Last night, I met this dude for some beers. Technically, this was our second date, so I was allowing myself to entertain the smallest glimmer of a hope that this guy might actually improve on me, and that we may, at some indeterminate point in the future, have a heated discussion about the Kantian categorical imperative which might segue into some awkward couch groping. (My resolution this year was to be more optimistic, so this is me being optimistic.) Objectively, he had a lot going for him: good job, master’s in social work, very intellectual, well-read, no physical deformities, no discernible behavioral issues, not in the sex offender registry—a genuinely decent prospect. We instantaneously bonded over our shared love of philosophy. And despite the fact that he had an extreme enthusiasm for televised sports of any persuasion, harbored an unfortunate reverence for Nietzsche, and that I felt no immediate physical chemistry, I was determined to give him a fair shake because I realized that I might just hold people to impossible standards. In short, I was willing to overlook the Nietzsche thing just this once.
So after two beers and the requisite small talk about workdays and Red Sox (blerg), he asks me to tell him something scandalous about myself. I search my memory banks, but I fail to retrieve any appropriate anecdotes. I explain that, other than that time I dropped LSD at my high school art fair, I’m not at all scandalous. I’m rather like a chubby lady Jesus without the messianic delusions. Then it occurred to me that Jesus was kind of scandalous for a man of his time and probably had a lot more sex than me, so in actuality, I am less scandalous than Jesus and far fewer people want me dead.
His response to this nearly made my head explode.
“Way to dodge the question. You are using humor as a defense mechanism.”
There are those words again!
This was not the first time a man has said this to me. However, this is the first time a man with a psychology degree has said this to me, so as far as I was concerned, this date was officially over. From this point on, I was going to drink beer like it was my second job and I was working over time. Suck on that defense mechanism, Dr. Phil.
“I want to ask you a question,” he began. “Actually, it’s more of a thought experiment.”
“Go ahead,” I said through my teeth. I find that, these days, I say a lot of things in this way.
“Imagine that you are walking through the forest on a beautiful day. You are alone. Eventually you arrive at a big lake--very picturesque, mountains looming majestically in the background. So, you are standing at the edge of this lake. What do you do?”
I sighed the bitter sigh of resignation. “Well, I guess I’d cut a hole through it and go ice fishing.”
He blinked at me a few times, and then rubbed the stubble on his face. “Huh. That is… atypical.”
“Wha—atypical how?” I asked, incredulous. Can there even be an atypical answer to a thought experiment? I was finding it increasingly difficult to continue fake-smiling.
“Well, the lake represents sex—”
Oh terrific. I am not on a date just any shrink; I am on a date with Sigmund Freud.
“—and typically, if you have a healthy attitude toward sex, your natural inclination would be to jump into the lake. If you have an unhealthy attitude toward sex, then you would generally avoid it, perhaps because you are afraid of what is in the water.” Then he paused for maximum dramatic effect. “YOU would FISH in it. Not only that, but your lake is actually FROZEN. I’m not sure what that means, but it is definitely… atypical.”
What kind of freaky pervert sees a lake and thinks of sex?
I guess I do now. Every time I ever see a lake again, I will fondly remember this moment.
“Are you actually psychoanalyzing me right now?”
“I have been psychoanalyzing you since we met.”
"Tell me," I said, wishing he would die, "how often does this method of psychoanalyzing the women you date end in successfully getting laid?"
"Ha. There's that defensive humor again."
"You're wrong. That was actually more anger/outrage."
“Anger is also a defense mechanism, you know.”
Yeah, and so is psychoanalyzing your date to take the attention off your own short-comings, dickweed. Hello, kettle? You’re black.
"Let me give you this advice," he continued much to my dismay, "You should be more honest with yourself."
Do people read this in books? Is it, perchance, this book?
With those words, he wisely removed himself to the bathroom, and left me blinking at the table.
I will be the first person to admit that I am a deeply flawed human being. I’m cynical, I’m sarcastic, I’m inappropriate, I’m socially inept, and I think too much. I can confidently say that I know all of the places where I fail to measure up to the rest of humanity, because I excel at self-criticism and I dwell on things to an absurd degree. However, I don’t need anyone to tell me how I think or to pass judgment on me. I don’t give a toss which college you got your psychology degree at.
And what, in essence, is wrong with having defenses? You wouldn’t build a castle without a moat, and you wouldn’t build a nation without an army, and you wouldn’t wear a maxi pad without wings.
I grew quiet as these thoughts whizzed like bullets through my brain, and when my date returned from the bathroom, he interpreted this silence as somehow admitting that he was right. I eventually just laughed it away, because it was either laugh about it or break the sixth commandment. Murdering him was not a particularly good option as we were in a bar with many potential witnesses. That did not stop me from fantasizing about murdering him, though.
To be continued...
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