I am apathetic.
Isn't that sad? I used to equate apathy to an apartment littered with pizza boxes, lots of video games and a grey sweatshirt stained with marinara sauce. What I didn't know is that apathy toward the opposite sex could happen at the very moment that you thought you were at the peak of your game.
I'll start by saying that I consider myself a fairly attractive guy with good teeth and great hand-eye coordination. I think that's what most women want, but I'm sure I've failed to account for some little nuance here or there. So what have I done to wind up in a never ending spiral of hanging out with couples, scouring Match.com in utter disappointment and mulling over my most recent relationship that still has me more confused than Sarah Palin during a Katie Couric grill session?
If So had asked me to post a blog a few months ago, it would have been a three to four paragraph nonstop mushfest. I would have told you how I had a girlfriend who was completely worth the 400 miles I had to drive round trip every weekend just to see her. I also would have told you I had met someone I thought I truly understood despite the fact it was a new relationship.
What I wouldn't have guessed is that one random Thursday night I would get kicked to the proverbial curb during a ten minute phone call that consisted mostly of her silence interspersed with an occasional "Bwwwwuuuuh?" from me. There I sat, slackjawed as I tried to find the deeper meaning behind "It's seriously not you, it's me."
That was it. No further explanation, no response to the letter I sent her a week later to at least give myself to get some of my feelings out of my head and in front of her. This rattled me to the core because I had assumed things were great, and I was now confronted with this idea that I had no idea what the other person was thinking. I was totally convinced my feelings were reciprocated and that either wasn't the case or I wasn't getting the whole story. Either way, it was enough to make rethink a lot things.
So, understanding there are other fish in the sea, I used the breakup as a way to stoke the fire within me and embark on a little self improvement. I worked out in the gym like a man on fire, ate the most careful diet known to man, dressed a little better, and decided that I had to get right back on the horse.
Unfortunately I'm in a social situation that lends itself to me hanging out with either couples or girls who I'd never be interested in. This seemed like the right time to embark on a little online dating. I think So has talked about it before. It becomes very hard to meet new people, and you have to assume that there are others just like you in the same scenario in life. I put a little effort into Match.com and quickly discovered that it solely exists to frustrating the living hell out of me.
The idiot buried deep inside me surfaces every time I log on. I expect to click through a few profiles and stumble across a fit, educated girl who appears emotionally healthy and interesting, but I'm either way too critical or not using the site correctly.
As soon as I log on I am greeted by the five "suggested matches". About a minute later I have discovered five girls I would NEVER date.
Seriously, match.com? I'm 26 years old and work out five days a week so you suggest a woman over 30 who is out of shape because she's looking for someone who is athletic and toned? How in the hell does that make a match?
If I'm lucky enough to have a message, it's either from a girl who is religious or who "totally hates drama." I'm pretty clear about my agnosticism in my profile, and as for the drama girl, well...'nuff said.
My frustration is usually building at this point, but I make a point to see if anyone interesting has joined the site. The one hot girl is usually a conservative, so it's a choice between the girl who claims to have an average build despite ten pictures that tell me otherwise and another girl who, rather that post pictures of her face, has decided to upload images of flowers and rivers. Listen, I like a peaceful body of water as much as the next guy, but I'm going to need to see your face.
So, here I am, 26 and feeling a lot like George as Kramer asked him if he had a woman, anything on the horizon, or any prospect at all. Luckily the George Costanza parallel ends there, but it'd be awful nice to have something to peer at on the horizon.