so very alone…

Have you ever got a voicemail that you never listen to just because you just can’t imagine any possible way that it will turn out to be something you want to hear? Well, I turned my phone on today to find I have two voicemail messages from Bertha. I haven’t listened to them yet. I expect they can only be one or more of the following things:

1. She’s calling to apologize and explain why she barfed on me.

2. She’s calling to express anger at me for leaving after she barfed on me.

The thing is, I don’t want to hear either of those messages. But I haven’t deleted them yet, either. I guess I’m just waiting until I can cope with whatever she has to say.

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I realized something about nineteen minutes into last night’s perfect storm of misery: I have never felt humiliated when I was by myself. I have literally shit myself before because I took too much Robitussin. I was a teenager at the time, and I just wanted to get high, so I drank most of a bottle. All it did was knock me out, and I shit myself in my bed. But it was just me in my bed, so even though it was a nasty mess, I thought it was kind of funny.

If I were to shit myself in the presence of another human being, on the other hand, that would be so mortifying I would have to kill myself.

You see what I mean?

By the way, I did not shit myself last night, although that’s about the only bad thing that could have happened that didn’t.

Two bad things happened right away that should have tipped me off that I should have just stayed home. First, I found some khakis that fit me OK at the Old Navy, but when I went to pay for them, I had one of those "Oh fuck" moments. As soon as I took my wallet out, I knew that my debit card wouldn’t be in there. It would still be on my desk by my computer, where I had left it after ordering The Orange Box on Amazon.com earlier in the day. And of course my credit cards are useless at this point.

So I left the store and went home, too stressed out about how soon the date would begin to have the presence of mind to simply go to Walmart and just steal a pair of pants.

By the time I got home, I had less than 45 minutes to get ready. So I pulled on a pair of my work Dockers. If I sucked it all in, I was able to get them zipped and fastened.

And then I made the foolish mistake of sitting down.

Rrrrrip.

The seam going down the middle of the seat wasn’t just slightly torn, it was fully ripped out.

On one hand, I was grateful this had at least happened while I was out in public. On the other hand, I was stuck. There was no way I was going to put on another pair of Dockers and risk the same thing happening again.

At about 20 minutes to go I was so freaked out (you would be too if you were going on a blind date and you had no pants) I actually threw up.

That helped, believe it or not. Somehow it calmed me. I thought logically, for a minute: I would have people at my door in a minute. It was too cold to wear shorts. I had no pants.

So I did the only thing I could do. I put on my best pair of sweat pants.

As I write this, it seems like there’s a good chance that this is really just a dream. It certainly feels like one of those dreams where you go take a test in college and find out that you haven’t even been to class in a month and you are totally nude.

I was the third person to be picked up. Richard came to my door and said, "Hey, hurry up. Go get dressed or we’ll be late."

"This is all I’ve got," I said. My cool, clear logic of a few minutes ago suddenly felt ridiculous. I could feel my armpits suddenly start to go damp, and I felt a drop of sweat run down my chest. My antiperspirant wasn’t up to the challenge before me.

Richard did one of those faces where you intentionally go blank, where you’re consciously not showing emotion. Like Picard looked in the Borg episodes.

"Well, let’s go," he said, in a voice I haven’t heard him before. I call the tone of this voice "resignedly cheerful."

"What are we going to do?" I asked.

"Going to Maki-Zushi’s," Richard said (note to nosy readers who want to find out where I live and think they can figure it out by cross-referencing the restaurant names: don’t bother, I changed the name of the place).

"You know I’ve never tried Sushi," I said. "Don’t make me do that tonight."

"You’ll like it," said Richard’s date, whom I shall call "Herman," because he looked a little bit like John Kerry. But younger, and without a stick up his ass, as far as I know.

"How could you possibly know whether I’ll like Sushi?" I asked. "That’s incredibly presumptuous."

Richard shot me a look and I apologized, saying I was just nervous. Even though what I said was true. I didn’t say the part about "even though what I said was true" out loud, though.

So we went and picked up my date, who I guess I need to come up with a name for. "Bertha" seems appropriate.

