Blowing It (Not THAT "It," Sicko)

This post is a continuation of my last entry. If you'd like to read that entry in full, click here. I've also posted the last paragraph if you just need a refresher. 

I went on a date the other night, a good date, no, a great one. I told her this story. She was surprised I stayed on Match, that I didn’t ask for a refund and close up shop. This hadn’t even crossed my mind, because with online dating, the reward outweighs the risks. And there are risks: a risk you’ll be hurt; that your ego will get bruised; that you’ll go on an awkward date; that your date will choose a 4-and-a-half Star, insanely expensive restaurant for your first date with the expectation you'll pay; and yes, that you’ll get murdered. But you take precautions. You correspond with him or her prior to meeting up; you message, text, and even call. You meet in a public place and tell your friends where you’re meeting. You take these steps and you put yourself out there, you stay in the game (or take a break and come back) even after a creepy message or 10, you shrug off the shit and continue taking your chances, because if you don’t, you could be shutting the door to the possibility of sitting across from a beautiful person, learning, laughing, flirting, and realizing the countless messages you’ve sent and the countless dates you’ve endured were completely worth it because you’ve finally met a great human being who you like and who likes you for you and who just might end the search. 

And if you're anything like me, that's precisely the moment you start blowing it.  

Yeah, everything except that last part. 

Two years of online dating, my quest to find my diamond in the rough. Many “I’m not feeling it”s and yes,  a few times tears have tickled the terrain of my sad-face. I’ve realized something about myself quite recently, I can be a total idiot when it comes to dating and I tend to completely blow it when I stumble upon someone great. 

I want you to imagine a man stranded on deserted island. Let’s say this man is me (for sake of simplicity (cough)).  I’m fairly content, or so I think, but it’s getting old. I’d like to shake things up a bit, see the world, do something crazy like wander the isles of a Walmart again. So I spend large chunks of my days having sex with coconuts  (and no, it doesn’t fit, thank you, but you fucking make do). Wait, totally meant to say: I spend large chunks of my days searching for a way off the island. I’m looking for a ship, or a plane, or even a portal, but all I keep seeing are mirages from the heat. Then, out of the blue one day, I see a ship bearing straight for island and me. “Holy shit! A ship! Are you fucking kidding me?! This is it! THIS IS IT!” I jump up and down, crack jokes, do 2 pushups, and generally flip the fuck out, hoping it sees me. It slows, turns, and speeds up, veering away from me and my lonely island.

You know what, Jack? There's no crying in banging. Especially when it was:

Meow.

Dejected, I continue seducing coconuts, ERR – ahh, fuck it. I wait for another ship, plane, submarine, zeppelin, hot air balloon, whatever, reevaluating all the things I may have done wrong. Maybe my dreds? My unruly beard? My tattered clothing? Was my duper dangling a coconut?

I put my dreds up, tidy my beard, and snag some new-to-me threads at the island’s thrift store (because let’s get real, what kind of deserted island DOESN’T have a thrift store?!?). Then I wait. And wait some more. Many a more mirage tease my mind and I start counting them to pass the time. Seven months float by and then one day I see it. “ANOTHER FUCKING SHIP HOLY SHIT THIS IS IT MY CHANCE TWO YEARS ON THIS FUCKING ISLAND IS COMING TO AN END WALMART AND WALMART HAS LOTION ME AND MY DUPER COULDN’T BE HAPPIER!poiqe!EF!F!!!” I start flipping out, waving, flexing. I do 3 pushups and crack jokes, all the while planning where ship and I will go, the adventures we will have, how great the sex will be, how ship’s hand will feel in mine, how many pillows will be on our bed, the thread count of our sheets, how she'll react when I try to introduce coconuts into our sexcapades, how many times I'll have to be big spoon before I can be little, what we'll name the puppy, the color of our matching suitcases, and if our wedding invitations will be scented. But then ship slows. “Oh shit,” I say, panic setting in. “NOT AGAIN!” I overcompensate: joke, pushup, joke, attempted pushup. I wildly waive hands and arms and leg (but not other leg) with frightening fervor. “Here! Over here! Take me away from this terrible island so I can distract myself from me! HELP!” And there goes ship, full steam away. 

