Monday, April 4, 2011
Bub is a pretty typical male from what I can tell. He lays around most of the day, farts in everyone’s general direction, ignores authority figures and has a whopper of an oral fixation. He’s not very well-read, not into opera, would rather bask in the glowing contrast of TV. He expects to be waited on pretty much 24/7, has little patience for perceived failure, and smiles when you take his pants off. Now while the physical differences are limiting—he can’t blow his own nose or cut his toenails—the emotional similarities are undeniable.
For starters, it’s hard to get a read on him; he’s never been the open-book type. Oh sure, he groans and grunts his (dis)approval quite readily, but he doesn’t really say anything, does he? Heart not on sleeve, so to speak, whatever that means. You ask him a serious question, his go-to response is a gaping stare. You try to talk to him about your day, he starts yawning. Real mature.
No, he never really shares his feelings. Unless he’s oversharing. He essentially has two modes of physical expression—asleep and a-rage. And much like his old man, it’s never the big things, no. What usually sends him over the edge is the seemingly innocuous. Braining himself on the coffee table, he’ll bawl a little until shown a brightly-colored object in close proximity. Problem solved. But should that fikey take an untimely dislodging from his toothless grip, he suddenly goes Olaf Berserker. But here’s the kicker--give it back, he suddenly doesn’t want it. Not only does he not want it, he never even wanted it the first place. And why would he? That’s stupid, Daddy. You suck on it.
What does he want then? Of course he doesn’t know—how could he? Not the most introspective creature you will happen upon. And he is, like most of us, limited by the constraints of his man-dom. He only knows: 1. Whatever “it” is, he’s not getting it, and 2. That pisses him off. This is a pretty fair microcosm of the human male condition—always looking for something slightly out of reach, something that can’t be clearly defined or pin-pointed. Imbued with that sense that there must be something more out there, the futile frustration of not knowing where to look for whatever it is, and the inherent disappointment of not finding it.
But lucky for us, Neo, there is no spoon, and it’s not the question that drives us. Only when you stop looking do you finally realize it’s not what you’ve been looking for that really matters at all—it’s how you go about trying to find it.