Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I’m going to put this out there in the Universe because it seems like the right time. I’m not the first, nor will I be the last and that’s what bothers me. Someone, perhaps even me, should have figured this out before now.
Is it better to slog though life alone and unloved trying to make the best of things, “ennobling the void” as the existentialists say, or is there really any benefit to that? Is it better to just cut your losses and quit before it gets worse? Because, you know, it can always be worse and for some people worse happens.
I know, I know. Always look on the bright side of life, have faith, make the best of what you’ve got, don’t dwell on what you don’t have, talking about suicide makes people uncomfortable and it’s not polite to make people feel uncomfortable and all that.
But hey, guess what? I am human and I need to be loved, just like everyone else does. And hey, guess what else? I’m one of the humans who doesn’t get to be loved. Statistically there’s no way every woman gets to have a man. In every age bracket women far outnumber men. Factor in the homosexual and incarceration stats, and the odds show us heterosexual females need to start a clawing, fighting campaign for male affection early in our lives. Yep. Successful marriages begin with a courtship of 10 – 18 months and a 6 – 9 month engagement. (successful = no divorce and both partners rating a “satisfaction value” at or above 7 out of 10) So basically a couple years dating and planning a life together. And that was always my mindset. I never wanted to rush into marriage and I stifle a cringe when I hear about someone getting married after only a few months of dating. I’m sure it can work, but statistics, odds and common sense are stacked against them. Hey. Just because I don’t get to have a good relationship and marriage doesn’t mean I don’t want other people to have that. I’m lonely, not bitter.
Right. Anyway. I didn’t start clawing, fighting and wooing my way in front of the other girls early enough and I lost.
I accept that now. There aren’t enough men to go around and I’m not what men want, ergo no man for me.
I was “seeing” this guy right before and after my foot surgery. He seemed, you know, okay. I liked him. But I was also in a lot of pain and then a bit incapacitated and on serious narcotic medication from the day I met him to the day he sent me an “it’s not me, it’s you” email. I didn’t see it coming but then I was also heavily medicated. And I’m not sure we were technically dating. I’m not sure what he wanted from me. Whatever. Dating wasn’t exactly a priority for me. Getting around on one leg and trying to keep things together at work while in seriously nightmarish pain pretty much consumed my energy. He wasn’t a great communicator and even though we had some good laughs and seemed to share core values, I had no clue what he wanted from me or women in general, or life in general, for that matter. Which I found odd because he is very dedicated to his career and seemed to be very focused, yet, there was a general indecisiveness and lack of direction in his life. One of those people who just wanders along day by day with no aspirations or goals or even any real desires or hopes. That may have been my perception due to the serious narcotics I was taking at the time. They made me not care about the pain in my foot and ankle and if I’d ever walk again so they probably skewed a lot of other perspectives, too. To say my judgment was a little clouded is a huge understatement. Which was kind of good because I didn’t really care if he called or not, or if he liked me or not and all that stuff. If he called and wanted to talk or come over with a movie, cool, if he didn’t that was cool, too. Drugs. Drugs are good. I like pain medication. I now understand how people become addicted to pain medication. Especially people who are in a lot of pain. Something hurts, really badly, the doctor gives you this pill and 30 minutes later the pain is still there but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything except laying in bed and marveling at the beautiful pattern of shadows and light on the ceiling. You hear yourself singing la la la. Which I now know is why they call it la la land. La la la. Did I mention how much I really liked being on pain medication?
Unfortunately they don’t let you take the good stuff indefinitely. My doctor started weaning me off it and now I’m on over-the-counter Motrin. I was cool with that. I was conscious enough to know I was loopy and not myself and in all honesty I didn’t like feeling so out of it all the time. I knew without the medication that 58 stitch incision in my foot and ankle, and what lied beneath it, would hurt intolerably. I knew that because I tried to put an extra hour or two gap in the prescribed four hour interval. I went six hours and 9 minutes a week after surgery and was in so much agony I gave real thought gnawing off my foot above the ankle. I’m tough, I can tolerate a lot, but, I’m not stupid. Henceforth I took my medication religiously every four hours but wanted to stop taking it as soon as I could possible tolerate the pain.
I know. I’m meandering seemingly randomly without a point. I know. We’ll get there eventually.
This entire foot, ankle, surgery, recovery pain ordeal has been really, really rough for me. Extremely painful and physically debilitating. I still walk with a cane and still have a lot of pain. In the midst of all of it my dad was diagnosed with cancer, had a bunch of surgeries and a heart attack. A bunch of stuff happened at work.
So dating wasn’t exactly a priority.
So maybe it was all totally my fault. I didn’t put in enough effort, fawn over him enough, stroke his ego or his penis and hence the “it’s not me, it’s you” email. I’m not taking it hard because I never thought he was taking “it” seriously and much as I would welcome the opportunity for even a date, the timing was horrible and this guy, well, I just never got the hang of him. I never understood what he wanted, or didn’t want. Even when I straight up asked him he was inarticulate and vague. Not like he was avoiding the topic, but like he truly didn’t know. And if he didn’t know what he wanted in terms of dating and a relationship I certainly couldn’t figure it out. So I wasn’t exactly upset with the “it’s not me, it’s you” email. And I was a bit in over my head with a lot of other stuff and on pain meds and, well, it just didn’t bother me that much. I liked him, but apart from the fact that he kept calling me I had no indication that he liked me.
Men. Pfft.
I accepted that I lost out on the man, love, marriage aspects of life so “losing” this guy wasn’t a big deal.
At least not to me.
But boy oh boy, it was apparently a big deal to my friends.
Word apparently got out that I had a gentleman caller. You have to understand that among my friends the fact that I saw the same man more than once is tantamount to seeing Big Foot. You know it’s not really possible, and yet you can’t completely rule out the possibility that there are rare animals which have not been classified. A bear or ape or something could exist. They couldn’t care less about anything else in my life, I can’t even entice them to go to a concert with me, but whoooo boy, I go out with the same man more than once and the email and phone lines are abuzz with speculation about me. Yes. My dating life has become a freak sideshow to my friends.
I accept that. I like to think it’s because deep down they care about me and want me to be happy. But I know it makes for good gossip. It’s been years since most of them had a “new guy.” It’s been years since most of them were dating. The fact that I didn’t keep up with my peers and worse, that I’m not living la vida loco single woman, is a rich source of speculation in their increasingly predictable lives.
Apparently word spread that I received the “it’s not me, it’s you” email.
Did I get so much as an “aw, gee Trill, I’m sorry. That sucks. He’s a loser, you’re too good for him anyway.”?
No. I did not. The one friend I told just sighed a little exasperatingly, said, “another one bites the dust” with a very pronounced emphasis on another, as in, roll of eyes, “here we go again, what’d you do this time?” and launched into plans for her son’s birthday party.
I realize the inevitable break-up with anyone I meet has become tedious but “another one bites the dust” is all I get?
Turns out it’s not all I get.
My friends decided that since I can now walk with the aid of a cane they’d come into the city and have lunch with me. So I met them for lunch. There were photos of the kids, vacations to exotic places and new cars. (They showed, I looked) There was talk of new diets, new clothes and new personal trainers. (They talked, I listened.) And then, just after dessert was served, they dropped a bomb on me.
This wasn’t lunch with friends.
This was a planned, calculated intervention.
“Look, Trill, we think it’s time you faced reality,” my friend said as she laid her hand on mine in an attempt to seem compassionate.
All I could think was, “Where’s that serious pain medication when you really need it?"
“It’s great that you don’t give up, that you keep trying to meet new men…”
Seriously, waitress, can I get a darvocet with a couple shots of vodka?
