If only I'd zigged instead of zagged? If only I'd made that left turn at Albuquerque!" Even more frustrating given the knowledge that I was given a golden opportunity to seize the mantle of Option 1 when the girl and I first met. Having blown that opportunity, my success now relies on the failure of others (I suppose this is where the ancients would insert: All's fair in love and war).
Anyway, so I suppose this is Act II of what will likely be three acts. Whether the thing is a tragedy or not has yet to be determined. The suspense is killing me!
Figuratively, of course.
--KM
"It had to be you, it had to be you."
WHEREAS, pursuer, having enjoyed the first face-to-face encounter with pursuee, is interested in setting up a second face-to-face encounter;
WHEREAS, at this time pursuee does not object to a second face-to-face encounter with pursuer; and
WHEREAS, pursuee, by the machinations of the universe and other powers beyond the control of mere mortals, currently possesses an inhospitable social calendar that makes impossible the setting of a second face-to-face encounter in the near future.
NOW THEREFORE, the parties hereby agree to enter into a two-week long hiatus in order to accommodate the inhospitable social calendar of pursuee. The parties further agree that toward the end of said hiatus, they will reconnect to explore the possibility of a second face-to-face encounter, possibly over dinner. However, given the uncertainties of the universe's machinations, in no way is a second face-to-face encounter, dinner or otherwise, guaranteed at the end of the hiatus.
The accord was reached via text message, a form of communication at which I struggle. Lacking the social cues of talking in person, the vocal tones of a phone call, or even the subtle clues in a letter or email, I am really bad at reading a person over text message. So, the girl's true intentions remain unknown to me. Not that I'm questioning her integrity or anything, but is anyone really that busy? Perhaps it's just me and my lack of any social life, but it seems a bit fishy that someone is completely booked up solid for such a long time. Unless, it's with other pursuers.
And the plot thickens.
Ah, the other pursuers--the legendary Super Gentlemen! But then why even agree to reconnect with me down the road? It's certainly not for a lack of ability on her part to be direct/blunt with me. So I can only infer that it means I'm still in the game! Perhaps not as Option 1 or Option 2 or even Option 99, but as an option. A mystery option--Option: Unknown.
Unfortunately, although it's a pretty catch moniker, Option: Unknown is not the ideal place to be positioned. To borrow an analogy from sports, I feel like a team "on the bubble." It's the last day of the regular season, and I've done all I can to advance to the post-season. However, I won't advance unless another team (or teams) falter. My fate is no longer in my hands, an excruciatingly frustrating situation that lends itself to a healthy dose of second-guessing--"If only I'd said this or worn that! If only I'd zigged instead of zagged? If only I'd made that left turn at Albuquerque!" Even more frustrating given the knowledge that I was given a golden opportunity to seize the mantle of Option 1 when the girl and I first met. Having blown that opportunity, my success now relies on the failure of others (I suppose this is where the ancients would insert: All's fair in love and war).
Anyway, so I suppose this is Act II of what will likely be three acts. Whether the thing is a tragedy or not has yet to be determined. The suspense is killing me!
Figuratively, of course.
--KM
"It had to be you, it had to be you."
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Love Is An [Underwater] Battlefield
Ever since I was a kid, I've loved submarine movies (The Hunt for Red October, anyone?). The submarine captains seemed so much less brutish than their counterparts on land, and there was a certain elegance to them. I mean, even in the chaos of warfare, they'd find time to sit with their senior officers in the officers' mess and drink tea and discuss philosophy. What's not to like!? So maybe it has something to do with that, but so far I think online dating is a lot like those submarine movies.
Some of the comparisons are obvious--the solitary nature of the submarine and the online dater; the vastness of the ocean and the Internet. But I think what really seals it for me is how similar online courtship is to submarine warfare. Much like the submarine dutifully patrols the ocean, I do the same in the digital expanse. Most of the time nothing noteworthy occurs while on patrol, but then out of nowhere comes contact on sonar. Bogey sighted! Alert Level: Yellow! Man battle stations!
I think what makes submarine battle so great is the tension created by not being able to physically see the opponent, the chess-like strategy involved in besting that opponent, and the fact that there's very little room for error. Maybe it's because I'm early in this most-recent online dating stint, but I feel that same level of tension/excitement when contact is made. A "ping" on the sonar, and an interested party is revealed. But what's this beautiful girl's intention? Is she friend or foe? Reading her deliberately-crafted profile reveals little to resolve the matter. Volleys of text messages and emails are exchanged, seeking out their targets in torpedo-like fashion. We bob and weave, maneuvering with the utmost alacrity. A date is secured! We meet face-to-face. Will this encounter end in victory? Or as a pile of scrap metal lost and forgotten on the ocean floor?
