I was kind of bored when he called, so when he asked me to come get him, (he has no car, see previous blog about Red Flags), I said why not? So, I drove to Denver to pick him up and brought him back to Greeley. We went to a bar for a while and drank a bit.

When Psycho gets drunk, he goes through a series of transformations. First, he gets funny and cute. Oh, wait, that’s only when I drink. His transformation goes from friendly bonding, to making no sense, to starting bar fights, to professing his undying love, to crying and eventually, to threats of suicide. I was encouraged that Psycho controlled his drinking this time and never made it to the crying stage.

The next morning I had to go to work, so Psycho said that he would stay at my house and watch movies and clean until I got home. At noon, I called to see if he was doing alright. He said he was fine, although he was still professing his love for me and if memory serves, he said something about being a warrior for Jesus. He said he would see me when I got home. However, when I got home, he was gone. He didn’t leave a note and wouldn’t answer his phone. Since he doesn’t have a car, I was worried that maybe he walked somewhere and froze to death, or was lying unconscious somewhere in my house. Psycho is the only guy I’ve known who can prompt me to check the garage for a hanging corpse. More than once.

The next morning, Psycho sent me this text: “im sorry i draged u down. i just cant be with anyone now i apolojize. Its not u it me.”

I had to laugh and it wasn’t just because of the spelling. Here I was concerned that I might be implicated in Psycho’s mysterious disappearance and he had the nerve to pull the “it’s not you it’s me” card. I was caught off guard, so my lame reply was “Isn’t that dick-speak for thanks for the sex?”

Anyway, I started thinking about different versions of the “it’s not you, it’s me” line. I thought of a few that would have been more fitting coming from Psycho.

1. I really like you, but the other people in my head don’t.

2. I liked you last night, but now that you have your clothes on, I’m all confused.

3. It’s not you, it’s them. (Looks to the sky.)

4. It's not you, it’s him. (Looks to his crotch.)

5. I need to be with a woman closer to my dress size.

6. It would never work. You’re human and I’m not.

7. I’m in a weird place right now, and it’s more fun than your place.

8. I’m afraid of getting too close to someone who might want me to pay rent.

9. i’m going away 4 ever. LOL.

10. So long, and thanks for the fish.

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I’m writing to you from my bed where I spend most of my time. I get in these moods that render me semi-paralyzed, where my days consist of watching VH1, eating Little Debbies and sometimes rolling over. The only things keeping my skin from fusing to the bed are a high metabolism and a full-time job. Sometimes I pretend that I’m Marilyn Monroe during her final days, but instead of lying naked atop satin sheets, surrounded by empty pill bottles, I share my crumb-infested bed with empty Hungryman Dinner trays, candy wrappers and a dead cell phone.

It’s the dead cell phone that has me concerned. You see, I’m lying on the right side of my queen size bed, but my phone charger is plugged into the wall on the left side. Rather than expend the energy to roll over and plug in my phone, I just chose to let it die. It’s bad enough that I sometimes use my cell phone to call my daughter in the next room, but now I can’t even summon the energy to plug it in. This can’t be healthy. Although, I feel like I’m decomposing, I still can’t think of a good reason to get out of bed. What’s wrong with me?

Sedentary And Depressed

Dear S.A.D.

If you’re asking me to give you a pathological label to excuse you from taking responsibility for your actions or rather inaction, I’m sorry to disappoint you. It doesn’t matter if you have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Manic Depression, or a hang nail, it’s still up to you to decide how to live your life. You see, while you’re hiding out in your room, the world keeps turning, the ocean’s tide continues to ebb and flow, babies keep coming into the world, and people still die. No one cares that you prefer bed rest and reality TV to real life. No one cares, because they don’t notice. The world is full of slugs like you, but thanks to a handful of people who choose to make a contribution, you are able to lounge in bed reaping the benefits of their efforts by reading, eating microwaveable food and performing random google searches.

Do you think the world would have sensed a void if Hemingway had slept his days away? Probably not, but personally, I’m grateful for his discipline. I get to enjoy “The Sun Also Rises” because Hemingway had the motivation to rise before the sun to write it and other literary masterpieces. “For Whom the Bell Tolls” wasn’t the result of his winning some literary lottery. It was the result of Hemingway’s discipline of writing one word after another. He could have chose otherwise, but he didn’t.

And, you have choices, too. You can continue to glamorize your laziness as some eccentricity or disorder stemming from your wounded inner child. Or, you can stand up while your legs still work, and take a few steps toward the door. Forget about charging your cell phone. Step outside. Look around. There’s a clueless world out there. It’s up to you to decide if you want to fill the void or create it.
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And, then, I have friends I actually like.

I’ve heard those two pieces of advice so often that they’ve become clichés. Once a phrase becomes a cliché, my brain no longer processes its meaning. It files it somewhere next to “for all intents and purposes,” and “everything happens for a reason.”

Suggesting to someone that they should learn to be alone is like telling a cancer patient that they should learn to be sick. Sick people aspire to return to their natural state of well-being, just like I aspire to be in a relationship with a man. Sure, I can function without one. I can pay the rent, change light bulbs, perform basic math equations, but emotionally, I’m out of balance when I’m not in a relationship.

