We DoLanders have been on hiatus for some time now, but that doesn't mean that the steady flow of comments and questions have stopped pouring in. One recent question reads:
Dear Do Landers,
I'm going to break up with my girlfriend but am not sure about what I'm going to tell her when she asks me why I want to end it. Right now all I can come up with is: "Where we are right now is where we were four months ago and where we're going to be four months from now. We've stopped growing together and I just can't be in a committed relationship when it is stagnant like this."
Other than hoping that she doesn't ask my reasons and is as anxious as I am to end things, what is a good plan of attack?
-Clueless in Cleveland
Well, Clueless, as far as I can tell, there are three important rules for breaking up. First, don't put off breaking up when you know you want to; prolonging the situation only makes it worse. Second, tell her honestly, simply, kindly, but firmly. Don't make a big production and don't make up an elaborate story. This will help you avoid a big tearjerking scene. If you want to date other people, say so. Finally, be prepared for the girl to feel hurt and rejected even if you've gone together for only a short time. Even if you haven't been too serious, there's still a feeling of rejection when someone says he prefers the company of others to your exclusive company.
If you're honest and direct and avoid making a flowery, emotional speech when you break the news, the girl will respect you for your frankness, and, honestly, she'll appreciate the kind, straightforward manner in which you told her your decision. Unless she's a real bitch or a crybaby, you'll remain friends.
Something I've learned: Women are particularly sensitive to being called crazy.
Carl Jung said that people react strongly to things when they suspect that they're true, and I think that's what we're dealing with here. Deep down, women wonder if maybe a little tiny bit of them is crazy. I think they think about all the crazy women they've known--their mothers, their grandmothers, their teachers, their friends--and they kind of see a little of themselves in them. (The things women do to each other in each of these relationships is enough to make anyone crazy.) Their suspicion bugs the shit out of them.1
A lot of women counter the name calling with what they seem to think is the male equivalent: "Well, if guys weren't such assholes, we probably wouldn't be that way." I'm here to tell you: guys aren't hurt by being called an asshole. We kind of relish it.
There's something about being considered an asshole that makes a man feel manly. Decent men don't feel this way all the time; we usually feel bad about treating a woman in such a way that she would want to pull the a-word out of her arsenal, but a percentage of our brain is chuckling slyly with the knowledge that he can hurt someone. Being called a heartbreaker, or a "typical male," or a jerk, or whatever, can be more empowering than making a woman have an orgasm.
So what do you call a man if you really want to get to the root of his insecurity? What major psychosis do men have that they never want to talk about?
Their sexuality. Call him gay. Tell him his dick is small. Tell him you faked orgasms. Tell him he was the worst you ever had. In fact, just address him as "fag" over and over again in conversation, while telling him you slept with his better-endowed brother. Then you'll really see crazy.
We Do Landers have written several times about the importance of the things the people in a couple are interested in. I, for one, often point to one of my favorite movies, High Fidelity, which states that "What you like is more important than what you're like."
What I'm interested in doing now is discussing the variance in that importance. I think it'd be tough to make a totally objective call on this one, by saying that what you like and what you're like are equally important, or that one is 60% more important than the other, so that's not what I aim to do.
I'm interested in people's specific experiences with this spectrum. Have you ever dated someone with very similar interests, and then found out they were crazy? Alternatively, have you ever dated someone who you had nothing in common with, and then found out that the two of you were a match made in Heaven? Does the type of "thing" matter (excluding things like religion)? That is, are books more important than movies? Is music more important than a love of sports? How much or how little of another person's interests is necessary to share before a reasonable person can say from the beginning that it'll never work?
I really want to hear what people have to say about this. I'll start:
For about three years, from age 19 to 21 or so, I dated a girl with some success who I've called Samantha on this site before. Samantha and I got along famously, but ultimately had very little in common, which was a large part of our breakup. After the split, I figured that I should start dating girls who I shared interests with. I met girls at shows and in classes, but ultimately our interests weren't nearly enough to keep us together. (Obviously, the fact that I haven't met a girl with similar interests who can keep my attention may or may not mean anything to the bigger picture.) When I reflect on this, I think about my friends who are married or are otherwise in successful relationships, and I realize that their interests don't seem to be of a material nature at all. My one married friend has most of his interests in working and being with his wife, for example. He likes movies and books and stuff, but not to the point that Rob Gordon--or I--does/do.
Is it a middling interest in things cultural that allows this spectrum not to be an issue? What if I were to abandon my obsession with Woody Allen, Jonathan Lethem, and Sound Team? Would I be better suited to finding a well-adjusted broad? For now it seems like only time and the continuation of my passions will tell.
I've abandoned one of my favorite hobbies, and I'm not really sure how it happened. It's more than a hobby, really--it's a habit. A pretty bad habit, if you ask me. It's a habit that offered me nothing really in return, except a brief moment of clear-headedness and satisfaction--a benefit often described by smokers.
