There are many reasons I'm perpetually single. The biggest: I'm perpetually picky. Questionable taste in movies? Next. Too comfortable with bodily functions? Shudder. Too friendly with hyperbole? Sorry.
Of course, our whole culture is mired in exaggeration. Politically, George W. is considered either A.) The best president since Lincoln or B.) The worst human since Hitler. God knows the entertainment media is rife with false advertising: Apparently, Kanye West is, in fact, Jesus Christ.
I once briefly dated an artist in Los Angeles who found wonder in everything. Made me sick. He kept it somewhat under wraps our first time together but it began creeping into succeesive phone conversations. As our second date approached, that familiar feeling of dread began to overwhelm my body.
Being well-practiced in avoidance, I turned to an old ally: my tricky stomach. While my belly does in fact give me trouble sometimes, I've found that it can also get me out of unwanted situations fairly cleanly, if given fair warning. So, when the artist arrived at my apartment and effusively complimented my door mat, I went into bad actor mode (although I did play Oberon in a high school production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." And no, I didn't realize the irony inherent in portraying the "King of the Fairies," not at the time, anyway).
Actually, I try to be fairly subtle with the "cramping." Just some occasional wincing and soft groaning: "You feeling okay?" "Yeah, just my stomach ... I'll be all right."
Then, said date came out of the bathroom at the restaurant where we dined (staying in "character," I ordered soup). "Oh my God, you have to check out the light fixtures in there. They are so a-maaaay-zing!" That did it.
"Ooooh, God. Oh damn. Man I'm sorry. I'm just not feeling well."
By then, he had dropped the word "amazing" more than two dozen times. Now I really was ill.
Point being, not everything is wonderful. Or terrible. Some things just are. You know: context and perspective.
VERY accutate obesevation. Amazing.
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