I do this over and over again, being equitable against my own best interests. Best interests are selfish. Best interests are interested in you. Best interests ultimately teeter upon the decisions that prop up survival and flourishing.
Yet here I am, denying myself my own best interests in the sake of being equitable. I'll offer an example, most of which stems from a series of decisions that I analyzed after they occurred yesterday.
I went to the store, as I almost always do on Sunday, and hit the two stores that I must frequent now: the grocery store and the pet store. Both present me with choices to make, not only about items to purchase but with decisions about communicating, reaching out, selecting paths to increase my likelihood of talking with women.
I saw the woman who smiled and waved at me several times at the grocery store out in front. By her clothing I surmised she was rounding up shopping carts. Instead of heading out into the parking lot to talk with her, I entered the store and kept my eyes peeled for her. As I was leaving with my purchases she was re-entering the store after doing her duty. Why didn't I make a move? I didn't want to communicate to her and to the world my interest. Why? I'm ashamed of revealing my interests out of fear of criticism. Why I feel shame over my desires is something of a mystery, but I can recall as far back as toddler-hood being in a situation where my requests to do something were met with sharp rebukes. I'd of course recoil, emotionally hurt. As a result, my desires have been submerged as have my ability to ask for help. I never do either.
The second choice I didn't make came from choosing a line at the pet store. The girl I talked with the week prior wasn't at a check out line, and as I was shopping I scanned for her in the aisles perhaps doing some stocking or returning items that weren't purchased at her counter. Nothing. She was there when I arrived and I was presented with a simple choice, her line or another. The decision was close, and I based it upon which aisle would be open first. I chose against her line, never made eye contact with her, never turned around and said 'hi.' I didn't want to stand out, interrupt her customer service interaction with the guy in her line, and I squandered an opportunity I give myself only once a week.
I find myself poaching customer service for the simple affordance that women in those roles are a captured audience for me. The situation offers a scripted conversation of a set duration that I can familiarly navigate. But it's my one and only way of meeting potential women. In 2018, I asked out two bartenders and one grocery manager to no real avail. They were chosen because I found them in a relational capacity I could manage, a scripted encounter I could engage with, and perhaps one from which I could deviate. They all said 'no' in their own way. A fourth presented herself to me at a grocery store where I took my then still living aunt, but I counted her out as too young. How foolish I was. She was a beauty as well.
And so I rationalize myself right out of the picture over and over. I react to 'no' with a vehement retaliation as if my emotions are too precious to be tattered, and that's something that I have lived with since as long as I can remember. It's the source of my victimhood. It shapes my daily life and my long-term situation. It's the systematic imperfection in the wheel of ritual time that has a cadence all its own, the rhythm of the song of sadness.
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