My... Game?

Everybody has things they'd rather not have other people find out about. Whether it be the 8 year relationship the South Carolina governor had with his Argentinean mistress or the fact that I use Shiseido products (don't hate... my mom started me on them years ago and I got hooked). The truth typically comes out sooner or later. So fueled by this realization I've decided to come out and admit to my friends that I've been living under false pretenses. Some of you may already know. Some of you may have already guessed. The douchey asshole you see at clubs with the horrible lines and cat calls is merely a cover-up and an overcompensation of sorts. My metrosexual tendencies should have been a major tell (my closet is organized by color and I cried in the first ten minutes of Up.. all three times I watched it). But I figure it's time to come out of the closet and tell the whole world. After all, we live in SF and I'm definitely not the only one in the city with this affliction.

So therefore, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I am... a hopeless romantic..

Recently, in a bout of extreme loneliness, I succumbed to a romantic movie marathon complete with Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Sprawled on my couch amidst a sea of empty candy wrappers and half full cups of hot chocolate spiked with Baileys, I had a moment. In an estrogen and chocolate filled epiphany, I reconnected with my inner romantic. It was beautiful. An Amazing Grace, lost but now I'm found kind of moment. For those of you that know me, you know that this is a huge deal. Over the last couple years I've become more and more cynical and jaded about my perception of love. Gone was the wide-eyed youngster with dreams of fairytale romance. In his place, a battled-hardened Spartan rose like a phoenix from the ashes that once was that naive little boy. For the last year, I became love's vigilante, scouring the night for slighted men to offer my services as wingman and combat the evil ladyfolk that lurk in the dark corners of the night... clubs.

But I've since hung up my mask and cape. Clubbing no longer appeals to me. Girls at clubs aren't looking for a Mr. Right or even a Mr. Right Now. All they want is to dance away their troubles and possibly get a free drink. Men are optional. (See Object of the Game for more on this). Watching Definitely, Maybe by myself on a Friday night (pathetic, I know and worse, my Netflix recommendations now consists solely of chick flicks) made me realize that love is still out there (along with the fact that guys should never watch romance movies alone. It's like instant emo, just add scotch. We need to institute a buddy system for chick flicks. Leave no pansy behind!). If you didn't find the right girl the first time, or the second time.. or the tenth time, it's no reason to throw in the towel. If Rocky Balboa can make six boxing movies while fighting the onset of arthritis, there's no reason why I should lose hope at my age... or even at his age. I just need to tweak my outlook and rework my approach.

But until I formulate a workable game plan, I'll continue overcompensating and strutting around the dance floor grinding up on girls and spilling drinks on unsuspecting prey. Holla! After all, it's a proven fact that girls like assholes and nice guys finish last. I'll just have to quench my yearnings for a happily ever after through yet another Rachel McAdams movie marathon. So... anyone free next Friday?