"I know I shouldn't do it," they say, "but it relaxes me."
If it was socially acceptable, I would probably have "Masturbation" listed as one of my hobbies on MySpace. In fact, I would put masturbation in the top ten activities I've done most frequently over the course of my life, following sleeping, eating, school, and reading. Imagining how many hours I've spent masturbating worries me. When I finish up, I always think to myself that I could have just spent the last 20 minutes reading, or writing, or exercising, or watching a film. Instead I'm sitting there, 20 minutes older, with nothing to show for my activity except a slightly improved fast-twitch muscle reaction in my wrist. That wasted time is probably one of the biggest reasons I end up echoing those same smokers when I tell myself "I know I shouldn't do it, uh, so often . . . "
But over the last few weeks, I've cut down my procrastination project of choice by about 80%, and I'm not really sure how it happened.
To sum it up, I just lost interest. Maybe it's because I've had a lot of questions about the morality of the tools I use to masturbate to, maybe it's because I wasn't really happy with the thoughts I had after surrounding myself with that material so often--maybe I was just tired of not being productive. All of those reasons have something to do with it, I'm sure, but I also think it has something to do with cost-benefit analysis and my subconscious.
Like I said, I'm aware that the time I spend masturbating is time I'm not doing something else productive. I'm aware that porn has a tendency to affect the way I think about sex, and I know that I feel guilty when I look at girls and immediately wonder what it would be like to sleep with them. I think that half of this sudden loss of interst in masturbating comes partly from these things, and finally understanding that watching hot young girls do things that would freak me out if they happened in my own bedroom is, ultimately, boring and unsexy. The other half is directly connected to that realization--I think that my brain finally put all this stuff together, told my body about it, and they're finally working together in a way that gives me more time to study for the GRE and fool around on Facebook.
One of the consequences of this epiphany is that I've found myself a lot more interested in hanging around people. I typically enjoy a good amount of time to myself to pursue my hermetic interests--reading and writing--but mixing it up with hanging out and doing stuff is definitely a benefit. The other major consequences is that I felt kind of grossed out at porn when I masturbated to it for the first time in a week and a half in an attempt to knock one out before I had to be somewhere.
This second part is pretty significant, if only because I've been watching and enjoying porn for something like 10 years, and I've never felt this way before. If I had to say whether that was good or bad, I'd have to say without qualification that it's good. It's certainly better to experience life's more tangible aspects, rather than having my post-work jerk session be one of the highlights of my day.
I'm not saying that I won't go back at some point--I have no idea if I will or not. But I'm glad my brain is finally putting things together for the other parts of my body.
EPILOGUE: If you aren't convinced of my story, maybe a comic strip containing DINOSAURS will help you. HERE!
There are a lot of aspects in life during which it's important to consult with all involved parties and come to an agreement before acting. International violent conflicts, for example, are on that list. In a situation in which a violent dictator could possibly possess weapons of mass destruction, it's important that a multilateral approach be taken. If a only one party acts, a long and unsexy war could take place that may leave both parties worse off than they were before. Hypothetically speaking. Breaking up, however, is not on the list of things that everyone must agree on. In fact, I'm a fan of pre-emptive breakups. Your Saddam-girlfriend doesn't have to kill thousands of you-Kurds for you to see that she's mining possessive/needy-uranium.
The worst thing about pre-emptive breakups is that it may come as a surprise to the other person. If you drop the bomb before it comes to hour-long screaming fights and open-handed slaps, the other person may suffer more due to the unexpected cutoff.
As with all great truisms, pop culture backs up my claim. This time it's in the form of Nada Surf's mid-90s hit song, "Popular":
Three important rules for breaking up Don't put off breaking up when you know you want to Prolonging the situation only makes it worse . . . [I]f you're honest, and direct, And avoid making a flowery emotional speech when you break the news, The boy will respect you for your frankness, And honestly he'll appreciate the kind of straightfoward manner In which you told him your decision Unless he's a real jerk or a cry baby you'll remain friends
Truthfully though, I don't think the breakupee has to be a jerk or a crybaby to not want to be friends with you--after all, you just dumped them for no reason--at least to them.
As big a fan as I am of these pre-emptive breakups, I think it's important that you do your best to communicate your reasons to the other person--it's the least you can do. If the conversation doesn't go well, if the person doesn't understand your reasons, or if they threaten you with a hatchet, you'll probably realize that your breakup is for the best anyway. Terminate the relationship with extreme prejudice, using ground forces of coalition troops, carefully aimed smart bombs, and a long list of the breakupee's personal faults.
Ultimately what you're doing is minimizing damage to both parties. Be selective with this method, and don't go dropping a good thing just because she hates your favorite show (My Name is Earl)--this should only be used if it's an obvious deal-breaker, like disagreeing on foreign policy, or if your favorite show is The West Wing, which phenomenal.
