Is Love Enough?

All you need is love.

John Lennon in 1967

To love is to find pleasure in the happiness of others.

Gottfried Leibniz in 1696

Love has, over the centuries, become the ultimate utility player in the game of life.

Love began as God's go-to starter in an all-star line-up that includes omnipotence, omnipresence and righteousness. Now there's a team. Throw in a little unchangeability and you're looking at an unbeatable outfit. What are you going to challenge them with? Fallibility? Materiality? Mortality?

Good luck with that. 

Which explains why we've co-opted love for ourselves. Love is the most malleable of all the spiritual descriptors, the most likely to forgive, the one that won't judge. Human love can accept a lot of behaviour we might otherwise consider less than godly:

He cheats; but I still love him.

She verbally abuses me; but we still love each other. 

We're alcoholics; and we can overcome that together because our love is strong. 

It's as if love is a kind of clueless fairy floating above everything, ignoring the dark side of humanity, prescribing pixie dust to fix things. Which is fine if you can likewise float about dishing out magic cures, but somehow I think you are with me down here in real life. Our lives are messy and unpredictable, a mystery in almost every way. I think we've adopted love as a code-word for unjustified optimism, to short-circuit disagreement and facing up to shitty things.

But enough negativity. Here's a list of qualities of which humans are capable that in my opinion are more valuable than love, especially in marriage, not least because - unlike love - they're definable. 

* honesty

* patience

* good humour

* integrity

* thrift

* an ability to look life in the face

* a sense of perspective 

and this one, which I stole: 

* absolutely no agenda or ambition for you beyond that you're happy

Which takes us neatly back to the Leibniz quote. In my thinking, a practical love is one in which you wake up every morning thinking about how you can make your sig oth happy.



Bottoms Up, morning lovers.

Break-Up City, Population: A Lot.

What proportion of break-ups are amicable, do you think? One-half? A quarter? Ten percent? Five percent? Five total?

My guess is fewer than one in twenty bust-ups are mutually agreeable to the point where the two people involved are happy with the decision after two weeks. I base this on my best analysis of the asymmetry of most relationships, which in normal language means that one person is always more into it than the other. That's the point of stress in all our dealings on this quasi-romantic level - inequality of expectation.

There is no way around this notion that most relationships are pretty much doomed from the beginning. If you're a serial monogamist, you're living in a neighbourhood full of cul-de-sacs and regular, non-French dead-ends. It's the way the town-planner - the devil himself - designed it. If you want a continual stream of new lovers in your life, the price you pay is the angst and dislocation of perpetually reaching the end of the road, sometimes pretty soon after taking the turn.

Sure, some roads don't reveal themselves as going nowhere until quite some time later. That means when you do come to the "Wrong Way: Turn Around" sign, the break-up will be even more tearful, the recriminations way more cutting, and the hurt much longer lasting.

And I don't buy the whole schtick about women being more affected by a busted relationship than men. There are cold, callous women just as there are flippant, uncaring men, for whom a break-up is just another speed bump. Men and women process and reflect the consequences of the end of an affair (in the widest sense) differently. From that stems the different ways we communicate our emotions to the world. Even though men will use bravado through the loss, their dislocation is no less painful. Endless talking and re-hashing isn't our style.

There is a way out of this neo-modern hook-up and dump city. But for me to tell you would be presumptuous in the extreme.



Bottoms Up, Turn and Burners.

How Good Is Your Meetability?

Meetability is my word for the combination of all your attractive qualities multiplied by how well you project them.

There are two kinds of Meetability:

Passive Meetability is the vibe you show the universe as an everyday matter, when you're not consciously trying to meet people.

Active Meetability is the style in which you actively engage folks, the interactive qualities you communicate to others.

The point of me pointing out Meetability is that you might be the most beautiful, gracious, thoughtful, sweet, loyal and good-humoured person in the world...but it all means zero if you can't find a way to get that message to others. And although I haven't given this acres of thought, I have an inkling that simple self-awareness of your Meetability level at any point will make a difference.

