At first, I thought he was losing his edge – just another overworked gimp, faltering on the perspective of his shortsighted youth.

“I don’t know anything about the person alone at the bar,” I said, and it surprised me that Eric wouldn’t know this. I spent the early part of my twenties parting with bangs, plucking my eyebrows and pushing the limits of authored angst. For anyone who didn’t know me back then, this could be inferred from my posts.

I looked past Eric for a tiny moment as he sat silent in hopes of a better response. And as luck would have it, I spotted a man sitting alone at the bar. His arched posture and pensive gaze seemed familiar, but not in the Jesse-Tuck-sort of-pity-way one might expect. It was more like I knew this man; I could be this man, and for all intents and purposes, I already am.

There’s an unspoken story to all of our characters all of the time, but somehow when the bar is the setting, narrative arch is one of abridged depression. I decided right then and there to write the post Eric “has a picture for.” Why not? Solitude, as it turns out, is underrated. And while it’s one thing to not know why a person is drinking alone at a bar, it’s another to mourn the story of a person you never knew.

In our over-connected society, it’s becoming increasingly less popular to be alone. Quite frankly, I hate it. I think the person alone at the bar should no more be judged than the dork who sits inside on Saturday and plasters stupid quotes on their Pintrest board. In both instances the person is alone, is physically inactive, and is opting for a moment that gratifies self. The only difference is one encourages copying and the other, in its most simple form, fosters creativity.

Though I can’t speak in definitive terms, I’d be willing to bet that the person sitting alone at the bar is alone because he or she wants to be alone. The inner world of some peoples’ minds are far more interesting than the outer world of sociability. Depleted too much by aimless stimuli, some people can crave reflection and solitude (see prior post on introverts).

I give credit to the man or woman sitting alone at the bar, and here’s why you should too:

1. 1.    They probably don’t need big hits of emotional arousal. They obviously find meaning in bliss. Hello, cool new friend/husband/wife.
2. 2.    Solidarity can be the sign of a confident, interesting person. This is polar opposite to clique mentality, where individuality is killed on impact.
3. 3.    They may be traveling. In this case, you’re not, so who’s the loser? Or if you are traveling, then you should be a step closer to understanding how important a change of landscape from the hotel room can be.
4. 4.    They’re clearly cool. There’s an art to expressing that you owe neither your time nor attention to anyone but yourself. Few can do this, and of those who do, few can do it well.

If after reading all this you’re still uncomfortable with the person sitting alone at the bar, then all I can say is he’s not your kind of normal. But while you’re sharing this on Facebook with 96 friends and waiting for Jayden to get out of swim class, the poised solo drinker is one scotch in to self-manifested acceptance.

It’s not that I hate music, I just don’t need it, I don’t bond through it, and it sometimes feels like an itch that can’t be scratched.

Here’s what my friend Sam wrote me recently:

“Wow.  Seriously, Jen.  Anthropologically speaking, music is something that has evolved with humans since the dawn of time.  Culturally, I think you’re missing out on possibly the largest benefit of modern history. I think it just makes me sad.”

Dear Sam and everyone else,

Join the club of sad petitioners. Think of it like this; all of us are different, especially our brains. The best I can explain it is auditory dyslexia. I feel as if my sensory processing is affected by signals (i.e., music) being out of step. I have stuff going on in my head, important or not, and music disrupts that. For people whose heads are never not noisy, music can be an interference. It’s someone else’s thoughts and art imposing on and competing with our own. It’s like trying to discern a current while standing under a waterfall. It isn’t so much “scrambled,” as it is snowing-out our personal ability to perceive and know clearly. Think of it as something of a jamming process.

Perhaps this issue lies somewhere on the autism spectrum. Though a lot of people think this is some sort of horrible curse and are quick to label it a “phobia,” I’m writing today to make clear it’s not; at least for me. When I hear music, I don’t usually hear the message; I hear only they rhythm. And it’s the rhythm that creates most of the problems in life, isn’t it? Especially when it’s out of synch with the individual energies around it.

Long story short, I held the door for a perfectly-sculpted male and his Gerhartz canvass-looking girlfriend who made no form of eye contact, and gave no gesture of thanks. Small beans, right? Wrong.