I bend to just shy of the break. I analyze everything. Everything. Every tactic, every movement, and every word shouted. Was it my double-jointed elbow? Were my jokes not funny or was I trying to be too funny? Can you tell if someone has sex with coconuts just by looking at them? The answer comes to me like a message in a bottle washed onto shore: “Hey Brad, this is ship. You looked crazy, too desperate to get off your island, and simply not confident. So I had to keep going. Good luck, crazy.” 

I realize it has nothing to do with the dreds, beard, clothes. It’s my approach, who I am right now, and how I feel about myself. I need to just be me because me is a fucking awesome guy. I need to relax, lighting a nice big and fire while casually waving her over. “Hey, ship. What’s that? Oh, this fire? Yeah, it’s pretty cozy. Come hang out if you want. I have coconuts.” Pushup.

Holy shit. You can drink stuff out of them too?!

There's a core belief at play here, that I’m not worthy of an amazing partner and it needs to be snuffed out. There's also a script of perpetual shiplessness that needs to be rewritten. Because I'm smrt, funny, decent looking, and talented. I've netted awards in writing and photography. I have a novel that will get published and a good chunk of a 2nd book complete. And I have a full time job with a business that truly helps people who get fucked over. I care. I'm affectionate, good in bed, and one of the most passionate people you'll meet. But for some reason all of this is not good enough. 

It stems from long ago when negative thoughts that grew into a negative self-image were planted in me. Some were sown by others and some, I’m sure, by me. Older siblings soothed their insecurities and jealousy by lighting their baby brother up with the sarcasm bequeathed to them from a father who modeled it oh so well. And she: my protector. It made her feel good to have me rely on her instead of teaching me to rely on myself. She fostered and encouraged the perfect because she needed to be so she wouldn’t face the wrath. My OCD was like 1, 2, 3. When the person you love the most gets yelled at when you screw up, you try your hardest to never, ever screw up again. And when the wrath hangs over her head, ready to pounce on the smallest of mistakes, that anxiety and fear is transferred to a baby boy without her even knowing it. 

But that's me as the victim, which is getting so fucking old and tired. And these are just excuses, and excuses are like assholes, and assholes are like gross.

It’s me. I’m the one still watering these negative thoughts, letting them grow so tall they blot out the sun. I let them ruin days and dates and major chances with great women and then I let those missteps cripple my confidence. I know what I need to do, but it's so fucking hard. I need to stop listening to the negativity, which starts small but swarms like wasps around a jostled hive, consuming me, rendering me immobile and unable to see the insane amount of positive, ship-worthy qualities I have. I need to call the thoughts out for what they truly are: complete and utter bullshit, thoughts that have nearly destroyed me (in the true meaning of the word) on multiple occasions and have certainly never brought me honey. And instead of dwelling on the wasps and their tendency to swarm and beating myself up over their continued presence and dominance, I need to fight them, buck them with a “fuck you” because FUCK THIS. 

Maybe someday I’ll look back on this blahg post and see it for what I hope it will be: a major turning point. Until then, I’ll be trying to suffocate, “unfunny,” “debbie downer,” “woe is me,” “whinny,” and “unfunny.” 

Online dating can be a total shit sandwich at times. But when you realize that you’re the one making your shit sandwich, you need to reevaluate your ingredients. The shit. I’m talking about replacing the shit in your sandwich with something like not shit.  Something like Mesquite smoked turkey breast, cream cheese, apple slices, dried cranberries, and lettuce. Mmmmm. Would you look at that. I’m hungry again.

Wait, so what's a shit sandwich?