neonleonb

My mom's in the hospital with pneumonia and a 103-degree fever, which, given her chemo-weakened immune system, is serious. My sister turned 26 today. My uncle finished battling an infestation of bedbugs carried back from a hotel on his luggage. Two friends got engaged. Another friend may be on the path to a happier relationship. All this in the past few days.

But I keep getting hung up on, what failings of mine made me not worth dating? I don't know how to be better.

In 7th grade, I asked a girl out. I said, "Will you go out with me?"

She responded, "Where?" and laughed at my confusion. I had just wanted her to indicate an interest in me; the details of spending time together could be worked out later.

I still have that attitude, that disconnect from the way most others think of dating, to this day. I'm not so worried about finding someone to spend time with; my days already fill themselves. I just want attention, respect, love. Find that, and the rest will work out well enough.

In other news, I'm completely single again. Whee.

It's a curious fact that here in Berkeley, I feel an aura of failure that was missing while I was home in Tennessee. There, I was skilled and clever and strong. Here, I'm merely mediocre. Whatever it is I do, there's someone better at it than me--so much so that I can never hope to match them. I'm not a fan of being a small fish in a big pond, but I'd better get used to it, because unless I retreat to Smalltown, TN, that's my fate. Not that I face it alone--almost everyone ends up being outshone. That still doesn't mean I have to like it.

13 internet first dates

• 4: I rejected, or the rejection was mutual
• 2: stopped responding to my messages after the first date
• 2: I dated for some period of time
• 2: told me they were too busy to date me
• 2: told me I was nice but they weren't romantically interested
• 1: had started dating someone the day before, but went on a first date since I'd already bought tickets

That's not counting the rejections that occurred before there was a first date, which were mostly split into the "I rejected", "too busy," and "stopped responding" categories.

The biggest thing I've learned from this is that I do after all have strength and standards, and I'm capable of rejecting people. It wasn't previously obvious that was true--after all, I married the first woman who expressed an interest in me.

I also learned that I look good on paper. I also come off fairly well in person, but I think there's something missing from what I project. I'm not sure what it is, but it's something important that people are looking for romantically. Perhaps it's a certain confidence or assertiveness; I know those to be some of my weak points.

We were all taught, as kids, that winning or losing wasn't important--instead, success was defined by doing your best. But that's actually a much tougher standard than simply winning. Indeed, you have never done your best. Neither have I, nor has anyone else you know.

You could always have worked a little harder, done a little better. You could have studied an extra minute, run a second faster, pushed yourself a little more. You could always have done just that little something extra. But you didn't. You settled for doing pretty well, but you never quite measured up.

For instance, if you didn't drop dead at the finish line of the race, you could have run faster. You might not have liked it or its consequences, but you still could have done better. Maybe you made that choice deliberately, but you can't claim to have done as well as you could. That's actually one thing the original Marathon messenger has over our wussy modern-day runners: at least he got closer to his best than most of us.

And by the metric of best, all of us are losers. We never did our best, so we never reached the bar of success. Maybe from this we should conclude that "doing your best" is the wrong goal, that this sort of defeatism isn't what we should teach our kids. But "do reasonably well" and "do pretty close to your best" just don't have the same ring.

Then again, maybe I'm just being perverse and deliberately misunderstanding. Maybe nobody ever meant to actually do my best, just to get close. But it sure didn't sound that way. Seriously, I got worked up over this when I was a teenager; realizing that I would never succeed at doing my best was surprisingly painful.

Two recent failings:

1. I ran the 5k on Sunday doing better than 8-minute miles, as I'd hoped. Unfortunately, I was also lazy enough to walk for part of it. I can make excuses of several sorts, but basically I just didn't push hard enough. I'll have to see if I can fix that--for starters, by stopping the walk at the top of the hill on my daily run.
2. I bought fancy dance shoes. I'm ashamed to say how much I spent on them, but they're the most comfortable dress shoes I've ever felt, and they'll have suede on the soles. It'll be nice to have them, I suppose, but I may be the only one in the class who has them. Even some of the teachers don't wear the fancy dancing shoes. Now I feel kind of foolish for splurging like that.
   

So, you ask, how did the duck go? Well, for starters, buying a duck at a Chinese store (Ranch 99) means that I got more duck than I'd expected. In particular, it had a head and feet. They weren't hard to cut off, but still I hadn't expected to have to behead it with its beady little eyes staring me down. 

I made a plum sauce according to the advice of Nancy, another grad student: I sauteed shallots in butter until they were translucent, then added "a tart liquid" and my plum jam, and simmered that for a while. The recommended tart liquids included vinegar (augh, the most horrible liquid invented) and sherry, but I used pomegranate juice with a small splash of vinegar. In any case, it ended up being very good, and I'm writing it down here in part so I can look it up for next time.

Then, while the duck baked, I cut the fat from its neck and used that to fry up some potatoes, which ended up quite tasty. Seasonings: onion powder, garlic powder, paprika, cayenne pepper, salt. I'll have to do that again.

Frankly, the duck didn't end up as well as it should have. It was supposed to have a crispy skin, but the skin on the breasts should've been cooked longer. I have a theory that my oven isn't as hot as it's supposed to be. The duck's meat was tasty anyway, especially with that delicious plum sauce, but next time I'll try to do it right.

And, how did my date like the duck? Well, she's apparently sick right now, so there was no date. I'm not entirely sure that she wants a second date at this point, but I'll try to stay reasonably optimistic until my final rejection. I really did think our first date went well, but since then I haven't exactly gotten positive signals. I mean, really, I haven't gotten any signals, and this is a case where no news certainly isn't good news.

While waiting for rejection, though, I'm doing everything I can with that duck. I'm boiling its bones (and neck) for stock, and I rendered its fat. I don't know how to make jewelry from its bones, or I'd probably try that, too. I have a vision, though: matzo ball soup, in duck stock, with matzo balls made with duck fat. That will be far and away the most exotic use of matzo I've ever made.

Oh, and between the many uses of duck and the chocolate mousse I made for tomorrow's Thanksgiving potluck, I really was cooking all day. Consider: 4 hours of duck baking, 4 hours of stock making, and the interim was filled with all the other stuff. I guess I'm nearly ready to be a stay-at-home father.

This is a long rant, so I put the body of it under a cut. But there is a question at the end, and I welcome your input. So feel free to skip to the bottom to read and answer the question.

( Cut for length )

This has worked out for me longer than it might have. As an unusually capable person, letting capability determine my happiness has been generally pleasant. However, it can't really last--as I get older, I'm sure to be less and less able, so I'll have to draw happiness from other things. What other sources of happiness are viable? What drives your sense of well-being?

(I already reject the idea of being happy over my general good fortune, as I think we can all agree that will go sour much more easily than being happy over my abilities--a lost game wouldn't bother me as much, but the law of averages would be against me.)

I was stressed because someone else has learned to hang glide much faster than I, and indeed he is already rated, where it will take me at least another full day of training, and most likely I won't be ready by then. Whether or not it is a race is debatable, but the frustration is real.

Because it seemed right, and it might calm me, I held the guinea pigs. When I thought about stressful things, they would stop squeaking, and Louis would even make chattering sounds like he does when he hears something scary. I must be emitting some sort of stress pheromone that they can detect. It's like dogs smelling fear on me, only they're the ones who end up afraid.

It's not really remarkable that such a thing is possible. I'm just surprised that they're so sensitive to it.