Is This Hard?

So my therapist says to me, "I think you censor yourself when you're here."

No one who has ever been within 100 ft. of the sound of my booming voice has ever made such an observation. For better or for worse, I'm the person you consciously fear might say something about your vibrator incident when I meet your mother. Or who might tell the truth in a eulogy. Or who might object, during the traditional opening, as to why these two should not be joined in Holy Matrimony. Now, I have never done any of these things. But everyone who knows me well suspects strongly that they're in my arsenal of things I MIGHT do. So I don't censor myself. Much. Certainly not in this near perfect stranger's office.

As we say in Mayberry, "Them's fightin' words." So I took off my bifocals, for effect as much as function, and leaned forward to signal the Taking Off Of The Gloves. This was much less entertaining before I got glasses last year. One of the nice things about aging ungracefully is that your props get better. First it's the glasses. Then you might have a cane to knee-cap an offender, a walker to take someone down, loose dentures to stop a conversation, or even a hair piece to fling in disgust. So I like my new prop. And I use it frequently.

"OK," I said, "You want un-censored? Here goes..." It bothered me that he didn't appear menaced because I was doing my best menacing shtick. They must teach you in Therapist School that when someone takes off their bifocals, just stand your ground. "I came into this world with birth defects: something was wrong with my face. I was in speech therapy from the age of 2 and until I was 6, my family had to translate every word I said to outsiders. My 18 year-old mother had to feed me from a cup as an infant and for several years had to fish an appliance out of my throat that helped me speak. I was the small, vaguely effeminate and un-athletic child through school whose father had expected something entirely different when he saw the penis on the sonogram. In my 20's, I lost the hearing on one side of my head. And in my 30's, I joined the millions of people who learned what AIDS is about up close and personal."

I sat back, satisfied that I had laid out the litany of offenses not only in chronological order but without benefit of bifocals. I put them back on my nose and said, "But that's not the point." And it's not. The point, as I rambled on, is that I have seen these things in my day and came out on the other end a person I like. And that people seem to like. I offer up the litany not as explanation, but as a standard, I think. As I told The Good Doctor, I've managed all of this stuff and can carry it just fine on my own. I've decided who I wanted to be and I stuck to my guns. If the litany explains nothing else, it may shed light on why I find weakness in other people to be a thoroughly repugnant quality. If Mr. Right comes along, I explained to the Doc, he has to be at least THIS strong. I refer you to the words of a famous philosopher,

"I want a man to stand beside me. (Not in front of or behind me.) Give me two arms that want to hold me - not own me... I'm not lookin' for a fantasy. I want a man who stands beside me" (OK, JoDee Messina is not a famous philosopher, but she should be. And she has great hair.)

In the post-session re-hash with Joe and the boys, the wine flowed freely. Someone, Tremaine maybe, suggested that this is just an incarnation (gotta love them half-assed drunk Buddhists) where I explore frustration in love to its outer limits. He needs to not drink as much in re-hash, because that did not help things. Having imbibed my share, I think I blurted out something about how nice it would be to have somebody big and strong to help carry all the crap occasionally. Not a lot. Just a little. Because I'm getting older. And I'm tired. It's been 41 1/2 years (My Therapist Says that you can stop adding the halves after you're 10, but I use it for emphasis.) and not once have I managed to accomplish this most basic of mammalian tendencies: mating.

Oh, I have mated for a moment, an hour, an evening, a weekend, a few months at most. But not once have I done The Big One. And it's not that I'm too ugly. I see uglier people by far who are coupled. Ditto for the lame, the maimed, the halt, the dumb (both meanings), the deaf, the blind, the fat, the thin, the old, the young (often together), the stupid, the bright, the rich and the poor. I personally know some loathsome human beings who couple up as easily as one would pick a pair of shoes. So there is something about this act that seems so instinctual to everyone else that utterly and completely bewilders me. And it's getting tiring. I'm just tired. I would like this not to be so hard.

I explained to The Boys that I haven't always wanted to be half of a duo. In fact, most of the time, I've specifically avoided it. I just always thought that when I changed my mind, the opportunity would present itself within a reasonable period of time and I'd take my place in the pantheon of partners, buy more cardigans, look into adoption, and learn how to cook the perfect pot roast. The real hitch this time around, I gurgled through my wine, is that I'd always been able to find my way back to I Like Being Alone after an aborted relationship. But this time, the map is nowhere to be found and it's a little disconcerting. More than a little.

So if you're out there....now is a pretty good time to make yourself known. My cards are on the table. Deal, already. And it's about time you coughed up an ace or two.