This is what crossed my mind while doing the usual post mortem after my date yesterday. As dates go, I'd certainly put it in the "I think it went well" category. She was vivacious, interesting, inquisitive, intriguing and very, very attractive to boot. She didn't foreclose a second date outright, and I don't think I did/said anything to make me ineligible for said date. Still, I couldn't help but notice that on multiple occasions she mentioned her other suitors and how delightful her dates with them have been. Now, this is a first for me in the sense that I've never had a girl be so forthcoming about her other suitors. Not to say that I thought each girl I went on a date with was dating people one-at-a-time; obviously they're casting their nets wide. But this was never made explicit during a date.
Now, mentioning the other suitors wasn't accidental on her part. This much is clear. But what was her intention in doing so? And like the submarine captain I am left to ponder. Is she trying to signal that it's not going to work between she and I? But then why not just foreclose Date 2 then and there? Or is she simply trying to signal that she's desireable? But that was known to me even before she mentioned her other suitors. Adding to the puzzle is that I know nothing of these other suitors. They could be slovenly douchebags or some type of unholy lab-created Super Gentlemen (a hybrid of Joseph Gordon Levitt, Brad Pitt and George Clooney). Sure, I'm a bit anxious now with all these other suitors out there, but I certainly have no intention of just bowing out.
Anyway, so here we are. After a brief encounter, the two submarines have parted ways, one having escaped in the chaos of battle and the other in fast pursuit. Which puts me squarely within that awkward stage of waiting for second contact. Will I find her again? Will we be able to spar once more in person? Or will I be left only with memories of that one encounter? I imagine the answers to these questions will be made known shortly. For now, it's back to the patrol.
--KM
"Re-verify our range to target. One ping only."
Some of the comparisons are obvious--the solitary nature of the submarine and the online dater; the vastness of the ocean and the Internet. But I think what really seals it for me is how similar online courtship is to submarine warfare. Much like the submarine dutifully patrols the ocean, I do the same in the digital expanse. Most of the time nothing noteworthy occurs while on patrol, but then out of nowhere comes contact on sonar. Bogey sighted! Alert Level: Yellow! Man battle stations!
I think what makes submarine battle so great is the tension created by not being able to physically see the opponent, the chess-like strategy involved in besting that opponent, and the fact that there's very little room for error. Maybe it's because I'm early in this most-recent online dating stint, but I feel that same level of tension/excitement when contact is made. A "ping" on the sonar, and an interested party is revealed. But what's this beautiful girl's intention? Is she friend or foe? Reading her deliberately-crafted profile reveals little to resolve the matter. Volleys of text messages and emails are exchanged, seeking out their targets in torpedo-like fashion. We bob and weave, maneuvering with the utmost alacrity. A date is secured! We meet face-to-face. Will this encounter end in victory? Or as a pile of scrap metal lost and forgotten on the ocean floor?
This is what crossed my mind while doing the usual post mortem after my date yesterday. As dates go, I'd certainly put it in the "I think it went well" category. She was vivacious, interesting, inquisitive, intriguing and very, very attractive to boot. She didn't foreclose a second date outright, and I don't think I did/said anything to make me ineligible for said date. Still, I couldn't help but notice that on multiple occasions she mentioned her other suitors and how delightful her dates with them have been. Now, this is a first for me in the sense that I've never had a girl be so forthcoming about her other suitors. Not to say that I thought each girl I went on a date with was dating people one-at-a-time; obviously they're casting their nets wide. But this was never made explicit during a date.
Now, mentioning the other suitors wasn't accidental on her part. This much is clear. But what was her intention in doing so? And like the submarine captain I am left to ponder. Is she trying to signal that it's not going to work between she and I? But then why not just foreclose Date 2 then and there? Or is she simply trying to signal that she's desireable? But that was known to me even before she mentioned her other suitors. Adding to the puzzle is that I know nothing of these other suitors. They could be slovenly douchebags or some type of unholy lab-created Super Gentlemen (a hybrid of Joseph Gordon Levitt, Brad Pitt and George Clooney). Sure, I'm a bit anxious now with all these other suitors out there, but I certainly have no intention of just bowing out.
Anyway, so here we are. After a brief encounter, the two submarines have parted ways, one having escaped in the chaos of battle and the other in fast pursuit. Which puts me squarely within that awkward stage of waiting for second contact. Will I find her again? Will we be able to spar once more in person? Or will I be left only with memories of that one encounter? I imagine the answers to these questions will be made known shortly. For now, it's back to the patrol.
--KM
"Re-verify our range to target. One ping only."
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Every Text Is A Treasure
Prologue
It's 1991, and I've FINALLY convinced my parents to get me a game console. Having bested all obstacles set forth before me--chores, grades, learning Japanese--I'd earned the right to rot my brains out with hours upon hours of 16-bit goodness. And so there it was--the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. And with it came perhaps one of the most iconic and memorable titles of all-time: The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past.
