I love me not: Part deux

Would you mercilessly criticise a good friend who just made a huge blunder in order to help her get on track again? Of course not.
If you’re like most women, you’d be kind and supportive. You might be tough, but you’d be fair, letting your friend know that you were there for her. So why do we think that beating ourselves up helps us to be at our best?

It just so happens that the morning after writing my last blog post, I found this article on a UK news website that takes an incisive look at WHY we women are so hard on ourselves.

The quote I pulled above I think is the best reason I could think of to start a move toward personal positivity. If a friend came to you and started beating herself up verbally. She says she’s fat, ugly, dumb, her shoes are coordinated with her handbag, etc. what would you do? Would you sit there and agree with her and add to the list things she should change? Or would you stick up for her and tell her all the things she does RIGHT? If your answer is the former, well, to be blunt, I’m glad I don’t know you.

Not only does the media tell us, as women, that we need to aspire to an impossible level of physical perfection, but make us feel like it is our natural duty to nurture everyone else in the process. How exhausting.

My favorite part of the article, however, has to be when the author talks about the ultimate backhanded compliment she’s ever received: “You are very beautiful. Don’t ever shave your mustache.” A) How hilarious. B) What do you think she was more apt to remember later that night - the beautiful or the mustache?

Why is it that if we were handed five compliments and one insult right in a row, we would be more apt to remember the insult than anything else? What if we started listening more to the positive things the good people say and letting the negative things the douches say?

Tomorrow’s new assignment: really listening next time someone gives you a compliment. Not trying to downgrade what the person said with a sarcastic comment or an “oh stop.” Smiling, saying thank you, and really taking what they said to heart.

I love me not, I love me

Women spend a lot of time sitting around thinking of all the things we’re not, the things we can’t do.

I’m not 120 pounds soaking wet. I’m not a vixen with long shapely legs. I’m not a girl whose hair doesn’t get messed up from the wind. I’m not able to wear short dresses. I can’t throw my hair up into the perfectly messy bun. I don’t know how to stop sweating. I’m not always sure of the best way to dress for my body type. Hell, I’m not always interested enough in figuring out the best way to dress period.

I don’t know the perfect level of laughter when a cute guy says something funny. I haven’t mastered a hair flip. I don’t know when the perfect time to lightly touch his hand is. I can’t tell the difference between someone who’s interested in me as a friend or more. I don’t do the bend and snap. I’m not sure how to flirt with someone. I don’t get why I can’t be sarcastic right off the bat. I don’t get why I can’t show off my intelligence. I don’t get why those two things would be intimidating.

I don’t leave any time to think about the things I am.

These are thoughts that run through my head pretty much every day. I am consumed of looking around and being reminded of all the things I’m NOT, that it occurs to me I rarely think about the things that I AM. Women could take a cue from men, who I doubt compare themselves tirelessly to other men. We could stand to take a step back from being so critical of ourselves and start thinking about the good things we have to offer.

Tomorrow I have a challenge for myself. Any time I find myself looking at another girl and thinking I’m not sure, I am going to think about one thing that I have that she might envy.

I AM my own worst enemy. And the only person that can change that is me.

Sweet dreams are made of what?

It’s important to note that I don’t usually remember my dreams. I wake up with a certain feeling, and when I think back on it, I literally have no clue what caused it. I don’t remember an iota of what I was just seeing in my head. But two nights ago, I did not have that problem. Two nights ago I remembered my dream. Vividly. And it involved me making out with a security guard from the building where I work.

Is this security good looking? My female friends that work in the building think so. I’ve never found myself to be wildly attracted to him, but he’s pleasant to look at. Do I think that he has any ambition to make out with me? No. He likes me in some capacity, as I am one of the only people he talks to on a regular basis. He’s admitted he doesn’t like most people but he likes me. But that, as previously discussed, does not mean he has a desire to make out with me, let alone the desire to follow me into an elevator and start macking on me like his dream avatar did. (I know what you’re thinking, and no, it didn’t turn into THAT kind of dream. Mind out of the gutter, people.)

So what DOES the dream mean? That I need to get out there and start meeting men outside of work. Currently that is the only outlet I’m allowing myself for male attention. I commute to the city on an unnecessarily long train ride, and the men on that train are slim pickins, either married, old, or married AND old. When I do stay in the city and go out, I’m surrounded by friends, focusing on hanging with my posse rather than meeting strangers.

