As I write this a few friends on social media are drunkenly declaring a successful Saturday night of debauchery coming to a close. I am just waking up. This is not exactly how I planned my Sunday morning, sitting in my kitchen writing at 3:30 a.m., a full 3 hours before work.
And yes, for those people I do not know, I work on Sundays starting at 6:30 a.m. for a local television website. Remember that the next time you complain about getting up at 7 a.m. to go to your job on Monday. Stuck in this insomniac predicament where I have to go to work in a few hours anyway, I am doing what any middle-aged, single white male would do: heat up a bowl of oatmeal, chug a cup of coffee and fire up my computer. I’ve decided to do what I committed to do a couple of days ago in another blog post. I am writing, again in a meandering fashion, with no real point.
Moving aimlessly, and not necessarily forward, has sort of become a personal philosophy lately. The best life guide post rolling around in my head is the simple mantra, “be kind.” That probably won’t take me very far, and can be very difficult to pull off for a natural pessimist who suffers the occasional bout of deep insecurity that mutates quickly into jealousy. I try, though, and it keeps me focused as I march on towards nowhere in particular. Plus, I always find myself at least a bit happier when I pursue some simple purpose, and simply being kind is an admirable one I believe.
I can only take so much snark and sarcasm aimed at others before I drown in negativity and guilt surrounding the hypocrisy of my shortcomings in any given matter.
The reason the whole “be kind” thing even comes up at 3:30 a.m. is that sarcasm and jealousy most recently sparked itself when I read the announcement that a former college roommate is publishing another novel. I’ve always wanted to write one myself. The only thing I’m lacking is an original idea and the actual doing. Every time I see an announcement that someone else is publishing I’m reminded I really do want to, and I get angry and swear I could write a book too, perhaps even a better one, as if this is some vague life competition and I am losing.
Instead, I stuffed those thoughts down, and congratulated my friend in his announcement and tried not to appear bitter or small. Be kind, or at least die trying. And hence, my sharing it here.
I’m also vaguely aware that at 3:30 a.m. I am probably being way too confessional for my own good but this practice of writing more must start somewhere, right?
I looked for inspiration at this early hour to write something safer, more topical. I read this article, “Lighten up” in Runner’s World that discusses combating mild to moderate seasonal depression with exercise that I completely agree with. I thought about writing something about my own experience, but why? I have in the past and Runner’s World hits the depression and exercise issue square in the face with their article.
I also started reading this blog called the Nicki Daniels Interview. I thought about dedicating a post singing its writer’s praise, or riffing on its content (which I like). I’ll admit, there is some jealousy here as well. I feel this woman is a much smarter, better writer and blogger than myself. At the very least she’s a hell of a lot more successful at picking topics and getting people to engage her on her site. Her post, An Open Letter to Bearded Hipsters, had me rolling, doubting my own questionable decisions to grow a beard in the past, and launched me into an existential crisis about whether or not I’m a hipster in general. The latter is borderline. I’ve been told I dress and behave moderately like a hipster in the past. In, general though, being around too much plaid and skinny jeans makes me twitchy.
Nicki’s follow up response to the haters of that column convinced me I’d be perfectly OK with a woman calling me a pussy though.
Plus, I am always bragging about my own freakishly strong vagina, so by that logic if I call a guy a pussy I am actually calling him “amazing”. ~ Nicki Daniels
Anyway, if I survive this Sunday, with its 3:30 a.m. wake up, I plan on skipping the treadmill and going out for a dinner/lunch date with a woman I met on Tinder. Ever hear of Tinder? It’s this somewhat superficial dating app where you base your “like” of someone on three or four of their pictures fed in from Facebook, along with a couple of their interests. If you and said person “like” one another, then you can communicate. If not, tough shit, she doesn’t find you attractive enough based on four pictures and some quote on your FB page to communicate.
I’ve been told Tinder is basically a hook-up app, whatever that means. There are a lot of youngsters signed up there. Don’t worry though, the woman I am meeting is a mere five years my junior (damn I am getting old). And “hooking up” is probably not in my immediate future. I’ll probably debate “do we shake hands at the end or do I go in for the awkward back pat/hug” all throughout the dinner.
And honestly, swear to God, I was kind of kidding about Tinder being a ‘hook-up’ app when I started writing, then I just read this Huffington Post article, The Unwritten Rules of Tinder, for reference that confirms, yup, Tinder is a place to meet other people to snog with. (I love that word, snog. It sounds so British.)
Maybe I wouldn’t have confessed how I met my Sunday afternoon date if I had known for sure Tinder has that reputation. But then I wouldn’t have come up with this new rule: There is no backspace in these free-flow posts designed to get me back into the habit of blogging.
And let’s be honest, if a couple of those super-hot Tinder “matches” I already paired with really did want to hook up with me, I’d be super OK with that. “Hooking-up” is so “in your 20s” that as I approach 40, I’m kind of OK with feeling a little younger by doing something so shallow, though maybe admitting it here in writing is a bit problematic.
Anyway, enough self-humiliation for one morning, time to shower and shave and go to work.