The Pink Panther
Look! Cast a glance and pray she might take the bait! The maiden so priceless and fair ripples the stones she walks with her untamed tease. Her footsteps bleed allure and the men have polished their wine glasses. So the competition begins, for one suitor shall steal a taste of her sugar and spice. Though tempting her slant and silhouette, a lone wolf hesitates to fight for her hand. The competition intimidates him more than her overwhelming beauty. Of a most pessimistic persuasion, the man sees all hope as ripped away, and thinks competition is never a successful experience for all parties involved. But her sway, her stance! A woman so sweet is worth his reconsideration. After much dilly dally and a second glance, he has concluded the opposite of his disposition. Competition is not always unhealthy, and, in fact, bears fruits as saccharine as the girl. The man evaluates the trueness of this competition and why it is a necessary good.
A pure sympathetic, the suitor’s first concern is the humbling projection his competitors face should he capture the lady’s fancy. He thinks their failure to seduce reflects the columns of flaws humanity practices and perfects. His success depends on their missteps, and should continue to do so if he wishes to hold his enchantress’ hand eternally. So, he believes if their failure proliferates, then society will soon consist of a billion rejects, outcasts, incompetent good-for-nothings. And if these peasants should flood humanity, what stops him from being mistaken as one of their own? Surely the belle’s bonny splendor could salvage his ego, and his own nine-inch waist and striking red slippers would render him entirely inconsiderable. However, he tosses that course of action aside in the blink of an eye, and flaunts a raised chin. Why, of course! How silly of him. Humanity is already concocted of a multitude of inferior misfits. Humans have failed since the beginning of time, so any new losses should not leave a dent. The suitor begins to feel a surge of confidence. He throws a keek at the maiden’s toned strut.
Still with an empathetic strategy, the wanna-be groom then worries for his adversaries' coming spiritual deficit. Their brutal defeat would most definitely quell their drive and strike an era of untimely deaths, leaving behind only the poorest shells of once enthralled suitors. He could not be so mean as to bombard a man’s motivation with his shameless win. Without his muscles, a man only has his feelings, and the suitor is no pirate prepared to slash the sensitive masculinity of his fellow rivals. He prepares to cower away from the crowd, his humility pulling his lead-filled legs.
The hermit comes to a firm halt upon realization of his hermitude. He cannot possibly be the only man with a heart of gold, with an empathy so great it would give up the suave Snow White that sashays before him. The contenders could not be so devoted to her trace to push past their competition. An epiphany hits again, and the man realizes that this nature is exactly the case. His competition is ruthless. They are ravenous predators bound to their prey, capable of hypnotizing the meek to feel their wrath and later usurp their life. Or perhaps they are brazen peacocks, flexing their attitudes and whatever hunky appeal they have practiced most in the mirror. Nonetheless, they are bold and unapologetic, and he sees the need to adapt to their behavior. These animals will not be cast down by defeat, for they are men! Strong-willed and sensible, unhinged and full of flare, these men ignore each other’s feelings and leap toward their only desire! Like vikings ransacking villages, they do not fear failure and they breed from mishap. The man concludes his probable victory will not hurt the men, but motivate them further to pursue whatever mistress crosses their paths without a second thought. With a puff of his chest and a comb of his mane, he rejoins the chivalrous colosseum tailing the maiden’s every move.
The lone wolf’s next internalized efflux was one powerful enough to send him halfway home. After spending precious time evaluating his challengers, their strains, their brawn, he is only left to assess himself. Head to head with his competitors and ogling in awe, his vibrant blush showering a stiffened grin begins to fade. He endures a moment of self reflection. All this repetition of if he wins this, if he wins that, yet he ignored the uncertainty that creates these fantasies. Well he is blind no longer, and is now face to face with his own charisma.
