In grade school I used to chase girls on the playground. The cute ones. The ones that drove me crazy. Sometimes girls chased me. We were children caught up in a game no one understood. But we liked it.
It feels like I’m working with a child’s concept of romance. Often I push too hard for the attention of a woman I like. Rather than allowing the game to naturally unfold, I shout, “Okay, I’m here and I’m going to chase you now,” telegraphing my every move. And when the game doesn’t go as planned I assume I’ve played it wrong from the start.
My culture dictates that the Boy “go after” the Girl. I get that. But at 34 I’m starting to wonder what being chased might look like. Maybe I should play it cool. Maybe she’ll come after me.
At any rate, I’m tired. Recess ended twenty-five years ago. And I’m out here all alone.