Pointers on Emotional Desensitization

I’ve decided to obliterate any sense of feeling toward the opposite sex. From now on, I pledge to be a neutral observer, much like Switzerland in the World Wars or a light fixture in a living room. My observations will be purely ones of objectivity – face looks like a Michelangelo sculpture; eyes the colour of pea soup; height roughly similar to that of a double bass – and my feelings will be as flat and unchanging as a slice of deli meat. Potential methods for desensitization include: staring at pieces of gravel for long periods, then reverting one’s gaze to a jujube whilst continuing to think only about the gravel; 100 daily repetitions of “I am a feelingless blob” and/or recitations of “What are little boys made of? Slugs and snails And puppy-dogs’ tails”; other methods still in trial phase.Following disciplined adherence to these techniques, my interactions with males will be no more destabilizing than folding laundry or brushing my teeth.

This moment of clarity results from a culmination of minor revelations that came together one morning at some point between pouring cereal into a bowl and lifting the spoon to my mouth. You see, at that instant I came to the realization that guys in this city, and probably throughout most of the developed world, can be roughly divided into the following four categories: 1. Has girlfriend, 2. Gay, 3. Recently broke up with girlfriend so only interested in short-term contract (i.e. the latter portion of a night), and 4. border-line psychopath in need of a few (or many) counseling sessions.[1]  Add to this the 97% chance that either you or he or both of you, will be leaving Geneva in the next 1 to 4 months, and the whole thing just becomes a recipe for nagging emotional distress and unnecessary exhaustion of valuable mental energy. And really, there’s simply not time for it.

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[1] Note. This list is not exhaustive nor would I like to preclude future additions. Already we can insert category 3.1 Inbetween stage recently broke up with girlfriend and stage meet someone he actually likes. And a 5. Miscellaneous.

Tales from Paradise

Suicide method #51 – Hiking in Sardinia in August.  We didn’t, and that’s why I’m still here to tell this tale.

I have recently returned from paradise. Well, at least a little strip of it, basking lazily in the sun-soaked water of the Mediterranean Sea. Brilliant turquoise lapping on shores of white sand, wind-swept rocks and cliffs, reddened as though they were literally baking in the scorching heat. Sailboats gliding gracefully along a horizon of blue, speed boats leaving tails of white surf stretching out behind them. Yachts full of uber wealthy rich people lining the harbours, and bathing beauties (and uglies) surrendering their already extraordinarily tanned bodies up the intense rays of the sun. Not a cloud in the sky.

Primary activities involved laying for extended periods on really hot beaches with water cooling sessions about every 15 minutes due to overheating and maximum sweat accumulation. Our next most valuable pastime, even suggested as a cheap option in Lonely Planet Sardinia, was people watching and, never failing, Sardinia offered an exceptional number of gems.

For starters, let me introduce you to Luigi (most likely not his real name) a beach goer who we were unfortunate to encounter on Punto Volpe.

Luigi was most noticeable because, on August 19^th (and sadly probably other days as well) , he chose to wear a thin, white Speedo to the beach. Some onlookers opted to avert their eyes, tisking at the fashion choice – ‘oh boy,’ they heard themselves mutter in their heads, ‘how ghastly’. Others, I assume, caught the view more head on. Luigi’s unfortunate situation was not helped by the fact that his body was far from toned. The extension of a pudgy pectoral area into a protruding brown stomach that hung over the mini Speedo somewhat the way bread dough might bulge over the edge of a tilted bowl, rather negatively contributed to the whole issue of his swimming shorts.  Most likely, Luigi did have a split second of doubt when he dawned his suit that morning – that sort of moment when you wonder if you might look silly – but then he tucked the thought away, reminding himself who brought home the bacon in the family. Who was the top dog.

The next day we met Perfect Family. We encountered them on a tiny little beach tucked away in the  bend of the shoreline, water the color of blue bubble gum. You know when parents have children and they actuallystill talk to each other? These parents were like that. Amazingly enough, their children had not taken over their entire existence and they still found a way to talk about things other than: “did you put sunscreen on the backs of Clara’s legs? Yes, I know you said you put it on her, but sometimes you forget the backs of the legs! And they’re looking pink!”, or “did you pack another juice box, Giorgio’s looking for an orange juice? Biagio, I told you to put in two each! They always get thirsty. No, there isn’t a store nearby! We’re on a tiny island off a tiny island off a small island!” These parents were inspiring because children did not seem to equal cessation of love and commencement of relationship maintenance for the sake of the precious children. Sorry, I suppose I have a very cynical view – but please understand,  in my elementary school class about 5 out of 16 children had married parents by Grade 8. And those that were married tended to have conversations revolving around who was going to pick up spinach at the store that night and who was getting Angie from soccer practice.

Anyway, before I digress, I hope you’ve enjoyed the small introduction to just a few of the many fascinating folks who await you should you take the plunge (not literally, unless you plan to swim) and travel to Sardinia. Throw on top of it melodious sounds of Italian floating in your ears, groups of wizened old men with skin so sunned it looks like tanned leather and enough wrinkles that if wrinkles were money they could move to Switzerland and buy dinner in a restaurant. And funny taxi drivers who are definitely not Swiss, and little buses that run very infrequently and make you wish that a car would just be lowered from the heavens, and lots of pizza and lots of iced tea and lots of salty water and lots of that good, gritty just-back-from-a-day-at-the-beach feeling, and the even better just-showered-after-a-day-at-the-beach feeling, and of course red skin progressing to peeling skin, so literally you become a new person, in a sense.

These men are not Italian because they’re white and wearing shorts.