THE FINAL TWELVE MYSPACE COMMENTS BEFORE THE END OF THE WORLD.
"Hey OMG check you out, this pic from last wknd!"
"HEY GURL, JUST WANTED TO SAY THANX 4 THA ADD, KEEP YA HEAD UP, DONT LET THEM NAZIS GET u DOWN! GET AT YA BOY."
"saw this pic of a rose an though of u, cuz u sweet like a rose, lol! f them nazi ho'z, i got fyah for them fools if they mess with my girl! lol!"
"GET AT YA BOY, YA HEARD ME!" "HOLLA AT YA BOY B4 THEEM NAZIS GET UP IN HERE, LOLZ"
"WHATITDO THEM NIGGAZ IS STRESSIN BUT IM NOT FIDN TO BE WORRIED BOUT NO NUCLAR HOLOCAUST - Luv, YA BOY ZANE!"
"GET AT YAH BOY!"
"HEY GURL< GET AT YA MAN HERE! 1 LUV!"
"MY WEBCAM IZ DAT FYAH THO OH SHIT THEM NAZIS ISHERR PEACE - ZANE!"
"Hey Debbi I just wanted to say sorry about that whole thing with steve it wasn't cool, i luv u gurl, <3 <3 <3!! also wtf w all this nazi shit thme fools is KrAAzEE! luv--AmANdA!!
"JU WANNA HOLLA CUZ THS WEEKEN WE GONNA HAVE A SEXTHANG OVER HERE B4 THEM NAZIS KILL US ALL, L:OLZ."
I guess I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it in the knowing look in Sandy's eyes when we got into an argument. The look said "I know something you don't know" and "That something is that I'm cheating on you." I finally got proof when she slipped up half a dozen or so times, each time sloppier than the last. First, when I was doing the laundry, I found a number in her pants pocket. It just said "Rick 555-0187," but the "i" in "Rick" was drawn as an erect penis. "Maybe it's just a friend," I thought to myself.
A few days later I was watching the evening news and drinking a root beer when I heard a strange sound coming from the laundry closet. Kind of a low wail. I opened the door to the laundry closet and found Sandy sitting spread-eagle on top of the running dryer, masturbating while talking on the phone.
"Oh, Rick--" she moaned. Then she noticed me. "What the fuck are you doing? I'm on a phone call with my friend Rick!"
"Sorry, sweetie," I said, embarrassed. I shut the doors and the moans continued. "Hope she's not sick." At the time I didn't put it all together, but now I can see that there was something going on even then.
Then there was the time a week later when I got home from work and found Sandy and this sweaty shirtless guy with a mustache sitting on the couch smoking cigarettes.
"And who is this?" I demanded.
"Honey, this is my friend . . . Dick." The two laughed.
"Nice to meet you Dick!" I shook his hand. It was sticky.
Finally I found the piece of evidence that brought her little game down once and for all. I was at work at the time. I had just returned from lunch, when I decided to check my e-mail.
From: bigdickrick@yahoo.com Subject: im fucking youre wife
hey asshole im fucking youre wife hahahahahha!!!1
Embedded in the e-mail was a video. Someone who appeared to be my wife was riding a guy who appeared to be the guy "Dick" who I had met at my house weeks before in the reverse cowgirl position. They must have just come from some kind of convention or something because they both had name tags attached to their naked bodies. Sandy's said "Sandy Johnson." Dick's said "Rick Michaels."
"Maybe it was just a past indiscretion," I legitimized. "We've all made mistakes. I'm sure this was years ago." But then I noticed that Sandy was holding a newspaper with today's date on it. "BDR Corp lays heavy pipe in unwelcome area" the headline read. Kind of ironic, now that I think about it.
My next thought was "Hell, this kind of thing can be faked." That's when I noticed the seal of a notary public in the bottom-right corner.
"There's only one explanation for this," I realized. "My wife has hypnotized and forced to scream and moan with pleasure against her will."
When I got home there was a note on the kitchen table.
Dear John,
As I'm sure you know by now, I've been cheating on you. I'm leaving you forever.
Best wishes,
Sandy
My fists clenched, and I swore to find the hypnotists who did this to my Sandy and kill them.
I showed the video to my friend Bob, and told him of my plan to kill the hypnotists. He shook his head mournfully. "John, they're not hypnotists. Your wife's just a slut." He pulled a magazine out of his pocket. It was the newest issue of Sandy Johnson is a Slut, and No, She's Not Hypnotized and World Reports Weekly.
I flipped through the magazine, and Bob detailed the long journey of sluthood my wife had been a part of. It took some convincing, but he was right. I didn't want revenge on hypnotists. I wanted revenge on my wife. And that's just what I would get.