I can't tell you how much of my precious youth I wasted exploring every nook and cranny of Hyrule and Dark World. And in so doing, a certain sound became ingrained in my head. This. We'll call it the "Secret Sound" for ease of reference. Now, if you've played any of the Zelda games, then you know the Secret Sound is associated with the unlocking of, well, a secret. You know, a hidden passageway or treasure chest. And the Secret Sound don't come cheap, neither! Requiring the solving of a puzzle or other brain teaser. It's usually only after the frenzied firing of neurons that you get to hear the Secret Sound. And, perhaps this is an experience shared by all Zelda aficionados, but for me I'd say the Secret Sound itself was often more of a reward than the passageway or treasure revealed, eliciting almost a Pavlovian response. Secret Sound = success! Good job! Go forth and conquer! In any case, it's a sound that to this day still resonates deeply within me.
As is my custom, I'm in the Express Lane at the supermarket (life in the fast lane, right!?) when I notice that the regular somewhat-Eeyore-ish male clerk has been replaced with someone new. Someone female. Someone attractive. Someone checking text messages on her phone and ignoring customers. But I can forgive that last part given the certain je nais se quoi--the aura--about her. Oh, it's not cheery. Definitely not cheery. A bit on the dark side. Without any tinge of hyperbole I'd say it's like a black hole or some other energy-crushing vortex. And looks to match--pale but with black hair, black eyes, black nail polish, black eyeglass frames, black hoodie. Oh, and a neck tattoo. Some kind of bird? A dragon? Did it move? I think the tattoo just moved. Basically she's some kind of supermarket sorceress.
And she's got me vexed.
So there I am, inching closer and closer to the front of the line; to the inevitable confrontation with this sorceress and with nothing to shield me but my carton of soy milk. My palms are sweaty, and I promise myself I won't say or do anything stupid because I value my soul and want to walk out of this establishment with 100% of it intact. But of course, the more you try to avoid your soul being stolen, the more you feel it slipping away. Like trying to escape from quicksand, I imagine.
And then it hits me. I'll turn the tables on her! I'll vex her with my wit and charm. I mean, didn't I just write this blustery New Year's Eve post about putting myself out there? This can be sort of a trial run. Practice, you know? Yeah! Bring it on!
So with my nerves steeled and ready for battle, it's finally my turn at the front of the line. When I get there the sorceress is futzing about on her phone again. Good, an extra second for me to savor the impending victory!!! That is until she looks me in the eye, opens her mouth, and says something. At once, her gaze and the sound of her seductive siren's song tear through my nerves like a hot knife through butter. I can barely even make out what she's saying. Something about my club card? "Um, yah, um, I didn't bring it but I have my phone number." I quickly turn my attention to the keypad, mashing my fingers at the numbers and refocusing again on the modest goal of escaping this trap with my soul intact. Customer not recognized!??! Damn you fat fingers! Paper or plastic? I don't know!!! Will this transaction never end!?
And that's when I hear it. The Secret Sound. It's her text chime. The Secret Sound is her text chime!!
Her spell broken as she looks at her phone to check her text message, a thought crosses my mind: seldom in life are you confronted with a moment in time where your soul hangs in the balance. You know, an actual moment of truth. Choose correctly, and escape home to enjoy some cereal. Choose poorly, and, well. . . we all saw the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. And let me tell you something, face-melting is not on the agenda for the evening. Resolved once more, I turn my attention back to the sorceress. As I see her start to put her phone away, I muster all the wit and charm I've accumulated on my journeys, meet her gaze, and utter the following incantation: "Every text is a treasure."
Epilogue
I'm eating a bowl of cereal. With soy milk. Ah yes, "victory cereal" always tastes best. Yes, I'm happy to report that my soul remains intact. As it had so many times before in 16-bit days gone by, the Secret Sound unlocked an until-then unknown hidden passageway. Referencing the Secret Sound elicited a chortle from the sorceress and admiration at my arcane video game knowledge. Her grim look was replaced for a brief moment with what I can only describe as mirth. Temporarily dazed by my incantation, she completed the transaction without exacting any soul tax, and I was on my way.
A close call, certainly, but also a bit of adventure on an otherwise mundane weeknight. As for "practice," I can certainly think of some better ways to hone my wit and charm in the future. Oh, what do they say about hindsight? Still, I definitely learned a thing or two from my encounter with the sorceress: (1) I still got it, baby; and (2) next time I'm using the self-checkout machine.
--KM
"I was out of your league, and you were 20,000 underneath the sea."
