This warfare we call DATING, revisited

This will be but a pale successor thought to my original entry, over a year ago, particularly as I haven’t seen fit to do much bona fide dating. My remarks on this topic are more strictly about the culture which has arisen around the concept of dating than any real instances thereof. Not long ago, I declined an invitation to join some good brethren in a good-natured rendition of Mulan’s "A Girl Worth Fighting For," directed to a group of ladies. Feeling a tad truculent, I retorted—not adequately explaining how rare it’d be for me to sing to anyone, anyhow—that you wouldn’t see me doing that until I thought someone specific fit the title (not the content).

How goes the war? I’m only now realizing that the fact alone of dating being warfare would hardly deter me; the trouble is that I see it as someone else’s war, and a pointless one at that. Though I expect rejection, I don’t fear it. In a curious turnabout, I see such degradation as beneath me. A girl worth fighting, or dying, for doesn’t insist on it for the mere sake of an ego boost. Someone to stand with you through the storms of life oughtn’t be creating them. It’s an uphill struggle against my mother’s disbelief to say that nearly a majority of marriage stories these days appear to begin with the girl sort of despising/disdaining the guy. To my mind, this is indeed a severe inconsistency of character, likely created because their heart is occupied with the more immediate attraction of something superficial or, put more kindly, premature, which must be displaced. It also fosters an adversarial feeling, possibly verging on resentment, with the men most suited for companionship.

Princesses, lest you squander your own birthright, remember Orson F. Whitney’s counsel to the men, and consider your own situation: "‘Tis not the crowning that creates the king." The only girlfriend I’ve ever had once sent me on a fool’s errand to purchase feminine articles for her, purely for the entertainment value. (In hindsight, I see that she took a perverse pleasure in placing indignities on me.) Without a word, I completed the mission. Upon placing them in her hands, I took out a book and read the following poem (about 35% in jest), by Schiller, to her and her roommate.

Before his lion-court
Impatient for the sport,
King Francis sat one day;
The peers of his realm sat around,
And in balcony high from the ground
Sat the ladies in beauteous array.
And when with his finger he beckoned,
The gate opened wide in a second
And in, with deliberate tread,
Enters a lion dread,
And looks around
Yet utters no sound;
Then long he yawns
And shakes his mane,
And, stretching each limb,
Down lies he again.

Again signs the king, -
The next gate open flies,
And, lo! with a wild spring,
A tiger out hies.
When the lion he sees, loudly roars he about,
And a terrible circle his tail traces out.
Protruding his tongue,
past the lion he walks,
And, snarling with rage, round him warily stalks
Then, growling anew,
On one side lies down too.

Again signs the king, -
And two gates open fly,
And, lo! with one spring,
Two leopards out hie.
On the tiger they rush, for the fight nothing loth,
But he with his paws seizes hold of them both
And the lion, with roaring, gets up, - then all’s still,
The fierce beasts stalk around, madly thirsting to kill.

From the balcony raised high above
A fair hand lets fall down a glove
Into the lists, where ‘tis seen
The lion and tiger between.

To the knight, Sir Delorges, in tone of jest, Then speaks young Cunigund fair;
"Sir Knight, if the love that thou feel’st in thy breast
Is as warm as thou’rt wont at each moment to swear,
Pick up, I pray thee, the glove that lies there!"

And the knight, in a moment, with dauntless tread,
Jumps into the lists, nor seeks to linger,
And, from out the midst of those monsters dread,
Picks up the glove with a daring finger.

And the knights and ladies of high degree
With wonder and horror the action see,
While he quietly brings in his hand the glove,
The praise of his courage each mouth employs;
Meanwhile, with a tender look of love,
The promise to him of coming joys,
Fair Cunigund welcomes him back to his place.
But he threw the glove point-blank in her face:
"Lady, no thanks from thee I’ll receive!"
And that selfsame hour he took his leave.

And so I continue to have such feelings, only with different application. Worst of all was the sinking realization, upon having occasionally performed such feats, that rather than bestowing such amorous (but meaningless) returns, women frowned and expressed that they wished someone else had done them. As I wonder just what I did NOT sacrifice for that woman in the past—since at her behests I also quit two jobs and moved to another state with no prospects, etc., etc.—I now say that I have forevermore made all the sacrifices I intend to make in order to acquire love, though not to secure, keep, nurture, and serve it. Since love ought to be unselfishly given, in any event, I don’t see what the hubbub is about "earning" a girl’s attention or "winning" her affection. Nothing should be required beyond innate recommendation for a man of integrity to have a position in the line-up, so I reserve my efforts for the "good fight." The bravest knights in the realm need not condescend to the present scraping and bowing. Any act I undertake for a woman is so totally divorced from expectations that she should rest in the assurance that any romantic intent would be purely unintentional and likely unconscious.

I choose not to compete. Seriously, what abilities I may have been blessed with are meant for use, not display. It’s an apples and oranges thing, something like having a woman demand that a Navy SEAL on his way to the front stop and join a street brawl. I suppose I could whip out my skill set, but it appears that most girls really do prefer the more inefficient, barbaric style. (Really, I wish the women would consider that so many statistically are marrying jerks because of how this encourages men to be puffed up and devoid of brotherly love.) This is amusing, when one can look past its tragic nature, to those who have seen real battle and haven’t merely spent sporting time sparring with other men. As early as February, 2001, with no earthly idea of how much still awaited me, I could already write, "You look at me and see scars on every limb, But far more scarred is the heart within."

If a lady besought my protection in a truly worthwhile cause, then I would be at her service, though it proved a Thermopylae Pass to me. I can safely say that my type knows what's eternally at stake and where the battle lines are really drawn, and can draw these distinctions rapidly and regularly.