An example: When you're in that coffee line in the morning, take a small inward look. Are you dressed attractively? Groomed the way you like? Standing upright? Smiling? Thinking positively about the day ahead?

Picture yourself from the aspect of the people ahead and behind you in line. Would YOU like to talk to you? That's your Passive Meetability.

Now, if you decide to say "Good morning" to the person ahead of you in line, your Active Meetability will come to the fore. People naturally react well to eye-contact, calmness, and the ability to engage without distraction. When you say "Good morning", mean it, and then listen for the response. Meetability is about not just going through the motions.

Note: Don't think we have to apply some kind of universal standard here. If your idea of good grooming and sartorial splendor is post-work-out funk and an orangutan suit, that's cool. Meetability is whatever you decide is putting your best forward. You'll attract what you will. Artifice doesn't work in the long run.




Bottoms Up, Detached Self-Analyzers.

Slowhand

The saying goes:

"If only I knew then what I know now. I'd be cleaning up."

This is completely cock-eyed. Now I'm noticing my maturity - mostly in this grey hair that appeared (apparently) overnight - I see it for what it is. Maturity is another word for justifying loss of adventurousness.

It breaks down like this. When you're young and wide-eyed, you:

+ understand women only at the fringe

+ have no fear if she's bad for you

+ don't care whether she's good for you

+ concern yourself only with starting something

Experience, actually bad experiences, are a proxy for maturity. But I now think that a more useful maturity is one that maintains a willingness to be unafraid and a knowing of where real dangers lie.

Call it having slow hands with quick feet.



Bottoms Up, Young Singles.

Incompetent Cervix

The initial hint that you're dealing with a very different animal comes in that first sex-ed class. When they show that slide of the interior female, the shock lasts a long time, I can tell you.You know the one, that diagram - anterior view I think it's called - showing the lower lady thorax's contents in all its glory; uterus, tubes, ovaries and all. No disrespect intended, but when a ten year-old boy is faced with this for the first time, it looks positively alien. Like something a cheap sci-fi movie props man cobbled together, the vague likeness of a venus fly-trap.

Not only are there all those odd-looking parts, but they do odd things, too. Eggs shoot out, stuff builds up on uterine walls, hormones rain all over the shop and there's blood everywhere. (Although sex educators are at pains to point out the wonder, mystery and beauty of all this argle-bargle, stressing that periodic blood is different from circulatory blood.)

See, I paid attention.

The first reaction is "OMG, all that's inside you?" drawing inevitable comparisons to one's own alien parts. In our case, they're only mildly other-wordly, being, as they are, more out there. Besides, the penis is a simple hydraulic/plumbing fixture and more or less self-contained. Balls? Best to consider them biological punctuation.

Puberty and sexual maturity change everything, naturally. What at first seemed gooey and intimidating becomes, well, still gooey and intimidating, but in a way that makes a bloke devote his life to lady-parts exploration. Then there's the secret of actual child-bearing, where the complexity multiplies, together with the possible problems.

For instance, an incompetent cervix is a mere inconvenience to a woman; an incompetent penis would devastate a man. Therein the difference between the sexes.



Bottoms Up, Triffids.

State of the Union

After a couple of months' reflection, a few thoughts:


+ men want women

+ women want men


Some motivations last longer than a tv season. Additionally, it is mostly the case that:


+ men want to (eventually) find the one woman with whom to live HEA

+ women want to (eventually) find the one man with whom to live HEA


No revelation there, either, although I think we underestimate men's desire for this, especially as marriage appears to provide more physical and mental health benefits for them.

Notwithstanding part II, above:


+ men often pursue women diabolically unsuitable to the job of living HEA

+ women often pursue men chronically unable to live with them HEA


Which is fine, because previous generations are horrible at passing on their experience, and so we need to learn the same lessons about failing at relationships. Each generation relearns afresh. However:


+ men often settle rather than quit

+ women often settle rather than quit


I think the reason we sabotage ourselves in the search for the right person is that it's fun chasing and being chased - we get off on pursing and being pursued. In short, the game itself becomes the objective.