“…but we can’t stand to see you getting hurt. You put a brave face on it, but all this effort and all this rejection, Trill, it’s got to be taking a toll on you. You might not see it but we do.”
My other friend chimed in as if on cue, reinforcing the positive behaviors, “I never could have kept trying as long as you have. I would have given up years ago. You’ve given it your all, no one can ever say you haven’t tried or put in real effort.”
“That’s so true!” the other one enthusiastically agreed. “You have done everything all the books and articles and experts say you should do. You’ve been really good about taking advice and trying things out of your comfort level, you know, really putting yourself out there. You even tried not trying, and look what happened! Just like they say, the minute you stop trying you meet a man, and that's what happened to you! But he broke up with you, too.” Thanks for reminding me.
“And you always pick yourself up and dust yourself off and try again. Every time you get rejected you don’t let it keep you down, you get right back out there,” hand comforting friend added, looking not at me but at my friend as she said this, as if they were working on a science experiment and confirming the hypothesis. “By George, Watson, you’re right! She does get back out there!”
“It’s just, well, you know there’s a lot of valor and dignity in accepting defeat, Trillian,” my friend said, this time looking me squarely in the eyes and taking an abrupt tone of sternness.
What do you say when someone says that to you? Especially someone who was at one time a very good and trusted friend? I came up with nothing and just sat there trying to get my gray matter around what was happening.
Hand cupping friend said, as if she were explaining death to a four-year-old, “At some point you have to accept that some of us don’t get married and you’re one of them. If it hasn’t happened yet it’s probably not going to happen.”
My other friend took this opportunity to blurt out, “Single men our age want much younger women. It’s not right, they’re stupid, but that’s why they’re single. They’re never going to settle down or they’re newly divorced. In either case you’re not what they want. They're stupid, it's their loss, but you can't change that, you can't change their behaviors.”
Hand cupping friend got all misty-eyed. “Trill, we’re sorry, but it’s true and we can’t sit by and let you get hurt over and over again. Just forget about men. Stop trying. And this time when you stop trying and some guy magically appears, don't go out with him. Something about you and dating and men just doesn’t work. They don’t see what we see. They’re stupid, Trill, really, they’re stupid. But, you’re kind of stupid for not accepting that. I mean, not stupid, you’re not stupid. You’re really smart. That’s part of the problem. You’re too smart.” (yes, it was now acknowledged that I have a problem, or apparently a lot of problems because my alleged intelligence is only part of the problem)
“Oh, absolutely, you’re very smart. And very clever. And very wise…”
“Oh yes, very wise. Perceptive, yes, that’s it, perceptive. Insightful. You really make people think. And men hate that.”
“Oh totally. Men absolutely hate that. Single men our age don’t want insight or perception, they want young, easy girls. When it comes to dating and women the brain is not the organ they want stimulated.” (Okay, give her points on that one, if I hadn’t been so stunned like a deer in the headlights at the realization that this was an intervention I would have laughed at that remark.)
“I got married late. You know, I just about gave up, I was just starting to reconcile that I might have to learn to accept a life on my own when I met Jeff. And that was five years ago, Trill. I mean, I was considered old when we got married. So, you know, I mean, the odds for you are not great, Trill.” (never mind that she’s two years older than me, apparently we’re all the same age, now)
Long, long, long awkward silence. The entire restaurant was silent. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to say something profound or get up and run screaming out of the restaurant like Carrie at the prom.
“And you’re tall, too,” my friend said, as if that explained everything else that hadn’t been said, the final chapter wherein all is revealed. At least it wasn't the you're too nice cliche which I hate more than any cliche ever uttered by a human.
“Yeah. A lot of men find tall women intimidating,” hand cupping friend concurred. "Have you noticed how short men are lately? It's like women are getting taller and men are getting shorter."
