JPS
Serving humanity by counterexample
To follow is a detailed report of my romantic life from age six onward. All names have been changed, for reasons of privacy or whatever.
Let me start by saying that every one of my romantic encounters, from my blushing pursuit of the cute girl in first grade all the way to my most recent breakup, has been unfruitful. This is just as true sexually as it is romantically; at this point I'm worried I'll be sacrificed to a volcano before I lose my virginity.
But I'll rewind for a moment to describe my first crush: the cute girl in first grade. Her name was Katie, and I did indeed pursue her blushingly. She had braided, golden hair, tan skin, and a pair of deep dimples, which she could magnify at any time with her sweet, sincere smile. I remember walking down my neighborhood's main street with a bouquet of flowers in hand, plotting the exact gesture that would convey to her, as cleanly as possible, how I felt. All around me were houses I'd now consider small and shabby; at the time, however, they seemed like giant spectators, some glaring at me through open windows, others mocking me through open doors. No matter what, the world seemed bent on steering me away from the encounter.
About three quarters of the way to her house, I turned around and went home. After first grade I saw her little. I instead pursued other girls—none as much as I had pursued her. Two months after the start of fifth grade I moved to a different state, and for a while I was romantically dormant.
Then in middle school came... Katie. Not the same Katie; they shared the name and only the name. This girl was much more somber. She had black hair that blanketed her eyes, and a dry, deep voice that plowed through words without regard for whether they hurt. One day we had arranged to meet at an ice skating rink in the town center. I couldn't find her in the crowd, so I took yet another disheartened trip home.
During the next year of middle school, Katie and I stopped being friends. Not for any particular reason; we just found other people to talk to. After Katie came Rae, who had dark, messy hair and dimples reminiscent of my first crush. We talked a lot throughout the year; she was perpetually bubbly and sweet.
At one point, while dodging wayward basketballs in gym class, I was close to making my move, but I decided to keep quiet after a friend caught onto my plan and asked Rae how she'd feel if I asked her out. "Ew, that would be weird," she said.
The next year I went off to high school—a magnet school that drew kids from a number of remote areas, so that nobody knew anybody. For reasons more to do with biochemistry than romance, I became depressed, and made no romantic plans throughout my freshman or sophomore year.
For my junior year, I transferred to my base school, which had a familiar crowd and setting. I was back in the game, and my first move was on a girl named Veronica.
I met Veronica because she ate lunch with one of my closest elementary school friends, with whom I started eating lunch, too, after we hadn't seen each other for years. Veronica was a lot like Katie: a deadpan voice, black hair, and a wry personality. The stakes, however, had been raised: she had a nose piercing, a liking for weed and prescription stimulants, and enough free-time to trespass on abandoned properties littered with dead birds. But she was a great student—her GPA pummeled mine—and an avid reader. We both loved Vonnegut.
Not long after Veronica, my friend, and I had finished exploring an abandoned mansion off a highway, I found myself in one of the hallways of my school, approaching Veronica from behind as she sailed up the stairs. I tapped her on the shoulder, and she pivoted. "Hey, Veronica," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna... go out sometime?"
"Sure, sounds fun."
At this point I was ecstatic. "Great! Where do you want to go?"
"Oh, you mean... on a date. I have a boyfriend."
I froze. "Oh. But...?"
"He goes to NYU."
During my two-year romantic hibernation, something about me must have changed. This time I wasn't just disappointed.
This time I was hurt.
Stunned, I walked to my class and plopped in my seat, letting gravity take control of a body I didn't care to inhabit. Over the next few days, I didn't go to school; I just lay in bed, sometimes tearful, sometimes inert. Once my attendance was back to normal, Veronica and I didn't talk anymore. A year later, when I asked her how her summer had been, she shrugged me off. Not long ago I sent her a friend request on Facebook, and I hope she accepts it.
After Veronica, there came a few more botched encounters over the next couple years, and the story each time is more or less the same: I offered, but because of some circumstance—usually either distance or a simple lack of reciprocation—they couldn’t accept. One girl flirted with me for a week before bailing out. Another girl led me on as a social experiment. Each time I was hurt; each time I recovered. But it quickly became apparent that I’m a klutz, and by mid-May I was on the verge of abandoning romance entirely, in search of something more productive.
Then came Tinder.
Before I proceed, I’d like to write a little more about myself. I’m a tall, lanky kid with pale skin, rectangular glasses, and a mop of brown hair. I have green eyes, a wide gait, and a slight slouch. I wear jeans and a buttoned shirt, unless I’m running out of clothes, in which case I’ll wear any combination of clothes available.
I talk fast and think faster. My thought process tends to blend logic with absurdity; on one hand I’m always ready to reduce ideas to their bare components, but on the other hand I tend to pull ideas out of nowhere, as if by some conceptual lottery. This makes me situationally funny; I can make people laugh in real-time, but asking me to make jokes in a vacuum results in semantic sludge.
Do all these traits make me a natural Tinder user? Probably not. No, definitely not. From mid-May to early June I had around twenty matches, one of whom I met in person. And we dated for three weeks, until she said she couldn’t handle a committed relationship. Since then I’ve had another thirty matches.
I know I’m not particularly good at romance, Tinder, etc., but I don’t particularly care. What I failed to realize, throughout all those years of yearning, is that I don’t need to be the one who always initiates, always pursues. If I’m to avoid one-sided ordeals, I need to let people come to me—or at least meet them halfway.
At first I wanted this to be some sort of advice thread, but in the process of unearthing all this heartbreak, I think I’ve answered my own question. I guess I’d still appreciate advice, as well as any comments or thoughts, but I seem to have it mostly covered.
I mean, I guess you could go over your own romantic experiences as young adults; I've been talking for a while, and those would be fun to hear.
