Fatter Tuesday: AKA Fat Tuesday? What happened to the rest of the week?

*** Author's disclaimer... This is a work of fiction-- any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or in a slow and steady state of decay is purely coincidental ***

Memories are an odd looking glass to utilize while bringing ones' life into perspective. They distort and focus at a whim. Thus, they are rather fickle accomplices in the matter of seeking clarity. As such, the old phrase, "If memory serves me" will have to be employed as a preface to the tales that will unfold here. Point of fact, I'm sure this can't be how my life really happened. It even feels distorted to me at this point. However, it's what I remember, and that's all that I can provide in good conscience.

From the start, I don't intend to give you the impression that my life is all rain and no sunshine, either. That is nowhere near the truth. The fact of the matter is I've had a better life than most in all of the important ways. I had a family that loved me, parents that were always supportive and a home where I always felt at peace. Socially, I was awkward at best. But that's neither here nor there. For the most part, I live a rather normal existence.

Contrary to that statement, I will say that I don't consider my romantic entanglements to be in any way normal. At least, they aren't in keeping with the fashionable dating habits of the average American male. I can count on one hand the number of women I've been with sexually, I've never had a one-night stand (and for an artist, that's a feat) and I have yet to be in a relationship that I would consider having the capacity for longevity. I simply cannot find a sane woman that would love me, or an insane woman who wouldn't.

Sexually speaking, my forays into bedroom affairs have not been steamy-- to date I have no stories that end with, "and then she rended my clothing from my feverish flesh in an enraptured ecstasy." Mostly, my encounters with women involve a lot of giggling, fumbling and occasional cranial collisions which leave all involved either bleeding or laughing riotously. Not exactly something that I can imagine being committed to celluloid, unless it was being utilized for some teen-flick exposing awkward adolescent exploration. There aren't even a wide variety of positions being employed, come to think of it. The one time I considered attempting a new, wild configuration I misappropriated my weight and managed to flip my futon over on top of my partner and I. Thus, the giggling.

Given that I was sired into a culture absolutely permeated with sex, I grew up under the impression that my planet was a hedonic cesspool wherein one is encouraged to indulge every hormonal whim that should arise at any given instant. I pictured the whole of society humping like hopped-up rabbits and loving every minute of it. At least, that was what MTV wanted me to think, right? It was only with age and experience with actual intimacy that I came to realize that our porn-star paradigms are actually gross exaggerations of a particular facet of the human condition, like superheroes. They do things that, for reasons either physical or psychological, the common man never thought possible. So, just think of it as cheap entertainment. In my estimation, pornography beats solitaire hands down.

At this point, I can't help but reflect on these things. It isn't as though there is any stimulus available to keep me from diving into my subconscious at any given interval. No-- unfortunately, I have to earn a living. I am paid predominantly to cope with the joys of transcribing medical examiner's tape-recorded notes. Thus, I get to exist transfixed by a computer screen, letting my time sift through the system like sand through the hourglass for 40 interminable hours a week. The position provides obvious medical coverage, a decent retirement package and ample opportunity for reflection. At my age, that simply cannot be healthy. Thank God for the life insurance policy.

Its 3:37 on a Tuesday and my ass is completely numb from inhabiting this ergonomic brick-red bastard chair all day. The incline is steep enough that you are constantly assuming a speed-skier posture. How this is beneficial to office conduct, I will never grasp. What this means is I've been ruminating my current relationship woes with Emily for nearly 8 hours, and I'm about to blow a gasket.

It isn't that the situation is that desperate. It's not even that it's complicated, either. I simply have a preternatural need for a romantic connection with a woman. It's a pressure that I'm only exerting on myself, and yet I can't seem to turn it off. I'm not exactly ready for marriage, per-say, but I'm certainly sick of dating all together. And given the sordid history I have with emotional attachment, you can imagine why. Well, perhaps you can't. No matter. You'll get it eventually; but this is where the story starts to get complicated

________________________________________________________________

Yesterday evening, I had finally conned Emily into a dinner date. It was our first in nearly three months. However, given the nature of our conversation, I believe it will be our last for quite some time. If I can state the obvious, I don't believe asking someone if they think it best that you'd never met them is a good way to create a sense of unity. Her reaction was understandable.

"What exactly brought this on?"

