Sunday, May 04, 2008
Life, "Ask a Bachelor"
Pulling the short straw
By Blane Bachelor
I’m a white male, average height, in my early 30s, and dating a wonderful African-American woman in her late 20s. She’s a beautiful human being, and race is never or will ever be an issue with us. I can’t say the same thing for my family members. They keep harping on the fact that her last boyfriend was a large African-American professional basketball player, and there’s no way this little country boy can compete with his “big game” in bed. Penis jokes. It was funny at first, but when you get kidded about coming up “short” all of the time, it gets to you. I can’t believe women don’t compare or think about men’s sizes privately or publicly. Am I being compared to the last guy the way my brothers say I am, or are they just idiots? —Never Insecure Until Now
Good grief. Your sibs sound about as loving as the Menendez brothers.
You’re right about two of the concerns you bring up. Yes, women both compare and think about men’s sizes, both publicly and privately. Yes, your brothers are idiots—and they’re also enormous jerks.
I’d like to challenge you, however, on your notion that this is all about race. The only color involved here is green, my friend. Your bros are obviously so jealous of your relationship—or, in language they’ll understand, the fact that you’re getting laid—that they have to resort to below-the-belt attempts at humor to make themselves feel better about their sexless lives. Problem is, you’re buying into it.
Unless your girlfriend has brought up any of your shortcomings in bed, pleas—for the sake of all men, those who are endowed and those not so much, and the women they’re sleeping with—don’t even go there with the comparisons. Yes, your girlfriend’s ex might be a pro baller on the court, but he might not have been a pro baller between the sheets. Regardless—and listen hard here—she’s with you now. Don’t let your brothers plant an insecurity bug into your brain; that’s the quickest way you’ll ruin the great thing you have going.
So next time one of them pipes up with a locker-room dig, here’s what you do: Stare blankly at him, sadly shake your head and walk away. Let the two of them (or however many there are in the herd) chest-bump, high-five or whatever fraternity-esque ritual they do; you’ve got better things to do (like your girlfriend). When they see their comments keep bouncing off you like Teflon, they’ll get bored and move on to something equally infantile. Finally, I hope you’ve learned to keep a lid on your private life, especially around these buffoons (how in the hell do they know all about your girlfriend’s ex in the first place?).
Bottom line: You’re happy, your girlfriend’s happy (and presumably satisfied). So quit worrying about dicks: yours, that of your girlfriend’s ex and, of course, your brothers themselves. You’ll be ahem, a much bigger man for it.
I recently got out of an eight-month relationship with a chap I would have said I loved. We went on a fabulous vacation together. After the trip, he vanished. Literally vanished. No phone calls, no texts. Clearly, I was concerned. I mean, we had met each other’s parental units and friends and things seemed to be going incredibly well. Yikes-a-rama. I couldn’t have been more wrong. He went AWOL, never to be heard from again, leaving me with a host of questions along the lines of “What in the bloody hell is wrong with me?” And, “Will I ever meet my prince?” Clearly, he has serious commitment issues. Is it that hard to be honest, or is it just easier to be a coward? Any advice on how one heals from such a monster truck blow to the ego and ways I can be hopeful while I wait for my imperfect prince? —Single in the City
A malicious magician strikes again, pulling what I call “the disappearing act.” Forget overanalyzing his possible reasons for his vanishing (he was kidnapped by flesh-eating aliens; he really couldn’t stand the way you drink coffee with cream but no sugar) and just accept that you’ve experienced a rite of passage in the dating world. At one point or another, it’s happened to the best of us; just be glad you weren’t married to him, owned property together or had borne his children.
This is not to diminish your pain, however—there are few worse feelings that being a victim of the disappearing act, and I’m sorry to hear about your suffering. And there’s no magic formula to get past the pain (though I am a big fan of voodoo). But I will tell you to banish the “what did I do wrong” line of thinking. With the disappearing act, it’s never about the victim. And forget about waiting on your prince, imperfect or not. Even Cinderella, after getting ripped to shreds by her nasty stepsisters on the night of the ball, gussied herself up again (albeit with a little help of a fairy godmother) and hauled herself off, solo, to the big dance instead of sobbing away in the garden. Follow her lead: Dust yourself off, put a smile on your face, and get back into the fray. SP
Freelance writer and columnist Blane Bachelor doles out dating and relationship advice in this space every week. Submit your questions at www.askabachelor.com.