I’m sick of pretty people! Albeit I’m saying this as a person of strong C stature on the A-F scale.

I should paint a clear picture that this wasn’t me walking ahead and half-heartedly holding the door with 3 fingers for the person that might haphazardly follow behind. This was me grabbing the door handle from the outside, pulling it wide open to a 90-degree angle, and holding it generously for my few friends (who said thank you) and Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They simply walked through the space I was providing like coronation recipients of the monarch, and continued forward on their journey to privilege-ville.

It took every fiber in my bean not to yell, “You’re welcome you Nantucket red-wearing pukes…let me formally crown you for your stellar cheekbones and symmetrical existence while you poop flowers on me.”  

Needless to say, their behavior tipped my balance like a bottle of tequila. And before you think I’m experiencing a chemical imbalance that has resulted in temporary abandonment of propriety, you should know I’m an “observer” by nature. I’ve spent my 36 years on Earth relatively quiet, just watching and analyzing the behavior of people.

I’ve seen enough to know that attractive people (especially the young ones) are often ignorant about manners and arrogant about their ignorance. Is it so wrong for me to generalize and say that average to below-average looking people are often nicer because they’ve had to work harder in life to develop their character and their relationships?

It’s my unscientific opinion that people who don’t win the genetic lottery aren’t treated as special as those who have, and subsequently, they tend to have a richer sense of awareness, a broader sense of humor and greater appreciation for small measures of kindness. Curiosity, romantic interest, friendship and social status are all reasons that we throw ourselves at good-looking people. And if someone is not out hunting for food but rather, having it served to them, what incentive is there to sharpen the arrows of their metaphoric makeup?

I get it. Pretty people don’t have to work hard to be awesome because 100,000 years of evolution have allowed it. This is precisely why there are few attractive comedians on the planet. Everyone knows pretty people aren’t funny. They’re lame and mean. Okay, maybe it’s not quite that neat. But you see the point.

There’s a reason for the phrase, “Just sit there and look pretty.” It’s because it projects truth and fewer actions are expected of those who look Photoshopped.

This subject isn’t even worth rambling on about further. I’m just sorry that I didn’t make the world a tiny bit better today by calling out to the inoffensive-looking offenders how shitty they are. Of course, they’ll never read my blog because pretty people don’t read. I’m better off asking Eric or Kyle to draw a picture of a butt hole being fanned and fed grapes.

Nevertheless, on the way out the door I heard Pretty Puke 1 tell Pretty Puke 2 that he wants a Boca trip (I assume Boca Grande, Florida) for his birthday.

What he should want for his birthday is an ugly guy’s personality. And a scar.

This is what generalized anxiety disorder feels like.

It’s hating yourself for feeling how you feel but hating the idea of doing anything about it even more. It’s about asking yourself all the time if you’re doing the right thing, and feeling a paralyzing guilt about the remote possibility that you’re not. It’s being indecisive to the point of manic exhaustion and wondering incessantly whether everyone and everything within range is safe and “ok.”

Contrary to how it sounds, generalized anxiety disorder is far worse than social anxiety disorder. It sounds so ambiguous and nonthreatening. But in truth, generalized anxiety disorder is the result of having many of the seven types of anxiety disorders all crammed together into one. For me it’s obsessive compulsive disorder, panic disorder, agoraphobia, social phobia, and of course, hypochondria. I have them all. My actions have included everything from tying a large rope to my bedpost so I could exit through the second story window in case of fire, to driving over a bridge with my windows down on a freezing winter day so that I can escape quickly if I crash into the water. I frequently send my family members a list of my savings and life insurances so they’re not left clamoring in the event of my death, and I make it a point to tell the whole world when I have a doctor’s appointment so that they’ll be prepared to support me if I get bad news. I should clarify at this point, that someone like me always expects bad news. It’s the whole point of this post. I’m basically anxious about every damn thing, thus the name, generalized anxiety disorder.

