What Was That Guy's Name Again? A Little Moment on my Soapbox

Ambiguity seems to be the addiction of the moment. So afraid are we of offending one another that we’ve fallen into this pattern of modifying our words and even our personalities so that we are liked. I’m semi-ashamed to admit this, but one of my favorite guilty pleasures is watching Spongebob Squarepants. Oftentimes, I come home from work, make myself an early dinner—imagining all of the blue-haireds who are doing the same thing at 5:00 in the evening and raising my glass in a silent toast to them—and sit down for an hour of cartoon comedy. What I love so much about this little escape of mine is that it inspires me. Before you think me pathetic, hear me out for a sec. Each character on this little pearl of a show is unapologetically himself. Spongebob never apologizes for being overly optimistic, never blushes at his unabashed enthusiasm for life. Likewise, Patrick never apologizes for being as dumb as the rock he lives under; nor does Squidword flinch at his own unencumbered negativity; and Mr. Krabbs would never be caught mumbling regret over chasing down a penny that escaped his pinched claws. Each one of these fictitious little men hold themselves to their own standards and rarely do they ask one another to be anything but.

Not true in our every day. In today’s world, people like Spongebob are put on Prozac to calm them down. The Patricks are enrolled in a Special Education class and told they’ll never amount to much. Squidwords write novels from some secluded hermitage, ranting and raving Salinger-style about the troubles of this world—oh, wait, is that what I’m doing now? And, people like Mr. Krabbs are owners of a thousand copies of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, all gifted to them by people who found their love of money morally concerning.

These people on the fringes suffer.

Because of this, the majority of us, myself included, have become an oatmeal-washed people. Afraid to speak up. Afraid to rock the boat. Afraid to be rejected.

And we’ve become boring.

And we are boring to date.

So, as I mentioned in my first post, I’ve been dating a lot. In July, I actually beat my own record and went on eight dates with eight different people in the span of ten days. Let me tell you, I can now get ready for a date within fifteen minutes. Lickety-split. And I don’t look too shabby either. And those nerves that should flutter in my belly before meeting someone new have been sent a-slumber by experience.

Out of those eight dates, only two were Spongebob-types—full of personality and funk, piss and vinegar, as grannies the world-round would say. The other six men sat politely across from me, asked the right questions, nodded at the right moments, chuckled at appropriate times, as if they were audience members at the taping of some sitcom and laughed only when the “Laugh” light flashed. They paid for the dates. Hugged me when the dates ended. And said “we should do this again”, both of us knowing full-well that the “again” would never come.

These polished frogs had gone to charm school where they surely had their warts filed off and their skin de-slimed.

And what I’ve learned about myself during the past few months of dating is that I’m really not seeking a frog that turns into a prince at all. I’m seeking a frog that owns his froghood. Who loves his warts and slime and knows that it is those that make him a more interesting, loveable person. After all, aren’t we all really wart-riddled, slimy souls who just want to be loved for exactly who we are?