What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, October 21, 2011

Do people overanalyze you?


Do you hate being evaluated and diagnosed for flaws you can’t perceive? If someone has a problem with something about you, it’s her problem, not yours. If he insists you should eat, wear, or do something, he ought to mind his own beeswax.

I receive constant analyses, especially from females who happen to be occupado. They usually do this by talking about me in front of me. Rude! At least when I write my sarcastic generalizations I’m not naming people directly. I protect the guilty by changing the names. These self-proclaimed relationship experts pound away at my psyche without the common decency to do so behind my back.

“Phil’s problem is he has a closed heart.”
“I'm right here! What the fuck does that mean?”
“I’m not talking to you. Would you agree, Sheila?”
“Hm. Perhaps. Somebody probably broke his heart into itsy bitsy pieces.”
“That’s untrue! Hey!”
“No doubt. Now he’s all guarded and alone. He won’t let anyone in because he’s scared. Poor thing.”
“I’m so not fucking scared.”
“I agree. I wonder what she did to him. She probably cheated on him.”
“What?”
“Ah, yes, complete ego destruction. So, now he doesn’t trust anyone—hence, the recluse and his cats.”
“You leave them out of this.”
“Or maybe it stems from some childhood tragedy.”
“Yeah, he probably left a valentine in a girl’s desk and she laughed about it and tore it up in front of the entire class.”
“Wait … what?”
“He’s probably turned away dozens of women who would be ideal partners. How sad is that?”
“So sad. He’s probably like the rest of the forty-plus men around here who never grow up and waste their time chase young girls around.”
“I love ALL women, not just the lovely, young, firm, tight, unspoiled ones.”
“When will he learn?”
“Maybe never. I can picture him hunched over in the corner of the diner with his morning paper and no companion.”
“Fuck, I do that now.”
“Women shouldn’t waste their time with him anyway. I mean, he’s fit and cute, but not worth the effort.”
“He does appear to have slimmed down and toned up, though.”
“Yeah. Hey, Phil, do us a favor and stand up for a second.”
“Why?”
“We’d like to check your butt out. Lift your shirt too.”
“I’m not ashamed, damn it. Fine.”
“Not bad. Almost time for a trim, I’d say. Grab his ass, Laura, and see if he has been keeping up with his lunges.”
“Sure, let me see. Hm. Decent. Did you just flex your butt, Phil? Admit it.”
“Oh … my … god! I am not a piece of meat.”
“Yes you are.”

Why do I defend myself? I should ignore the barbs and concentrate on The World Series. What do I care if women think my heart is closed? Damn it. What’s my alternative? Should I bounce around the bar with bouquets of flowers asking ladies to invade my heart and my life? Yuck. Sure, I’m flawed, but at least I can live with myself.

5 comments:

  1. That photo is from a Twilight Zone episode! Love it! People probably pick me apart behind my back, but when they make their feeble attempts at analyzing me IN FRONT OF ME, they're usually UNDER-analyzing me. I'm much more complicated than they can imagine. =)

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  2. My deepest sympathies...it sounds like an extremely uncomfortable and frustrating situation. For the most part, people have given up on analyzing me; they simply write me off as weird.

    There's always an initially awkward phase when someone moves beyond stranger/casual acquaintance and starts to realize that there's a lot more to me than they first realized, but generally within a month or two they stop trying to figure out why I am the way that I am and just accept that I'm me. All of my foibles, eccentricities, habits, actions, and behaviors get written off into the generalized catch-all category of "Weird", which makes it so much simpler on the ones trying to pigeon-hole me. They don't have to bother with trying to rationalize my life, and I don't have to bother with cross examinations on my conduct.

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  3. I get friends trying to drunkenly psycho-therapize me in the bar at midnight. Not cool.

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  4. No one who knows the first thing about me would dream (except maybe in their worst nightmare) of analysing me in front of me. Or anywhere I could hear them.

    People who don't know me analyse me behind my back sometimes. It gets back to me occassionally, it's usually wrong. Along the lines of she's a bit snobby, thinks she's too good for us. No, actually, I was doing you the courtesy of not telling you what I REALLY think. Next time I won't bother.

    What's most annoying about people analysing me is the presumption that they know me better than I do. It's presumptuous and downright rude.

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  5. When I first read your blog, I feel I could relate to you in a lot of ways. I understand how you are feeling :)) looking forward to read your blogs.

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