notaboutism

It's not about a burrito with no tomatoes, or triply redundant scheduling spreadsheets, or contracts for ordering bulk metal. It's not about spelling four-letter words. It's not about laziness. It's not about smooth jazz and sports radio. It's not about good credit scores.

It's not about buffalo chicken theory. It's not about too much cheese, or too little. It's not about the utensils, the napkins, the tables. It's not about people-watching and counting heads. It's not about what your well-meaning mothers think.

It's not about vision or hearing impairments. It's not about elbows rocking the boat.

It's not in the exclamation points or the lack of them. It's not even in the infinite shrugs and beaming smiles.

But if it's not in any of these dazzling things, then how could it possibly be anywhere?

You allowed for a million wonderful reasons. The truth isn't one million and one.

You can look, but you can't touch. Of course you knew that. Always did.

Still, you wanted someone else to tell you that they knew better, because nobody seemed to swiftly shut you down.

You goaded yourself. You lied to yourself. You gambled, to get yourself here.

All things being equal - yes, oh yes, of course! But they're not, and they never were. It doesn't matter how brilliantly good it seems. It doesn't matter how promising the vanishing odds.

So, of course, if your goal is to look at pretty people, then maybe you can find your way around doing that, once a week. No frills. Won't ever matter if they're into you. You don't have to be into them.

Rather, we want to look at pretty people who want to look back at us. Who don't want to stop looking. Whose happiness doesn't go on while ours splits fingerprints on shitty matches in the sundark and fizzles its bittering all the way out. Between consenting adults, et cetera.

We want to be not just good-looking but beautiful, and make a choice to make the world a better place.

For someone. For anyone. For each other.

But it's not about that. It never is.