Talking Monkey Work

I have a DVD of The L-Word playing on the TV for background tonight, and a scene of Bette getting completely professionally undermined during a meeting got me thinking.  I said some snappy things to co-workers recently when confronted with really unprofessional or obnoxious behavior, and I have been feeling a little bad about this.  In hindsight, I am beginning to think that this is not such a bad thing. 

First of all, I have worked in IT for well over a decade now.  Your average office worker, when confronted with a technological problem, responds with all the decorum of a heroin-tweaking baboon. There have been times I have arrived on the scene seriously surprised that the walls weren't covered in feces and a fire set in the wastebasket.

And as any help desk staffer can tell you, this poo-flinging, primate rage is seldom only directed at the offending computer with the missing Start button. Even in the heat of battle, the cornered office-monkey knows that if they do more than bare their teeth and hiss at the computer, they will lose their jobs. This leaves all that adrenaline fueled fury primed to be horribly misdirected. Tossing your typical, socially maladjusted computer nerd into a room with 160 pounds of frothing, hulking technophobe often results in a verbal cage match that most people assume is merely the stuff of urban legend.

Anyway, the thing that has kept me alive in this industry has been the development of basic social skills.  This makes me far more professionally successful than I probably should be were the employers purely interested in technological skills. I'm sharp mind you, but the ability to talk to the technologically uninitiated in language they understand is vastly more important in this line of work. This brings me back to my original point regarding my guilt over snapping at co-workers when they scream and fling poo.

Watching the L-Word episode reminded me of the couple of times in my life where I've felt so completely undermined or attacked that I felt I needed to really respond. Every one of those incidents had two words in common: "Thank You." When I am pissed off beyond measure, a freakish calm overtakes me. I can not destroy my enemy unless I clear my mind. So when whoever it was finishes whatever tirade, insult, or tantrum sent me to the eye of my storm, I usually respond with a quiet, measured, "Thank you." Those who know me well tend to feel an involuntary shiver crawl down their backs at this point, and the object of my now white-hot wrath stands confused as I politely excuse myself to plan the disposal of the body.

So the reason I have decided not to feel guilty about the handful of times I've snapped at my foot-stomping co-workers recently is because none of them have made me want to say, "Thank you."   Yet...

So I'm sitting here at a strip club with no money, surrounded by joyous friends, happy couples, and one extremely drunk and horny birthday girl. Despite a collection of the best looking strippers I've ever seen at a club, I can't seem to get into the vibe. Why? Not really sure. I have some suspicions though.

Obviously, being broke does suck. Especially with $200 earmarked for the night sitting tantalizingly out of reach in an ATM account with a recently reset (and subsequently forgotten) PIN. Aside from the fact that this impacts my own enjoyment of the evening, it completely kills my ability to buy expensive private attention for the birthday girl.

Emotionally I'm in a very odd place. Recently sent to the dating curb with the recyclables, the aforementioned happy couples certainly have an impact. Throw into the mix the presence of an ex who, while I could never date again, is none-the-less one of those special people that part of you will always love and sigh a little over. I'm incredibly glad she's in one of those happy couples, but in my current state of acute alone-ness, seeing her horny and kissing and grinding against someone else does elicit a certain melancholy hollowness.

So those factors make it very difficult to just enjoy the evening. Then there's my relative lack of interest in strip clubs in general. No really. Hear me out. I love looking at naked women. Really do. But at a strip club, you can't touch them. Licking them is right out, no matter how many times your head is awkwardly slapped with boob. Taking them home is generally not an option except at places where you'd rather not take them home. And while it's hardly de rigueur to just drop trou and whack off, the places tend to be crowded with the kinds of creepy misogynists that look like they might at any moment anyway. So in that regard, strip clubs actually fall a little behind internet porn in the "practical uses" department. This means I have to be in just the right mood for such an excursion.

And today finds me not in that mood.

My whole life, I have taken introspection to a moderately unhealthy degree.  I break things down, analyze, re-analyze, consider, enumerate, etc. until my brain gets bored with it (rare), I arrive at a solution (more rare), something shiny (or naked) distracts me, or one of my better friends comes over and punches me in the head until I stop (more frequent than I care to admit).

So, while I am at a point where I feel like I've largely gotten over the painful portion of the breakup, I am now deeply entrenched in the analysis phase. I'm as yet not bored, no one is punching me, and I have not encountered anything shiny or naked.  So the analysis continues. And the question, of course, is what went wrong? There are two primary pathways that my brain has explored in attempting to answer this question for myself.

