Syndromes and Disorders

Surely you've noticed the abundance of syndromes and disorders that have been defined in the past, oh, say ten years. Characteristics and patterns that we termed kooky or wierd or just plain nutz thirty years ago are now reduced to an acronym and accompanied by a regimen of high-priced designer pharmaceuticals and a sympathetic shake of the head.

So how do we treat Candy Store Syndrome in grown men? Is this a syndrome that, if ignored, will disappear just as quietly and quickly as it set on? Do we need to coddle these men, give them the opportunity to sample as many pieces of candy as they possibly can until they get so sick (or bored) that they never want to look at candy again? But if they don't want any more candy, will they still want this excellent, first-rate, grade AAA delicacy that's sitting quietly by, waiting for the syndrome to pass?

My close friends know I've got a serious case of Little Adoptee Disorder. That means I'm always scared of being given away again. The only medication for this disorder is years and years of therapy, accompanied by a generous dose of Tender Loving Care.

When Mr. Right says to me that he is scared of making the wrong choice, of choosing the delicacy (me) before he's sampled every variety in the candy store, I understand. At that moment I understand. He's been in one relationship or another all his adult life, and finally, blissfully — at least I think it's blissfully — he's a bachelor. A swinging bachelor with an elegant bachelor pad, a martini shaker, and hot and cold running women. Or so he dreams.

But in my quiet moments, when I haven't seen him for a day or so, I forget to understand. I log on to Match and I see him logged on, and wonder how many women have winked at desireable him today. I start thinking about all those women out there [in my imagination] with prettier hair or longer legs or slimmer bodies. Or less baggage. And it hurts. It physically hurts, with a current of electricity running from my right shoulder down to my wrist and making me feel, yet again, not good enough, not acceptable. And as is my pattern for the past, oh, forty-five years, those feelings make me want to run away and hide.

Does there ever come a time when we don't have to compete any more, when we can just be ourselves and enjoy the companionship of one man who finds us good enough and acceptable and a joy to be with?

All I want is one man — the right one man to last the rest of my life. I don't want to be a piece of candy in a bin. I want to be dessert and entree, joy and sustenance, that lasts the rest of his life, whoever he is. I have a hard time being patient, waiting for him to appear, because another day has passed and I want to get on with Life.