Monday, November 30, 2009

Better man.


I don’t know if a hotel room outside of Toledo, OH, right around the 1 AM hour is the right place or time to get contemplative. Then again, when and where is? I’ve way too much Dexter in my system for a single day and a combination of Japanese AND Chinese taking residence in my gut and a very real need to get up about seven hours from now to do some of that work stuff I came here to do. So, allowing my hands a chance to wander around some before I succumb to some of the sleep probably isn’t right or proper or even all that smart.

And yet, I continue. It is perhaps a little absurd and cliche and altogether expected to hear a man of a certain age and a certain unattached status talk (or, in this case, write) about his singlehood some. I’m not unhappy or even searching all that much of late, whether those close to me choose to believe that reality or not. Still, I had this thought recently, while exploring these two tired reasons for remaining single: fear of commitment and fear of intimacy. They’re the two most common reasons chosen to pin upon some single someone after all, right? One seems to run so swiftly into the other.

My thought was, well, that I most likely have a fear of intimacy, which leads me to be in the state that I am at present. The reason for that? Almost every single intimate act I’ve had or experienced so far in my life has been attached to some level of failure. What a revelation, right? It’s why, for example, good girl friends remain good girl friends. So, while this "fear" (as it's not the best way to describe it properly) may not result in keeping me up at night or cause me to run away screaming, it’s hard to attach myself to something longstanding when I’ve crashed and burned so often before (and I most certainly have). Is it wrong to have this fear? I don’t think so. Is it comforting to have a better understanding of what it is and how it applies to me? Yes and yes. It may even lead me past it at some point.

I sat next to man on an 18-minute flight today who couldn’t seem to stop talking to me. And, while I normally enjoy burying my nose in a magazine and minding my own business, I didn’t have much of a choice this time around. It was a small plane with propellors. I learned plenty about him in a very short amount of time. He and his wife were on their way home from Vegas and would be hosting a karaoke night at a gay bar (“We sure hear our share of songs from musicals there,” he’d said). He wore a hat that looked like it’d protect him in a heavy downpour and had a left hand that was missing all appendages but his thumb. I tried not to look at it. How long had they done this hosting thing together? Nine years.

And, on that note, I succumb. A man’s got to have his sleep.

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