“I accept myself as a very specific kind of guy, and in that sense, I’m a little like a woman, because my chemistry is so exacting,” he says. “I can’t describe it in words, but I can see it in my head, its color, its light, its shapes, and I’ve managed to synthesize my love for myself by way of many different reasonings and processes, and I’ve been able to really synthesize my own satisfaction and things that do it for me. They’ve usually been self-taught, self-instructed, self-refined. So to be with anybody else has to somewhat lie in that comfort zone I’ve created with myself so well.”
Like much of what Mayer says, what he specifically means by this is somewhat murky, but the great thing is, it’s okay. He’ll never put a sock in it. The whys are unimportant. And now it’s time for him to go. He stands. He puts on his winter coat and jams his hands into the pockets. He shuffles his feet, starts to walk away, then thinks better of it and returns. He thrusts his big head forward. “Let me ask you a question,” he says. “Do you believe me? I mean, overall, do you buy me? Do you at least believe that I believe me?” Yes, of course, maybe, probably. But when the perfect girl comes along, she’ll both buy him and believe him, and what obscures him to others will only illuminate him for her. And when she agrees to be his wife, it’ll all be different then, just like he has always hoped.