Her intonation wasn't one of sarcastic comprehension. It was one of absolute annoyed confusion. My timing wasn't exactly impeccable, either. We were in the middle of discussing the wedding of one of her close friends, and at that exact moment she was searching for the straw in her Diet Coke with her mouth rather than her eyes. It was one of a million things that had me absolutely taken with her, thus completely disabling my logic meter and spurring me into an affectionate cooing mode.

"You're terribly cute when you do that."

"Do what?"

"Try to find your straw on instinct. It's adorable... and it's one of the things that make me wish I didn't know you."

"If that was intended to be a compliment, your dismount needs a little work."

"I met the ghost of romance-past last night... you know, contemplated where you and I would be right now had we never crossed paths..."

Pause inserted for dramatic effect. Why can't I just take my life seriously? Why am I always acting as though I'm being filmed at any given interval? Yes, I sit around rehearsing these speeches. Who doesn't? You don't want to have to shoot from the hip when you're explaining yourself to a woman who's a hairs breadth away from never speaking to you again... and yet I contrive something that I am fully aware she will be offended by as a way to push her over the edge. If you love someone-- set them free, right? It serves me right for counting on the merit of pop music.

"Upon reflection, I can't say that it would be a terrible thing, Em. You'd be a great deal happier, I'm sure. You wouldn't have to worry about constantly evading my advances... you would have settled down with that nice, muscular boy you've grown so fond of. It would make things a bit easier, wouldn't it?"

Her frustration began to show as she shook her head at me, and launched into what I refer to as "Em-speak." Thoughts begin to generate faster than her mouth can feasibly move, and she attempts to counterbalance by following these thoughts rather than articulating anything.

"Are you completely... I mean... What do his muscles have to do with any...? And I do not EVADE you... and you certainly haven't complained about the... And how do you... Where do you get off? I mean, I come out... And why do we have to do this in a restaurant? What's wrong with... and what do you WANT me to say to you? I can't even... You always... WHAT IS YOUR DEAL???"

Obviously, you can't answer any of this. At least, I can't. Every time I try, she cuts me off with another question. I find it's best to ride out the wave, but that usually ends badly.

She ended the tirade and simply stared daggers into me while taking long drags from her Coke. If looks could kill, I'd be in critical condition...I'm not sure why I entered into this with the intention of making her angry. Maybe that was the best way to let her rid herself of me guilt-free. If I were an asshole, she could walk out that door with the same righteous indignation which I used to justify my anxieties. She knows I love her, and I suppose it's just pitiable enough to keep her from severing contact with me completely. Perhaps making her view me as insane as opposed to pitiful made an easier transition in my mind. I always assumed that she really wanted nothing to do with me. However, as I had on so many occasions, I misjudged her heart.

I was staring at the table now, because I didn't see any suitable way to either explain my intentions or to back out gracefully from the conversation. I'd written myself into an inexorable conclusion, and all I could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. Her voice broke the silence like a razor through skin.

"And how would it be for you, Andrew? Would everything be easier for you if you'd never met me?"

Her voice quivered a bit, and she bit her lip as though trying to contain a tsunami in her head. As the first tear shed it's cover and tumbled down the bridge of her nose--trying in some small way to soothe the wound I'd just inflicted-- I woke up enough to grasp my ignorance. It was too little-- too late, I fear. As such, resigned as I was to hammering the final nail into my coffin lid, I completed the speech as written.

"The way I see it, I'd be blissful in my ignorance. I could live each day without the knowledge that my soul-mate was out pandering to the bar-and-party set for the sake of accruing life experience... I'd never know that she was kissing strangers and taking names because she simply can't admit to herself that she deserves to be treated with love and kindness by someone who knows and understands her... and I certainly wouldn't have to relive the moment of my 'I love you' being met with a resounding silence and an apologetic gaze. So, at this point, I think I'd be pretty well-off."

I've never seen anyone leave a table that quickly. She was a marvel of motor-skill. In one deft move she'd collected her purse, wiped the tear from her eye and slid out of the booth. She was at the door before I'd even had a chance to breathe again. My head slipped into my hands as though struggling with the weight of what had just occurred, and I explored the thread-count of the table cloth for a moment. The waiter's voice sounded like a horn through the fog of my bereavement.

"Is everything all right, sir?"

I didn't respond. All I could contemplate was how ironic it was that Queen was playing on the restaurant musak.

"Another one bites the dust..."