We're just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl - Pink Floyd
Don’t you want to lick every adjective off the tip of his tongue?
Don’t you want to drown yourself in her sharp observations and crackhead commentary?
How do you prevent yourself from ripping off clothes and indulging in animalistic, cataclysmic action reserved for “his and her only”? Isn’t that what relationships are for – the simple chore of dependable entertainment.
Several nights ago at a cowboy restaurant a cute couple, preppy, right out of a JCrew catalogue had such passivity engraved in their already stoic expressions I seriously considered them dead. I couldn’t figure out if they were on a church retreat thus appearing bored and conservative was part of the consent form, some sort of coming to Jesus. Or rather they were so apathetic toward the other they independently found staring off into space far more stimulating than idle banter?
I wanted to cry out… Why? Why? How could you have changed so much since that first date? The night she spent an hour straightening her hair? The morning he washed his car and changed his socks twice? How much energy has worthless arguments and bickering drained your soul of anything resembling human interaction. What had to occur so that you cannot bear even sight of each other, let alone ignore poor innocent conversation?
What happens once you’ve battled the commitment phobia and you’ve actually obtained a variation of public acknowledgement that you’re (and he is) off the meat market? The calculating games required to “land” have been mutually put away, and shoved under the bed for a rainy afternoon when the electricity has gone out (literally)? The giddiness of readily agreeing to eat your least favorite food has been substituted with nights nervously eating pasta impressing the parents. And obnoxious bars packed full of grizzly bouncers has been replaced with plaid pajamas and netflix.
The thrill of the hunt and the perfume in the air and the high-pitched girl giggle “hehe”… (Complimentary visual image from Adam Ferrara)… are gone. Because the only olfactory enhancer you smell anymore is deodorant, and if lucky, mouthwash. With no reason to be macho and cool, with quick-witted comebacks and impressive tales of heroic survival stories stuck in the Rockies, only for a phone number or a half-assed hug. Nope. No need to put on makeup, or plaster on an artificial grin after rush hour. Let it all hang out because why, why you’ve gone to the trouble of not being single. And what self-sacrificing fool would ever do that? Unless there was an upside… An empathetic ear just a phone call away, the obligatory booty call, a psychologist and travel partner, friend and foe all rolled up into that yummy and delectably delightful person you call “boyfriend”.
But once the above mentions have been met, what’s leftover? Not to insult the sanctity of relationships, but how do couples entertain themselves once they’ve already agreed to just be.
Why is it the cute couples in their forties and fifties you find cuddled up on a park bench, or walking hand-in-hand out of a Viagra commercial tend to be a product of round 2? Why can’t people get it right the first time? It makes finding the initial shot so annoying and daunting and most of all leaves me dubious of a way to keep the embers alive. It seems to me that once the fire dies down, the smoke has cleared there is just a bunch of soot and ashes asking to be cleaned up, or demanding to get laid at 8am on a Thursday morning when all you want is a snooze button. And where is the fun in that?
I ask myself why do we push for commitment, when once the fork in the road is behind us all bets are off? We’ve limited ourselves to a single-party democracy where equitable negotiations no longer equate to compromise, and swallowing your words is far more bitter than swallowing your pride. Pride was tossed out the window with lacy panties, polite conversation and god-forbid, flirtation.
The Secret promises that if you wish for something, write it down, chant it and do rain dances beckoning your deepest desires, it will somehow become your reality. So rather than blowing out birthday candles, praying to Judeo-Christian gods, more and more folk rely on the premise that the power of the golden rule, expecting good when good is given, reigns over all.
But I then ask myself… Are all relationships based on trade, GO ADAM SMIH ….or might there be the rare ones founded on something more? Give and then get and count thy cards? A spade is a spade, but if you trade it for hearts then maybe later your joker won’t be such an asshole and hit you back with a royal flush. The bottom line is: Do people get together so they get what’s missing, or is there an actual added value in 1+1? Aside from the luxuries of not religiously gyming it in fear of cellulite, and having a bed buddy whose snoring eventually becomes a therapeutic distraction, what other bonuses come with being tied down? Where is the advantage in having someone who odds are, will eventually bore you?
Why do we kill ourselves trying to find someone with whom we can relate, laugh and share fond outdoor activities? When a dog or pals can provide the similar companionship? Is there really this indefinable, seemingly intangible feeling we seek out when searching for that thing called love? Or rather are we kidding ourselves and really we’re thirsty for safety and unyielding acceptance that arrives with commitment? Maybe the mirage is a big ass white flag pointing in the direction of the most compatible, logical partner, equally eager for contractual committal trade?
Or maybe there are the few exceptions, when love beat logic. When all the numbers didn’t make sense, but the inexplicable rush from being together was enough of a reason to try. The couple whose laugh lines aren’t all G-rated, and the weathered memories aren’t all enchanting, in fact they’re full of intensity and passion and truth. The couples who fought through the boredom to keep feeling, never allowing the other to settle, always urging the other to reach outside the comfort of commitment, reminding all the while, that they’re not alone.
I don’t know how one prevents the onset of boredom. A debilitating death sentence so viral one must get vaccinated with regular footsie in restaurants, foreplay and the always-occasional banter…
