Whenever people read about the science of love, it usually leads to one of two conclusions:
Love is difficult to describe. Poets and lyricists have tried doing so for eons. And they're still at it.
But how would a scientist describe love? It probably wouldn't be as romantic as a poet's or lyricist's description. I fancy it would be something like this:
Okay boys, it's almost Valentine's Day. Time to man up and ask that pretty girl you've been eyeing out on a date! C'mon, you can do it!
I know, I know. It's scary. What if she says "No"? What if she's not interested? What if she doesn't even know who you are?
Well, here's what you can do.
"This guy is driving me nuts. He seems to be interested, yet he's not doing anything. What the hell is up with him??"
I shrugged and stared at my beer. "Maybe he's just a passive guy. They need a little more time to warm up."
She shook her head. "Well, I can't wait forever."
You think he's cute, don't you? You wish he'd come over and talk to you, don't you? Or that he'd ask you out, right? Or maybe even a plant a kiss. But he's not. What's a girl supposed to do?
Flirt! Flirt your cute little ass off!
Don't know how? Let me tell you, from the guy's perspective, what do to.
Ah yes, that ever-illusive activity, as exasperating as it is exhilarating. Both loved and loathed, dreaded and desired. Like a wish whispered under a full moon's light.
I speak of dating, of course. That favorite ritual of guys and dolls. What fun!
What is it about you that holds such sway over guys? What gives you this magic? This power?
We want to look away. We try to look away. Yet, like a magnet, you pull all the lead-headed guys towards you.
I admit it: I'm a car singer. I'll bellow out songs up the 101 until my throat is soar.
And yet, put me in front of a karaoke machine, and I'll freeze up like a popsicle. Karaoke, I don't do. But Caraoke, sure.
Unfortunately, other drivers don't always expect someone to be Caraoking, I guess. I say that because of the funny looks.
He leaned in close. She could smell his sweat and deodorant.
"Why don't you like me?" he asked.
She closed her eyes. The words were in her head, but she didn't have the heart to let them out.
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA