Lucky the Tourist Gets Personal

It's an on going struggle, especially in the relative anonymity of cyberspace, not to go over the top, be totally melodramatic, figuratively scream my head off in complete histrionics about how lonely, angry, confused etc. I am. (I am, after all, not. But one behaves as one is expected)
On a regular basis I think most people over estimate the size and importance of their own emotions.
And the internet seems to act like an amplifier, turning minor thoughts, impressions and tendencies into trademarks and points of pride. If it didn't the blogosphere would be completely dull, not just incoherent and ugly.
Everyone's a bigger victim than anyone else, myself included.

It's my hope here to tread the line between morose navel gazing and public contemplation; a line known in the world at large as, "pontificating." An accusation I can easily live with.

With that out of the way, I'd like to present a scenario:
There was a time, not long ago, when an attractive female in close proximity to me would completely ruin my week. The encounter would only need last fifteen minutes at a distance of ten to fifty feet. Long enough for me to sneak a few peaks and internalize her particular graces. From there she would be lodged in my brain, tangled like a fly in a web.

I don't know what to call the opposite of endorphins, the chemicals your brain releases, when you are otherwise fine, to dampen your spirits and create phantom pain, but that's what would associate with this stranger's image. They'd release and flood my functioning every time I'd look up at her or remember her image. And then, for a span of days I would have this imprint to recall, a habitual self punishing mechanism. This was a pattern, a habit, almost a hobby. I was a connoisseur of silent agony. And all I had to do to find it was leave the house.

Life has changed noticeably since then. I inhabit my former self's living space and associations, but my outlook is different, my body is different, my experiences and opinions are all very different. Yet there is still his legacy to deal with.

I've not shifted into a social butterfly, flirting and speaking with charm and ease. I still retire more often than advance faced with persons. But the pains I once felt at lovely images are dulled to a thud. I feel their attempt but shake my head and laugh as I perceive their failure.

For instance,
Today at Starbucks a perfectly lovely girl was seated just across from me, her legs folded under her in a brown upholstered chair. She sat there reading a novel, one quite popular at the moment. The cover has a black background and picture of a hand holding an apple...I don't keep up with popular fiction.

I was reading an account of the military campaigns of Scipio Africanis, the Roman General who defeated Hannibal. The lockstep description of military maneuver and canny politics felt like armor against the old habits. A brunette with full lips and smart-girl glasses. She wore her hair framing her face, a brown sweat shirt with the name of the local university embossed in pink, faded blue jeans and tan moccasins.
My overall reaction was quizzical...how was I supposed to react?
Does internal reaction necessitate external expression?
If so is it a social obligation or only something you do if you cannot stop yourself?
I've always suspected that if you have to question things like that then it's hopeless...you'll never understand.
The young woman's image has nearly evaporated, I remember her description merely because I made mental note, no more human than a list. A few years ago I would have been haunted for days.

I've either evolved or calloused, possibly both.