It’s funny that I feel like I’m introducing some radical new concept by admitting this. Modern cultural conditioning has tried to turn independence into a badge of honor. Society is convinced that being single is a choice for which we should be proud. I suppose that could be true, in a way. I’ve chosen to be single, about like I’ve chosen to be 40-something years old. The alternatives are much less attractive.

This concept of finding one’s true love is a modern one that only serves to distract us from fulfilling our primal need of finding someone to help us survive. I blame it on Seinfeld. Long before television, men couldn’t afford the luxury of dismissing a mate simply for having man hands or some other anomaly. There was too much to do and fewer options available. Plus, those man hands would have come in handy on the homestead.

Relationships have turned into acquisitions and the choices seem so endless that nature plays no part anymore. As with other acquisitions, our sense of relationship entitlement means we fear committing too much time to the sedan, when a hummer could be right around the corner. It’s time to return to a simpler way of thinking. A time when “settling” meant security and a beer gut, not conjugal visits.

So, while I refuse to “learn how to be alone,” I stopped looking for love some time ago, and so far, the results have been less than favorable. Except for the smug satisfaction of proving my so-called friends wrong.
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I’m getting better at recognizing a lost cause. It only took me three weeks this time and I didn’t lose any money. My last fixer upper lasted three years. The one before that, 2 years and $80,000. So, you see why I’m feeling so positive about the future.

I could analyze this whole relationship disability for hours, but that would bore you and depress me, so I’ve broken it down to a number of red flags. They call them red flags, because they’re supposed to trigger an alert to stay away. Healthy people see them immediately and then take appropriate action. People like me get distracted by the bulging biceps and pretty, shiny blue eyes and somehow miss the signal until it’s too late. Below are some of my relationship red flags that I chose to ignore, to my peril.

1) His mailing address is either a hotel or a residential treatment center.

2) He has no checking account.

3) He has no drivers license.

4) He can’t start his car without blowing into a breathalyzer thingy.

5) He disappears for days at a time.

6) His ex-wife is “crazy.”

7) His ex-wife is all he talks about.

8) His ex-wife calls all hours of the day and night.

9) He says “dude” a lot.

10) He develops a large bump on his head from a drunken head-butting contest.

11) He has chronic red eyes and emits an odor of wet skunk.

12) He says the “L” word within the first week.

13) He cries within the first week.

14) He gets carded when buying cigarettes.

15) He gets defensive when you say you like wife beaters, referring to t-shirts.

16) He spends a significant amount of time with his attorney.

17) He forgets his wallet a lot when you go out.

18) All of his friends are from when he was in rehab. OR

19) He has no friends because...

20) he slept with all of their wives or girlfriends.
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Entrance: Although this Colorado climate enjoys 300 some-odd days of sunshine a year, it never fails that just minutes before a first date, the sky turns from clear blue, to gray, to dark gray, to ominous gray, erupting into a torrent of rain, the likes of which have yet to be seen, at least until my next date. This is a problem, because, when the weather is good, I can appear as natural and carefree as one of the Rainbow People. But, when it rains, I become shallow and vain and paranoid about my hair. I’m not proud of this, nor am I likely to change. So, when I enter a restaurant covering my head with my purse, headed straight for the restroom, my date’s first impression alarm sounds a warning, “Difficult to maintain. Replacement parts hard to find. Cost/benefit ratio not good!”

Clothing: I inevitably wear the wrong thing. I don’t dress badly, (see above,e) just inappropriately. If we are meeting for a casual dinner, I wear a cocktail dress. If we’re meeting at a salsa club, I wear cowboy boots. If he’s dressed republican, I’m dressed libertarian. (I think that would mean he’s wearing khakis, I’m wearing what ever the hell I feel like wearing because it doesn’t matter anyway.)

Body Language: When I’m nervous, I fidget a lot. Actually, I fidget whether I’m nervous or not. This might involve fixing my hair repeatedly, making origami with my napkin, or in severe situations, creating sculptures with condiments. Usually fidgeting is accompanied by useless chatter. I feel compelled to fill any and all moments of silence with every random thought that pops in my head. As you can imagine, many of these outbursts reveal aspects of myself that would be better left inside my head, at least until date number four.

The Sell Out: Since I work in sales, I find it odd that I am able to succeed at my job, yet when I feel pressured into “selling” myself on a date, I tend to violate the most basic laws of sales. Either I try too hard, sounding scripted and vague like I’m selling the female equivalent of an overpriced, vacuum. Only $99 a month for the rest of your life! Or, I go overboard trying to appear casual and carefree, which translates into caustic and could care less.

Close: If I were to analyze this from a marketing perspective, I would attribute my poor results to one of two factors. Either 1) I haven’t clearly identified my motivation, or 2) I don’t believe in my product. Or, could there be a third possibility? Maybe, the product, me, is not quite up to spec. It has great potential, but needs a few adjustments before distribution. If this is the case, it might be worth taking the time to work out the kinks before finding a buyer. I’m slow to catch on, but at least I realize that I can’t afford any more recalls.
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