There comes a point in every relationship - except with the one - when we need to call it off. It might be after the first date or it might be after a year, but bailing will be the best course for both of you.

That's the trick IMO. Knowing when to jump, and knowing when to stick.



Bottoms Up, Gamers.

The Date Horizon

Alyssa Miller

Two qualities I observe in my own brain:

1. It looks for patterns of behaviour (in women I date) that might or might not exist.

2. Its imagination leaps to long-term possibilities with women far beyond reality.

They're both manifestations of an inaccurate Date Horizon. The Date Horizon (did I just coin this?) is the natural expectation of what's reasonable from the other person given the current state of the liaison. For instance:

* After a first date, the Date Horizon can really only extend to the possibility of a second.

* After the first sex, the Date Horizon probably includes some number of future sessions. (NOTE: Or none.)

* Once the Fidelity Agreement's in place, the Date Horizon extends out by a few months.

* Marriage takes the Date Horizon at least to the natural horizon.


I imagine that we all get ahead of ourselves when we start out with someone new. Sadly, it's unrealistic and I believe ultimately destructive when the other person fails to live up to our dream (the hide!) or we actually start living in a way that's not reality-based.

So. Note to self: One step at a time. Take each date as it comes. Understand not everyone will work out. Keep a tight rein on the imagination. Watch how nice it is when the Date Horizon really does move beyond tomorrow.



Bottoms Up, Imagineers.

Women are from Two-Stroke

 Ferrari F430

I read Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus when it was published a few light years ago. It was enlightening in an obvious way, by which I mean that the metaphor overwhelmed the information. Does anyone not understand that men and women are different? Did we need an entire book to make that point? Were the stereotypes thusly created valuable?

Still, it created positive controversy. The chattering class had something vaguely titillating with which to pretend-shock friends, and Dr Oprah's millionaire factory created another alumnus. Chalk it up to nothing succeeding like success.

But something about the premise bugged me, and still does. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the idea that men and women are from different planets - abstract as the whole deal is - strikes me as more divisive than creative. We're the same species divided into two sexes, not two civilizations.

Anyhoo, as they say in the classics, I found a metaphor that I like that helps explain one Martian/Venusian characteristic, and it's this:

Men's sexual motor is always on, idling when not in gear, revving hard when in motion.

Women's sexual motor is off much of the time, needing to be started before moving  from the curb.

Neat eh?

Because I always take stuff too far, I'd say that:

Men are diesels. Diesels happily run all the time, but also thrive on hard revving.

Women are two-stroke engines NPI. Two strokes are lively and have high power-to-weight, but are best suited to be on when needed, and off when not.

Men, this was a teachable moment for me (another modern linguistic triumph.) Remember, before attempting anything, first start her up, and, better still, warm her up.




Bottoms Up, Internal Combustors.

Be Careful For What You Wish

Eva Amurri

A recurring theme in my life is how often I learn lessons about living by making mistakes. I write Kiss & Blog because airing my thoughts on dating and relationships helps with nailing down at least a few rules of engagement. Falling flat on one's face is a universal experience for anyone who has ever had more than one encounter with the opposite sex, but I can't help wondering how much better my nose would look had I been privy to some inside skinny before I began. Your nose, of course, is as cute as a button.

It does begin with one's parents. Not only do we have DNA shepherding us behind the scenes, we all model our behaviour on the example they provide(ed). Some examples are good, of course, but many aren't and a number are downright destructive. Awareness of this helps. Out-thinking one's formative environment can lead to a better life. That's pretty much where I'm at, figuring out what my programming is - genetic and environmental - and deciding whether any of it is any good.