“Men are so stupid and fickle. They ogle super models and fantasize about tall women, but when they come face to belly button with one their egos are all wounded and suddenly tall women are freaks. Gawd I hate men. I’m so glad I’m not dating anymore,” my friend said, I guess as a form of kindred sisterhood. Trying to put a "we're all in this together" man bashing frame around the difficult subject matter of my single/zero-ness.
“Trill, it’s not the end of the world. A lot of people never get married. A lot of people don’t have anyone special. A lot of people don’t date. It’s not a stigma. It’s a lot more dignified to make the most of your life on your own than to keep beating a dead dating horse. You just come off looking pathetic and desperate and pretty soon you’ll feel desperate and pathetic and the next thing you know you will be desperate and pathetic. We don’t want that for you because you’re not the desperate and pathetic type,” hand cupping friend said, soothing her hand over my wrist and punctuating her statement with a jocular slap on my wrist.
Gee thanks. I never saw myself as the desperate or pathetic type, either, and the confirmation of that really makes me feel a lot better about this weird and awkward conversation.
“Don’t hate us, Trill. We just care about you and want what’s right for you. And since you can’t find a man who’s right for you we want you to have a great life anyway and you can’t have that life if you keep wasting time and hope on finding a man when your hopes and efforts could be put to more appropriate use. We think maybe you just needed a little kick in the pants to realize that. We think you need to hear someone else tell you to give up and move on with your life. Forget about dating and men and marriage and kids and relationships. Just forget about it and focus on other things. Try to be one of those happy single women who don't want a man.”
Apparently my friends forgot that I have a demanding job, some time and effort consuming volunteer projects and two very ill parents, oh, and, three sessions of physical therapy a week just so I can, at best, regain 85% use of my ankle and foot. Focus on other things. Right. Okay.
Waitress! Vicodin and a bottle Jagermeister please! Give me the Anna Nicole special.
You might think this weird and difficult conversation would be enough for one day.
But wait! There’s more!
Keep in mind that I had not uttered one word throughout all of this. Not one word.
Hand cupping friend said, “We have this great idea!”
Even better than holding a dating intervention on your pathetic desperate single friend?!
“Since it’s obvious you’re not getting married and you have that cute new little condo, it would be fun to have an unbridled shower! Get it? Un- bridal- ed?! We’ll take you to register for gifts and everything!”
Oh. My. Swutting. Deity.
These women, my friends, are worried about me looking and feeling desperate and pathetic and they want to throw me an un- bridal- ed shower? Anyone else see the hypocrisy and counter intuitive logic in that plan or is it just me and my skewed sense of dating reality?
“It’s so unfair that you don’t get to get presents just because you didn’t get married,” my friend said with an exaggerated pouty lip face, firmly cementing me and marriage in the past tense.
Well. She does have a point there. But nothing’s stopping her from giving me a housewarming present. Which she has not done and I’ve been in my “cute little condo” 11 months. I’m not saying she needs to give me a housewarming present, but, if she’s so eager to give me presents that she’ll throw me an un- bridal- ed shower, it seems like she would have coughed up some dish towels or a plant by now.
I was probably just overwhelmed with embarrassment and confusion, but I swear everyone in the restaurant was staring at me waiting to hear how I was going to respond to all of this.
So I very quietly said, “Erm thanks, I think, that’s great advice. And a cute idea, but it’s not really for me and I’m not going to register for gifs. I mean, thanks and everything, but no thanks.”
“Trillian, there’s a lot of significance to doing this. It makes it clear in your mind that you are single and not waiting for a man. And it tells the world that you are just as deserving of nice presents as those of us who get married.”
Uh, remember what you said about not feeling desperate and pathetic? Wellllll, I wasn’t feeling either but the more you talk the more I’m feeling like a societal pariah.
I thought I just thought that.
But apparently I thought it out loud.