I’m not exactly sure what caused it, but I’m certain I was born with it. Having lived the idyllic childhood in a stable home with a loving, reliable family, there is no known catalyst for the impending doom I’ve always known. No abuse or neglect to fuel my belief that danger and illness are around every corner. My anxiety is unfounded. And yet it’s there. Like a dank, heavy demon, impossible to cast out.

Some would suggest that the undercurrent of distress that lurks just below the surface is the mark of a true creative – a sort of suffering for art, if you will. Writers, in particular, have long been believed to suffer more anxiety and mental illness than others, including those within their own creative profession. And I, as you may know by now, am a writer by trade. By that, I mean I exploit my mind for a living. I construct stories, messages and meaning out of words, rhythm and psychology in much the same way that a designer creates images out of color, shape and texture. With enough time and determination, a professional writer can create a masterpiece. But the very creativity that allows them to manipulate perspective in a way that is useful also cripples the passage of a normal, peaceful thought process.

A large-scale study by the Karolinska Institute in 2012 looked at long-term data from nearly 1.2 million Swedish psychiatric patients and their relatives, and found that mental illness was more common among people within artistic professions. Anxiety disorders, in particular, were more common among writers. It would seem that anxiety and creative accomplishment share certain non-cognitive features like the ability to function well on a few hours of sleep, the focus needed to work intensively, restless attitudes, and an ability to experience profound depth at every level of emotion.

Something as simple as a three-day vacation can bleed the mind of someone like me. Making flight reservations, for example, is an exercise in manifested chaos. It involves the comparison of fleets, flight models and carriers, careful examination of maintenance records, shrewd seat selection, consideration of weather and extended forecast possibilities, length of flight, flight path and even clothing. After all, you want to wear something organic-based that won’t melt to your skin in a fire. This is just one example. The worrying and obsessing can continue about a multitude of other things once you hit the ground. And even if you never leave the ground and stay encased in bubble wrap at home, the thoughts and concerns about illness and imminent death can torture you in a way that you’re no longer even present.

If there is one particular hell of generalized anxiety that’s hard to shake it’s its tenacity. It reoccurs over and over again, like a pattern of biological grief that’s as natural and involuntary as breathing and blinking. The only real difference between anxiety and most other body functions is that it’s an affliction of mind, not a physiological benefit. Broken logic, catastrophe and hypervigilance define who I am. And though I have the self-awareness to see myself as the fool my best friends and family think I am, there is literally nothing I can do to make it permanently vanish. The best you can do is change the channel of your thoughts and repeat as necessary. As your mind slowly and certainly gravitates back toward hellish thoughts, you can attempt yoga, meditation, cognitive therapy techniques and prayer. But the key is to do it over and over again – to be as tenacious as the anxiety itself. It involves a lot of talking to yourself, something you’re already good at if you suffer GAD.

The purpose of this post is not to solicit pity, and it’s definitely not to gain attention. I work hard every day to present myself as a smart, classy and controlled person, and assassinating my own character via the Internet was never part of the game plan. The purpose of this post is to help others who may be grappling with similar demons of thought and help them understand that it’s perhaps part of their gift. If you possess little to no idle inhibition, you essentially lack the ability to reject trivial or inconsequential information. Creative types, especially, remain in contact with extra information that’s constantly buzzing around. “Normal people” (those without GAD), classify something then forget about it, regardless of how interesting or impactful that thing may be to them. Adversely, the creative person with generalized anxiety is always considering and clinging to all possibilities, even the bad ones. Take it for what it’s worth and learn to accept your weird, crazy self.

Since that time, I have single-handedly explored the significance of birth dates and the role that unique planetary configurations have on our personalities and decisions.

Having said that, I also understand the margin for error here is robust. And I’m not so passionate about the subject that I’ll defend it or throw poo on your sunroof for debating me. If you want to call it bunk, call it bunk. Though I won’t fully agree, I understand.

So, let’s break this space labeler down in a simple Q&A format based on the questions I get most frequently. Please keep in mind, my answers will be conversational by design. We’re throwing prose and articulation out the window here.

Q: I’m an Aries and my best friend is an Aries but we’re nothing alike; what gives?