A player at best, he assumes his semblance is somewhat noteworthy. A stray hair here, and an old stain there, but nothing so abhorrent to push away the overworn widows of the village. This maiden is no spare woman, though. She is the red camellia in a field of roses, the bohemian waxwing in a nest of pigeons. Not to mention, her elegance alone can attract a congregation of manthers, and he does not recall the widows’ withered glamour ever waking the dead. It is undeniable; the girl is a goddess among mere milkmaids. The suitor cannot rule himself out as anything but a milkmaid either. Afterall, the best he has attracted is pariahs like One-Eyed Janette and Gimpy Louise. Who is he kidding, his devil-may-care mien and untucked shirt could never compare to that of the belle’s worthy suitor. He re-enters reality, and finds himself only three corners away from his brick-dusted hovel. His legs were fatigued from his ambiguous tango, so his inflated melancholy did the walking.
On his dreaded traipse back to his burdened abode, he crossed paths with a suitor in the same situation as him. His lonely feeling fleed for a flash, till he recognized the poor sap footslog with his same sorrowful schlep. He had walked past a translucent storefront. The decaying soul glaring was himself. Upon witnessing his reflection, his mind blanked. The crestfallen crescent dripping from his face began to freeze. A numbness stopped the suitor in his tracks. He was having an epiphany once again. He was not too shabby.
For a guy who has slept with half the town's widows and brushes his teeth every two days, he was not too shabby. Compared to the other blokes gambling for the maiden’s hand, it is fair to say he is holding a flush, possibly a full house on a sunny day. Not to mention, the princess has hardly spoken two words, none of which clarified her taste in men. It would be inappropriate to rule himself out as a competitor when he has not yet learned the maiden’s name. She is a woman of worth, not one who lets the men decide her favorite flavor. So, with a mild sneer painting his face, the lone wolf decides a series of serendipity is still within view. Like a siren’s song for tongue-tied sailors, only the maiden’s purple prose can disqualify any candidates.
The more influential of the two, the sailor now considers his personality. As for his quality of godliness, he looks both ways when he crosses the street and in that effort he helps old ladies cross, but he is not the cleanest of men, so he reckons he ranks about average. But evident enough he is a man of humble benignancy, always advocating for his fellow suitors first, till he can rule them irrelevant. Whether an object of his infamous sense of insecurity or pure angelic intentions, his actions are morally good and a needed benefactor in this ignoble world. He prays if his wavering guise is not enough to convince the posh pinup, then his prevalent brotherhood will do the trick.
The suitor regains his composure, and allows his newfound convictions to carry on his first intentions to seduce the seductress. In this time, he has a change of heart and recognizes his erroneous foundations in the way of competition. He arrives at the doorsteps of enlightenment on his way to the curb of the enchantress’ persistent horde of hombres. He concludes the nature of competition is not inherently evil. It does not wreak emotional havoc upon its participants, nor does it grant the entirety of one’s dreams and rewrite their futures. What competition’s goal has always been is to motivate those who dare to engage in it. It injects the strongest of adrenaline antibiotics to crush superiority and inferiority alike. In the face of competition, every competitor starts from scratch. It equalizes the value embedded into every challenger’s soul, only to later rewrite that score in relation to one’s own actions in the heat of publicity. Any prolonged reign of intimidation and insecurity or prowess and power comes from the deeply rooted imperfection of the competitor. Competition does not amplify these qualities, but works to eradicate their inflation. In order for this to be successful, the competitor must function in coherence with the morals of competition; to do the opposite is a testimony to the competitor’s rampant Original Sin. The enlightened lone wolf acknowledges the truth to this nature in retrospect of his own abundance of subordination. He conjectures this philosophy in much simpler terms: if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.
From an obnoxious galumph to some pep in his step, the suitor has arrived at the edge of the beauty’s symphony once again. Though incoherent and off-tune, the crowd’s resolute resonance continues to pester the potential proposee. The lone suitor breaks through the masses and pursues the mistress’ hand. His audacious gesture suggests nothing of his self-effacing background. This is a competition after all, and he has wasted enough time as the running loser. In the clichést of fashions, he asks the maiden for her digits. Her weight shifts from heel to heel, and the audience erupts in rays of envy and awe. With a furrow of her brow and a rosy sneer of her lips, she announces the inefficiency of her prince charming’s efforts, for she is not a single woman.