But starting on Sunday, my woman-on-a-mission attitude gains new ground. I’m moving to the city, which means I will have unlimited options to figure out how to meet people. I can go out during the week with a few friends and try the wingman approach. I can try to chat up someone in a coffee shop. My life won’t be ruled by train schedules and work hours. I’ll finally feel like I’m living my life on my terms. And if that isn’t a suitable start to my life overhaul, I don’t know what is.

But before Sunday, I have to face that security guard, knowing that in my dreams he decided he wanted to make a move on me. And hey, if things get dire, maybe I’ll push him into an elevator. At least my subconscious will enjoy it.

Put a ring on it

Back in Jane Austen’s day, there was never any question of whether a man was spoken for or unattached. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Relationships were also far more black and white. You were either single, betrothed or married. There were no other options. You met a man in town, he picked up your lace handkerchief, you batted your eyelashes, and suddenly it seemed your spinster days were over. Chances are you already heard about him and his entire family history before he even moved into town, and if you didn’t recognize his name your cousin Fannie certainly did. Intel was a cinch.

Fast forward to the 1950s and things were still cut and dry. You were either single, dating, engaged or married. Women wore engagement rings to advertise engagement plus, and it was standard for men to do the same once they were pronounced man and fit to kiss their bride.

But now EVERYTHING is just so damn CONFUSING!

Men don’t seem to be required to wear wedding rings anymore, which is particularly ironic give the fact that men wearing all other types of jewelry is far more acceptable. When he is wearing a wedding ring, all questions are dispelled barring some sort of catastrophe that made him a widower or the inability to accept divorce - in which cases he isn’t ready for you anyway.

But what if he isn’t wearing a wedding ring? The options are endless! He could be:

a) Single and unattached
b) In a messy, unofficial hookup relationship
c) In a long distance relationship
d) Dating exclusively
e) Living with someone
f) Engaged
g) Married but against wearing rings
h) Looking for something on the side
i) Divorced
j) Divorced with kids (totally different)
k) Baby Daddy
l) Confused

Roughly half of the alphabet, and I haven’t even covered men who are widowers, gay, perennial bachelors or bi curious.

To illustrate my point, in that same (apparently) eventful trip to Pinkberry, my friends and I sat next to a man and his adorable daughter. My one friend struck up a conversation with him and we talked about how much of a ball buster his daughter was turning out to be at the ripe old age of three. He dropped the word “mommy,” but never the words “my wife.” And, you guessed it, there was no wedding ring to be found. Now I’m not saying I was interested in him - no matter how good looking he was I am not ready to even entertain the idea of being a mother - but had his daughter not been there, would we have even known about that part of his life? Doe she have a wife or simply a baby mama? Are they together or not? Too many questions!

So please, for God’s sake, men, take Beyonce’s advice, make it easier on the ladies, and just put a freaking ring on it.

Pinkberry nice to meet you

Apparently frozen yogurt makes me flirty. In my quest to figure out how, exactly, women flirt with men, I have been looking for opportunities to test out different approaches.

When I entered Pinkberry with my two friends Saturday night, I did not have the goal of hitting on the man serving me frozen yogurt. Not even to try to score some free toppings, as I have never been the sort of girl that works the system like that. I was just there to appease my Pinkberry loving friend and wash down my Mexican food with some dessert.

There was an intriguing new flavor advertised on the board - Salted Caramel - and I planned to ask for a sample. My friend requested one ahead of me, and before I knew it the Pinkberry workman - aka Kevin - was handing me a sample as well. He told me he read it on my face. In that moment I realized it’s possible Kevin understood me more than any man I had ever met.

I ordered Chocolate and Salted Caramel together in the same cup. Then it came time to choose toppings. Kevin said though he could previously read my mind, he wasn’t sure what I wanted now. I asked his professional opinion. He let me try a few different options; I went with Oreo. But before he let me move on to get rung up, he wasn’t quite done with me yet:

Kevin: I think you should try Heath Bar too. You won’t be disappointed.

Me: Ok, I trust you. I’ll take some Heath.

Kevin: Oh, you trust me? That’s a big step in our relationship.

Me: Absolutely. You’ve earned it. Thank you so much. I only wish there’s something I could do for you.

Kevin: Well...I mean...There could be.

Cue me blushing, both of us laughing, and the unfortunate ending to a great conversation with a good looking man. I could have tried to press my luck, but I think by not doing that I learned an even bigger lesson: Knowing when to walk away.

