Relationships (Redux)
If you’re thinking “Hey—here’s another well-researched and poignant essay on that timeless topic we never tire of reading about”, you’d be wrong. This is neither well-researched nor poignant. One might even argue that it’s not much of an essay. But debating that will do none of us any good.
I’m a 40-something, single man and live in Manhattan. It’s my belief that—for a single man of any age—there’s no better place on earth to live. New York is a city with history, architecture, culture, money, opportunity and a subway system that smells like pee. It’s also a city with over 200,000 more single women than single men—the highest male/female imbalance in the entire country. A single man couldn’t possibly ask for better odds.
Before we go any further, let’s level set. I love and respect women. I think they’re remarkable creatures. So soft and smooth and nice-smelling and curvey and fun to drive. No. Wait. That’s the new Bentley coupe. Pardon my confusion—the Bentley’s equally expensive to maintain.
In the past 20 years, I believe I’ve dated a fairly representative cross section of the female population. I’ve dated tall women, short women, thin women, heavy women, large-breasted women, flat-chested women, blondes, brunettes and red-heads. I’ve dated pretty women and… those with other redeeming qualities. I’ve dated women with jobs and those who were unemployed, women who talked far too much and those who said almost nothing at all. I’ve dated women with ex-husbands, women with children, women with dogs, women with cats and women with tattoos—even one with a tattoo of a cat. I’ve dated intelligent woman and… those with other redeeming qualities. I’ve dated women I’ve fallen in love with and those I just barely liked. I’ve dated Christians, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Liberals, Conservatives, Americans, Canadians, Turks, Russians, Romanians, Armenians, Chinese and Guyanese. I even dated a woman from New Jersey. She had no redeeming qualities.
It should suffice to say I’ve dated a lot. And when I use the term dated, I mean capital-D Dated. I mean Dated in the adult sense. So we’re clear, an adult relationship is one in which, after several weeks of getting superficially acquainted, the woman—usually after an expensive dinner and copious amounts of alcohol—finally feels comfortable enough to say “I’m not getting what I want from this relationship.” It’s at that point in an adult relationship that a man either makes a commitment to change everything he thinks, says, does, watches, wears, drives, eats and drinks or resorts to… the C-word.
The etymology of the C-word is interesting. Compromise is derived from the Latin compromissus, the literal translation for which—I’m fairly certain—is “My way or the highway.” During the Age of Enlightenment, the word’s usage changed and the generally generally-accepted definition became “Satisfy a woman’s every whim to the exclusion of your own happiness.” Voltaire, to whom this definition is attributed, reportedly didn’t have much luck with the ladies. It’s hard to convince a woman to go home with you when you introduce yourself as a polemicist. Said one of the many woman Voltaire propositioned over the years, “I don’t know what polemicist means but I’m certain it either doesn’t pay well or is uncomfortable to sit on.”
Fast forward to modern-day North America and the term compromise has evolved to mean “If you’re happy in your relationship, you’re not trying hard enough.” Think of the times you’ve been happiest with your partner—you’re both waking up in a good mood every morning, your jobs are going well, you’re making passionate love every day (sometimes with one another), the in-laws aren’t dropping by unannounced, there’s no writer’s strike in Hollywood. Being together is effortless. And then out of nowhere—BLAM. One of you—the one with the penis—says something in a tone of voice that doesn’t quite sound “sweet” enough. Unhappiness ensues. You’re right back to feeling like you’re in a relationship.
You’re probably thinking “Here’s yet another bitter, sexually-frustrated, single man bent on blaming women for his unhappiness.” Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m neither bitter nor unhappy. And sexual frustration is a myth. At least since the invention of the Internet. I’ve given this a fair amount of thought (read: “enough thought to put 1000 words together on the topic”) and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not women that are the problem. Anyone who thinks women are the problem is… well… a man. I might have just syllogized myself out of existence with that little pearl of wisdom. Then again, for years I thought modus ponens was a part of the female anatomy.
In my opinion, the “problem” is the general lack of compatibility that exists between any two adult human beings. It’s altogether unreasonable to expect to share living space with someone for an extended period and not hit a few bumps along the way. No matter how good-looking, tall, thin, smart, rich or funny your partner might happen to be, at some point they’re going to do something you never dreamed they were capable of. Something so unexpected it shakes your very core. Something like explaining that he couldn’t make it home last night because a co-worker had too much to drink and he had to make sure she got home safely and sleep in her bed because she felt sad and lonely and scared and no, nothing happened and yes, his pants were off but he was lying on top of the covers and we might have smoked a joint together before drifting off to sleep in one another’s arms but it was purely Platonic cuddling and it wasn’t exactly my co-worker but a girlfriend of my co-worker’s teenage daughter and if you could only see your face right now and you really should put down that knife…
In the end you simply have to be as tolerant with your partner as your sensibilities will permit and decide whether or not the good in the relationship outweighs the bad. Choose your partner the way you’d choose a used car—pick one you can afford, one that doesn’t show any obvious signs of wear and tear, and one with a peppy engine. Sometimes that ends up being three completely different vehicles. And that can work too.