Bertha, I’m sad to say, is not exactly what I have in mind when i think about my ideal mate. She’s about sixty, maybe 80, pounds overweight, for one thing. And she always leaves her mouth slightly open, as if she can’t breathe through her nose. And she was wearing this dress that was absolutely positively at least 25 years old and made of polyesther. Maybe she was making a statement with it. I know that some people buy their clothes from thrift stores on purpose. A retro look. I don’t think everyone can pull that look off.

I shouldn’t go on about clothes, though. I mean, I was wearing sweat pants.

So we went to the sushi place. Richard and Herman talked. Bertha and I did not.

It was at this point that I realized what a ridiculous couple we must look like, and the feeling of humiliation started to grow. If I could have teleported out of the car (speaking of Picard), I guarantee you I would have.

We got to the Sushi place and I had Richard order for me. "Something not-gross" was my instructions. Meanwhile, Bertha didn’t even look at the menu; she just ordered from her head. I guess she’s a big Sushi fan.

While we waited for the food, Herman and Bertha started talking. You know how certain people communicate using nothing but movie quotes and obscure pop culture references? That’s how they were. I really couldn’t even follow along. I guess I’m too stodgy.

Trying to get into the conversation at one point, I said "I’m getting pretty serious about my racquetball game lately." I was fully prepared to lie as much as necessary, expanding my two trips to the club into multiple seasons worth of national-level competition.

"Is that like tennis?" Bertha asked, and then without waiting for an answer, transitioned over to something about Andre Agassi, then quickly over to Brooke Shields, then Blue Lagoon, and then I lost the thread and frankly quit trying.

The food came, and I just didn’t know what to do with it. So I didn’t do anything. I just sat there. "Try the miki-waki-hoo-how" (or whatever it was called) first," said Richard. I think he was trying to be helpful, but I didn’t have any idea how to pick it up, or whether I was supposed to take a bite or put the whole thing in my mouth. I had a suspicion that I could drown the flavor out with ketchup, but Herman laughed when I asked if I could get some, as if I had been trying to be funny, and wasn’t just a n00b totally out of his element and wishing for death.

And so I sat there, while the three of them ate.

And then, suddenly and without warning, Bertha barfed. Mostly on her, but nobody at the table was spared.

Pandemonium ensued. Napkins, water, rushing waitresses. Bertha headed for the bathroom, with sushi vomit marking a trail from our table to the bathroom door as the barf dripped off her polyester dress.

And then i started crying. I knew it was inappropriate, I knew I was calling attention to an already awkward situation. But I couldn’t stop it. This day had been too awful for words. It wasn’t just quiet crying, either. I was gasping and shaking. I knew I looked ridiculous, crying in my sweat pants at a sushi restaurant while waiters clean up barf both on and all around me.

Bertha was still in the bathroom, so at least she didn’t see it. That’s my silver lining.

Herman handed the keys to Richard, and Richard gave me a ride home. We didn’t say much, probably because I started crying again every time I tried to talk.

I got out of the car, finally (longest drive of my life), and said "See you later."

"Do you want me to come in and talk?" Richard asked.

I could tell he didn’t really want to, though, so I said no.

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I was trying on some clothes for going out tomorrow night, but my pants don’t fit. It’s not even close. I hadn’t noticed it because I mostly am wearing sweatpants these days, but I guess I’ve gained a few pounds since I’ve been out of work. I guess that makes sense, because I’ve been going out to eat a lot more lately, since that’s often the only time I leave the house during the day. It gives me something to do. Breaks the day up a little bit.

I’ll buy some new pants tomorrow. That way I’ll look nice for the date.

I’m still not sure what we’re going to do, but I emailed Richard today and told him that since his friend knows more people in the group than I do, he should pick what we do. I’ll go along with whatever. I’m easy to please.

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Since I’m about to start job hunting, I got a replacement phone yesterday. I was surprised to find there were three voicemail messages. One from my sister (deleted, without listening) and two from Richard.

So I called him back, figuring he wanted to hear how my trip to my brother’s went. Instead, he said a friend of his knows a woman who they agree might be exactly my type. Richard suggested that the four of us go out together this Friday night — something casual, no pressure, more as a group of friends than a date situation.

