The Laws of Attraction...

I am not a hunk. I am not a pretty boy. I am not even considered by most observers to be physically attractive in any way . 

Try to control yourself, ladies.  I'm spoken for.

There is little I can do about this, short of cosmetic surgery. Lose weight, you say? I have done that in the not-so-distant past and it changed very little, so I decided to gain it all back.

Why start a blog with a paragraph of self-deprecation? Because there is a point I will get to in a while. In the meantime, this blog is intended to be honest and I fear that some readers may be offended or insulted. This is not my intention; this is an exercise in self-reflection. The only person I intend to slight is myself in an effort to understand some things I've wondered for a long time. At this point in my life, I think it is fair to air these thoughts because I am, if fact, married and I am safely "off the market." Sorry, ladies, I know you were all lining up for a shot at this Adonis-like perfect example of the male form. Try to be strong.

Physical attractiveness is a very subjective idea, I realize. My wife, to me, is a flat-out cutie. Would everyone agree? Of course not. It is all in the eye of the beholder, to overuse a phrase. What I wonder about, however, is how that "eye of the beholder" works. I truly believe that it is a sliding scale.

We all know that personality goes a long way in someone being desirable (the only way I have ever had any "game"). I have always been attracted to women who are not fashion models (or generally any of them who have said "yes"). I like my girls to be a bit curvy instead of runway-thin. There have been a few exceptions to this, but there always are (see the above bit about personality).

My first question on this deals with the sliding scale I mentioned. Is my idea of an attractive woman directly related to my own self-image? Is this a self-defense mechanism I have put in place over the years to cut down on rejection? I think it probably is. On many occasions, when I was desperately seeking companionship, I would state that particular girls were "out of my league." I still believe this is true, but it isn't all coming from a case of low self-esteem.

Our society places a whole lot of emphasis on "perfection." Let's take a look at Hollywood; in particular, a mostly-forgettable film which comes to mind called Ed TV. This pops into my head not because it's good movie, but because it calls to mind exactly what I am talking about. In it, the actress Jenna Elfman plays the "plain-Jane" role.

I know, it's hard to look at without throwing up in your  mouth a little.

Sure, they made her up to look a bit more girl-next-doorish than she appears here, but that doesn't change the fact that she is a very pretty woman and, without covering her face, she could not ever pass for "plain" in the real world.

So Hollywood would have us believe that Jenna Elfman is not the girl that we guys would just fall all over ourselves for a chance to drink her bath water. Most of us "real" people would never get a glance from this "plain-Jane." My ideas of attraction notwithstanding, I would certainly not turn down an opportunity to spend a night with this hideous creature (in my pre-married days of course).

The sliding scale works in reverse in this case. Jenna would not be attracted to me across a crowded bar because she is in a different "league" than I am in. She would zero in on the muscle-bound douchebag sitting a few tables away. Now, would I approach her? No, because I know I would never have a shot. I would be more attracted to the heavier girl sitting by herself (who is probably looking at the douchebag as well).

In this scenario, there are many things happening. Do I gravitate to the curvy girl because I believe she is more "in my league" and I might have some sort of shot with her? Am I honestly more attracted to her than Jenna? The answer is "yes" on both counts but I still don't quite know why. I'm really leaning toward my "eye of the beholder" coming from a place of relative safety. I have placed myself in this lower "league" but have, ultimately, become content here. Women who are not "Hollywood hot" are more likely to have a lower opinion of themselves and would, therefore, give me a chance out of desperation and loneliness. This sounds like self-loathing on my part, but it is true. This is the way of our society.

I do not hate myself by any stretch of the imagination. There are lots of things that I have to offer. I like to believe that I'm intelligent, funny, and talented at many things. I think I'm a pretty decent writer (and if you've made it this far in this article, there must be something going on) and I am a half-way decent musician. I can also juggle.

I am the kind of guy that relishes any opportunity to be with a woman. In my life, those times didn’t come frequently enough and so, when they did, I appreciated them more than the pretty-boys ever could. I tried to treat those women kind/silly/crazy enough to be with me like royalty. By necessity, I am an old-fashioned romantic (of course my wife may argue this point).

Would Jenna see me a bit differently knowing these things? Of course she would. A long conversation with her would paint me a different light and, in some scenarios, just might have her leaving the bar with me that night. I like to think I can be kind of charming in my own way, so I probably could get the job done if I played my cards right. So what's the problem?

The problem is that this particular conversation in this particular bar could never happen because I have already been dismissed as not one of the "pretty people." I would never have that opportunity, even if I put forth the effort. If I walked up to her at the bar, sat down, and bought her a drink, she would, likely, thank me out of politeness, excuse herself, and move over and hide next to the douchebag. In many ways, I could have turned out to be her soul mate, but she would never know it because my appearance-deficit would prevent our meeting in the first place. I know this is not true in every case, but I think it's safe to say that it is a pretty standard rule.