Taking a long, hard look around leaves me quizzical at how many others are in the same position. My parents gave me precisely zero sexual education, no tips on relationships and not one guiding principle on how to avoid girl-trouble. (Not that girls are intrinsically trouble - it's the way I behave around them that creates such a thing.) So it's an almost universal co-ed dorm room, this University of Life and Love where we all start from scratch, generation after generation. Wouldn't it be cool if we could build knowledge of what works and what doesn't and pass it on to our babies? Yes, but apparently we don't.

Everything I know is a synthesis of experience (good and bad), both mine and peers as related to me. Which is a problem of itself. When we grope for understanding based on what our buddies tell us, dating life can easily slip into some odd movie combination of American Pie and American Psycho. Finding the path that's right for each of us as individuals requires a lot of going it alone. No way around it.

All of which leaves me in the following position: I work to discover the architecture of how to live life. Finding a framework on which to hang a desirable façade, one that's true to the underpinning foundations, is a lifetime quest.



Bottoms Up, Lifetime Questers.

Tell Him He's Dreaming

 Zarah Pacheco pic credit.

I do it all the time - I get stuck in my head, thinking about meeting the perfect gal, how it would all be so neat and clean and happy ever after. Living like this courts trouble, especially when we're talking the sex and so on, because the mind doesn't own a watch. Time has no meaning in daydream fantasy land, so that when a real life prospect comes along in actual real life, time actually applies and I crash to earth.

Time's important because there's really no fast-forwarding through the getting-to-know-you period. We're not like automobiles; there's no plugging in a computer to check the status and history of all the machine's systems, as fun as it is to imagine doing that with a person.

Okay, Bud, whattawe got here? Alrighty, looks like her history's pretty clean. Body's straight. Transmission's been replaced, looks like it was a warranty job, so that's good. Fluids all clean and changed regularly. Tyres are getting close to the limit, but will do for now. She needs to go for a long ride, I'd say she only does short trips around town, so she needs a good blow-out. Apart from that, I'd say you've got a solid prospect here. 

Wouldn't it be neat to know precisely what you're in for when you meet someone? Of course, there'd be no discovery, but really, revelation's over-rated. History's chock-full of dead explorers.

But back to this planet. We're all PDG at masking stuff we think needs hiding - but not forever. Some kind of universal consensus hovers around the eighteen month mark as about the period required to uncover your sweetie's suitability. That's about the time Magellan took to get half-way around the world.

Just for the record, he died there.



Bottoms Up, Relationship Mechanics.

Kissing Confidential

Gwendolyn Whiteside's photo credit. 

I was seven and she was seven. She kissed me once, then she kissed me again. She turned into my first kissing partner, a classroom conspiracy engineered by her. I was a lost but complicit co-conspirator, unsure of what it was all about. Why is she doing this? What part should I be playing here? Why does she taste so good?

Jane Phillips, where are you? Wanna give it another shot?

The kissing faded, as did her ardor for me. Perhaps our mutual lack of make-out skills doomed us from the start, but my suspicion is that I killed it. Too much thinking, not enough action. I should have just rolled with it, especially as Jane not only brought extra lunch to school for me, but went out of her way to walk home with me too. She was the definition of the perfect girlfriend. With memory of the kissing faded, what remained was her smell, which I can conjur to this day.

But Jane wasn't the first person to kiss me. That would, presumably, have been my mother. Right, so they're two completely different kinds of kissing, but they're the same physical action separated only by context. Interesting that at a family function we can kiss a close friend or relative as a sign of connection and fealty, then go on to kiss our wife or husband and communicate something so much more. Kissing is both an instrument of alliance and of overt sexuality.

If you're a mechanistic evolutionist you'd look for a reason for the kiss. For kissing to survive as a behaviour it must have some benefit for both parties. Let's see. There is the transfer of germs - good for babies acquiring their parents' immune sophistication. There is the shared smell of swapping skin flakes and saliva - a sort of hazmat solidarity. And there's the busting of the very last ring of personal space - a what's yours is mine suspension of physical defences. Add up these elements and we have that most endearing of human qualities, the ability to give yourself to another, signalled by the pressing of one's mouth onto the body, head or mouth of another.

