It's Who I Am

Evil

I notice subtleties now that I never would have when I was a younger guy. In fact, some things I can’t not notice, even if I tried. The size of a person’s pupils, for example. During the morning commute, when we’re shoved against each other on the subway while trying our best to remain anonymous, I steal glances at people’s faces and always take note of their pupils. People with large or just dilated pupils are generally seen as more attractive – scientific studies have shown this.

When I meet a girl, whether at work, at a bar, or on a proper date, I immediately gauge the size of their pupils as a benchmark. I do this without hardly a thought – it’s more like a reflex. On a date, such an observation matters. If you place your hand on the small of a girl’s back and her pupils dilate, it means something. If you move in close to a girl, so close that you’re practically breathing each other’s air, and her pupils dilate, she’s telling you something – just without words.

What a girl does with her hands is also telling. What she does with her feet – even more so. (People have more conscious control over their hands, less so over their feet.) I’m a much more observant person now. I can pick up on hints and nuances. Dates tend to go better now, versus years ago when every first date doubled as a lesson in a new aspect of awkwardness.

But I feel as though the me of today is not as good a person to know, compared to the me of yesteryear. All the tidbits of knowledge that I’ve picked up, I basically use to manipulate. With me, it’s always a game. There’s never not a game. Even when only one person (me) is playing, it’s still Game On.

I was at dinner with Xtian and La Troisieme a few months ago. At one point, I doled out some advice that La Troisieme found to be utterly shocking and possibly immoral. I said, “If she cooks you dinner -- no matter what -- do not compliment her on the cooking.” Why not? Because it’s a game. If you withhold the compliment, you’re implicitly expressing disapproval. And when a girl likes you (and you already know that she does because she went to the considerable effort of preparing an entire meal for you), she tries hard to gain your approval. So if you don’t give it to her, she tries harder. If not by cooking, then by some other means. You win.

People oftentimes tell me, “You have a nice smile.” A common variation of that, and I hear it with regularity, is “Your smile is very sincere.”

Years ago, I would tell a girl she looked nice if I thought she looked nice. Maybe it was the first warm day after a chilly winter and she was wearing a flowery spring dress to meet me at brunch. Maybe I’d bring her some sweets, because on the way to brunch, I happened across a bakery displaying a swath of ornately decorated cookies in their window and the flower cookie just looked so happy and fun and appropriate for a day that beckons the coming of spring. Years ago, I’d buy things, say things, do things “just because” or just to be nice. I can’t remember the last time I felt that way. It’s been a while. But at the same time, I no longer feel lost around women. I know what to say. I know how to act. It’s all an act. It’s all a game. The scoreboard says I’m winning, but I don’t know if I’m having any fun.