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The Right to Choose

Baseball Fixes Everything

And as quickly as it all went downhill, normalcy resurfaced just as quickly, in the disguise of a baseball game.

Friday August 5
Workout – 100 burpees
Breakfast – sweet potato, 6 egg omelette
Lunch – turkey breast and swiss cheese sandwich (minus the bread)
Dinner – salmon filet, red cabbage, coconut butter

Saturday August 6 (so far) – Cheat Day!
Breakfast – 6 egg omelette, red cabbage
Workout – Bench Press 185lb 3sets 4reps, Dumbbell Rows 75lb 3sets 4reps
Lunch Feast – espresso frozen yogurt with Heath Bar pieces, whey protein, sweet potato chips
Snacks – pistachio gelato, salmon filets
Dinner – Mexican feast-o-rama. Many many margaritas.

I stayed home last night and I didn’t look back. I saw the alternative, a high-pressure night out at a bar, by myself, trying aimlessly to dart into the right conversation with the right girl at the right moment, discreetly screening fingers for jewelry, calculating who was dating whom and keeping track of the spreadsheet in my head as I bookmarked which girls I would talk to, what I would say to them, how I would say it. It would just be all too much. So I took my shoes off, sat down on my couch with a glass of bourbon, and flipped on the TV. Yanks-Red Sox, the Friday night game. I let the oaky bourbon trickle down my throat and seep into my brain. I sank into my seat and smiled. I chose to do what would make me happy. And the universe rewarded me with peace. Except that the Yankees won.

How simple is it, with this blog, to turn every dating nightmare into a extended exercise of self-loathing? I curse and blame myself for every misstep and every casual hello that doesn’t turn into a bedroom escapade, and I’m tired of it. Pressure. Stress. Who needs it? The frying pan I choose to hit myself on the head with everyday, that I’m not as romantically or sexually experienced as the average 31-year-old, and that somehow makes me less of a person. People get late starts. Rodney Dangerfield didn’t work a comedy club until he was my age. Henry Miller and Raymond Chandler wrote their first novels in their 40’s. Why should dating be any different, unless I let it?

20110806-142435.jpg
*So* not me.

Notes:
– The weight belt at the Y, the one I hang plates off of for my weighted pull-ups, is broken. I was a bit distraught. I need to find an 8-year-old kid who’s willing to get on my back. Or a petite 5-footer from a yoga class (I could do 95-100 lbs, once or twice).

– A lesson in avoiding the truth: after a month, I bumped into The Girl With The Hebrew Tattoo at the gym again this morning, and we talked a little bit about music. It was OK. I told her I was going to get a post-workout frozen yogurt at Paramount (a few blocks away), but stopped just short of inviting her. As if she were going to make the first move and say, that sounds fun, let’s go… How easy would it have been for *me* to say, give me your number, we’ll meet up after you’re done lifting? Lesson learned for next time. Don’t assume she’s not interested.

– A lesson in selection: I went to a party Thursday and in my random flutterings away from my friends, talked to two lawyers who worked downtown. Interesting, I thought to myself, latching on to the convenience of talking about shared experiences at local coffeeshops and happy hours and lunch spots. One of them was a very cute petite redhead, who turned out to be total dullsville. The other slightly more talkative/energetic one, who seemed like she was kind-of into me, was a fairly unattractive Polynesian/Korean-looking gal who dominated the conversation, but in a funny-enough way. Try as I might to pull the boring redhead into our chat, she just sorta stood there.

You can’t win them all. It was the first time in a while that I stepped back from a less-than-ideal interaction and though, “She’s really not all that. Why waste my time?” I felt a bit powerful, but to tell you the truth, if I use my power to its full extent, I worry that I may never find the sexually-adventurous super-athletic PhD world-traveller of my dreams. But I guess that is what life is about, isn’t it? Finding out the truth about people, and seeing if that next person is the person of your dreams or not. What if the polite thing to do is *not* to avoid bothering people, but to show some initiative, and not assume things?

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