Her profile picture looked cute enough. And that was one problem. She had red hair, which I like. Red hair turned me stupid. I couldn’t focus around it. So, yeah. That was another problem. Facebook reported we had 39 friends in common. 39. A nice, safe number. She had green eyes. I knew from her profile pictures, she had green eyes. And two cats. Divorced. It was quite a problem list.
Why? Why was it a problem list?
See. I was me. A guy. Even worse. A 58 year old guy. Worse of all, a 58 year old white guy. You know what that means, don’t you. It means I was part of the problem. Part of what was wrong with the world. I was part of the patriarchy, part of the privileged people who couldn’t even see the problem. Couldn’t understand the problem. Even if I was one of the few who knew the problem existed, I couldn’t understand the scope of the problem. Or how privileged I was. Or how many freedoms I had. Because. I was a 58 year old white guy.
I’d never grown up wondering if I was going to be sexually assaulted at school. If the church pastor would get naked in my presence. If the father of my next door neighbor was going to shove his hands down my pants.
I’d never grown up wondering if I could get a job. Because. Everybody knew. White guys like me always got jobs. It was that simple. And it wouldn’t be a job mopping floors, or cleaning bathrooms. I was a white guy. I’d get a real job. Whatever the hell a real job was.
I never had to go into debt to get a college education. Never had to choose between eating dinner for a week, or making the student loan payment. Never had to lay face down on the street, spread eagled, to keep the cops from shooting me.
I was a white guy. You get that? A white guy.
And that was all the problems. And it would always be all the problems.
Oh, I knew the best part of that too. See. I was a white guy. That meant, if I wanted to be a friend to someone on a social network, or at work, or at church, or anywhere else. It was up to me. I had to make the effort to be the friend.
Because. I was a white guy. And we all knew, everybody knew, if you’re a woman, you don’t ask a guy to be your friend. That’s inappropriate.
So, I looked at her picture again. She was cute. And I was an older white guy. I thought that summed it up nicely.
I clicked on the button that said remove. Because. I knew the truth. It was wrong for me to ask. Because. I was a white guy. A 58 year old white guy.
And she was cute.
And she’d never ask.
So that was it. All I’d ever do was remember, from time to time, that I’d done the only thing I could. And pretended I’d never seen her picture.
Isn’t that how life is anymore? Especially for 58 year old white guys?
I finished checking for any messages, or interactions with people on Facebook. Then, I logged out. And closed the browser. And sighed. And I wondered what I’d do when my lady died. Not that there was much to wonder about. She was the only person I had in my life.
If she was gone…
I killed that thought. I knew I’d deal with that problem when it arrived. There was no sense in rushing it.
It was going to be another night of Ancient Aliens, and video games, and maybe some music videos on Youtube.
I was a 58 year old white guy.
And that’s how we roll.
That’s how we roll.