As an ugly dude, I have done surprisingly well in the romance arena. Probably better than I deserve. I have been with some conventionally attractive women before; one of them even pursued me. Did she see me across a crowded bar and decide she had to have me? No ( though she did see me across a crowded bar). It just so happened that I was with a crowd of relatively unknown people and was desperately seeking their approval by trying to be funny.  My timing was spot-on that night and I caught the lovely lady's eye... or, rather, her ear. Had she been sitting farther away and not heard my amateur improv, none of it would have happened.

Now is the time to prove another point. I have a lot of very attractive female friends. If any of them are reading this (who knew me before I was married) would like to disagree with me (and I know you truthfully cannot), then where were you when I was single? 

Answer: Not attracted to me. It is fine, I get it, and I found my girl in the end. I believe my wife loves me, but even she would be the first to admit that I'm not easy on the eyes. Luckily for me, she was a rare breed and physical attractiveness was not what she was seeking, apparently. I'm not sure what she was seeking... it was certainly not my money (I certainly don’t have much of that).

A friend recently published a blog where he mentioned some things I said in a late-night, drunken conversation. He sort of quoted me as saying that I hate the pretty people. This is not true; I don’t hate anyone. I do very highly dislike people who get whatever they want in this world simply by how they look. A pretty girl bats her eyes and all the men in the room turn into drooling idiots; it makes me sick. I will admit that this mostly comes from jealousy. I won’t pretend it’s much of anything else, but it’s still too easy a way out for them. I know that you should use what you have, but doesn’t that just bolster how shallow our society is?

I, however, am that pretty girl’s Kryptonite (in more ways than I want to admit). She bats the eyes at me and it just makes me angry. I know she is not flirting with me. I know there is no animal magnetism. I know there is no interest in me save whatever it is she wants me to do for her (get her another drink, give her a cigarette, erase myself from existence). My lack of good looks has actually saved me money and time over the years, so I’m thankful for that.

When I was a child, I wanted to try my hand at acting (I was actually a cute kid…a long time ago). As I got older, I realized that this could not happen as, even at a fairly young age, I realized that I didn’t have the face for being in movies or TV and, thus, scrapped that idea pretty quickly. No amount of hard work, perseverance, and study could land me a leading role in anything. I could be the greatest thespian in the free world (next to John Lovitz, of course) and still never get to play a lead role in anything. When you have goals, why shoot for anything less than the top. In my case, however, there would only be so far I could get. Seemed a bad dream to have if you know you can never reach the pinnacle. I, therefore, tried to move into other talents.

Now, to put aside all this whiny, self-deprecation and posit a different universe. In this fantasy, I have grown up as an attractive man. I have my choice of the women in any social situation I find myself in. I have a good job (which I got by flashing my perfect smile to a female manager in an interview. Yes, it works both ways people) and I am financially secure (we’ll discuss that one later).

Would this mean I was a happier person?  I certainly would get to do some things I will never get to do in my other life.  I would probably have bedded many more partners (and some ailments that come along with it).  I probably would be driving a sports car and living the playboy lifestyle.  In this scenario, I do catch Jenna's eye across the crowded bar.

In this scenario, I am the douchebag.

Would I have ever learned to play the guitar?  Maybe.  Would I have striven to become a writer?  Probably not.  Spending lots of time alone or with friends has bolstered creativity in my life that would have never come from being a hot douchebag.  Would I have learned to juggle?  Who cares.

Most importantly, would my taste in women be the same?  Well, my sliding scale theory says "no."  Some of the women in my life that I love (and loved) the most would never have caught my eye.  I would have been the shallow guy that would have looked right past my wife and gone for the equally shallow (societally dictated) raving beauty that couldn't tell me who the President was (not to say that Jenna is not intelligent.  She continues to be my example for narrative purposes).

In the course of writing this article, I find that I am much happier in the "league" that I am in.

Ain't we cute

I believe that I am a better person for having been born with this face.  The road getting here was a rough one, but I'm here nonetheless.  For all the beautiful people, you can bat your eyes at someone who gives a damn.

The House...