A: It’s simple. Aries is your sun sign. But we’re made up of so much more than just our sun signs. The sun was not the ONLY planet around on your birthday. Your personality (in zodiac theory) is shaped on the positioning of all planets at the time you were born. In other words, your Moon sign, Venus sign, Mars sign and others count too. Together, the collective placement of these planets account for your unique character. Though you and your BFF are both Aries Sun signs (how others see you), your Moon (how you see you) may fall in Capricorn while hers is in Virgo, and your Mars (how you communicate) may fall in Libra while hers is in Taurus. In a nutshell, it’s about more than just your Sun sign; that’s why you’re different.

Q: What determines a right romantic fit?

A: Again, this is about more than Sun signs. True romantic fit digs deeper and looks at Venus sign compatibility. That is, how we behave and what our needs our in love. But, in a general sense, when they say Cancer is good with Pieces and Sagittarius is good with Leo, they are talking about cardinal match. Think of it like nature. There are 12 zodiac signs and they break into four cardinal groups. In nature there is fire, water, Earth and air. And likewise, in the zodiac, there are fire signs, water signs, Earth signs and Air signs. For each cardinal element there are 3 zodiacs in the grouping.

FIRE: Sagittarius, Leo, Aries

EARTH: Capricorn, Virgo, Taurus

WATER: Cancer, Scorpio, Pieces

AIR: Libra, Gemini, Aquarius

What goes with what? Just look above. The other signs in your cardinal group are your best matches. But let’s go a step further and look at your second best matches. Think about nature and ask yourself, what goes together better, fire and water or fire and air? The answer is fire and air of course. Air fuels fire while water puts it out. So in other words, Libra is a pretty good match for Sagittarius, though probably not as strong as Leo or Aries would be. It’s all pretty intuitive! Just revert back to nature.

Q: Which are the best and worst signs?

A: Not sure about best, but worst are Cancers.

A: Kidding, kidding. That was wrong of me. It’s just that in my personal experience, Cancers are bipolar psychopaths. Anyway, in truth, there are no good/bad signs. Each sign has pros and cons. And in my very surmised, loosely objective perspective, here’s how I see it:

Let the stone throwing begin. I can just see the comments now: “Dear Jen, that is not true. I’m a Scorpio and I am NOT vindictive. If you don’t apologize and take that down, I swear to God I’ll stab you.”

I must admit, Southwests’ safety statistics are nothing short of impressive with 0.0000203 incidents per flight.  And despite the rant I’m about to uncork, getting passengers to the ground safely is all that actually matters, even for a process misanthrope like myself.

I also admire Southwests’ steadfast commitment to a strictly-Boeing fleet, though Airbus is a fine product. I just feel good knowing their pilots aren’t jumping from traditional yoke to Airbus’ side stick controls on varying flights between four hours of sleep. Familiarity and consistency, check!

However, when is it okay to have a dog and pony show at 30,000 ft. up? Furthermore, whose idea was it to devise a seating program that’s modeled after ant colony optimization?

Let’s start with the first issue – the jokes. I’m all for silly, cool, positive energy but when pushed to Elvis extremes at high altitudes in a confined metal tube, it’s a rather uncomfortable gesture of impending doom. I realize, Mr./Ms. Flight Attendant, that you have been through extensive training to help save my life in the event of an emergency, but it’s kind of hard to feel secure when you’re rolling sodas down the aisle and rapping procedures about carry-on storage at take off. I know the intentions are good, but it feels so awkward. Sometimes, smoke and mirrors serve a purpose. And if you have to zip your lips and act skillful for the sake of contrived security, please do so. Though I’m sure you can administer CPR and direct a water evacuation, it’s hard for me to believe it when you’re acting a fool in the name of entertainment. I don’t fly to be amused. I fly to get from A to B quickly and the least you can do is make me feel I’m in the presence of professionals.

Lastly, boarding. Oh my God, the boarding. The free-for-all seating method that Southwest claims to be an air-maverick on is every bit as infuriating as it is dangerous. Swarm behavior, as it’s called, is the theory that a single ant or bee or human for that matter, are not as smart on their own as they are in a group or colony. Essentially, when there is no control structure dictating how things should be done, random interactions between individuals lead to the emergence of intellectual and efficient behavior.