My friends looked stunned and took a collective deep breath. They shored themselves up like they were going to implement a preplanned tactic. “If she resists, we’ll do this…”
“Trill, you’re not pathetic or desperate or any kind of pariah. And we don’t want you to become that way. We just want you to have a chance to be special for a day. Like a bride but not a bride – better than a bride, really, because you get all the attention and presents but you don’t have to plan a wedding or share the spotlight with anyone.”
“I don’t mind sharing the spotlight and if you recall I have actually planned a wedding,” Ouch. Yep. I said that. I didn’t mean for it to sound like a scorned bitch calling attention to their insensitivities and short memories, but I think that’s how it came out.
Silence. Long, long, long difficult silence.
We paid the check and left shortly thereafter.
I haven’t heard from either one since. So I’m living in fear of a surprise un- bridal- ed shower.
Is that the worst thing that could happen to me? No. I could use some new household stuff. But.
Aaack. The whole point of a wedding and the spotlight is that you’re two people sharing your lives together. I failed (past tense, see? I accept it.) to find a husband, so I don’t deserve presents. Period. That’s the rule. It’s been the rule for centuries. Get married, get gifts. No man, no marriage, no gifts.
And more to the point, I don’t need a shower to “celebrate” my single/zero status and solidify in my brain that I’m single/zero and always will be. I have days that I accept that no man wants me. I understand it, always, and have understood it for a long time. Accepting it has been more of a struggle. Well, not accepting the fact as much as accepting the ramifications: The loneliness, the lack of intimate relations, the isolation, the fear of growing old alone. The unfulfilled desire to be with someone. Those are difficult to accept. If your dating life were so bad that your friends held an intervention to make you stop trying and accept that you will never find anyone to love you, that you need to accept that you will always be alone and will probably never even have sex again, would you bother to, well, bother with anything?
In spite of the surgery and pain and my dad, I have been remarkably “okay.” Not terribly depressed or despondent. Yes, I’ve had bad days. But not suicidal bad days.
Now I’m wondering why. Maybe I should have swallowed the entire bottled of vicodin with a vodka chaser when I had the chance.
My friends have a point. The constant rejection should tell me something. I’ve tried meeting (and tried not trying to meet) all different types of men and the result is the same: They’re not interested. “Hey, it only takes one!” I would say and get back out there and keep trying (or stop trying). But, as my friends pointed out, that takes a toll on a person. I have tried everything and every type of man. I have given it honest and sincere effort. And I have tried the not trying approach. And I failed.
I can’t even get a guy to use me for sex. Yes. I stooped that low, I tried that. And failed.
That’s pretty bad. Pretty low.
So. Here are the options: The rest of my life single and lonely, or, get out now spare myself the emptiness of long lonely nights and unfulfilled desire. I’m officially past my prime, my friends are right on that score, I’m tall, they’re right about that, too, and now I have a huge horrific scar from my ankle to my toe and I will probably always have pain and a limp and medical expenses. I'm a liability. The herd needs constant thinning and maybe it’s time to accept that I’m a liability to the herd.
Except where would the herd be without those premium single/zero tax dollars?! And that alone is enough reason to dive into a bottle of narcotics and booze. So, I dunno. I don’t have to decide right now, but, as time marches on it becomes more obvious I’m on my own. And no, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m certainly capable. And I applaud people who love being single and don't want to be in a relationship. But. I'm not one of them. I want to be in a relationship. For me the loneliness and lack of intimacy are too daunting to reconcile. I am human and I do need to be loved, just like everybody else does. And that need has gone unmet for far too long. My friends are right, I do need to face it and accept it. Where we differ is in our plan of coping. They think a party and some presents will make it all okay. I think that will only make it a lot, lot worse.
What I find interesting, sad and weird in all of this is that in all the time civilization has been traipsing this planet, no one's figured out a solution to loneliness and an unfulfilled love life. Sure, there are antidepressants and escort services but they don't solve the problem, they only mask it or delay it. Sure, it's Darwinism at work, the herd does need thinning, but, on the other hand, why is the herd too big in the first place?
1:05 AM
