The Breakup Gene

     News may have never been true. Fact and fiction, like the five or six words of Donald Trump, often blend into something wholly unrecognizable when control is at stake. The Internet has undoubtedly complicated the matter, bringing word of celebrity deaths decades before they occur and video evidence of real UFOs, compliments of Photoshop. Science seems to fall victim to this confusion on a daily basis, so when seeing an article that implicated genetics as a potential culprit in the case of failed relationships, I was skeptical. As if there weren't enough reasons to pass the buck already, now a gene could take the blame for Steve the jobless rapper who lives with his mother, being undateable.

     Naturally like anything online, I read enough of the article to form my own opinions and dashed to my local library where I could source reliable materials for cross-reference. I didn't actually visit the library or remember anything specific about the report, but the following opinions are true. What seems appealing about said discovery has less to do with excuses and more with the potential for us to solve a complex problem with a simple solution. Like turning to cosmic sea creatures and farm animals to explain why Jim and Sally didn't last, we can readily accept one dimensional concepts like fate in the face of the hard work that comes with correcting decades of antisocial behavior.

     Perhaps the most difficult part of choosing the narrow path is how long it takes. Snappy ideas and the judgments accociated promise immediate results. Isolating a gene that can be used to explain your last three drunken-rage fueled breakups might lend hope that a medical solution exists or at least Darwin might have the last laugh at our expense. Sadly the latter doesn't suit our requirement for instant gratification or personal application so a door has opened. When we know the answer to a problem is demanding, it is merely a matter of time before progress opportunistically lends a hand in exchange for a monthly service charge.

   

The Perfect Man: Part 1

     His belt matches his shoes but he spent no time thinking about it. Akin to a walking issue of GQ he manages to make others feel comfortable as they are. His compliments feel more like confident observations but inspire women to love themselves and men to push for their potential. 430 horses accompany him on his commute but he drives responsibly as though carrying precious cargo. In traffic he listens to Kipling, aloof to the mess of rage around. Perpetually early to work he's respected there and meets challenges with strength, always prepared to stand alone because nothing worth doing requires permission.

     When he leaves the firm his first thoughts are of food prep and preheating. A talent beneath the range hood, he'll have you craving veggies. Weeks after his Asian fusion dinner party you double the TJs budget looking for spice and sauce to cheat close to what was served. Though he calls to check on his mother once a week he never mentions it and be it a compliment or not would never compare another woman to her. He takes work, diet and relationships seriously but humor comes first. When you want to cry but laughing feels better, it's his fault. More important than the laughs he draws, is how consistently he knows the joke and makes you feel understood in deepest sarcasm, with a lonely laugh calling others into question.

     After benching a personal record he writes it down in private, letting the proof speak for itself and saving Instagram for family and friends. As much as he's coached through the screen his favorite teams, he spends twice the time in cleats and sweat. Not holding on to high school dreams but grounded in corporate paintball and interoffice softball, he leads. On a date he's polite and attentive, she's not sure if he even owns a cellphone. He'll make his date feel petite in heels and when they make eye contact she won't remember where they are. She feels young and beautiful with him but while she has his attention now she knows it can't be taken for granted. He's never ordered Dos Equis and never will, so long as craft brews are on tap. He's the perfect man.

Text Don't Call

     Holding our breath hoping a twelfth reset might be unecessary, action was called and the hundreds of pieces were set in motion. Camera and talent were blocked in a dance so specific at times it was a game of inches. A perfectly timed pan and cross obscured that reflection finally discovered in take eight, tongue-twisters simplified to save us from flubbed lines five minutes into the scene and boom pole operation so surgical in skill to avoid shadows even Ben Carson would be envious, not to mention his patients. It wasn't until the last minute, after the beer spill and squib hit as the sun left for its giant trailer in the sky, that Bon Jovi joined the soundtrack uninvited and the PA attached scrambled to silence Jon before his first day became his last. If you work on set, at least once you've been that guy, and in the moment no phone call could be worth the shame that follows.

     For this reason I committed to silence my phone 24 hours a day, 365 days per year. As much as I'd love to hear the X-Files theme every time a stranger calls, instead I generally miss phone calls making text my preferred method of communication. She preferred to call. We enjoyed many passive aggressive conversations on the topic but ultimately after three missed calls during a shower with no message left to reply to, I decided it wasn't working. I know many people who swear by communicating through the tiny microwave next to their brain, afterall how could you expect sarcasm to translate through text? Though generally I see text as the more considerate option, refusing to demand immediate attention in favor of connecting with someone on their terms. 