Really?

Now I’m not one to mess with the genius of nature and if you want to tell me ants are smarter in colonies than they are alone, I’m good with that. But don’t tell me that it works the same way for humans, Southwest. The difference between ants and humans is that we let our pride get in the way. Ants don’t give a damn about being right. I would argue that humans get more idiotic as the swarm gets larger. Once ego gets involved, the “swarm” strategy is hopelessly flawed and you can bet your sweet ass that the nice girl with ticket B-09 will eagerly trample the 84-year old in a wheelchair if it means she can store her oversized Betsy Johnson in the bin first.

Sure, you can pay more for Southwests’ Early Bird Seating but even then, the boarding line becomes competitive brew of half-established drunks and disheveled college kids eager to embark on their next bad decision. As you’re anxiously gripping the A-12 Group Boarding ticket you coughed up extra dough for, some ass-hat will invariably cut in front of you and hold their evil finger over the A-18, A-22, or A-something-higher-than-12 ticket that they paid less for than you. Is there anyone monitoring this and checking to ensure that the people who paid extra for choice seating are getting what’s fair? Of course not! Anyone who wants to cheat and cut line can do so, with hardly any regulation in place. Southwest fails to realize there are some anxiety-ridden members of society who do in fact give a damn about where they sit. A seat eight rows from an emergency exit may not be acceptable. Likewise, maybe a family flying together would like to sit together. Or what about the claustrophobes who get ill in the middle seat? There’s no accounting for them either.

It’s interesting to me that some people love Southwest because “they get to pick their seat.” Help me folks, I just don’t understand this statement. What do you mean you get to pick your seat? Guess what? You get to pick your seat on JetBlue, United, U.S. Airways, American Airlines and many others as well, and better yet, you get to do so in advance. No guessing about whether you’ll be in the rear or forward cabin or whether or not you’ll be able to sit with your loved one. No worrying about getting stuck in the middle seat and no time wasted pushing and shoving your way into the boarding line that begins approximately one hour before the flight departs. I’d much rather sit back and relax until it’s time for me to board than stand in a crowded line for 40 minutes next to people who have no qualms about elbowing their way to the top of the peanut handouts.

Southwest might as well take their crappy tagline and modify it into a boarding call. You know, “Ding! You are now free to fight about the seating.” Follow it with a long, drawn-out “Mooooo!” and you have the perfect canticle for the animal-like behavior that’s soon to ensue.

One can only conclude that Southwest Airlines is designed for people who don’t mind chaos and enjoy a latent sense of boarding hostility. Southwest does nothing to accommodate the fears and preferences of people whose nerves are already frayed by the idea of flying, and they’re really at their best with a crew of passengers who are just as ridiculous and unfettered by bedlam as they are. I guess in this case, it’s the majority of people because Southwest mysteriously remains Americans’ favorite airline.

]]> http://www.imperfectimpression.com/2013/04/02/dingy-dated-and-loved-by-most-the-mystery-of-southwest-airlines/feed/ 2 http://www.imperfectimpression.com/2013/03/29/its-love-stupid/ http://www.imperfectimpression.com/2013/03/29/its-love-stupid/#comments Fri, 29 Mar 2013 21:30:34 +0000 Jen Miranda http://www.imperfectimpression.com/?p=496 Continued]]> What do you do when you’re in a place so stressful that it has no redeeming value? It can’t be transfigured into poetry or art, and it can’t even serve as a provocative experience. The fear and sadness you might feel is so overbearing that you can’t push it out even by stepping outside its parameters.

This place I’m referring to is the ER.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a deathly fear of its smell, its energy, and even the letters that represent its name. Yet I found myself there last weekend when my significant other fought a cypress tree stump with his face. Though his situation was not life threatening, the only lesson I could derive from sitting in that waiting room was how bad fear hurts.

For three hours I sat tucked tightly in a stark corner chair because the open spaces, chilly temperatures and sterile absence of substance create a vulnerability that can only be abated by self guard.

