I spend a great deal of my life alone, pondering what ungodly events must have taken place to produce the horrid think I call my love life.  I tend to imagine some kind of past life in which I was a valiant hero whose world and life was torn apart by a malevolent, power-hungry brother.  For the sake of efficiency we’ll just call the brother Scar and I will, naturally, be referred to as Mufasa…. naturally.  I can see myself (because I own a mirror) standing erect, my chest protruding, surveying the land that was inherently mine as Scar quietly walks in the background, brooding because the director chose to animate him as a skinnier, less attractive lion (in Troy, he was the  Eric Bana to my Brad Pitt – that poor soul).  Later on, Scar would betray me, leaving me for dead in the ultimate act of cowardice.

Fortunately for those who have to listen to my innermost thoughts, no longer will I spend so much time pondering such things (though I will probably still spend a lot of time alone) because I recently found a therapy that works for me.  We called it a “man-versation” – and for good reason.  Nice segue, huh?

Just a few days ago, a few buddies and I carpooled to and from a dinner party downtown.  It was a nice chance to talk nonsense with some like-minded guys and it was a great group to be with when we found ourselves on the always-touchy subject of women.  You see, I have no qualms with talking women.  I can talk women all day.  If I had my way, guys who were uncomfortable talking women would have the women forced upon them by guys like me, urging the women from behind like a well-trained pit crew captain.  But, innuendo aside, that’s really ineffective.  So guys like me cannot really dive into the women without having a few other guys around who are as willing as me.  Fortunately, I had two such class-acts with me.

We started it all off with a discussion regarding our worst moments with girls from our pasts.  Somehow, that subject evolved into a threateningly sincere and heartfelt series of confessions about the girls who broke our hearts – namely the ones who seem to have a knack for that.  Until that exact moment, I had forgotten how sensitive I really was – how sensitive guys really were.  Although I felt pretty comfortable talking about the pain inflicted by girls half our size, there were a few instances where I questioned what I was doing.  At a few especially raw moments, in attempts to either save my own or my friend’s face, I contemplated turning an otherwise awkward profession into a healthy, immature laugh.  Fortunately for the sincerity of the experience, I refrained from doing so.

Ultimately, we came to cite one girl, one man-eater, as our own personal Kryptonite.  It’s really much more fitting to call her the most disappointing attempt or something more accurate but what ‘Kryptonite’ lacks in literal accuracy it more than accounts for in Superman relation.  I scanned through names, fought back tears (like only a man can) and ultimately came up with the heartbreak of my teen years, my own Kryptonite.  

What I found truly interesting was that the three guys in the group were linked by an uncanny love-hexagon.  By the way we were standing, each man’s Kryptonite had been a serious ex-girlfriend of the guy standing to his right.  That’s when the script can either turn bad or glorious.  The crew can either implode – everyone starts darting glances around and eventually the first fist flies, the dance has begun, the last man breathing wins the fight, unluckily Clint Eastwood is fighting so no one bothers trying – or the crew can band together even tighter – each crew member with the knowledge that the guy who is walking next to him with a slightly better physique is the same guy who was sleeping with his Kryptonite girl back when he was crying over her.  I won’t tell you which route my crew chose but I will say that the “man-versation” tradition is far from over.  And yes, I will tell you which route we chose, we chose Kryptonite.

Ah, the brotherhood of men.  I challenge someone to imagine a scenario in which the same events occur but with ladies in the lead roles.  It doesn’t happen.  Why?  Because they deal with it a different way – that is, they quietly bitch about what a slut Ashley was to have hooked up with J.P. because J.P. and I really always had a thing ever since the trip to Taos when Miranda was all over J.P.’s cousin Henry and Scott crashed the snowmobile and when Jamie and her boyfriend totally got caught hooking up in the bathroom – by the way, I heard you and Henry like kinda have a thing.

 

See where I’m going?