It's 1991, and I've FINALLY convinced my parents to get me a game console. Having bested all obstacles set forth before me--chores, grades, learning Japanese--I'd earned the right to rot my brains out with hours upon hours of 16-bit goodness. And so there it was--the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. And with it came perhaps one of the most iconic and memorable titles of all-time: The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past.
I can't tell you how much of my precious youth I wasted exploring every nook and cranny of Hyrule and Dark World. And in so doing, a certain sound became ingrained in my head. This. We'll call it the "Secret Sound" for ease of reference. Now, if you've played any of the Zelda games, then you know the Secret Sound is associated with the unlocking of, well, a secret. You know, a hidden passageway or treasure chest. And the Secret Sound don't come cheap, neither! Requiring the solving of a puzzle or other brain teaser. It's usually only after the frenzied firing of neurons that you get to hear the Secret Sound. And, perhaps this is an experience shared by all Zelda aficionados, but for me I'd say the Secret Sound itself was often more of a reward than the passageway or treasure revealed, eliciting almost a Pavlovian response. Secret Sound = success! Good job! Go forth and conquer! In any case, it's a sound that to this day still resonates deeply within me.
The Encounter
As is my custom, I'm in the Express Lane at the supermarket (life in the fast lane, right!?) when I notice that the regular somewhat-Eeyore-ish male clerk has been replaced with someone new. Someone female. Someone attractive. Someone checking text messages on her phone and ignoring customers. But I can forgive that last part given the certain je nais se quoi--the aura--about her. Oh, it's not cheery. Definitely not cheery. A bit on the dark side. Without any tinge of hyperbole I'd say it's like a black hole or some other energy-crushing vortex. And looks to match--pale but with black hair, black eyes, black nail polish, black eyeglass frames, black hoodie. Oh, and a neck tattoo. Some kind of bird? A dragon? Did it move? I think the tattoo just moved. Basically she's some kind of supermarket sorceress.
And she's got me vexed.
So there I am, inching closer and closer to the front of the line; to the inevitable confrontation with this sorceress and with nothing to shield me but my carton of soy milk. My palms are sweaty, and I promise myself I won't say or do anything stupid because I value my soul and want to walk out of this establishment with 100% of it intact. But of course, the more you try to avoid your soul being stolen, the more you feel it slipping away. Like trying to escape from quicksand, I imagine.
And then it hits me. I'll turn the tables on her! I'll vex her with my wit and charm. I mean, didn't I just write this blustery New Year's Eve post about putting myself out there? This can be sort of a trial run. Practice, you know? Yeah! Bring it on!
So with my nerves steeled and ready for battle, it's finally my turn at the front of the line. When I get there the sorceress is futzing about on her phone again. Good, an extra second for me to savor the impending victory!!! That is until she looks me in the eye, opens her mouth, and says something. At once, her gaze and the sound of her seductive siren's song tear through my nerves like a hot knife through butter. I can barely even make out what she's saying. Something about my club card? "Um, yah, um, I didn't bring it but I have my phone number." I quickly turn my attention to the keypad, mashing my fingers at the numbers and refocusing again on the modest goal of escaping this trap with my soul intact. Customer not recognized!??! Damn you fat fingers! Paper or plastic? I don't know!!! Will this transaction never end!?
And that's when I hear it. The Secret Sound. It's her text chime. The Secret Sound is her text chime!!
Her spell broken as she looks at her phone to check her text message, a thought crosses my mind: seldom in life are you confronted with a moment in time where your soul hangs in the balance. You know, an actual moment of truth. Choose correctly, and escape home to enjoy some cereal. Choose poorly, and, well. . . we all saw the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. And let me tell you something, face-melting is not on the agenda for the evening. Resolved once more, I turn my attention back to the sorceress. As I see her start to put her phone away, I muster all the wit and charm I've accumulated on my journeys, meet her gaze, and utter the following incantation: "Every text is a treasure."
Epilogue
I'm eating a bowl of cereal. With soy milk. Ah yes, "victory cereal" always tastes best. Yes, I'm happy to report that my soul remains intact. As it had so many times before in 16-bit days gone by, the Secret Sound unlocked an until-then unknown hidden passageway. Referencing the Secret Sound elicited a chortle from the sorceress and admiration at my arcane video game knowledge. Her grim look was replaced for a brief moment with what I can only describe as mirth. Temporarily dazed by my incantation, she completed the transaction without exacting any soul tax, and I was on my way.
A close call, certainly, but also a bit of adventure on an otherwise mundane weeknight. As for "practice," I can certainly think of some better ways to hone my wit and charm in the future. Oh, what do they say about hindsight? Still, I definitely learned a thing or two from my encounter with the sorceress: (1) I still got it, baby; and (2) next time I'm using the self-checkout machine.
--KM
"I was out of your league, and you were 20,000 underneath the sea."
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