I had nothing to read, nothing to listen to, nothing to distract myself from the uncertainty of life that rolled past me for 180 minutes. One after the other they came on stretchers, in wheelchairs, in the arms of someone they know. I saw heart attacks, strokes, blood and wounds, gasps for breath, and numerous forms of unidentifiable illness.

An observer of human behavior, absorber of emotions, and aimless analyst of patterns, I began to notice the largest common denominator in the room. It’s as if I had to extract meaning from the torrent of anguish around me or I too, was going to suffocate. Seeing people in such pain can challenge the beliefs of even the most faithful, but in taking a step back and going at it from a different perspective, I was able to pick up on the only message that matters. It’s the one we’ve been told our whole lives but find difficult to see through the murk and bluster of carnal affliction.

It’s love. The answer REALLY is love.

How unperceiving and stupid the man who doesn’t see it – who doesn’t realize we’re in fact born to love feverishly. That’s it folks. It’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s the purpose of life. And beyond that, there is nothing more to figure out.

In the waiting room of an ER, layered on the outskirts of raw anxiety, you’ll see people hugging, holding and stroking one another in ways that are void of conscious function. It’s movingly obvious we were created for each other. Tear away upbringings and culture, losses and gains, and you’ll find that at the root of things, we’re hardwired identically. Though we spend all our time grasping lies of what’s permanent, we each meet an end that is invariably congruent.

Author Wendy Bradford once said, “Our gift is not one of time because that is uncertain and unfairly metered out. Our gift is of comfort and care.”

Comfort and care. That’s it. Oh, and love. The three things that can sustain life in the most volatile circumstances can also kill it in its absence.

Perhaps it was a good day in that emergency room because I didn’t have to witness a single person coming in alone. Love abounded, and through some metaphoric perspective, I was able to finally “get it.”

The best we can hope for in the emergency room or any other place of despair is a single soul to love us, or at the very least, the wisdom to know we’re responsible for our reactions. To get love, simply project it. It’s the only thing that assures us we’ll never really be alone.

I swore I would never be that person. I promised myself that at every age past 30, I’d conduct a thorough fashion reality check by thumbing through style magazines, talking to 20-somethings, and occasionally visiting the vast wonderland of tangled necklaces and fist-pumping neon known as Forever 21.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to dress like I’m 19 and in need of a hug. I’m well able to identify and accept who I am at this point in time and I have no desire inject vitality into my life via day-glo mesh tops. However, I still have the urge to be in style and look fresh, not “stuck” in any particular decade that gives away my age. That being said, I have suddenly found myself in a stalemate. I’m incompatible with fashion in that I’m incompatible with the skinny jean.

When they first came out, I thought it was a pathetic fashion trend that was sure to pass. But here I sit, nearly a decade later, horrified by the trend that just won’t die. Still refusing to wear pants that belong on a gnome, I went to the Gap not all that long ago and bought a few pair of the same type of boot cut jeans I’m used to. Who cares if I’m stuck in 1996! There, I said it! I’m the 1996 lady. Boot cut jeans are comfortable, they go with anything and I feel confident in them. Until I go to work, that is. Or dinner. Or the airport. Or, anything. Rats!

For the first time in my life, I no longer feel hip. I want to want to wear skinny jeans but I can’t! I feel middle-aged and mad. But at what? Am I mad that I hate the skinny jean trend or am I mad that the trend hates me? Or am I mad that I’m just getting old?

Everywhere I go I’m surrounded by skinny jeans. Thin girls, voluptuous girls, young girls, older girls, school girls, career girls and housewives. What is happening? They all have on skinny jeans and this makes my oh-so-comfortable-boot-cut-confidence fade rather quickly. If it were just teens rocking the fad, I’d pity them for their future regrets and go on with life. But when women my age and older are doing it, what excuses do I have left?

So, as a one-time fashionista, I had the obligation to go shopping and buy several pair of these ridiculous looking skinny jeans. Four pair to be exact – four pair I hate with equal vehemence.