   As the weeks go by, the house is less and less "haunted." Each day (well, weekdays mostly), I take ONE carload of stuff over there. With each trip, the house seems to be settling into the horrible truth that it now belongs to Sarah and myself.
   Already, there is slight disarray evident that puts my own signature on the house. A stack of musical instruments that used to be scattered around my house now haphazardly leans in a corner of the family room. A makeshift bar sits in another corner with its contents overflowing onto the old baker’s rack next to it that has resided there for many years now.   
   As I go, I put some little touches here and there that make it more "me" and, therefore, a bit less tidy. I have to admit to myself and everyone else around me that I am not my father and I am not as neat and organized as he was in the years since mom died. Should I try to keep that status quo? Should I try to become him? I honestly don’t know.
   With the house, along with everything else, I am living in a huge shadow. Mom and Dad were cornerstones of our extended family and represented stability that, I know, people found to be a great comfort. As I add my own touches to the house, I realize that, while I share the genes and a good upbringing, I am not them.
   I have been stressing myself too much by thinking that I will have transform into my father for the good of the family. How can I do that? Sure, I’m loud and grouchy and stubborn, but I think it may stop there. I didn’t have the upbringing that Dad, his brothers, and sisters had. I certainly do not have the same work ethic or staunch dedication to getting things done. I am, admittedly, lazy on many levels. Without the years of physical labor-intensive farm life, I am much softer (and it shows) than he was. Just like my grandfather before him, when Dad raised his voice, people listened (at least they pretended to). When I do, people just laugh or tell me that I sound like him. I am a bizarre parody of the family patriarch.
   I think of Labor Day weekends, Christmases, and other family gatherings that Mom and Dad graciously hosted each year and my promise to bring back or continue these traditions in years to come. I badly want to host these events, but can I live up to the years of memories? The house is a standing monument to my parents, and I feel like people will expect the same classic vibe that the house has provided for nearly thirty years. I’m not sure it will… though I’m going to give it one hell of a try.
   Some members of our extended family circle will not approve of the corner bar or some of the touches that I will put on the house. Some wouldn’t approve of some of the gatherings I plan on hosting there with my circle of friends. Some have not and will not understand some of the things I do for entertainment. While I want to provide everyone in the family with what they are accustomed to, I have to keep at least a part of me in that house. Am I expected to erase my existence and try (and fail) to become my father? I’m not sure how much of "me" is left anyway. Where do I draw the line? So many expectations are thrust upon me, and I understand why.
   To maintain the family status quo, I have to step in and be him. I am all that remains of him and, I think, the family looks to me to be the continuation of him. I represent a future where much of the past recently ended. I understand this and intend to work very hard at it.

   The house, however, is much heavier than the combined materials it is built from.

   I love the house. I spent most of my formidable years there. Most of the turning points in my life happened while I lived there. There are lots of memories, both good and bad, in that place. It is much bigger and much nicer than the one I am trying to empty out right now, but it also carries the burden of a split personality. I really don’t know where I end and Dad’s legacy begins.
   Although I have been keeping quite busy over the last few weeks moving things, it only occurred to me quite recently the conundrum I am currently experiencing.  While I am quite excited to be moving back there and starting the next phase of my adult life (and, likely, the last phase), it is quite a weight to carry.  I have no intention of disappointing any of the family or family friends, but I can't help but think that I cannot measure up.
   It sounds horrible to say, but losing Mom years ago was more emotionally difficult.  Maybe it was because she was the first of them to go and we really weren't prepared for it at that time.  I had no experience in losing parents at that time and hadn't really faced death on a personal level in many years.  Since Mom, I have boasted that "I'm getting good at these things" at each of the many funerals I have attended since.  Can you get hardened to losing loved ones?  Also, when Dad had been diagnosed with the cancer, my head went into "coping mode" from the moment we found out.  Perhaps practice makes perfect in some horrific sense.  Sounds a bit uncaring and, therefore, I doubt my humanity each day.
   Perhaps that's why I am trying too hard.  My survivor guilt (if that term is appropriate here) is kicking me in the rear constantly and forcing me to "grow up" and carry the mantle.  I need to make up for my perceived lack of compassion by turning myself into "Junior."  I feel I need to be a clone (albeit a fatter, lazier one) for the sake of those around me that look to me as the replacement (I know this is unfounded, but a blog is a place to type out this inner monologue).  No one has a gun to my head yelling at me to "be Paul," but I feel I have to.  My life feels like it's no longer mine.
   Maybe it's time to change?  Am I the person they wanted me to be?  Do I measure up?
   The house sends me mixed messages.
   Just last night, I took some of my more childish possessions (contents of my "Geek Room"...some of you know of it) over to the house and a part of me felt that I was sullying its spirit.  It doesn't seem to fit there.  The house still doesn't seem to belong to me, no matter how stubbornly I remind myself that it does.  "Get that shit out of my closet," I can hear him saying, "you ain't junkin' up my house like you did yours."  I still find myself tiptoeing around trying not to piss him off and start the inevitable bull-headed argument that we would have had when I was younger.  Is this normal?  I think it might be.
   The opposite side of that coin is the bitter-sweet excitement that I have such a place to do with as I please.  I have plans and dreams of turning the family room into my man-cave. I'm planning to buy a big flat-screen television as a consolation prize for surviving this ordeal.  The inner child in me is giddy about entertaining friends and having parties there. I am the kind of person who likes to have fun and I am definitely more flippant (feel free to look that one up...I'll wait) than Mom and Dad were. Is this acceptable, or should I grow up?
  So the conundrum (I love these big words, they make me sound smart...I hope I'm using them properly), spelled out in basic terms:

  * I can make the house totally mine and not care what anyone thinks about it and run the risk of my family not being comfortable when they come to visit..or worse,  just stop visiting entirely because it's not what they were used to.

  * I can live in the shadow of my father, erase most of myself in the process, but keep the status quo.

   I'm not, in any way, thinking that the family is that shallow, but I know it will be strange to come from out of town and stay with me, rather than Dad.  I'm one of the kids of the family and I know I will always be viewed as such no matter how grey my hair has gotten.  This is normal human nature and I understand it completely.  It will be weird enough dealing with all that and, psychologically speaking, there will be resentment that I have changed things.  I cannot stress enough that I worry about this every day.
   The house speaks volumes in the form of memories and hope for the future, but it is, not-surprisingly, very tight-lipped on helping me to find some middle ground.