I guess at 34 it must seem to be downright absurd for a man to be unable to come close at guessing where he fits in the world, how the world really sees him, whether he’s destined for greatness or obscurity, and all the adolescent wrestling with identity and manhood most men resolve by twenty and refuse to pick up again before they are 50.
Nonetheless, I feel like I have made some headway. I no longer cherish outlandish notions that some of the resident workplace hotties have secret crushes on me. Nor do I dwell in abysmal funks of believing I’m an overlooked or under-informed special needs kid–some kind of savant or autistic creature blissfully ignorant that major allowances are being constantly made on my behalf behind my back so that I can believe I’m living a normal life.
I don’t fill my head with too many fantasies where I end up catching the eye of some resident Austin filmmaker or movie star while jogging around Town Lake, and suddenly find myself in the role of “next Vin Diesel.”
I don’t pretend that God has it out for me in an intensely unforgiving sort of way, mercilessly allowing me to descend into Hell slowly via some painfully slow set of rings where each year, each decade is slightly less like that of a successful human.
I do still ask of the Universe how a man with stable job, steady career, careful clean living, college degree, computer smarts and average looks ends up alone most of the time. Is it because I aim too high rejecting all the fatties who would call me a catch? Or, am I missing some other natural way of being that presents itself to me as a secret–learned by other men long ago in midnight frathouse rituals?