Monday, August 06, 2007

Halfway There and Back Again

Bad blogger. Sit. Write.

Knocked Out Dragged Down
I haven't devoted a solid night to the sole purpose of drinking since my birthday.

Allow me to rephrase: Until Saturday, I hadn't devoted a solid night to the sole purpose of drinking since my birthday. At least, not that I remember.

I ended Saturday night insisting to the people I was with that I was going to go home and eat pizza. Unfortunately, I didn't have pizza at home, but I was determined – against all odds – to eat pizza. A variety of schemes and plans worked their way through my head as I neared my apartment… maybe I would walk to the 24-hour CVS down the street, or maybe I would scour Grubhub.com searching for the few, but proud pizza joints that deliver until 4am. It didn't matter HOW it happened; I didn't care, but damnit I was going to have pizza.

When I arrived at my apartment I dropped my purse on the ground, kicked off my shoes, walked to my bedroom shedding pieces of clothing along the way and immediately passed out.

That night, there would be no pizza.

Needless to say it took me until about 3pm on Sunday afternoon before I started to function normally.

Madness. Taper-style.
I imagine that @ and I will have half a dozen conversations this week that go something like this:

Lou: Hey @.

@: Yeah.

Lou: You know what Sunday is?

@: Yeah.

Lou: It's the Chicago Distance Classic Half Marathon.

@: I know. I have it on my calendar. August 12: Lou Runs Far. See? Right there.

Lou: Damn right you have it on your calendar. Oorah.

(In the midst of my inability to get off my couch on Sunday, I watched the 25 Most Memorable Bathing Suit Moments or something to that effect on the E! network. Jake G. dancing around in a G-string and Santa hat in the movie Jarhead made the list despite the fact that it wasn't really a bathing suit. The clip reminded me of Jamie Foxx's line, "... I love this job. I thank God for every fucking day he gives me in the corps, oorah." It's likely that I will randomly say "oorah" through the day... maybe the week... who knows.)

Displaced Anger
I got mad at TV last week.

Romance is so misrepresented on television. In what world does an attractive, yet somewhat clumsy woman in an obvious rush plowing into a good-looking man holding coffee turn into a romantic encounter? The man subsequently spills the coffee on himself. The woman, flustered, attempts to help clean it up by grabbing the nearest stack of napkins or wad of tissue. Though he protests, she uses aforementioned napkins to wipe him off with until she realizes that she has come dangerously close to his crotch at which time she will retreat, embarrassed and hand him the napkins in order to allow him to clean himself off. The man, though put off at first, finds her behavior charming and when she looks up at his face, their eyes meet and BAM! Insta-chemistry. He asks for her number and she floats away on cloud nine. She probably turns back once or twice with a big shitty grin on her face, just for good measure, to get one last glimpse of him. And lest we not forget, this man just happens to be handsome, of an appropriate age, well-dressed, successful, single, and emotionally available.

Not only does this man not exist in reality, in "reality" this interaction would likely result in the woman being called a disparaging name like "stupid bitch" and told to "watch the fuck out." The situation would be riddled with embarrassment and awkwardness and these two people would, for a moment, connect on only one thought, which would likely be, How do I get away from this person as quickly as possible?

There ain't no love there.

And so, my point, dear readers, is that television attempts to trick us (and by "us" I mean "me") into believing in possibilities and soulmates and "accidents as fate" and frankly, for some of us, at this point that's just unfair and condescending. We don't need anymore false hope that a single, available, attractive, successful man is going to strike up a conversation about melons or some other innuendo-laden fruit in the produce aisle at the grocery store, or that the guy who stops to help when one falls on her ass, or drops whatever she is carrying, is going to result in an undeniable feeling of mutual electricity. Nor is it necessary -- in reality -- to encourage anyone to think that gestures bordering on stalker-like behavior are what women want (or what men want) or that standing outside someone's window declaring one's love will lead to a long term relationship. It's more likely to lead to a restraining order.

Hello cynicism, my old friend.

I've come to talk with you again.

2 comments:

L Sass said...

Good luck on your half next weekend! I ran the NYC Half yesterday and it was great--hope you get nice cool weather like we did.

heidikins said...

I hate TV romance, or Hollywood romance, or anything remotely romantic actually. I like it plain and simple, no bells, no whistles, no boxes of chocolate and no grand gestures. Just tell me what you want and let me tell you "hell no!" and maybe we can still hang out.

TV Romance, what a crock of shit.