     I've undoubtedly spent hours at a time trying to communicate simple ideas via text that were settled in seconds once someone decided to pick up the phone and call. That's a genuine argument to include minutes in your plan but those rolling over will never find a purpose. Even if you found yourself buried in a box like Ryan Reynolds, your battery would die before coming close to using those rollover minutes. Just picture that every text, from the delicately formatted 6 Plus screen busting paragraphs down to a simple winking emoji have all been drafted with care. Meanwhile the majority of phone calls I receive from close friends are butt dials. It really doesn't matter how great that butt might be, I'd rather talk to a person, even if it's vowel-less text sent from the can and smattered with yellow faced winkers. 

Fear and Loneliness in Los Angeles

     She spent her last three Friday's in good company. Apart from repetitive Hulu commercials and the inevitable sorrow discovered amongst the sediment at the bottom of a bottle of merlot, she enjoyed them. Her friends, solitude and security, kept the frustrations of catfish and sleaze bags at bay while offering enough rest to recharge from a demanding six day work week. As rewarding as the ritual had been, she needed to branch out at least once a month, if not to satisfy her mom's weekly inquest then to supplement the cabinets' waning supply.

 
     Just three years ago she successfully completed a marathon in anticipation of her 30th. Date after date she trudged on but instead of running the requisite mileage she met and refused 26.2 men in a matter of months. The ancient pressure to find a man in time to have a family, tormented her for a season, when Los Angeles proved an unproductive source for qualifying gentlemen. Her second glass felt heavy and dark. She asked to go home but he acted like everything was okay. She moved back to avoid his kiss and standing, asked again if they could return home. The next hour she played the part enough to get back and his insistence disregarded every word she spoke.
 
     Calls and texts too vile to recall, lined her inboxes, and somehow her sympathy kept the secret. Too close to point a finger and too modest to see this worthy of speaking up about in light of stories she'd heard before, she deleted his number and forgot she'd met him. Harder to forget however, was the wolf still prowling. She felt he'd locked her in a castle of fear there'd be more, and continued to stalk, not hearing, unyielding. Tonight she came down again. Years later and miles beyond any societal plea to marry, with hope for relationship. Just remember her strength gentlemen, a man like yourself made this date a courageous effort, are you worth it?

There's a Hole in the Friendzone

     Turning it over in my head, I swing like a rag doll from confident anticipation to frustrated dread and back again wondering, is this a date? My dress shoes are obnoxiously loud as they slap the concrete, demanding to know why I spent extra time to dress up for her. Quickly remembering irrational confidence is the most attractive quality in a man I settled my souls' questioning, determined I'd dressed this way for myself. Her eagerness to join me tonight and interest in my randomized conversation inspiring, I felt sure of our jaunt's identity. Though sureness left idle, bleeds into banality and from there my creative mind gets the best of me.

     Every new day calls into question the concept of gender roles.  Does a man define the outing or can feminism justify my inability to be direct? A value though it may be, to assert my desire for this evening to equal more than our normal fare, brings us to the brink of whatever ship we thought we'd boarded months ago. A friendship defined in a moment by dumb luck and blind ambition or a relationship built on risk and arbitrary signals gleaned from Redbook or buried in the acting opinion section of Men's Fitness.

     I want to say it went well, or that in some singular stroke of brilliance my ego and self-conscious heckling ceased long enough for some real moment to slip in. I'd be overjoyed to report our friendship remained buoyant as ever, tossed hard by unequaled desire but buffeted again to port with a first mate or two. That fairy tale must illustrate a grand lesson for us. I'll let you know when I figure it out, but for now all I can say is you should wear those nice shoes. You look great in those shoes.

Cheating by Nurture

     Ignoring the signs cannot access the bliss we're promised. His eyes wander more than normal during the reception. She lets the argument go too easy. He can't remember who watched the game with him and she has a new interest in hockey. Sadly the start of many relationships come on the heels of another. As if our significant other is cutting pay checks and we're sneaking around taking job interviews to line something up before dropping two weeks notice. Is it a flawed person that can't stand a moment alone or have we been so conditioned to be in relationships that we'd disrespect the person we once drunkenly called bae?

