I’ve never had a girlfriend. Over the years, I came to think of myself as one of those people romance simply overlooks. Seeing happy couples still stings occasionally, but I’ve gotten reasonably good at directing my attention elsewhere. Usually toward work. Work has excellent availability.
I’m a physical therapist specializing in neurological conditions. I learned several treatment methods and eventually became an instructor in two of them. Helping people is the part of life where I feel useful, so I’ve given it a considerable share of my time.
Then the clinic’s convention plans fell apart. They needed someone to demonstrate a treatment method, and I was available. Being the person with no plans and a reliable yes has certain professional consequences.
I reached the hotel late, gave my demonstration to about two dozen people the following day, and went back afterward. A woman who’d attended started talking to me. I was only half following until she mentioned techniques and treatment methods. Suddenly, we had arrived at my entire personality.
She asked whether I could demonstrate proper massage. This is an occupational hazard, a little like asking a psychology major to explain your brain over dinner. I didn’t mind. Here was a question I actually knew how to answer.
We went to her room, and I massaged her back. When she turned toward me without her top, I finally understood that we had been attending two different conversations.
I said, “Sorry, dude,” and left.
For a moment, being wanted felt good. Then I started feeling sad for her. My mind went straight to the idea that she must have been having a difficult time to choose me. I don’t know that, of course. It was simply where my thoughts went.
Apparently, she mentioned the encounter, because word reached the clinic. Now colleagues of every gender keep asking why I left. I haven’t had the heart to explain how poorly suited I feel to that situation. I’m mostly hoping the clinic develops an urgent interest in literally anything else.