I’m a 40-something, single man and live in Manhattan. It’s my belief that—for a single man of any age—there’s no better place on earth to live. New York is a city with history, architecture, culture, money, opportunity and a subway system that smells like pee. It’s also a city with over 200,000 more single women than single men—the highest male/female imbalance in the entire country. A single man couldn’t possibly ask for better odds.
Before we go any further, let’s level set. I love and respect women. I think they’re remarkable creatures. So soft and smooth and nice-smelling and curvey and fun to drive. No. Wait. That’s the new Bentley coupe. Pardon my confusion—the Bentley’s equally expensive to maintain.
In the past 20 years, I believe I’ve dated a fairly representative cross section of the female population. I’ve dated tall women, short women, thin women, heavy women, large-breasted women, flat-chested women, blondes, brunettes and red-heads. I’ve dated pretty women and… those with other redeeming qualities. I’ve dated women with jobs and those who were unemployed, women who talked far too much and those who said almost nothing at all. I’ve dated women with ex-husbands, women with children, women with dogs, women with cats and women with tattoos—even one with a tattoo of a cat. I’ve dated intelligent woman and… those with other redeeming qualities. I’ve dated women I’ve fallen in love with and those I just barely liked. I’ve dated Christians, Jews, Muslims, Agnostics, Liberals, Conservatives, Americans, Canadians, Turks, Russians, Romanians, Armenians, Chinese and Guyanese. I even dated a woman from New Jersey. She had no redeeming qualities.
It should suffice to say I’ve dated a lot. And when I use the term dated, I mean capital-D Dated. I mean Dated in the adult sense. So we’re clear, an adult relationship is one in which, after several weeks of getting superficially acquainted, the woman—usually after an expensive dinner and copious amounts of alcohol—finally feels comfortable enough to say “I’m not getting what I want from this relationship.” It’s at that point in an adult relationship that a man either makes a commitment to change everything he thinks, says, does, watches, wears, drives, eats and drinks or resorts to… the C-word.
The etymology of the C-word is interesting. Compromise is derived from the Latin compromissus, the literal translation for which—I’m fairly certain—is “My way or the highway.” During the Age of Enlightenment, the word’s usage changed and the generally generally-accepted definition became “Satisfy a woman’s every whim to the exclusion of your own happiness.” Voltaire, to whom this definition is attributed, reportedly didn’t have much luck with the ladies. It’s hard to convince a woman to go home with you when you introduce yourself as a polemicist. Said one of the many woman Voltaire propositioned over the years, “I don’t know what polemicist means but I’m certain it either doesn’t pay well or is uncomfortable to sit on.”
Fast forward to modern-day North America and the term compromise has evolved to mean “If you’re happy in your relationship, you’re not trying hard enough.” Think of the times you’ve been happiest with your partner—you’re both waking up in a good mood every morning, your jobs are going well, you’re making passionate love every day (sometimes with one another), the in-laws aren’t dropping by unannounced, there’s no writer’s strike in Hollywood. Being together is effortless. And then out of nowhere—BLAM. One of you—the one with the penis—says something in a tone of voice that doesn’t quite sound “sweet” enough. Unhappiness ensues. You’re right back to feeling like you’re in a relationship.
You’re probably thinking “Here’s yet another bitter, sexually-frustrated, single man bent on blaming women for his unhappiness.” Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m neither bitter nor unhappy. And sexual frustration is a myth. At least since the invention of the Internet. I’ve given this a fair amount of thought (read: “enough thought to put 1000 words together on the topic”) and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not women that are the problem. Anyone who thinks women are the problem is… well… a man. I might have just syllogized myself out of existence with that little pearl of wisdom. Then again, for years I thought modus ponens was a part of the female anatomy.
In my opinion, the “problem” is the general lack of compatibility that exists between any two adult human beings. It’s altogether unreasonable to expect to share living space with someone for an extended period and not hit a few bumps along the way. No matter how good-looking, tall, thin, smart, rich or funny your partner might happen to be, at some point they’re going to do something you never dreamed they were capable of. Something so unexpected it shakes your very core. Something like explaining that he couldn’t make it home last night because a co-worker had too much to drink and he had to make sure she got home safely and sleep in her bed because she felt sad and lonely and scared and no, nothing happened and yes, his pants were off but he was lying on top of the covers and we might have smoked a joint together before drifting off to sleep in one another’s arms but it was purely Platonic cuddling and it wasn’t exactly my co-worker but a girlfriend of my co-worker’s teenage daughter and if you could only see your face right now and you really should put down that knife…
In the end you simply have to be as tolerant with your partner as your sensibilities will permit and decide whether or not the good in the relationship outweighs the bad. Choose your partner the way you’d choose a used car—pick one you can afford, one that doesn’t show any obvious signs of wear and tear, and one with a peppy engine. Sometimes that ends up being three completely different vehicles. And that can work too.
posted by dp at
10:44 PM
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