Came to a realization last night.
So there I am, neckin' down a pint while listening to this gentleman sing Bruce Springsteen.
A group starts chatting me up.
“Where you from?”
Minnesota.
“What are you doing here?”
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
“University"
Nah.
"Sales?”
I’m looking for a girl.
Eyes wide, leaning in like they’d just stumbled onto a celebrity sighting.
“Are YOU the most romantic man in the world?!”
Oh.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Shit.
I get it now.
That WAS the ceiling.
Whoops.
Lets dive in.
What is 'The Bar'?
Okay, so let’s assume you’ve never heard this phrase before.
“The bar” is basically the minimum effective dose of effort required to impress someone.
When people say “the bar is on the floor,” they mean it takes almost nothing to look like a hero.
We’re not talking grand gestures.
We’re not talking candlelit dinners in Paris.
We’re talking:
- He remembered your birthday.
- He texted back in under 72 hours.
- He owns more than one towel.
If the bar is on the floor… what’s the ceiling?
The ceiling is just… slightly higher than the bar.
Its like a tight space you have get down, lay on our belly, and army crawl through so you don't bump your head on it.
Imagine you're laying down on the bottom bunk.
You can lay there, flat on your ass, and you can still touch it without much effort at all.
So, what do you need to become the Most Romantic Man in the World?
Step 1: Buy a plane ticket.
Step 2:
How many verbs?
One.
Action verb.
Example: looking.
Who is the girl?
Doesn’t fucking matter.
Could be Sarah,
Could be a mirage,
Could be the cashier at Tesco who once gave you the wrong change.
Do I need flowers?
No.
That’s advanced play.
Forget the florist.
Chocolate?
Only if you’re personally hungry.
A novel, a blog, a heartfelt letter, jail time?
Nope.
Unnecessary.
Wasted effort.
Please recycle.
What about the grand gesture?
You already did it.
You got on a plane then used "look" and "girl" in the same sentence.
Doesn’t matter where.
Doesn’t matter if you flew Ryanair and paid for your seat with pocket lint and loose Euros.
Boarding pass = sainthood.
And that’s it?
That’s it.
You’ve crossed the finish line.
You've broken through the glass ceiling.
Five words.
One verb.
Any girl.
A plane ticket.
Congrats, Casanova.
So, why didn't anyone tell me this before?!
And suddenly I understand why people keep calling me intense.
Because here I am, living my life.
You know, 'go with the flow' state of mind.
Meanwhile, literally making any effort is like dropping the mic on humanity.
And here’s the thing.....I don’t know how I’m perceived.
I don't think like everyone else.
Let me break this down for so we can all get on the same page:
Like, people call me “intense.”
But from the inside?
It doesn’t feel intense.
It feels… normal.
"Don't play stupid"
"You're acting dumb, like you didn't know"
Because to me, every “what if” carries the same weight.
What if I went skydiving?
What if I wiped 3 times instead of 2?
What if I bought a house?
What if I grabbed a 24-pack of toilet paper instead of 12-pack?
What if I got on a plane?
What if my finger slips through the single ply?
What if I got a new job?
What if I wore blue instead of red?
They all hit the same way.
No hierarchy.
No sliding scale of seriousness.
Just rows of equally-weighted dominos.
Different roads.
Different options.
Different outcomes.
So when I say, “What if I bought a ticket to the UK and just… went?”
I don’t feel like I’m announcing a life-altering odyssey.
Like most people.
That's my normal.
To me? It's the same category as:
“What if I got Pizza Hut instead of Pizzaria tonight?”
That’s how most people think of making decisions.
Ordering Domino’s instead of Papa John’s.
Switching up their latte order.
That’s your version of “living.”
I don't judge you for it.
Why do you judge me?
Meanwhile I’m out here in the same headspace, just with...higher-stakes...dice rolls.
What if I moved countries?
What if I tried to learn the language?
What if I fell in love with someone I haven’t met yet?
And to everyone else, that’s madness.
But to me? It’s just another “what if.”
So...when they look at me wide-eyed and go
“Are you the most romantic man in the world?”
1st of all...
I understand now.
2nd of all....
It was an accident.
Wasn't trying for it.
Just kinda...happened.
And... when I look into my crystal ball....that will probably make the envious even more so.
To them, I’ve basically jumped out of a plane with no parachute, holding roses in my teeth, trying to steal their wives and daughters.
To me? I was just folding laundry on a Thursday night, watching Rick and Morty, and had a passing thought:
“Hmmm, what if I just bought a ticket?"
"What if I did it right now?”
It's your equivelant to "what if I ordered take out?"
Me: *Breathes*
The world: “You’re living every mans dream."
As if something were stopping them.
So here I am, thinking I haven’t written a sonnet in iambic pentameter or ordered chocolate from Belgium, or built the taj-mahal like Shah Jahan...so logically, I have more work to do.
Plain and simple.
Black and white.
Cut and Dry.
But, that's not the case.
Meanwhile… plane ticket.
Two months ago. Boom.
Ceiling = obliterated.
Effort = laughably low.
Me = still thinking a sonnet could be fun.
That's the best way I can describe it.
#WelcomeToTheSamePageClub