The Desert of the Real

So my girlfriend has been out of town for a week. Sometimes I long for the life of a 1980s TV sitcom dad, put-upon and henpecked, living in anticipation for that one day when my wife would take the kids to her mother's and I could use these breaks of unaccompanied-ness to indulge in some narrowly hedonistic, advertiser's idea of a male-fantasy dreamscape in my blissful, scant hours of freedom. This would involve sitting in a room with other men, in a hot-tub-sized vat full of domestic beer, where the vat itself is made of pizzas, watching some kind of sport combination of golf-football-NASCAR on a wall-eclipsing TV set held up by Scandinavian bikini models.

But, alas, like most children, my reaction to television has been the same as most children's reaction to the people/media-device that raised them: I rebelled. Instead, I became Sensitive. I was supposed to just want to bone Kelly Bundy when she made her entrances, but all I could really think of were strategies I could use to help shore up her battered and marginalized sense of self-worth.

And yes, most of those strategies involved boning. But I was like 15. I was pretty sure that was the answer to everything.*

Like a lot of kids, I shunned one parent (television) in favor of the one that was less responsive to my needs: the CD player. I grew up listening to a lot of the Smiths and the Cure, who taught me different parts of the same lessons about the endemic injustice in a world unable to differentiate between the bullies and the winners, leaving the rest of us to rage, forgotten and unwanted and bruised, to the extent one can rage in a three-minute hooky mid-tempo acoustic guitar number.

I'm 39 years old now, and what do I have? I have feeeelings. And like any reasonable hetero adult male, I take those feelings and I write them down in my journal. Because I need to remember that not only can I be strong, but I've done it already. Like the time my girlfriend was out of town for a week. And like all people self-gifted with deep emotional intelligence, I won't even wait to ask before I share it all with you.

:::

Courage Journal

Girlfriend out of town

Day 1

I'm so proud of myself today. I was able to sleep for most of the night, even though the goodbyes the day before were... oh, they were rough. We didn't speak at all, we just stood four inches apart, in a classic dyad exercise, and "took in each other's light." That's how we put it. Well, there was no speaking, so that's how I put it in my head and sent it to her, silently, through my eyes and breath. I'm pretty sure she got it because of the way she closed her eyes and leaned into me and then snored a little bit. After 90 minutes of that, we felt just strong enough to brave the shattering blow of separation.

I did great. As I said, right to sleep. Woke up maybe four times, max. One of those times I did cry so hard I threw up, but it was all straight green bile and no food. So I feel strong this morning. For dinner I had turkey pot pie made from Thanksgiving leftovers (thanks, baby!), watched a few episodes off my Big Bang Theory Season 4 DVD gift box set, masturbated to some choice NSFW gifs and called it a day.

Day 2

I'm so proud of myself today. Slept all the way through without waking up, although when I did come to, the bed was absolutely soaked with what I'm hoping was sweat. Enjoying some of the novelty of having some time to myself. Played some video games, hunted around for a movie on Netflix (settled on Gigi), cry just a little, convince myself it's because of all the hope and love. I text her 41 times, in real time with the movie, so it's as though we're watching it together. I go for a walk. I catch myself attempting to hold my own hand.

For dinner I have leftover turkey pot pie, masturbate to banner advertisements to porn-site live-chat features, then go to bed.

Day 3

Called in sick to work. Just can't seem to get it together. Spend my morning furiously scrapbooking, trying to reconnect emotionally to "the good times," like 72 hours ago, but finding it increasingly difficult to remember the feeling of warmth against the glacial cooling of my heart. I send 421 texts over the course of the day, not all to her. I just need to connect. You know, anywhere. Mostly I feel confused and a little disoriented.

For dinner I had a burrito bowl from Chipotle. Can't fucking stomach the idea of one more bit of turkey. I masturbate to a picture of a turkey, then go to bed.

Day 4

No work again. It's Friday, but I just can't deal. I try to remember the last shower I took, but I might as well try to remember what it was like in the womb. I strike up a conversation with the plumber I called to fix the toilet I blocked up on purpose with kitchen towels and the last of the turkey pot pie. He's very understanding. I send 811 texts.

For dinner I had a bowl of lukewarm tapwater and a handful of sugar cubes. I masturbate to a digital scan of the album cover of Barry Manilow's first greatest hits album and then I go to bed, as though it would help.

Day 5

More than half way through, but the realization offers no comfort, let alone relief. If one is more than half way through a foot trek across the Sahara, is this cause for optimism? I send one text (dick pic).

For dinner I eat feelings. In the shape of Wheat Thins, about half a box. I masturbate to a phone camera picture of my own penis, then lay in bed, praying to be rendered unconscious.

Day 6

The last full day, but by now, I've embraced the pain. Or at least I try to: how do you put your arms around the hollowness at the center of your own soul? I listen to "Suffer Little Children" on a repeat loop for more hours than are countable in the haze of hypoxia caused by autoerotic asphyxiation. I forget to turn on my phone.

For dinner I eat an entire glazed ham and I am spent.

Day 7

I can feel the pull of longing increase as the object of my desire draws nearer to me as she heads home, like celestial bodies conjoined in a happily degrading orbit, progressing inevitably toward a collision of world-ending violence upon her arrival. But first we go to In-N-Out Burger. They don't have that where she was.


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*It was most definitely not, I recall, the answer to "how do we re-light the water heater pilot light?" Some lessons you have to learn the hard way.