Thanks for reading, if you did.
Let me start by saying that every one of my romantic encounters, from my blushing pursuit of the cute girl in first grade all the way to my most recent breakup, has been unfruitful. This is just as true sexually as it is romantically; at this point I'm worried I'll be sacrificed to a volcano before I lose my virginity.
But I'll rewind for a moment to describe my first crush: the cute girl in first grade. Her name was Katie, and I did indeed pursue her blushingly. She had braided, golden hair, tan skin, and a pair of deep dimples, which she could magnify at any time with her sweet, sincere smile. I remember walking down my neighborhood's main street with a bouquet of flowers in hand, plotting the exact gesture that would convey to her, as cleanly as possible, how I felt. All around me were houses I'd now consider small and shabby; at the time, however, they seemed like giant spectators, some glaring at me through open windows, others mocking me through open doors. No matter what, the world seemed bent on steering me away from the encounter.
About three quarters of the way to her house, I turned around and went home. After first grade I saw her little. I instead pursued other girls—none as much as I had pursued her. Two months after the start of fifth grade I moved to a different state, and for a while I was romantically dormant.
Then in middle school came... Katie. Not the same Katie; they shared the name and only the name. This girl was much more somber. She had black hair that blanketed her eyes, and a dry, deep voice that plowed through words without regard for whether they hurt. One day we had arranged to meet at an ice skating rink in the town center. I couldn't find her in the crowd, so I took yet another disheartened trip home.
During the next year of middle school, Katie and I stopped being friends. Not for any particular reason; we just found other people to talk to. After Katie came Rae, who had dark, messy hair and dimples reminiscent of my first crush. We talked a lot throughout the year; she was perpetually bubbly and sweet.
At one point, while dodging wayward basketballs in gym class, I was close to making my move, but I decided to keep quiet after a friend caught onto my plan and asked Rae how she'd feel if I asked her out. "Ew, that would be weird," she said.
The next year I went off to high school—a magnet school that drew kids from a number of remote areas, so that nobody knew anybody. For reasons more to do with biochemistry than romance, I became depressed, and made no romantic plans throughout my freshman or sophomore year.
For my junior year, I transferred to my base school, which had a familiar crowd and setting. I was back in the game, and my first move was on a girl named Veronica.
I met Veronica because she ate lunch with one of my closest elementary school friends, with whom I started eating lunch, too, after we hadn't seen each other for years. Veronica was a lot like Katie: a deadpan voice, black hair, and a wry personality. The stakes, however, had been raised: she had a nose piercing, a liking for weed and prescription stimulants, and enough free-time to trespass on abandoned properties littered with dead birds. But she was a great student—her GPA pummeled mine—and an avid reader. We both loved Vonnegut.
Not long after Veronica, my friend, and I had finished exploring an abandoned mansion off a highway, I found myself in one of the hallways of my school, approaching Veronica from behind as she sailed up the stairs. I tapped her on the shoulder, and she pivoted. "Hey, Veronica," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna... go out sometime?"
"Sure, sounds fun."
At this point I was ecstatic. "Great! Where do you want to go?"
"Oh, you mean... on a date. I have a boyfriend."
I froze. "Oh. But...?"
"He goes to NYU."
During my two-year romantic hibernation, something about me must have changed. This time I wasn't just disappointed.
This time I was hurt.
Stunned, I walked to my class and plopped in my seat, letting gravity take control of a body I didn't care to inhabit. Over the next few days, I didn't go to school; I just lay in bed, sometimes tearful, sometimes inert. Once my attendance was back to normal, Veronica and I didn't talk anymore. A year later, when I asked her how her summer had been, she shrugged me off. Not long ago I sent her a friend request on Facebook, and I hope she accepts it.
After Veronica, there came a few more botched encounters over the next couple years, and the story each time is more or less the same: I offered, but because of some circumstance—usually either distance or a simple lack of reciprocation—they couldn’t accept. One girl flirted with me for a week before bailing out. Another girl led me on as a social experiment. Each time I was hurt; each time I recovered. But it quickly became apparent that I’m a klutz, and by mid-May I was on the verge of abandoning romance entirely, in search of something more productive.
Then came Tinder.
Before I proceed, I’d like to write a little more about myself. I’m a tall, lanky kid with pale skin, rectangular glasses, and a mop of brown hair. I have green eyes, a wide gait, and a slight slouch. I wear jeans and a buttoned shirt, unless I’m running out of clothes, in which case I’ll wear any combination of clothes available.
I talk fast and think faster. My thought process tends to blend logic with absurdity; on one hand I’m always ready to reduce ideas to their bare components, but on the other hand I tend to pull ideas out of nowhere, as if by some conceptual lottery. This makes me situationally funny; I can make people laugh in real-time, but asking me to make jokes in a vacuum results in semantic sludge.
Do all these traits make me a natural Tinder user? Probably not. No, definitely not. From mid-May to early June I had around twenty matches, one of whom I met in person. And we dated for three weeks, until she said she couldn’t handle a committed relationship. Since then I’ve had another thirty matches.
I know I’m not particularly good at romance, Tinder, etc., but I don’t particularly care. What I failed to realize, throughout all those years of yearning, is that I don’t need to be the one who always initiates, always pursues. If I’m to avoid one-sided ordeals, I need to let people come to me—or at least meet them halfway.
At first I wanted this to be some sort of advice thread, but in the process of unearthing all this heartbreak, I think I’ve answered my own question. I guess I’d still appreciate advice, as well as any comments or thoughts, but I seem to have it mostly covered.
I mean, I guess you could go over your own romantic experiences as young adults; I've been talking for a while, and those would be fun to hear.
Thanks for reading, if you did.
