Why Celibacy Works So Well For Me

You know I’m all about the emotional thrills and spills that come with leading a bit of a frantic life. I’ve said it before, but I’m happiest on those days that are about other people and what I can do for them. I used to think that it was because it feels good to serve others, but now I suspect I’m changing, and mostly like service for the escape it offers from one’s own crazy existence.
Allow me to elaborate. Ever have one of those days when little things that shouldn’t bother you hit ya like a ton of bricks? Or you feel like you’re dropping again and again from Disney’s “Tower of Terror?” Yep. That was my Tuesday.
Sometimes, it’s even a little funny amid the shocking and scary. For example, out of nowhere, I got a text message from Mr. Sam’s Club (whom I’d not gone out with yet)—it was one of those cheesy animated ones. Well, at first, this was not a big deal. He’d sent me a “good morning” message the day before that had a rose (boo to roses!) picture, and even though it was kind of trashy in a myspace kinda way, it was a little funny. Tuesday’s message: not funny. This was the “I Love You” message. And let’s be honest, Sam’s Club doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even know me (poor chap, I can’t even refer to him by his name anymore, for fear of someone meeting him someday). My first reaction was to drop the phone. Then I picked it up and quickly erased the message. Then I pretended like I didn’t get it. I think it’s funny that oft times, the fastest way to a man’s heart is to let him know you’re interested, but the surefire way to get me to hate you is to act like you like me. It reminded me of the time the 55-year-old man said, “Rachel, if you were a few years older and I were a few years younger, I’d never let you go.” I’d thought hindsight would make it flattering, but a year later, it’s still plain creepy.
But the emotional trauma did not stop there. I’ll admit, I had a hard time focusing on work yesterday. I was far too busy blogging and updating my facebook page (talk about a colossal waste of time—the latter, of course). While looking through some old pictures, I saw that you-know-who is back on the social network bandwagon. Why is my stomach now in my feet? It shouldn’t matter. I’ve moved on. The other day someone asked me how many boys I’d kissed and I said, “Gosh, I feel like there was someone else… Who am I missing?” I’d forgotten him. And that’s honest. But the old idealist in me still feels like I should be friends with all those fellas I date unsuccessfully (even Mr. 55, now 56-year-old), and acknowledging the existence of someone out there who used to be a huge part of my life but is now so completely not is still hard to take. It doesn’t open up a wound so much as it reminds me of a small, perpetual void. I’m far from hollow anymore. I just have a little hole around the right ventricle.
Another scary thing for that day was putting myself out there again. For those of you who don’t know me well, or haven’t been reading long, I’m super good at messing up. A couple of weeks ago, things that were boiling under the surface exploded in one of my close friendships, and the lava of hurt hardened before disaster relief moved in. Here and there, things got better. Some of the unpleasant side-effects were easier to take care of than the problem at hand, try as I might to get to the root. Just when I thought I could chip away at the asphalt, some more magma would spew out all over me. And well, a lot of it is my fault. Don’t play with fire if you don’t want to get burned and all that. Is that metaphorical and ambiguous enough for you? My friends who know me well are aware of exactly what I’m talking about, but talking is part of what got me in trouble in the first place. Anyway, I made another stab at it. In addition to the phone call, the email, the texts, the notes passed in Sunday School, the (somewhat of a) jest that our friends would beat us up or hold us hostage until we could work out our issues (an idea I wasn’t completely opposed to), I tried something new that I hope will work: the nostalgia factor. Let’s just say I employed colored paper in a chain to try to get a message across. I don’t know if it will work, but I guess I’ll go ahead and keep trying. Having my now-foote-level (ha-cha-cha) stomach jump up to my throat (along with my heart) feels ookie, but friendship is worth the temporary discomfort of your innards being in the wrong places. Just ask a kidney donor.
And for another little bit of color to my life, a friend of a friend is setting me up with a guy on Thursday. I happened to catch a glimpse of would-be-date last night. And by happened to see him, I mean my friends called the guy down to the restaurant where they work and I was dining. I asked them not to introduce me. He seemed like an ok guy from my position five bar stools down. But out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw my pal Chris giving a nod in my direction, and newbie Jack saying, "Not bad." Not bad?!!?! I spew you out, lukewarm lover! Actually, when I asked Chris about it later, he said that didn't happen, but still. I guess "not bad" is not that bad, but it doesn't necessarily make a girl feel "not horrible." It kind of reminds me of that time I was visiting my cousin in Georgia and his (very drunk) friend came over in the middle of the night and loudly proclaimed to my cousin's charming and homosexual housemate downstairs, "I can't sleep with Jordan's cousin!" Of course he couldn't, any more than any of the gentlemen in the house (though Richard the housemate would have been by far the leader in any such competition), but something about hearing it was so insulting. What? I'm not good enough for you, you little drunk punk?
So all this gets me thinking that it's a good thing I'm little Miss Celibacy. Aside from the obvious reasons of not wanting to be a big-time sinner, etc., etc., I again see how hopeless I am with men. When they love me (or, in the case of Sam's Club [whose date I postponed, but it's bound to happen sometime] or 55-year-old, they make grand overtures, especially early on), I'm 100 percent put-off. When they hate me, I obsess over what I could have done to save at least the friendship part of our relationship. When they are ambivalent, I want to give them a good smack. This is why I'm single and my celebrity crush is Matt Lauer.