Let it be known world, I am a skinny girl and I hate skinny jeans. I almost want to take extreme measures to put an end to this Kermit the Frog-looking denim craze – you know, propaganda style. I’m thinking books:

-       The Devils Wears Skinny Jeans and Doesn’t Get a Movie Deal

-       Infertile Forever: 101 Reasons Skinny Jeans Kill Life

-       Painted Fiction, the Lies of Skinny Jeans

-       Oh the Places Your Skinny Jeans Won’t Take You

For those of you who like skinny jeans and are willing to defend them, I want to say this: they are ugly and you are wrong.

Simply put, you are a victim of the bandwagon effect. A well-documented form of group think where the general rule is that as fads and trends spread among people, the probability of an individual adopting (i.e., “liking” it) increases with the proportion that have already done so.

Conclusion: You don’t like skinny jeans, you’re just blinded by consensus. You’re a skinny jean wearing sheep. Take them off and go buy some symmetry. I’ll do the same.

I am currently in a relationship that has had it’s ups and downs but has maintained a steady speed of “you only irritate me slightly”, which in my opinion is the best that any relationship can get.  This particular one started off unique because I was faced with a challenge I never had to deal with before, which was having her ex be a continued part of her life (albeit a limited one where we only saw him amongst their mutual friends).  Whatever.  After all, who am I to say who my girlfriend is allowed to hang out with?

Now, I am not typically a jealous person to begin with so the ex-boyfriend factor wasn’t initially a huge deal  — EDIT: I honestly can’t tell if I’m lying here to make myself feel better or if he was always a big deal  –  but a series of very insignificant events lead to a certain mistrust I had never encountered in prior relationships.  A random text here explaining that he recognizes the problems that contributed to ending their previous relationship, or the occasional tears of remorse there for the friendship that they both lost in one another. It was enough to make me uncomfortable with the situation.  I saw a threat from her past encroaching on my present and I wanted nothing more than to vaporize the situation out of existence.  He had his chance and failed, and I felt it was unfair for me to not have a clean playing field.  So with that pent up resentment I set out to subconsciously ruin my relationship through insecurities that came out whenever we went to an event where he was at.  That’s essentially the back story, so now let me explain how this led to a very bad thing.

Some friends of hers were in town and having a get together where the ex in question was going to be as well, so we set out to go socialize and have a few drinks.  Upon arriving I came to a realization that put me miles outside of my comfort zone, which is to say that I was the foreign entity at this party.  I was surrounded by people that were close friends with my girlfriend, and close friends with her ex-boyfriend, but just acquaintances with me.  They were obligated to be cordial with me but in reality we came from two different crowds.  All of these anxieties were put to rest when one of my closest friends showed up, Mr. Jack Daniels.  I got drunk and I got drunk fast.  A drunk’s concept of time is interesting, as they don’t necessarily have one.  The lovely lady had stepped away to another room for no more than a few minutes and in my mind she had been gone for 12 straight hours. When I finally saw her ex emerge from the hallway only to have her come out a moment later, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that they had clearly participated in coitus with one another for all nearby witnesses to enjoy.  The reality was she was in the bathroom the whole time but whatever, my brain wasn’t using logic anymore at this point.  She sat down next to me and I immediately questioned if she was catching up with her ex.  Of course I phrased
“catching up” by asking her if she had been making out with her ex at the very party she invited me to.  I should stop and clarify that she is much more of an innocent creature than that to ever do something like that in the first place. Her reaction was of sheer disgust and disappointment, which kind of gives you that instant sense of “dammit I was so sure you were the bad guy this time but nope, I fucked up!”.  Now I love my girlfriend very dearly and I know that she wears her heart on her sleeve, so I was playing a bold card to even question her at a party full of her friends.  Because it backfired, people could see that she was visibly upset with me even if she was trying to hide it.  This sets the scene for Act 2.

