When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one person to dissolve the romantical bands which have connected him with a lady and to assume among the powerful espressos of the megachurch food court, the separate and single station to which the Laws of Attraction and of Attraction’s God (Kanye?) entitle him, a fair-to-middling respect to the opinions of the worship team requires that he should declare the causes which impel him to be a righteous tool and commence separation.
~ Declaration of Independence, Axe Bodyspray Edition
My wife and I have been a couple for over 10 years. Prior to said coupling, I was a lonely, forlorn soul prone to hyperbole and eating Pop Tarts for breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, tea, dinner and supper. (My proclivity for eating like Bilbo Baggins may or may not have contributed to my singleness.) And during those bygone days of pathetic yore, I was not exactly the prototypical male when it came to having a fear of commitment. At least not the prototype as defined by 80s-era sitcoms wherein guys would run screaming away from their supermodel-esque TV girlfriends at the mere mention of going “steady.” Or even to the grocery store. Granted, one needs someone to actually commit to before being able to claim a lack of commitment phobia.
However, it has been brought to my attention that an epidemic of amorous anxiety has befallen many otherwise hale and hardy male youths who consider themselves members of the Lord’s team. (No, not the Cowboys. Seriously?) While space does not permit me to dive into the weeds, drill down or perform any other corporate jargon-based detective work as to the origins of such a malaise, I can offer some “straight dope” to the “kidz” about the “jive malarkey” they’ve been feeding to their “dames.”
The following list of excuses was provided to me by someone a decade younger than myself, so I know it’s either valid or part of an elaborate – yet incredibly boring – internet prank.
I’m breaking up with you to work on my relationship with God. Congratulations, sir. Your newfound laser focus on the Lord will no doubt result in a lasik-like transformation of your insight, causing you to eventually understand that you just dumped future neuroscientist Mary Jo Kowalski because she didn’t like Call of Duty quite enough whereas Billy Graham was married to his wife for 64 years. Idiot.
I don’t feel “a peace” about dating you. Guess what, Chachi. God isn’t some sort of cosmic Chuck Woolery making sure you have a love connection with every lass you like. I mean, you know, like. Besides, the last time you felt “a peace” about something, you ended up with a 1993 Plymouth Laser of dubious structural rigidity. Frankly, the fact that she’s at peace with being with you should be miracle enough to inspire a second conversion.
I feel God is leading me, like Paul, to a life of singleness. Interesting. Is the Holy Spirit also leading you to spend nearly a decade in obscurity studying his Word before embarking on a decades-long mission that includes imprisonment, torture and ultimately martyrdom? That must’ve been some “road to Starbucks” moment, huh?
You’re my sister in Christ and I don’t want to complicate things. By this logic, you’ll be forced to disobey 2 Corinthians 6:14. Also, creepy.
You’re a little too worldly. I think Jesus should be your boyfriend right now. “It’s not me, it’s you” is always a good play. Nothing like denting the self-esteem of a young woman (I’m assuming she’s iffy on the esteem front if she’s with a schmuck like you) to extricate yourself from a relationship. Oh, and way to take the Lord’s name in vain. Nice.
You don’t appear to be a good “rib match” for me. I spit a rather majestic plume of Earl Grey across my office when I read this. The only time this excuse is plausible is when you take your potential ladymate to your favorite barbecue joint and she orders a salad. Otherwise, let me school you on something, kemostupid: There’s no such thing as a “rib match.” Sure, it’s romantic as all get out (yes, all) to think that God lovingly crafted a lone angelic creature from Kevlar-infused gossamer and deposited her within your Young Life class to eventually fall for your “bashful theologian” shtick and become Mrs. Derpwad. But that’s not how it works. Love is a choice and an action. Both of which must be repeated infinitely throughout your time together. So if she’s not the one, fine. But be a man about it and stop blaming the Almighty for a change.
And by “Almighty” I do, of course, mean “Chuck Woolery.”
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Jason wishes to remind the young men to play it just cool enough to not appear creeptacular.