Evolution is a brutal judge of superfluous behaviour. Kissing survives for only one reason, and that is because it aids species continuation. Kissing is a quick and dirty way of figuring out if you're a sexual match. Bad kisser, bad lover. If she tastes wrong, she probably is wrong. On the other hand, someone who gives good kiss moves a long way up the list of preferred partners, and, speaking personally, a good kisser is a heavenly gift notwithstanding the outcome. A good kisser stands alone as such, or can lead to extra complexity ie: another generation of kissers.

Which brings me to the undeniable fact - that kissing has power beyond simple intimacy. We're social creatures, and we're tactile too. We want to meld with a special other, and the power of this drive appears to go beyond mere reproduction. At a fundamental level, we understand that attachment to another one and then descending levels of closeness to relatives and non-related individuals in concentric circles fulfills us. It's tribalism, the need to belong and know that we belong. Hence the kiss of enormous variation, from the humble kissing of the hand - at your service, Your Majesty - to the unbridled heat of connection during sex.

 Kissing sends the universal message - I want to be a part of you.




Bottoms Up, You Big Beautiful Kissers You.

Wingmaniac

Thinking you're a good Wingman and exhibiting good Wingman skills aren't the same thing. A useful Wingman should...well, just what constitutes a good Wingman?


A competent Wingman or Wingwoman should:

-> Act in the interests of the Leader at all times

-> Put themselves second in the pursuit of a mate (deferring to the Leader)

-> Do whatever works in attracting likely love interests (for the Leader)

-> Give honest and accurate feedback to the Leader

Wingmanship is all about unselfishness and reflecting of one's ability to attract (however small) back onto the other guy. It's like being a birdfeeder next to a cat's hiding place. Here birdie, look at the tasty sunflower seeds.

But when my Leader said the following, he needed to hear the truth:

Okay, Wombat. When Stephanie comes in, I want you to find a way to let her know that I'm interested, but I need to know she's not just being touchy-feely, and really wants to be touchy-feely.

Hmmm. This sounds bad. Male uncertainty resolves only rarely in his favour. And, as expected, Stephanie arrived in a wave of perfume and hugs...for everyone. She did reserve special attention for my Leader, but the energy shouted "amused interest" rather than "take me now". Although I have to say there was a spark of something there, to which my buddy had assigned sexual possibility.




So I invoked Wingman's Responsibility #4. He needed to know that while Steph was certainly worthy of his exploration, the green lights he saw where faux. His instinct was telling him this, hence my involvement.


When she's really interested, you'll be in no doubt, I advised. Oh. And when she's over her ex. 






Bottoms Up, Wingpeople.

Unidentified Flying Objects and Pianofortes

Unfortunately, all the YooEffOh enthusiasts are wrong. No way would aliens smart enough to fly here actually make the trip, and here's why: FM radio. All those thousands of radio stations are blasting a wall of sound into space, a kind of Force Field of FM. NEW 105, ROCK94.4, YOURBESTOFTHEEIGHTIES 101.5 have been sending an electromagnetic shock wave into the rest of the universe for decades.



If we can barely stand it, what do you think the Little Green Women in flying saucers will think?



One horrific consequence of spending a lot of time driving is exposure to the idiocy of FM music stations. Hells Teeth, listening should come with a Government Health Warning, like cigarettes:



Caution: More than three hours per week exposure to FM music stations will cause your brain to mushify and leak out of your ears.



In my considered analysis, a big part of the problem is that the music on FM is all AT ONE VOLUME - LOUD. The reason is that most people are listening, like me, in the car, with all the associated noise competition. Radio stations know this. Then the ads play, and they're at VOLUME 11 so the message gets through. Ah, no. I don't want to lease a new Chevy Malibu at an all-time low price, thank-you. For the fifty-seventh time.