I had made a huge mistake but I am a pretty forgiving person so when I screw up I get the naive sense that everything will blow over in a few seconds.  I call it the Urkel complex.  I could completely fuck some shit up but a simple, “Did I do that?” would wash away everyone’s contempt for me so long as I look like an adorable rascal while saying it.  This does not work in reality.  The owner of the house, who can best be described as an illiterate super giant straight out of a biker gang, took it upon himself to take her aside and talk to her about my assholery.  Jack Daniels would have none of this, as in my mind I may have pulled a dick move but I didn’t do anything that would have warranted the masses to form a mob against me.  I entered the room they were in and was greeted with a, “What the fuck do you want!?”.  Not being used to such hostility, I was almost taken back when I instinctively replied, “To talk with my fucking girlfriend for a minute!”  I forgot who my audience was when saying this, as my closest friends know that I’m capable of mistakes but overall am a pretty caring and kind individual.  This crowd however, was merely holding an obligation to endure my presence.  An obligation that they no longer had based on me pissing off the better half.  Before I could say another word, I was alarmed by the fact that I was no longer standing on the floor.  I was actually floating backwards from the room I had entered and, no wait, it took a second to realize but I was being bum rushed by the super giant into the hallway where my head would leave a small but impressively sized hole in the drywall.  I’m not a violent guy so the realization that I was getting into the first fight of my adult life was all I could process.  Pinned on the ground, my head was beaten to a pulp as I did my best to protect the money maker by wrapping my arms around my face.  I could hear my girlfriend screaming in the background as she jumped on his back to try and calm him down, but unfortunately he could not be distracted from his valiant act of protection for her, so he threw her off of him injuring her wrist.  She would later tell me she also threw herself in between us only to have her arms beaten on by him.  In short, the guy was an animal and not the type you want to enrage.  His friends, seeing that he was not going to stop until I was dead or unconscious, pulled him off of me and took him to the living room to calm down.  End of party, exit with a concussion and call it a night, right?  Not quite.

My brain at this point was scrambled eggs.  I stood up dusting myself off while adrenaline coursed through my veins.  I was not going to beat this guy in a fight.  I was in the wrong for upsetting my girlfriend.  I more or less ruined the party with the help of the blood thirsty super giant.  I could have exited at that point with what little dignity I had left.  Instead my eyes fixated on a gloriously backlit 75 gallon aquarium full of piranha that was at the end of the hall.  What a curious investment for a home that wasn’t stricken with luxuries or wealth.  Why am I utterly helpless from preventing myself from running towards it?  “Oh God, am I really about to do what I think I am?”  With a flying noodle kick I exclaimed, “BOO-YAAAH!” as leapt into the air with my legs extended towards the tank.  Both feet promptly shattered the glass as I dropped onto the floor on my back.  From the corner of the house I could hear the furious war cry, “ROOOOOOAAAAAWWRRR!” as well as screams from shocked onlookers and I knew I was going to die but I didn’t care.  In that moment nothing mattered because I had achieved the ultimate vindication.  Cool water rushed passed my head as I listened to the fish flop in a slow motion drum beat all around me.  Suddenly the friend alliances went out the door as everyone at the party knew I was about to die so struggled to hold back the super giant as they told me to run.  I brought myself to my feet with a grin so wide on my bloodied face that I can only imagine how insane I looked.   I remember smacking the thermostat off the wall as I calmly walked out stating, “Ya’ll are white trash anyways” and that was it.  I hailed a cab down the street and was out of there.

Let me pause to say that no fish actually died as they were all transferred to the bathtub (so I’m told) after my exit, as I would have felt even more miserable the next day if they had.  I don’t have to go into the details of what happened next but my lady has more self respect for herself than to just up and forgive me for my lovely production.  We spent some serious time apart, I went through my whole soul searching phase, and I came to the very serious realization that I had some severe insecurities that almost led to the loss of my life.  I’m in a much healthier place since then, and at the end of the day I learned a valuable lesson.  You don’t have to like all of your significant others’ exes, and you don’t have to be comfortable with the situation if you’re forced to coexist with them, but you always, ALWAYS, have to be comfortable and confident enough with yourself and the person you’re with to not let it get the best of you.  I did a lot of damage to a lot of people, including myself, all because of my inability to show trust in the person I was with.  Suspicion can be a normal response when it’s warranted, but communication is the ultimate tool at your disposal in any relationship.  The silver lining is that I have a much stronger sense of who I don’t want to be since it’s happened, and a pretty cool scar on my stomach from the aquarium glass. So the lesson here is that kicking through a fish tank actually does have it’s rewards  trust is the most important tool at your disposal.  TRUST!

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