I am told that beautiful women are everywhere.
No. Really.
They’re literally everywhere. They’re in every nook and every cranny, every street and every corner. They have big blue eyes and small brown ones, long blonde hair and short raven hair. Legs that reach the skies. Soft, velvety skin. And they love to tease us with their skirty skirts.
You — you could very well be one of these beautiful women.
You probably are. Don’t lie.
But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I can’t see them. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. I can’t see any of them.
It started a few years ago. That’s when the numbness started. But it’s worse, now. It’s so bad, I can’t feel anything.
Imagine this: I’m walking down the street with a friend, and a girls passes in the distance. So my friend’s all, “She’s pretty cute”, right?
“Hrmm…” I’d mumble, looking up for a second. “Yeah, she’s alright…”
That’s it. “She’s alright”. Not, “she’s spectacular,” or “she’s gorgeous”, and never ever is she “wow”. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve had a ‘Wow’ moment. They just stopped happening.
These women — these women I pass on the streets or see at the University — they could be Venus and it wouldn’t matter. They could be Jennifer Connelly or Jessica Alba in the flesh. Even Audrey Hepburn, back from the dead. I wouldn’t have even raised an eyebrow.
Because I’m numb, you see.
The thing is, I do see them; I see that they’re pretty, I see that they’re slim and have a nice figure, and I see that they have great hair. But I don’t really see them, you know? It’s more like I’m a judge, rather than a spectator.
I’m impartial. Neutral and unaffected.
But this numbness, it doesn’t take the Crane brothers to figure out what brings it on. I actually know the cause.
My days are roughly the same, day in day out. I wake up in the morning and haul my ass to work. If I decide beforehand to bring a lunch and dinner to work, I’ll stay there until eight or nine in the evening. If I don’t bring a dinner, I’ll head home at six to cook myself one or, if I’m feeling particularly adventurous, I’ll head to dining hall for dinner. At ten, it’s gym-time, and by 11:30 PM, I’m back home.
Occasionally, I’ll play rugby with the college in the evenings, and that helps break up the monotony. But for the most part, it’s an easy cut-and-paste affair.
Do I mind that my life is structured like this? Maybe. But it’s what I do. That’s the best answer I can give to friends and family who criticize me about my lifestyle. It’s what I do. At least for now.
Besides, that’s not the real problem.
At night, I prepare for my slumber with an episode from a favoured television series or an interesting piece of cinema.
The choices are endless. And the women, well, the women are simply delightful.
Maybe I’ll watch an episode of House and wonder whether all doctors come with the looks of Allison Cameron (Jennifer Morrison) or the wit of “Thirteen” (Olivia Wilde). Reliving high school is as easy as popping in The O.C., where I can follow Melissa, Summer, and Taylor (Barton, Bilson, and Reeser) through their four years. And if I’m in the mood for sand and beaches, I can always spend some time with Kate (Evangeline Lilly) and Claire (Emilie de Ravin) on Lost island.
And then there are the movies.
I can spend time listening to the poetic ramblings of Juno (Ellen Page). I can fight despair and temptation alongside Jennifer Connelly in Requiem for a Dream. I can laugh at the deadpan humour of Zooey Deschanel in Almost Famous.
The list goes on.
The beauty of it is, not only are these women beautiful and gorgeous, but they’re funny, smart, and sassy. They wake up looking great, and they say and do things no real woman would.
Because, duh, they’re exactly that: not real.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because these women, they get me.
When the gorgeous Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) in Lost in Translation lies next to Bob (Bill Murray) and asks, “Does it get any easier?” — that’s the kind of connection I want. That’s the kind of relationship I need. But of course, I can’t have it.
There isn’t really a 24 year old, lost and confused, beautiful Yalie philosophy graduate named Charlotte. And even if there was, it’s doubtful I’ll ever meet her on a trip to Tokyo.
But that doesn’t stop me from hoping.
Real women are hard. Even if they have the looks of Number Six (Tricia Helfer), the intellect of Temperance Brennan (Emily Deschanel), and the sardonic wit of Lorelei Gilmore (Lauren Graham), they won’t know you. They won’t really know you.
It’s just not the same.
And so I go to work, I come home, and I escape in the company of these lovely — albeit fictitious — women. It’s escapism at its best.
I realize it’s sad. It’s humiliating. Wrong, even.
But there’s nothing I can do.
I’m numb, you see.
Stace says,
Hey, don’t worry about it; a lot of people are exactly the same.
I see guys, think “oh, he’s hot” and that’s about it. I walked away from one of the prettiest guys hitting on me a few weeks ago because I just wasn’t interested enough to make conversation with someone who I assumed (probably wrongly) would turn out to be an idiot.
I’d much rather be in the house wondering why exactly I never meet the handsome sports star who likes poetry, or the dorky professor who spills coffee over everyone, or how come the genius astrophysicist won’t come to my rescue… but it’s not gonna happen, and I know this and, surprisingly, I’m ok with it.
So, if you like, we can be sad together.
Maybe start a club…
Dan says,
I suspect the difference between “real” women and ones you adore in film/TV is the level of intimacy you have with them.
Consider this:
When you walk past a hot girl, the best you get is a quick glance or some small talk. Even if you ever see her again, the level of contact is limited.
However, on a TV show, these women deliver lines and lines of dialog crafted to reel in you and keep you watching, you see their lusty figures and facial expressions from multiple camera views, and you feel their heart-breaking or heart-warming emotional moments. In short, you get hours of contact with them and their personality (although this contact is creepy and one-sided). This is the sort of contact with someone that could induce a love-like state.
So it’s not that you’re numb; you just require time to get to know someone and it’s their personality that gets you hooked. You may actually prefer a girl with a strong personality than a stone-cold drop-dead gorgeous lass.
Carol says,
Reading this makes me feel very sad for you. I understand (and remember) those feelings, that numbness, all too well. But existing in a vacuum, even one of your own creation, is still existing in a vacuum. I hope you noticed I didn’t say “living”.
Meeting someone is hard. Developing a relationship is even harder. But if you don’t risk, you don’t gain. I spent years waiting for that White Knight On A Horse. I read about him in hundreds of books. Saw him in movie after movie. Never found him in real life. And I never will.
When I finally got my head out of my butt what I did find is a man who is nice, honest, caring, and willing to share life with me the best way he knows how … one day at a time. He’s no Brad Pitt, but he loves me. Maybe it sounds like settling, and to a degree it is. The reality is the media pushes us to find Mr. or Mrs. Perfect and they aren’t reality. They are fictitious. They are fantasy.
Finding real love and a real commitment is finding someone you can look at and say, “Yeah, I’d be best friends with you for the rest of my life, and I think it’s a bonus you’re nice looking, too.” That’s how I, myself, found a husband after years of wasted dreaming. I was 36 when I got married. I’m now 43.
If you want it, and judging from a number of your blog entries - this one included - I believe you do, then you might want to start thinking about making the effort for it instead of hiding away from it. Just a thought.