Talk You Out of It

I find that it is very revealing to have a first-time meal with these so-called successful/well-earning men. I’m sure if one does an experiment, a curious study could come by. Of course, these days, you could take a large enough sample size and prove anything. But every time I have been on one of these tables I’ve come away with an interesting anecdote to tell. On most of these, I pay my own bill after the men have asked me to do so. I am totally okay with it but it is always interesting to watch how they ask you to pay for yourself. Although, this post is not about that.

So, this other day I’m sitting across one of these men and the conversation is about virtually nothing when it turns into the alleyways of identity and the human condition. Allow me to tell you I am sitting at this table more out of a matter of keeping my word than being even remotely interested in actively participating. After all, I’ve just attended my first Sabbath service at a Jewish Temple. I’m in awe of how a small rock band played the holy songs that night. I am reminiscing about the time of the year when the nights are long and the days are short and the rabbi, in his sermon, drew parallels drawn to this seasonal shift with our lives. Sometimes the nights are long, he said. (God damn, yes, they are.) And I have not even had the time to replay all of it in my head the way I do when I want to commit an experience to memory. So that someday I can write about it. (Let’s face it, I do half the things I do so that I can write about them.)

Any way. So I am sitting there across this table and talking about personal identity, the meaning of one’s life, what drives us, and of course, the human condition. Philosopher names, Book titles, quotes and studies are being thrown around. An abominable lamb dish is had. A fancy tea with mulberry and lemons is brought to clean up the palate. A candle nestled inside a glass holder flickers. The evening grows darker. Now, no one more than your girl loves having such conversations. Don’t you think, I would? But God, I disliked this one so much. And for a conversation that I disliked, I did smashingly well during it. Who doesn’t want to be the girl that quotes the Gestalt philosophy over dinner? Heck yes, I do. And I was. Except that I didn’t enjoy it one bit.

I’m sure it is a phase, but the truth is I don’t care a fig for talking about such things anymore. What do they mean? What do they account for? Nothing. And these men are not interesting to me anymore. (No offence to the Mister, I’m sure he’s a swimmingly fine lad.) Men who want to sit and talk about the universe and the way human identity is shaped. Men who want to debate whether the self is stitched up with the rest of our fellowmen or not. Yada yada. Make no mistake. I have been attracted to this type of man in the past. They spout scientific and philosophical theories and life experiences (all coated with their male privilege) and have a glint in their eye when they quote a scientist you don’t know about. They will move their hands (on which they will wear a sturdy watch) with style and coordinate it with the sound of their voices. They will look at you when you’re talking and ask you a follow-up question about what you think. It’s all very attractive. Except that it is not anymore. To me. (To many girls, this is very much a catch, so men, please keep doing it.)

I have no interest in anyone, man or woman, who wants to sit around and talk about the placement of a sandwich in the space-time continuum and the morality behind eating a sandwich. I don’t mean this romantically. I mean it platonically. (I don’t meet men over dinners as romantic encounters. Alas.) It is not like I have never done this before. I have. I’ve had these conversations in various themes and combinations with many, many people. But I am so vexed about this meaningless conversation that evening, I can’t even begin to tell you. Heck, I just wanted to go over to some close friend and crib about it. But I didn’t. So, here I am. I know this is a rant post, so allow me my luxuries. I don’t care about being existential over a sandwich. I do care, however, about a man getting up to make that fucking sandwich and eating it right off the plate when it is done. All this talk is just that. Talk. And I am not impressed by it anymore.

Man, go make me a sandwich.