Flat-Land

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I’m depressed.

REALLY depressed.

In fact, it’s worse than it’s ever been (which is saying something.)  Writing sometimes helps me work my way out of it, so I’m writing this.  It also helps to think that you might actually be interested, so, if this post just doesn’t hold your interest, then just slip out quietly, I’ll understand – but I’m going to just keep on picturing you paying attention, ok?

By the way, you’re female. I mean the ‘you’ that I’m picturing. A little younger than me. A little shorter than me. A LOT better shaped than me. Currently, you have short, dark hair, very pale skin, and crystal blue eyes in a face that’s usually very serious, but can suddenly become impish with humor … I have to admit, you’ve changed with time: once you were black … on another occasion you were red-headed, with green eyes.  Your figure is athletic, now, but has occasionally been VERY curvy, and even, for a short time, thin and nearly flat-chested …

I re-imagine you, from time to time, because I genuinely don’t have a favorite:  I can find something beautiful in almost any woman, and I’ve found, over the years, that what I once thought of as sexy is still sexy, but so are all sorts of things I never considered sexy before!  The single biggest turn-on, for me, it turns out, are not great boobs, or a nice bottom, or long legs, or any combination of the above – it’s the eyes.

No particular color – I’m partial to blue, but the color isn’t the thing:  it’s the expression … serious, intent, a little sad, but ready to sparkle with laughter.  Deep eyes.  Eyes with a mind behind them. And a soul. Eyes that have seen pain. Eyes that have seen joy.  Eyes that understand.

Take eyes like that, make them any color, put them into a plain old face-shaped face, atop a body shaped body, and top it off with hair. (Optional, really, the hair: but if you leave that off, the head has to be beautifully shaped. Sorry, that part is non-negotiable.) Violá. Beauty.

I’m a big believer in love. Always have been. Yet, oddly, however easy it is for me to fall in love, no one has ever loved me back … sympathy and friendship, yes, perhaps even gratitude, sometimes loyalty … I seem able to generate those feelings in women. But not love. I’ve been married twice, close to marrying three more times, and have been truly, deeply in love with three women (that’s with hind-sight: I always thought I was in love while in a relationship, but looking back, I can see that I’ve been genuinely in love three times) – but in none of those relationships was I truly loved in return, even by the two women who actually claimed they loved me.  Actions don’t lie, and if you look at the actions, you can find the truth about anyone’s feelings, even if that person is confused, or lying to herself out of loneliness …

I’m 53. I was attractive, if not handsome, at one time, but that time is long past, now.  Not even the women who claimed to love me ever called me handsome. I may lose some weight (I’m working at that), but I’m never going to look any better, however desperately I might pray to God for a new body.  Given that I don’t actually care much about looks in women, you’d think I could get past my own appearance, but that’s just not the way my mind works. Nevertheless, I’m not hideous, and I can easily believe some women might consider me passable …

But I’m damned if I can find one.

It’s not just looks, of course:  a person is more than a body, and the only people who don’t believe that are sick beyond imagining.  A person is a collection of moods, mind, attitudes, likes, dislikes, humor, and memories, all crammed into a body, and shining out through the eyes …

The collection that is me is a tough one to love. Intellect alone is tough to deal with:  I’m really smart, and I know I’m really smart, and, thanks to the fact that my dad couldn’t handle me being this smart, I spend a lot of time pretending I know things I don’t, and showing off. Know-it-all is a label that’s been applied to me plenty of times. And most people don’t care for know-it-alls …

Then there’s the mood disorder. Bi-Polar Disorder in any form is hard on relationships. If someone was truly in love with me, it would be ripping her heart out, to know I felt this bad, and that there was little she could do to fix it …

The thing is this:  the whimsical, romantic, part of me believes I wouldn’t be as depressed, and it wouldn’t happen that often, if I were in love with someone who loved me back.  The cold, calculating part of me tends to agree.  And there’s a lot of women out there. About three and a quarter billion … Granted, most of them are out of my age-range, and are located where I’ll never meet them, but even when you eliminate those, there’s still a lot of women left over!

Which brings me back to you.

Look, I work 8-5, five days a week, at a major University … I’m far too old for a co-ed, but there are grad students out there, and plenty of professors, and lots of staff. Call for help with your computer: I’ll come to you, charm you and, then, you can ask me out. That last part is essential. It’s not that I’m chicken-shit. It’s not. I’m not. Ok, I am, but I have good reason – several, in fact. Sexual harassment policy in any corporation in America, is, basically, that if a person can imagine she is being harassed, she is being harassed!

I’m not kidding. Go ask whoever runs EEO, where you work. It’s true.  Of course, it should be equally true for males, but it isn’t. For a man, harassment is something done habitually, and repeatedly. Asking a guy out is not harassment – at least, we don’t treat it that way.

Soooo … all you have to do is find me, be charmed by me, ask me out, and I’ll take care of the rest.

Please hurry. The depression isn’t going away.

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~ by dourscot on January 14, 2013.

2 Responses to “Flat-Land”

  1. Reblogged this on Wildmen: Explicating Irrationality.

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