20 January 2006
The Snitchmeister recommends that I read this book, and of course I shall, since it fits neatly into an ongoing research project, something along the lines of "If I'm so wonderful, why am I stuck at home this Friday night?"
Short answer: "The Hornets are playing the Wizards."
Entirely too long answer:
To borrow a phrase, I live with dust on my heart. It's uncomfortable, it impedes breathing, and it probably smells funny too. It is not, however, particularly lethal.
This paragraph by one of Glenn Reynolds' readers has been getting lots of play this week:
As a 48-year-old never married single man still in decent shape, successful and now retired, and having weathered the "feminist" cultural storm still raging since my teens, I can tell you that even your having read Norah Vincent's book, you STILL have no idea of the anger, the hatred, the vengeance and the pain so many otherwise attractive and available women are afflicted with. It is an epidemic of conflict and self-distortion that begins and ends with an impenetrable sense of entitlement, based on a false sense of victimhood, and for which not just any man but every man must pay forever for the restoration that's never good enough.
As a 52-year-old once-married (score that as a fluke) single man in suboptimal condition, hardly successful and a long way from retirement, I can tell you that while I have no doubt that some such women may indeed exist, I've never seen one: at least I've never been subjected to lengthy expositions of said anger and hatred and vengeance and pain, and I went to the trouble and expense of buying Maureen Dowd's book with the expectation of actually finding one. What I got was snark and petulance and more snark, which is something less than endearing, I suppose, but hatred? Not even close.
So maybe it's just me? Certainly I don't suffer from an exaggerated sense of entitlement:
My birthright, so far as I know, is to draw a finite number of breaths, and that's the end of it; anything else that happens during the interim is a matter of chance.
Nor do I buy into the notion that there's someone for everyone: there is a certain amount of symmetry in the world, but not that much.
But sometimes the simplest explanation is the most plausible. Love is two souls moving in the same direction; my particular path, torturously winding and lacking in both definition and destination, can be safely presumed to be of no interest to anyone but me.
Had I that sense of entitlement, I could rail about the general unfairness of life. But Babylon 5's Marcus Cole has the better argument:
You know, I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I thought, wouldn't it be much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them? So now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe.
There is no one for me, and there is never going to be. I accept this situation with approximately the same composure, even complacency, with which I accept my utility bills; I may complain once in a while, but the only rational response is to write the checks and live another month.
And, of course, to catch the Hornets game. (They're playing the Wizards tonight.)Posted at 6:09 AM to Table for One