Let me tell you a little bit about myself:
For much of 2011 and nearly all of 2012, I didn’t talk to women. Of course there were unusual circumstances, family members, cashiers, waitresses and the like, but on the whole, I largely spent my time completely removed from the female race. This dark period in my life lies in stark contrast to the previous two decades, when women made up a good 50% of my social circle.
My academic program is a quintessential sausage fest. There are fifty dudes and one lady (who happens to be lesbian). Yes, my chances of finding love and companionship would be better not only if I were gay, but also if I were lesbian. Needless to say, the romantic outlook for myself and my fellow straight men is grim. I suppose that’s why we get so much work done.
Sometimes, usually over beer, my friends and I will be hanging out, and naturally the conversation drifts towards the topic of women.
“So there’s this one chick I’ve been talking to recently…”
“Is there? Really?”
“Well… no. There isn’t.”
“…how ’bout them Orioles?”
Recently when talking with a friend of mine, we began gossipping about a gay couple for lack of a more personally relevant topic about which to gossip:
“He’s such a nice guy, he could be with anybody.”
“Yeah, I mean, he’s so personable. Any guy would be lucky to have him.”
“I know, that’s why I can’t figure out how… …Oh God, are we so starved of women such that when a malicious wave of catty gossip overtakes us, we don’t even have someone within our own sexual preference to act jealous about? Is it not so much that we don’t know women, but that we don’t even know men who know women?”
“Is society in such a sad state of affairs such that it’s more important to us to bond through the joy of slander than it is to be loyal to our own sexual identities?”
“What’s the point of sexual identity anyway if it involves a mythical creature only rumored to have once existed and perhaps no longer? Can we really say we have sexual identities anymore if that identity has lost its objective?”
“Can those who run out of meat really be considered vegetarians?”
“If a tree falls in a forest, and no one’s around to have sex with it, does it make a sound?”
And such it is that, as I had grown accustomed to the vast desert of Y-chromosomes in which I exist, when I do have the opportunity to engage with women, I am nothing short of dumbstruck and befuddled, as if I’m conversing in a foreign language I once knew but have long since forgotten, or rather, perhaps I’m living the early days of junior high all over again. I recall a moment last year when I was invited over to the apartment of a straight female colleague of mine (truth be told, they did exist at one time, albeit in small numbers) for a lesson. It just so happened that my colleague’s roommate was not wearing any pants. This threw me for a loop. The evening went by with much anxiety.
Afterwards, my lady-starved associates were curious for details:
“How was it? What happened? What did y’all do?”
“Well, she cooked me dinner. We talked about music. And her roommate wasn’t wearing any pants.”
“…what do you mean she wasn’t wearing any pants?”
“Well, she just wasn’t wearing any pants.”
“Like, was she wearing underwear?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
“I don’t recall seeing any.”
“What do you mean you don’t recall seeing any?!”
“I didn’t look.”
“WHY DIDN’T YOU LOOK?!”
“Goodness gracious, man, do you expect me to stare into the eyes of Medusa and escape unscathed? I’m lucky to be alive!”
And so, through the progression of our adulthood, we’ve actually regressed to once again be frustrated, naive, antisocial teenagers. It’s as if high school and college never happened, and age has brought us back in time to those angst-ridden days of juvenile and woefully misinformed sex-relations. The problem is, we’re all in our mid to late twenties, and all the women (with which we do seldom interact) actually act their own age (which is our age, but apparently not).
Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t about sex. This isn’t even about relationships or loneliness. It’s about feminine energy keeping a balance in our collective hearts and minds. I can no longer deny just how important it is to have women in my life – to have someone there that can vaguely represent a whole half of humanity, a perspective and a ethos that may not be my own, but that can continue to push me towards a less psychotic future and keep me away from the neurotic past to which I find myself gravitating.
Truth be told, the days have changed since the aforementioned dark ages of 2012. Due to various circumstances, I find myself interacting with women more and more, and even just the mere exposure and proximity makes me a happier, more emotionally satisfied human being. Just hearing the sound of a voice higher than my own is enough to turn my day from a dismal, cloudy trudge of doom to a cheerful stroll through a meadow of sunshine. It doesn’t even matter that every single woman in my life is taken, married, or otherwise spoken for; I’m too neurotic to have a healthy relationship anyway. It’s just enough that I’m finally once again part of the yin-yang that holds society together, that I have the opportunity to bond with a variety of interesting individuals different from myself, such that I can leave even a conversation of the utmost mindless banalities smiling and thinking, “You know, the world is a pretty cool place.”
So here’s to women: unknowingly keeping me out of my childhood, saving me from the cruel fate of misanthropic lunacy that would otherwise surely devour my soul if it weren’t for the refuge of their feminine energy.
(If you know me personally, and you’re reading this, there is a good chance you were anonymously mentioned or intentionally not mentioned in a bizarre and unusual way, and probably aware of it. Please rest assured that the anecdotes therein may or may not have been hyperbolized in some way for the sake of rhetoric. That’s right. I’m talking about you.)