The way he said it made me think he had spent some time working out the phrasing for this outing. I’m not sure if it’s because the woman doesn’t like the idea of going on a date with someone she hasn’t met, or if Richard thinks I wouldn’t like the idea of it.

I can tell what it really is, though: I’ve been set up on a double date / blind date where the woman who’s been matched to me has been handpicked by two gay men.

I said I didn’t feel like going out right this weekend, but then I reversed myself. I figure it can’t be any weirder than my life’s been lately. So I’m going to do it.

We haven’t decided where we’re going yet, so I’m trying to figure out what to do.

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Last night I woke up with what seemed like an irrefutable epiphany. Not wanting to lose it and thinking that it was wise enough that I ought to share it with the whole world, I quickly typed and posted it.

I reread what I wrote this morning and realize that it’s not quite as insightful as the average fortune cookie. A few people have mentioned that the logic doesn’t hold up, and they’re right. But still, under that fog, I did have a point to make. I’ll see if I can do better now.

I agree that whether, at a given moment, you’ve got someone isn’t a fair indicator of whether you deserve someone. However, if you never ever ever have had someone, it is probably a reliable indicator that you’re pretty fucked up.

That’s not exactly news, is it?

So I think it’s fair to say there’s a reason, or maybe a whole lot of reasons, I’m alone. The next step for me is to decide whether I want to do anything about those reasons, in order to be with someone.

And now, finally, I’m getting to my point, which is this: I am not absolutely certain that I am willing to change myself in order to no longer be alone. I mean, there have been a lot of times when I have been alone and wished I was with somebody, but there have been a lot of times when I’ve been with somebody and have wanted to just get the hell away.

Maybe I don’t know what I want. Yeah, that’s it. I’m glad I figured that out. Now I feel a lot better.

There is some good news on the job hunt front, though. As of yesterday, all four of my credit cards are maxed out, which means that I am done playing online poker, and that I am feeling a little more urgency about getting back to work. I have updated my resume and am going to find five places to send it today, then five places to send it tomorrow, and five after that. Five resume placements per day until I get a job. That’s my plan.

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I just realized something really simple, obvious and true: If I were lovable, someone would love me.

Clearly, I need to figure out what my next steps are.

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I went back to the gym and played some more racquetball on Saturday. I won one game out of three with the guy I played, so had to leave the challenge court. Probably, better players show up on Saturday morning than on Friday afternoon. Also, my legs and my right elbow are sore, so that might have been why I didn’t win.

Anyway, I still had fun and it was still a bright spot in what I’m going to call a scary weekend.

I’ve avoided talking about it, but the truth is I’ve lost more money with the online poker. Today, for example, I wrote those first two paragraphs above, then lost $380.

I’m tempted to call the online poker "addictive," but I don’t think that’s it. I’m playing because I’m at least doing SOMETHING, even if it’s mostly just losing money. I’m interacting with people, kind of, and I’m occupying time.

Really, I know, I should be working on my resume, but every time I open up the document to start writing, I think, "Maybe I’ll go check my blog for comments," or "Maybe I’ll play just a couple hands of poker," or "Maybe I’ll see what’s in the fridge."

Part of it is I hate the job hunt. It’s not the interviews that bother me. I’m good at those. I know, you wouldn’t think I am, but I am. I think it’s because job interviews are one of the few human interactions that have tightly prescribed rules. I understand the parameters, so it’s easy to stay inside them.

What I hate about the job hunt is sending out resumes. Once you’ve got resumes, you start waiting, and mostly what you’re waiting for is rejection.

And I’m not sure I can deal with any more rejection right now.

It’s a vicious cycle: I’m losing money, so I need to get a job soon. I can’t force myself to start job hunting in earnest, so I find myself doing other stuff to occupy my time. Which means I’m losing more money. Which means I need to get a job soon. And so on and so on and so on.

I’m going to go take a nap, and then I’m going to update my resume. And no more poker today. I swear it.

Isolation Score: 6

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