Wednesday, April 27, 2011

My Love Wilts

Even Dr. Phil McGraw can keep his woman happy while he spews his Kentucky Fried relationship advice. He’s not even attractive. Not at all. Come on. If he’s a 5, I’m at least a 5.5. Maybe he’s rich, hung, and a good kisser. OK, 5.25. Whatever. I’m sure every spat he and his wife get into ends with her relenting as he name drops Oprah and all of his sponsors. Still, the wife stays put. I bet she pays as much attention to his advice as I pay to the Royal Wedding.

So, why do so many concerns arise when I begin courting the finer sex? I should use a pen name, lie, and say I am a volunteer firefighter. The coolness of my occupation disintegrates more quickly than Joan Rivers’ face in the sun. As soon as the new bed warmer reads my ramblings, my intentions become suspect.

“There’s no way you make all of that up. You must have lots of firsthand experience.”
“True. I have experience dating and even more experience observing the relationship catastrophes of others.”
“So, which parts are true? Which one is you?”
“None of it is true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Ah ha! So you are lying.”
“No. I am embellishing.”
“What are you going to write about when you have a steady girlfriend and fall in love?”
“Who knows?”
“I’m not comfortable with your writing about our relationship.”
“I always change the names and twist the scenarios.”
“Still. Why don’t you write about how much you love me?”
“Because that’s boring to everyone but you.”

Why can’t I learn to give the answer most likely to stoke the relationship fire? I appreciate brutal honesty, so it’s what I’m most comfortable delivering, much to the dismay of my dangly parts. I should simply play along and ensure my lovely lady that, as we approach the altar (due to death more likely than marriage ... sorry ... more brutal honesty), my tune will change. I’ll write pillowy prose about how my heart soars in her presence and aches in her absence. Blech. Haven’t we heard that often enough?

I know, I know. Play the role or one day in my eighties I will keel over and be eaten by my six cats.

“Look, J. K. Rowling never flew on a broom, right?”
“Right, but ...”
“Clive Barker never impaled anyone on a spike.”
“True, but ...”
“David Duchovny was never addicted to sex.”
“Um, actually he was recently in treatment for that specific affliction.”
“Shit. OK, bad example. Wait, but he doesn’t write Californication.”
“Yet it becomes him.”
“That’s life imitating art. My musings are art imitating life.”
“I don’t know. I’m uncomfortable with all of this.”
“How can I make you comfortable?”
“Tell me you love me and write about that.”
“I can write about how difficult it is to tell somebody you love them.”
“Love is such a subjective thing anyway. How about adore?”
“Fine, you can tell me you like me and write about how much you like sleeping alone.”
“I kind of already did that.”
“Why am I not surprised?”

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