I walked into my building elevator only to see a stunningly beautiful girl. Sundress, tight body, gorgeous face. And no ring on her finger.
I was in my running shoes and basketball shorts, sweaty from a hard-fought afternoon run.
In the bygone days of blue pill existence, I ignored a lot of the world. In this situation I would have hoped so fervently that the girl noticed me that her body language would have escaped my perception. Nowadays, knowing the true nature of women helps me to be more aware of my surroundings and sensitive to their nonverbal cues.
That was when it was flashed. The look. Sometimes it comes when you share an elevator or pass a woman on a street. Other times, during day approaches. Most frequently at night at the bar or club. The looks is one of dismissive self-righteousness. It says: "You want me so badly, but it will never happen. I am way out of your league, and I know it." The girl flipped through Facebook updates on her iPhone, ruthlessly delighting in her perceived superiority over the sweaty, poorly-outfitted mess sharing her space.
I thought about how I might see her at a bar later that night. My muscles would be well-outlined by my polo shirt rather than hidden by a ratty dry-fit running tee. My hair would be gelled instead of covered in sweat. My breathing would be calm and measured, instead of gasping for air after a grueling set of intervals. I would tell her that it looked like she was having the best time of anyone, and make a witty observation about our surroundings. Maybe she would give me her number, or even put up minimal resistance to a makeout on the dance floor.
I thought about how she would not see the thousands of hours I put into changing myself. Improving my body. Reading. Writing. Approaching. Investing time in worthwhile skills and hobbies. No matter the outcome of the approach, I wouldn't tell her that in five years she would be pining for a man with looks, charm, money, and intelligence. I wouldn't tell her that it would become increasingly difficult for her to fulfill her childish desire for a self-indulgent wedding and the perfect combination of badboy, family man, and easy ATM. That her "look" would become less and less applicable as the years piled on. I thought that she should enjoy her moment of superiority, an ephemeral triumph in an otherwise front-loaded and disappointing reality.