For the most part, there’s very little compromise in my relationship with my girlfriend. This isn’t due to stubbornness or pig headedness. The fibre of our fabric is alike. We both very much like doing the same things, and we share a similar sense of humour. These two factors, above all others, allow for very little to seem intolerable from one another. And I’m immensely grateful for that.
The sole aspect of our relationship that I feel as though I do have to grin and bear, and I do so knowing that it could be far worse, are her friends. It’s not that I don’t get along with them. It’s merely that the natural transition from idea to expression that exists between two like minded or kindred spirits doesn’t exist with very many of them. It takes effort to converse with them, and that effort rarely surpasses pleasant small talk, which I tend to dread.
On one recent occasion, I was was lured to a sushi restaurant by my girlfriend as part of a pretense that one of her friends had insisted upon. This friend had just started dating someone new, and wanted our opinion, or more accurately, my girlfriend’s opinion, of this man she had begun seeing romantically.
I’ve always assumed that for the most part human beings are judgmental creatures. We make assumptions, draw conclusions and are, for the most part, completely subjective, even when we pretend to be objective, perhaps especially when we pretend to be objective. The difference between jerks and non jerks is that jerks tend to express these unproven judgments while non jerks keep their opinions bottled up and let them play out passive aggressively in their dealings with the individual they’ve already judged.
We’re kind of gross in that fashion.
Anyway, I didn’t like this woman’s new boyfriend. It’s not as though he was particularly offensive with anything he said. My distaste for him was almost entirely due to his manners and mannerisms. He was incredibly awkward with his movements, and not in the “this guy is probably nervous” way, but instead in the “this guy has probably tortured animals” way. He chewed with his mouth open, took food off of other people’s plates and slurped the last bit of liquid from his drink through a straw.
I didn’t much care for him, but I realized that I didn’t much care to be here at all, and so I calculated that my opinion on the individual was likely highly influenced by my lack of interest in partaking in the proceedings.
Then, as we left the restaurant, I held the door open, first for my girlfriend, then for her friend, and finally for her prospective love interest who had previously disgusted me. I followed him out the door, and as the ladies in front of us moved forward, he seemed to stall, creating distance between their pack and ours. At first, I thought he wanted to ask me something in private or have a conversation away from the women in front of us. The prospect of this was not enticing, but I knew that all of this would soon be over.
However, instead of turning around, the man in front of me began farting as he walked down the restaurant’s narrow pathway that led to the street. His fart lasted an unexaggerated six seconds and its volume grew louder as it progressed. Normally such sound would be gag inducing, but in this instance I was thankful for it, because it acted as an early warning system and allowed me to hold my breath as he farted in the wind and allowed his gas to blow back on me.
It was the most disgusting procedure of which I had ever played a part, and it only added to my preconceived opinion of not only this individual, but my entire experiences with my girlfriend’s social circle.
This morning, the Washington Post published a feature on Jayson Werth in which the outfielder of the cursed seven year $126 million contract spoke of his struggles last season. The story reveals little that we didn’t already know or would have anticipated learning after hearing the topic of the piece.
However, it does have one magical quote from Werth:
Last year is just one year. I got six more years on this contract, and I plan on playing after this contract. I’ll look back and 2011 will be a fart in the wind.
As I can attest with certainty, a fart in the wind may be quickly forgotten by the one passing gas, but it is likely to always be remembered by those standing to the rear.