So one naturally hungers for music more in tune with one's soul. Music is meant to speak to the emotions, and emotion implies ups and downs - in strictly musical terms, piano through forte, soft through loud. Classical music (by which I mean everything from Baroque through mid-century Big-Bands) fits the bill. The nuance of volume changes opens a door to somewhere in our heads that standard FM music cannot.



If I were an alien, I'd be repulsed by mono-volume music and intrigued by vari-volume music. Life (and relationships) can't be lived at full-throttle all the time, so finding a tune (or a person) fitting the spectrum of emotions that fit mine is the thing.







Bottoms Up, Turn it up to Eleveners.

Overthinking: Engaging the Complication Cicuitry

Road warrior pic credit.

Wouldn't it be sweet if life was a simple progression from certainty to certainty? If at every point requiring a decision, we had a Wombatproof method by which we could choose the right path, time after time?

I say Wombatproof because I have an impeccable record of, at forks in the road, leaving the paved superhighway behind. Instead I battle on with the steep and rocky path strewn with monsters and zombies and mantraps with pointed sticks at the bottom. Very pointy sticks. The impression I have is that everyone else is able to choose the better way on more than a random basis, but what do I know? - I'm a notoriously bad judge of character.

Changing the way I approach forks in the road is a slow business. Especially with respect to ladies, a clear-cut way to move forward can be difficult to find. One could trust one's gut, of course, but clarity of communication isn't Gut's forte. When Mind gets involved, it's like the whole rest of the world gets to have an input - there's so MUCH information that can be pretzeled into a decision.

It's like there's a whole department of the brain specifically designed to complicate even the most simple thing. For instance: Should I call her back now or later? Is it too soon? Will she think me too keen? Too needy? Not needy enough?

Exhausting, isn't it. In writing this, the answer becomes clear, but I'd still like some way to disengage the Complication Circuitry. All is does is send me around in circles.





Bottoms Up, Over-Thinkers.


wombat@kissnblog.com

Energy Drinks

Picture credit, Samantha, archetypal hotness.

My friend Samantha and I had drinks tonight. She's looking as foxy as ever, which does nothing to explain why it's been nearly three months since last we took wine.

Or maybe it does.

If you're a single guy (like me) and a single woman (like Sam), there's an energy surrounding the two of us, like any energetic non-related couple. We share singlehood and all the mysteries THAT presents, for better or worse. We're like brothers-in-arms in the dating wars.

Sam's friend Maria happened along, so your humble correspondent was now surrounded by primo tail - not to disparage the ladies. Men think of all kinds of stuff in terms of meat and lobster metaphors. Surf and turf isn't simply a dining concoction.

I asked Maria to name the five qualities she sought in any man with whom she might share a future. She said:

:-> honesty
:-> integrity
:-> morality
:-> ability to communicate
:-> extremely hot bod

One of these is not accurate.

The point is that every woman wants - in a man - the opposite of those characteristics she's been stung by in previous men. No surprise, and no obvious insight into human nature there. What's troubling is by working to find the opposite of what attracts us, we go all around the world...and end up in exactly the same place.





Bottoms Up, Samanthas.

Dating Options

I can make a case that our internal life, our consciousness, is an endless series of decisions. Today I attempted to write a diary of all the decisions I made, but after ten minutes the number was ridiculous enough to prove my point. Try it for yourself, when you're doing anything but sleeping. (Hard to make a decision when you're asleep, which is why it's called being unconscious.)

Decisions imply choice. One either takes this course of action, or that one, which smells suspiciously like the binary language that runs our digital universe. Evolution has taken away some choices; breathing, for example or digestion. Bonking is a choice, but with a large uncontrollable element.

Take that concept one step further, and one can say that that the more advanced the organism, the greater the range of choices one can see into the future. Einstein, I guess, was great at understanding the spread (width?) of choice that a string of decisions might create. I, on the other side, am happy to limit my choice breadth to beer from the bottle or beer from the tap.

