How To Kill Romance In One Easy Step

The summer I turned twenty, I experienced my first potential summer romance.

I had never in my life believed in romance, at least in the way it's peddled by pop culture.  Even though I smiled when Crocodile Dundee climbed over all of those kind, helpful New Yorkers to reunite with his love interest on a subway platform, deep inside I knew that kind of stuff was complete and total bullshit.

However, at the beginning of the summer I would turn twenty, when I met a very cute boy, we exchanged numbers and then started spending all our free time together, my ideas about romance, or at least the storybook "summer romance," began to change.  And when he did things like surprise me at work with a picnic lunch, write a song about me and sing it to me over the phone, and invite me to walk on the beach and watch the full moon rise, I began to think that perhaps rom-com, sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet type romance actually did exist in this world.  And, embarrassing as this is to admit, I felt simply elated about the possibility.

The night that particular concept went supernova in the life of Al was the very night the boy asked me to accompany him to the beach to watch the full moon rise.  Imagine it, folks:  a Cape Cod beach late at night, an enormous, gorgeous full moon shining in the sky and reflecting off the water, plucky foxes running hither and thither between the dunes and the waves - I mean seriously, it was a fucking postcard of romantic bliss.

A backdrop of romantic perfection!  What could possibly go wrong?

And then this happened.

The boy spread a blanket on the sand for us to lie on.  We stared appreciatively at the moon and stars for a bit, and then he leaned over and kissed me.  After a few moments of idyllic summer romance kissing, he pulled back, looked down at me and quietly said, "Do you know who you look like in the moonlight?"

Holy shit! thought I.  Here it is!  My uber-romantic moment!  What is he going to say?

Allowing myself to get swept away in the moment, imagining the vast array of lovely females from whom he could choose to make this the most glorious experience of my life, I gazed up into his eyes and asked, "Who?"

And then he said this:

"Al from Happy Days."

Al.  From motherfucking Happy Days.  Yes.  That is what he said.

To add some context, here's me the summer I was informed of this remarkable resemblance:

Posing with a mannequin at the leather store where I worked

And here is Al from Happy Days:

Shmerbing around his diner, as per usual

Please tell me you don't get it, either.

However, at the time the boy made that statement, I was so far gone in my romantic fantasy world that I thought I must have misheard him.  So I smiled up at him and said, "What?"

Without a hint of remorse, the boy replied confidently, "Yeah, I don't know if it's the shadows or the moonlight doing something weird with your face, but you seriously look just like Al from Happy Days right now.  It's pretty strange."

And that is the exact moment when romance disappeared from my life forever.  Poof.  Just like that.  I looked at the boy and said, "Oh.  That is strange," then stood up and began walking down the beach in the direction of my car.  I don't really remember what the boy did, as he had been instantaneously compartmentalized into the "Dead To Me" category of humans in my life.

Seventeen years of accumulated anger and sarcasm later, I pity the poor fool who would dare to ask me if I know who I look like in the moonlight.  Even if that sad sucker had planned to say something complimentary, he would be faced with a terrifying glare and the furious, rapid fire response, "I don't know, Dick Cheney?  Alfred Hitchcock?  Tom Petty?  Fuck you, too, buddy!"

Stupid illusory romance.  Hmph.

Al from Happy Days, my ass.

The FAQ Soiree

That's me in the red

One of my favorite things about getting older is the fact that, as each day passes, I give less and less of a shit what anyone thinks about me.  I find this state of mind to be tremendously liberating and fabulous.

Now that I am rapidly approaching my 37th birthday, I finally feel completely comfortable identifying as an antisocial introvert.  Several years ago I thought I was ready to begin openly self-identifying in that way, but when I tried it out with a friend of mine, she informed me that my proclamation was "a real asshole thing to say."  After receiving that feedback, I decided I should continue attempting, or at least pretending, to be a quasi-normal individual, readily able to tolerate regular fraternization with fellow members of my species.


However, apparently now I am officially old enough that I can't even bring myself to care what my friends might think, because lately I've found myself making statements (out loud, mind you, not just in my head) such as:

• No, I don't want to go to that festival/parade/gathering.  There will be far too many humans there, and I hate humans.
• No, I don't listen to talk radio.  I don't want to hear people talking.  I just want them to shut the fuck up.
• No, I don't want to go out.  I would prefer to stay home with my dogs and stare at the wall.
• Stop making sounds.  Seriously.  All of you need to stop making sounds.  Immediately.  Thank you.

Ah, yes.  It feels great.

Quite naturally, then, I am not a fan of parties.  In fact, when I hear the word "party," particularly when being invited to one, I tend to have a mild panic attack while simultaneously becoming extremely irritated ("WHY would you invite me to a party when you KNOW it's gonna give me a panic attack??").  Sure, it's a different story when the party involves some sort of activity, like dancing or roping cattle, but when the event is labeled simply as a generic "party," that's when Al's heart palpitations begin in earnest.

I would merrily attend this party, however.

Unfortunately, parties happen all the fucking time.  People love parties.  They seem to live for creating and attending these panic-attack-inducing events.  I envision them cackling evilly and sticking pins into a voodoo doll resembling me whilst engaging in their complicated party-planning endeavors.


Small talk is, in my humble opinion, one of the most tragic components of non-activity-based parties.  I find it both painful and pointless, which is a dastardly combination.  Therefore, since I understand that parties are going to continue existing despite my protestations, I have recently come up with a party concept that would eliminate small talk.  Under the conditions of my party model, those gathered would have no need to have dozens of similar, introductory conversations in a row.  In order to avoid the p-word altogether, I will call this new model The FAQ Soiree.

Where's the soiree at, yo?

Here's how it works.  You receive an invitation.  If you RSVP with a "yes," the host then sends you a short questionnaire to complete and bring along with you to the soiree.  The questionnaire could include, but is not limited to, the following inquiries:

1. What is your name?  If it is an unusual name, please provide some background information (i.e., cultural significance; hippie parents; etc.).
2. How do you know the host(s) of this gathering?
3. What do you do for work?  What do you enjoy about your work?  What sucks about it?
4. Are you from this area?  If not, what brought you here?  If so, what's kept you here?
5. What do you think about this weather we've been having lately?
6. What is your opinion about [latest political thing going on]?
7. What is your opinion about [latest random celebrity gossip]?
8. What is your opinion about [latest national or international tragedy]?
9. What did you think about [current blockbuster movie]?
10. Do you have children?  Pets?  Do you like them?

At the soiree, you will not be permitted to huddle in tight clusters with people you already know.  Instead, you are expected to wander around until you come into contact with an unfamiliar soiree-goer.  At that point, you will exchange and review one another's FAQ sheets.  That way, you'll know all the random bits of bullshit that people deem necessary to know about one another when first meeting, but without having to ask or answer the same dumb questions over and over. 


After completing this process, you and your partner have the task of thinking of something to talk about that has nothing to do with the basic information you've just read.  You may choose to talk about something on a large scale, like:  "In the race towards ultimate enlightenment or ultimate destruction, where do you believe humanity will arrive first?" or something on a small scale, like:  "What do you think is going on with that spider over there?"  Since you will already know, for example, that your new pal has three kids and likes them just fine, instead of asking whether or not he or she has kids, you could ask something more interesting such as:  "Do you think a child's first word carries any long-term significance?" or:  "Do you think your kid would make a good President?  Farmer?  Psychic?  Police officer?  Why or why not?"


I believe that the FAQ Soiree would be the perfect remedy for party blahs.  Random gatherings could go from this:

to this:

This shark is totally smiling at you

I know, very random.  But I did a Google Image search for "fascinating," and the shark picture really spoke to me.