Lonely in Lubbock

Yes, I brought this on myself. But if you don’t know the story, don’t judge.  If you think you know the story, you really don’t, so don’t judge.   Regardless, if one is to be single in any place in the world, Lubbock is definitely one of the worst.

I am sure it has a lot to do with the fact of my age, people my age shouldn’t be in this position.  We should be hunkered down with a sweetheart that we trust and love, and they us, and dandying our sweet little kidlums about the house.  Unfortunately, for most people nowadays, that jsut isn’t the fact.  I think it is becoming less common for people my age to be happy and contended in their marriage, and I do not believe in staying married for the kid’s sake.  I am a victim of that, and so are some people I am aware of.

But still, being in Lubbock is like being in a hell of aged middle schoolers, rediscovering hormones and being unwilling to recognize their dysfunctions.  I embrace mine. I work on mine, but I hear from a lot of people, males and females, alike, the horror stories.  In the LBB, it is not better, and I think because of the nature of this place, it is worse than most.

First, it is essentially cut off from anything that would encourage ranging outside the fence.  You have to go 2 hours to find a moderate population that is essentially in the same bent as Lubbock.    Then there is nothing to really do here but get plastered.  If I wanted drunk chicks that are one blackout away from date rape, I would be well set.  I can go to movies, but the staff there are notoriously contemptuous of people striking up conversations.

To add to that, I don’t drink, so going to bars is not well suited for me.  I don’t like worrying if I am the creepy guy, so i sit there and try to identify the creepy guy.  If I can’t, I am him, and I need to go.  Besides, I logically struggle with the idea of being interested in a woman that has to be drunk to talk to me. And I have no game.  I cannot for the life of me figure out how to strike up a conversation with a woman in a bar.  ”How YOU doin’…” is the best I got, and not only a bit dated, but wholly ineffectual at sharing my depth as a person.  And only in the movies does a woman of the type that would make you stutter with joy come up to a guy and introduce herself. Most bars are populated with a bevy of guys that make it obvious why they are there alone.  I can’t be that guy either.

I don’t smoke, so even if I did go to bars just for the atmosphere, I would die of lung cancer before I found anyone of worth.  The 4 non-smoking bars that have live music are great places for date nights, or a pride of women, which no sober, sane guy would venture into to try to talk to a woman.  Besides, it is quite clear that when a pride of women are out, it is clearly to hate men and spit on their existences, not to find a nice guy that would prove their theories wrong.  Venturing into that potentially humiliating death trap is only for the seriously drunk, or guys with greater cojones than I.

There are other places like dance clubs, but they are packed with 20 somethings that are typically as interesting to me as Q-tips and frost bitten, vanilla ice cream.  I have friends that remark “DUDE! You are surrounded by young, horny coeds: you should be set!”  No, I am not.  I am cursed with seeing them as being old enough to be my legitimate children, incapable of carrying on a conversation of much value or having opinions that weren’t fed to them by Gossip Girl and MTV.  There are a few exceptions, but they are rare, and typically not interested in a poor graduate student philosophers with moderately attractive qualities.  I have to rely on my personality, and most 20 somethings don’t get it, and even less, my sense of humor.

But then there are the women my age.  They almost always come with two options: letsgetabangin or letsgetexclusive.  If they do slow roll, then they are typically just being subtle for option one or two.  Those are the ones that will actually talk to me.  Since I am not George Clooney, a doctor, rescuing bunnies, volunteering at a children’s clinic, or blowing rainbows out my butt while petting my unicorn, I am ignored.  I love reading their lamentations on single sites of not finding an HONEST guy, but yet they won’t give the average-looking-not-a-troll guy the time of day.  Want an honest guy? Find one that doesn’t rely on his looks or money to date.  Get to know people before you get exclusive with them.  They all describe the guy they want, but then complain that they don’t exist; it is probably because you are fishing from the douche bag pond instead of the obviously nice guy pond.

Then there are the just plain crazies.  They seem nice enough to start, then they start sucking you into their constant chaos and drama.  I fear them.  I have suffered a few.  I thought about getting elective surgeries to alter my appearance to escape them.  They eventually go away, but I still open my door cautiously fearing the potential tripping over a pot of water with a rabbit in it.

I do get some attention though.  I have been told I have a bad boy image: I ride a Harley, I say and do what I want, I apparently have a bit of swagger, I have a bucket of confidence.  But then they get to know me and realize that I am the fatal nice guy and loose interest.  Oh well.

I have been rejected flat out because of my religion.  It’s ok that you have a problem with me being Mormon, I have a problem with you being a bigot.  I have standards, yes I am God fearing, is it really hard for you to accept? You say you want God fearing, here I am.

So, for now I am content to sit in my apartment and be lonely, working on philosophy and whining about how lonely I am.  But I also recognize that the alternative is crazy drama, hooks I don’t want and attention I don’t need.  There are trade-offs, I would rather be alone than miserable.  I have had plenty of that.