Dating decision-making is more fraught than choosing beer because it oozes into all areas of our life. Dating decisions are emotional. Dating decisions are logical. Dating decisions are practical. Dating decisions are even sometimes out of our control (see reference to bonking, above.)

I happen to think that decision-making is a skill. Skills improve with experience and practice, but they really improve when we set out to consciously make them better. Would our dating decisions benefit from some light work-outs? Is there a need for Dating Decision Coaching?




Bottoms Up, Deciders!

The Dating Matrix

Bottoms Up, Optimists!

Passion Consultant

Monday night was my first encounter with a Passion Consultant. This might, at first blush, appear to be a godsend, because life's notably lacking in passion at the moment. Had I been more quick on the uptake, Miss PC could have answered a few queries rattling around my head, but I was more interested in looking down her girlfriend's top.

It's a lost opportunity, but I still have her business card.

The card says to "Call today to get started on your new career as a Passion Consultant."

And why not? I've worked with business consultants, been screwed by tax consultants and had my lawn cut by gardening "consultants". None of these people knew what they were doing, so consulting about passion shouldn't be any different. Defining what consultants do is an imprecise exercise at best, so I can make the job anything I want.

Basically I want my own business cards that say:

Wombat
Passion Consultant.

If I act like I'm an expert, someone's bound to want to try me out. I believe in learning on the job.





Bottoms Up, Amorous Ones!




Pic from the OhMiBod Blog [link]

I Can Read Your Mind, Darling.

No I can't, sweetheart, so it would be easier overall if you just told me what you were thinking.

We have such difficulty doing this though, don't we? And when we think we know what we want, something in our head flips and there's another set of stuff we want. Dammit, this affects me at least as badly as everyone else, so I doubt it's a sex-based thing. My suspicion is that desire-drift grows from mental rootlessness - in other words, lack of a spiritual anchor.

There are two problems here:

1. Not knowing what we want.

2. Inability to communicate today's (or any) specific want.

The latter is a limitation of language. At the best granularity, I doubt we ever move beyond 80% efficiency when trying to get our thinking across to another. If the former - the actual meat of what we're looking for from the other person - changes direction like a school of fish, we transmit almost nothing.

Consistency is the answer. I should decide upon what I want, and tell the people who need to know what those things are. After a while, the message will get through.

Or I could find a woman who can read my mind




Bottoms Up, Communicators!

Pic from here.[link]

Friends With Benefits

Her: I thought you wanted to be my boyfriend?

Wombat: I do.

Her: When?

Wombat: Not right now.


Expectations kill relationships. They're the rocks that wreck super-tankers and sailing boats alike. No relationship is safe from them, and no chart shows them all. GPS works perfectly most of the time, but without knowledge of where not to go, metre-accuracy will only tell you precisely where you ran aground.

The ocean called "Friends With Benefits" is one with an unusually jagged coastline. As enticing as the concept appears, I fear most of us compartmentalize the 'friends' and the 'benefits' as if they can be. Like a watercolour Venn Diagram in the rain, those two can only bleed into each other with potentially messy results. Art is rarely the outcome.

Doc30ty highlights my point in her post. [link] Her male FWB half clearly didn't include exclusivity in his mental image of FWB. His thinking was more Benefits with a Friend, dare I say an expectation at variance with that of our beloved Doc30ty.

There are three ways to find a FWB relationship:

Friends first -> add benefits.

Simultaneous creation of friendship including benefits.

Beneficiaries first -> add friendship.

Is one way better than another? That's not for me to decide. What experience tells me is that my expectations will differ from my lady friend's, and the problem with that is that we both think there won't be any complications arising therefrom.

This is the temptation of the FWB deal: the simplicity of it appeals mightily, but it's impossible for any of us to not expect stuff beyond the raw acronym. We set sail in light winds and smooth seas but wake that night to the sound of crashing waves on gnarly rocks.



Bottoms Up, Landlubbers!



Diagram from here [link]

Edited for tense and incorrect plurals, as well as overuse of 'variance' - the usual thesaurus of Wombat idiocies.