I didn’t mean to antagonize my vasectomy nurse. The phone rang, I said “Hello” and the voice on the other side asked “Is that Allan?” Puzzling. Is what Allan? I assumed she was referring to me but the odd open had me thinking telemarketer. “Pardon me?” I said. “Is that Allan” she asked again, sounding annoyed but providing no additional information.

“I am Allan, to whom am I speaking”.

I will admit this came out a little snarky.

“This is Contentious Pam from the dick doctor (1), why didn’t you pickup your kit?”.

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Continued from Part 1: Soulmates and Self Help

Who should I date?

This question is fair but useless. You should date someone compatible, but that is a slippy metric that changes over time. Imagine a restaurant where they will craft your ideal sandwich, but you have to specify the ingredients and preparation. You might stutter out a workable combination, but you would be filled with doubt, and the dread of missed opportunity would haunt your meal. But if the waiter asked if he should spit in your water, or fart in your dates face, your answer would be immediate and authoritative. We understand the generalities of the things that we like, and the specifics of the things that we do not. People are more complicated than sandwiches, so it helps to lay out a few disqualifying factors to weed the undateables out of the field early.

Do they need a job? What level of hygiene is acceptable? Will they correct peoples grammar at parties? Do they have ferrets? The specifics of the undateables are going to vary from person to person, but there are some red flags you should at least consider.

Are they bartenders, actors, or lead guitarists/singers in a band?

Do they Roll their eyes and sigh when they disagree with people?

Have they recently exited a serious relationship?

Are they are currently in a serious relationship?

Are they indecisive, yet consistently critical of other peoples decisions?

Do they only have friends of the opposite gender?

Do they only have friends of the same gender?

Do they have friends?

Do they frequently complain of “Drama” that they cannot escape, yet have no culpability in creating?

When they are upset does it become everyone else’s problem?

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I am a judgmental man with strong opinions and very few solutions; the human equivalent of a check engine light: quick to alarm, short on details, and of no real use in a crisis. It’s not that I don’t want to help, but my broad sense of superiority is undercut by my narrow range of expertise. This has no effect on my confidence, or willingness to give advice on any subject, but the end result often borders on negligence. There are three categorical exceptions: Lifting stuff, Night Hammocking, and Adult Romance.

What qualifies me to give romantic advice? Nothing, and everything. I’ve been happily married for a decade, but I mostly lucked into that. When was single I did okay, but I suspect that was passable looks propping up unsound game theory. On the surface my romantic expertise seems another empty boast, until you consider my profession; I am a personal trainer. Ninety percent of my job is identifying correctable patterns and repairing flawed decision making; that is the whole of human behaviour and I have been cheating the world by not sharing my findings in a public fashion. That changes today.

Sam The Turtle’s Complete Guide To Romance

Sort yourself out first

If you go fishing with an unstrung line, in a boat with a hole in it, it doesn’t matter if the fish are biting, you are unlikely to catch any and drowning is a distinct possibility. Now you might argue “ What if I bail furiously the whole time and jab at the fish with my rod? If I find the right spot on the lake it might work”. It might, but you also might want to consider that an empty line is the least of your deficiencies. Continue reading →

I may be developing some misanthropic tendencies. Outside the window of my workplace there is a giant Ottawa sign, only it’s missing a “T”. OT_AWA. If you stand between the T and A you can extend your arms and become the missing T. I was against it immediately and time and repetition have only hardened my heart. It’s like I’m being waterboarded by a lazy sight gag. I spend my day glaring out the window, wishing sunburns and sandal blisters at this ceaseless caravan of Letter People.

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I can’t tell if I’m having a midlife crisis. I am not acting out, but I find myself needlessly confessing my age at the start of conversations; my name is A.J. and I am forty one years old. I don’t know if it’s a nervous tic, or a means to extract qualified praise for my appearance, but I present my age as if I expect to be challenged on the point and persuaded otherwise. I think about the fact that I’m forty one more than I think about sex, and when I think about sex I think about the fact that I am forty one.

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