1. Commitment Horror
2. Thirty Day Expiration

Commitment Horror

This one is somewhat obvious based on the title, but deeply troubling for me. The essence of it is that the relationship advanced too quickly for her comfort, and at some point the speed of the attachment kicked in a panic response for her. This would naturally lead to shutting the relationship down.  Totally understandable.  This happens all the time.  This is also a horrific possibility for me because it means that there is the possibility of reconnecting in the future. Hope like that can drive a person insane. Which is why I favor option 2.

Thirty Day Expiration

This one is based on one of my General Dating Theories.  In case this comes up again later, we'll refer to this as GDT #1.  There are common milestones in most relationships at which point they are more likely to fail.  30 days, 60-90 days, and 6 months.  Hear me out on this, then go back and try to remember how long most of your failed relationships lasted. 

At 30 days, the new starts to wear off.  For 30 days, most relationships can sustain themselves almost entirely on physical attraction and the simple excitement of dating someone.  At this milestone, the excitement of the new relationship is no longer enough to sustain the relationship on its own.  If there's no other connection there, things tends to collapse.

At 60-90 days, you've been happy with this person for a while, but now that "adorable" nose-whistle has become decidely less adorable.  That cute thing she does at dinner is now kiling your appetite.  And so on.  All those things that started out as endearing quirks are turning into the obnoxious habits that you'll be basing your stand-up comedy routine on for the next four years.  If you can endure these things without resorting to coping mechanisms that include stabbing, garroting, or drowning, then the relationship may proceed to the next milestone.

Around 6 months, you're going to start to experience the first big dip in romance. Emotions ebb and flow like the tides. You've been surfing the tide of love for quite a while, and right about now is the time to start sifting through the slimy seaweed, picking at the barnacles, and fighting the crabs of low tide. If you and your love are able to deal with each others ... crabs, well then after this the milestones tend to get further and further apart.  Congratulations.

As my Over-Thinking is coming to a close (I hope), I am trying to convince myself that I simply fell victim to the 30-day clause of GDT #1.  I like it.  It's simple.  The timing fits.  Plus, it both absolves me of the fault of smothering her, and spares me the anguish of hoping that things will change.

Therefore, if any of my friends are planning a head-punching visit, please verify which way my thinking is leaning before hammering me into submission.

All right.  I have now posted the one melancholy pity party I am willing to allow myself.  On to the far more important step of mocking the living shit out of myself for the amusement of others.  I have been thinking back over the thirty day high speed relationship that just found its way to a close and looking for the humor in it.  Those of you who know me will not be surprised that there is much to be had, but the first thing that really stood out to me was the gradual way that it ended. 

I will return to some of my other dumbass manuevers later, but for now, I want to tell you an old joke.

A man needed to go away on an extended trip for his job.  He called his best friend and asked him to take care of his beloved pet cat while he was gone.  A week into the trip, the man received a phone call from his friend, "Your cat died."

The man was stunned. "What? How could you tell me like that?"

Confused, his friend replied. "What should I have done?"

Still upset, the man explained. "Soften the blow some.  You could have called in the morning to tell me the cat was on the roof and that you and the neighbors were trying to coax it down.  Then you could have called back in the afternoon to say that it fell and was injured, but that you brought the cat to the vet.  Then in the evening, the final call to tell me that they did everything they could, but the cat still passed away.  At least then I could have been prepared for the news a bit!"

The friend apologized, and they hung up.  A week later, the man's phone rang again.

"Your mother is on the roof."

While not a particularly funny joke, it still reminded me of the end of this relationship.  There were a number of conversations over the course of several days.  All of them contained clues as to where this process was leading, but due to resoundingly stupid optimism and an undying sense of hope, I successfully managed to ignore most of them.

So when I was told that my relationship was on the roof, I sat home honestly hoping that my friend and the neighbors could coax the relationship off the roof. And when I was told that it had fallen off and was now at the vet, I failed to question the wisdom of bringing a metaphorical emotional construct to the office of someone trained in providing medical treatment to animals (hope is silly like that). Yeah, I sat at home thinking that maybe some flea powder and a kennel cough vaccine could somehow salvage the failing relationship.

So when I got the final call that the relationship had indeed died, despite the best veterinary care available in the greater Dane County area, I still managed to be flabbergasted.

If there is a message to take home from this little encounter, I suppose it is that despite years of school and training, I still lack the same basic reasoning skills of fictional people in crappy old jokes.  Bummer.