     In grand scandals and their Hollywood dramatizations the trail is lined by money, but individuals value time. The real distinction is between time spent alone and time with others. The image of an old man alone on a park bench, feeding birds or simply observing the world around him typically reads as loneliness and sadness. A party of friends celebrating at a restaurant or around a grill spells togetherness and happiness. Unfortunately these are commercial ideas, and have literally zero bearing on reality. In every crowd of birthday partyers is at least one divorcee deciding between rent or alimony, hoping the next ex will show up in time to watch his dog by the end of the month business trip. Every park bench tells a story of old men and women overjoyed to be surrounded by nature in the middle of a city grown around them and the active generations who will take over when it's too much for old bones to handle.

     You can be alone in a crowd and feel togetherness in isolation, it's not healthy to align with marketable ideals. I saw a Ross commercial today and every thin woman was accompanied by a man, while every plus size woman walked side by side with another woman, also apparently ill fitted for male accompaniment. This was no pro-lesbian agenda, but instead a subversive nod to fantizised body image as a primary selling point. These messages may sell, further demonstrating that corporate bottom line, but are you spending time with someone because they cast well with your type or connect with you fleetingly during a 30 second break?

Serial Dating

     Gaps in dating history should not be as concerning as the ones on your résumé. Though for whatever reason culture likes to shame the single into feeling wonky for taking a year off after that six semester trist you choose to remember as a growing experience. Getting back on the horse in pursuit of another fish right away leaves little time to process past failures, not to mention the undue strain placed on both animals. Failing to haiatus between commitments also leaves us pointing blame in the easiest direction, whether that's at ourselves due to low self-esteem or at our previous partner. Either way, spanning time is important for recognizing where the problems lie so we don't keep trying to fix what ain't broke while also rushing into the same tempting snares that stung us last time.

     What truly comes from a dating style that shares an adjective with killers and sophomore slumping podcasts? Serial dating teaches us to be codependent and worse can even force us to compartmentalize each relationship instead of drawing on previous experience to become a better person. On our second date she playfully accused me of mistaking her for someone else. Had I called her by the wrong name or recalled a conversation we never had, I'd understand, but she was anticipating a mistake. I asked about her experience in SLO where she said she'd gone to school and was corrected when she said "I'm from Maine". She was looking to catch me in a mistake and our conversation felt more like a wrestling match than it did a date.

     Spend enough time in the game and soon everyone you meet looks like a player. To be so consistently disappointed or perhaps do the disappointing yourself sets you looking for flaws or holes in a person's first impressions. But the truth is we act. We perform for people who don't know us yet by putting our best foot forward. Only our best foot is not a true representation of who we are and it takes a James Bond type to withstand a personality witch hunt. Whatever you bring to the dinner table, presumptions, fears, patience, they all pair well with time. Time to reflect and make the most of any previous experience.

Sports of All Sorts

     Competition fuels high energy relationships and can inspire chemistry from the most unlikely places. Was Romeo seriously ambivalent to his Montague roots? Did Juliet show up to the bar sans Tybalt jersey? It's clearly a device to polarize our starcrossers as far as the Yankees from the Red Sox purely to lend credibility to this knee jerk love affair. But maybe they were more attracted to the forbidden? Isn't it possible that the passion spent hour after hour to support their respective bird mascots could drive a Pacific Northwesterner to land a diehard Mary from Baltimore? Whichever way your spectator compass leads you the fact remains, Los Angeles is the land of sports diversity and at some point you'll probably have to venture beyond Raider nation to find the one.

   
     Despite incessant warnings and a collective disgust for our longest standing NFL rival my friend somehow found herself in the arms of a Bears fan. Cheeseheaded and fierce she must enjoy the conflict and he the humiliation of consistent losses. Some however, can't bear the taunts of their significant other after a last second miffed field goal or three pointer at the buzzer. Much like dating outside your religion or across political lines, passionate sports fans can find themselves in serious spats, even when one party doesn't understand how important it is for Barcelona to beat Real Madrid.

     My competitive nature finds me screening dates based on team affiliation, if only to avoid staring at an unsightly San Fransisco Giants logo whenever I see her face. Even if you could find a way as a Buckeye to live in harmony amongst a den of Wolverines there's at least one friend of his who will make your life a living hell. In a city of transplants you can always find that random dive that transforms into a Browns bar every Sunday, but odds are you'll need a thick skin to keep your game face on.