Friday, January 16, 2009


My friend Julian tried putting it in semi-poetic terms. "Why do you worry so much about the women that left you? They're gone, but that's okay. How many more are out there? Hundreds, thousands, millions? More than you could meet, and so many of them looking for someone. Many of them just like you."

Which sounds good, but after awhile, it becomes difficult to inflict the misery on myself. Women, it seems, don't want to be with me. The relationship will be going along, just fine as far as I can tell, then, KAPOW, I'm sucker-punched by the old "Can't we be friends?" line. And that's if I'm lucky; sometimes they just stop returning my calls.

It's hard to keep from taking these things personally.

Clearly, there must be something about me that initially attracts, then repels. I don't have looks or a smooth line of patter, but I have a sense of humor and a sense of empathy, which is enough, but only for awhile. Once I'm comfortable enough to finally be myself around a woman, she decides she doesn't like who I really am. (Apparently, women aren't charmed by impersonations of Phil Silvers or Woody Allen. Maybe I should stop developing impressions of Great Jews Of Comedy, though my Lou Jacobi is coming along quite nicely.)

Katie and I broke up in May (or, more accurately, she broke up with me), and I decided okay, that's it. I vowed to spend my entire summer free from all attempts at pitching woo with the ladies. (Also, I've discovered most women don't particularly like being called "ladies" and are unamused by my hyper-ironic use of archaic terms like "pitching woo".) My plan was so successful, it stretched into autumn and, now, winter.

And I must say, I'm getting tired of it. I want to be in a successful relationship. Or even an unsuccessful one, just for old time's sake. Hell, I'd be grateful for a weekend fling at this point. Yet...the fact is, the last time I succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh (you don't want details), I honestly couldn't wait to get her back home so I could get back to my place to be annoyed by my cats. (True, the fact that I had no particular feelings for her beyond base physical desire may have had something to do with it...but again, you don't want details.) And maybe that's my ultimate fate: I'll be a crazy old guy who lives in a rotting house with dozens of cats.

Of course, the economy being what it is, it seems unlikely I could afford even a rotting house. Still, that scenario seems more probable than the notion of me ending up in a loving, mutually supportive relationship. But I still crave that, and the desire to go in search of love has reasserted itself. One could almost say that ice is slowly melting. I wouldn't say that, of course, because the only Beatle lines quoted around here are John's (this post's title, for instance), but metaphorically, it works. All hesitations and doubts have fallen away, and I'll state it boldly: I want to give love, receive love, and above all, share my Lou Jacobi impression.

Okay, that last part is optional, but you get the idea.