For the Love of the Game

Bright yellow lights. Street lights. They flow by like soldiers.

I drive north. My job is north. Night after night. Slow, tedious, but well paying work. I was thinking of finding another job before the rise of the unhappy spouse, but must endure a boss with dementia and a power fetish. Steady money is better than no money.

The week has been horrible. The ex in all but law has been away enjoying her spring break with her friends. Pictures on Facebook everyday. Statuses. Few messages to me. Its obvious that the “we’ll see if I miss you” test she came up with to rationalize the trip would have had me on the losing end. Better that I agreed to divorce a few weeks before then.

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. They’re a blur. I slept half the week away. Its the anxiety medication. Its the depression. Its wondering what’s coming next. What I’ll have to do now that my marriage is over. For a man who wanted to live for a person, a person he loved with all his heart, the dark hole is deep and wide.

I drive without thought. The cars, lights and people are nothing. They could be robots or dreams for all I care. I drive empty.

The phone rings. It’s LP. She had called before when I was sleeping. I refused to call her back. I had no motivation or reason to fuel her attention whore. Life sucks, why should she get happy off my words and actions.

I picked up.

“Hello. Hello!” I said with my best cheer.

“Hello! Hello!” she returned. I could hear music and people in the background.

“Where are ya?” I asked, knowing she was probably out partying.

“Area 51!” The local alt/goth bar. I’d been there a few times. Decent crowd, mostly punk chicks. “Where are you?”

Great. Again. “I’m on my way to work because my boss is a bitch.” This is the third or forth time work has blown up her requests of my presence.

“You suck!” she said incredulously. “You uber-suck!”

“Hey, I told you when my weekend and you didn’t answer.” Several times actually. “I just bought my booze for after work.”

“When are you off work?” A question that didn’t sound like a scream for attention. Sweet.

“Five in the morning.”

“You really uber-suck.” And so the whore returns. “We were hoping to grind on hot dogs, but I guess we’ll have to find some strangers.”

Hot dogs? I mouth to myself. Wow. She’s either really drunk for being nineteen or she’s truly that spazzy. Either way. “You go take that risk,” I say, then cringe. That sounds kind of bitter. Whatever. My game may be new, but I’m doing well if she’s calling me to hang. “You know my weekend.”

That offended tone returns. She says something about not having condoms or something. She talks really fast. This chick is a lot of work. “We will. We’ll take that risk.”

She hangs up.

The conversation lasts one minute, but I suddenly realize I felt beyond great while having it. I picked up a depressed man sad he’s about to be divorced. But as soon as I said “Hello”, I was a charming, alpha male, ready to do battle with a spazzy, attention whore with nice tits and hips.

God help me, I like her, but not in the beta way of making her my girl. I like her ’cause I think she’ll be a perfect rebound. My first notch after the breakup being a decent looker than a cougar or a lazy eyed 4.

I realized that game… Game!… the cure to my blues. To my divorce depression. To the self-loathing.

Like breaking a fever or the cold wash of an ocean wave, the epiphany hit me. I have a sad disease and game is the cure.

I have a genetic history of charm. My dad’s industry requires a lot of social skills, and he has them. The core of his job is getting people to make things cheaper and with better quality. He was a hit in high school. The women loved him. He fell in love early and married my mother. They’ve been together since before I was born. My paternal grandfather was quite the catch as well, according to my grandmother. So its there, I have it. Its in my blood But my entire life has been introvert. I’ve been scared and lonely and nervous. I had one girlfriend in high school. Two girls in college, both of them high school age. I apparently had game then, just didn’t know it. I’m charming, but years of feminist teaching of my mother and Canada, plus my anxiety, covered it up.

And isn’t that the rub? My dad, a very charming man, a women pleaser during his high days, marries a woman who is a feminist, yet a housewife until her children move on. A very confusing atmosphere. I see my alpha dad do his thing, yet I see my mom pontificate about leftism and gender equality. This is a woman who both hates unions but adores Gloria Allred. I wouldn’t blame a guy who couldn’t figure out what his strengths and weaknesses were coming out of that environment.

But none of that is any reason to remain in my shell. None of it. I am a man. I am the lead of civilization, if we go with the old rules. But the old rules are gone, aren’t they? Feminism, modernism, and all the other idealisms. They were supposed to end all that, right?

Hardly

Genetics can’t be killed by politics.