Train spotting

I am currently sitting on the train. I am tipsy, not going to lie (what’s the point in that?) - but that’s not important. What is important is that across the aisle from me is a man I seem to think is extremely attractive. Is it beer/cosmo goggles? Perhaps. But again, that’s not important. What is important is that he is bearded. Huge fan of beards.

He’s sitting in a group with four other people. He’s on the inside, by the window, making it impossible to strike up a conversation. Not that I would anyway. I’m working on my confidence and flirting skills, but Rome wasn’t built in a day people.

However, that doesn’t mean I can’t use it as a theoretical case study in what I WOULD do if I DID strike up a conversation. What would it look like if I were talking to this stranger, a cross between Justin Long and a frequent TV guest star I can’t quite place?

It all begins with eye contact, and that we have. We’ve been exchanging furtive glances since I sat down. Solid start.

If he were alone I might sit next to him, but not before coming up with a suitable topic for repartee. Maybe we could begin with tattoos. He has a few well places tats on his arms and legs. I could ask for a closer look. That could be an hour long tete a tete right there - what do they mean? What made you decide to get them? How long ago did you get them? The list goes on. And what’s more is that I could actually contribute with my three (albeit much smaller and less impressive) tattoos. And I can honestly say I’d like to get more, launching into another clutch five minutes of talking. Boom. Something in common. Check.

The what comes next? I assume I’d give him my name - only the first in the interest of safety, and certainly not loud enough for the drunkard named Josh behind us to hear (yes, he introduced himself to me, but no. Just no). I may ask the stranger where he’s riding to, where he lives. And then ... what?

That is a question I’m hoping to answer in the coming months. I am determined to learn the art of flirting. Maybe not with Justin Long’s distant cousin, but with someone.

By the way, in case you were wondering, as I sobered up tattoo man remained attractive. Damn his friends.

Holding pattern

In every horror movie, there are moments that foreshadow where the action is going. The moment she drops trough and gets in the shower? Bad things are coming. He forgets to kick the gun away from the bad guy he just knocked out? Imminent death approaches. You can yell at the screen all you want, but danger looms. Looking back, I think there was one of those moments in my love life - a moment that may have predicted where I am today. It was a harbinger of things to come. And it was in the third grade.

I developed a crush early on in Ms. G’s class. I’d look across the room, and there he sat. He’d be looking everywhere but the blackboard - too cool for school. Maybe the temperature had to do with the color of his eyes - ice blue, which even back then I knew was a good thing. He wasn’t the class clown or the leader. He was the quiet kid. The George Harrison, if you will (and you better). His name was (presumably still is) Ryan Mason. And they called it puppy love...

The signals seemed as clear as day. It all started when we were seated next to each other for an entire week. We talked - seemingly innocuous things like our favorite color markers and the best sticker in my sticker book. The tide turned when he gave me his Gobstoppers. Other people had to pay - an oreo for three, and only the colors Ryan didn’t want to eat himself. I, on the other hand, got my choice for absolutely nothing at all. In third grade terms, that was practically going to third base.

The kicker came on the Feast of St. Valentine. When I came home after school, I surveyed my stash of Valentine’s - not counting because clearly everyone got the same amount - but judging the classmates that gave a Sweet Tart or two instead of chocolate. I came across Ryan’s Power Ranger valentine and decided to study it, commit it to memory. When examining closely, I could see that, behind the words “From, Ryan” was the smudged outline of the word “Love.” I had never been so happy that erasable pens didn’t truly erase. I asked all of my little girl friends if they also thought that we’d get married someday, and two out of three said a wedding was in my immediate future.

Alas it wasn’t meant to be. I made the mistake of telling the wrong girl - why does that girl exist at every age - Ryan’s speculated feelings. She went up to Ryan on the playground and asked him if he liked me. No time to beat around the bush when you’re eight, after all. He predictably said it wasn’t true. What wasn’t so predictable was that he’d approach me a few minutes later with all his friends and tell me exactly HOW untrue my thoughts had been. Needless to say I have hated Valentine’s Day ever since, becoming the most jaded nine year old my fourth grade teacher had ever seen.

What’s sadder than the image of a third grade me running away from the playground crying is that in the past year, at ages 23 and 24, I’ve encountered the same problem. Thrice. Different lyrics, same melody. I developed a pattern in the third grade that I unknowingly haven’t been able to shake. Bet that girl would have cried a little harder had she known that would be the case. I mean, God, to this day I still can’t eat Gobstoppers.

Weighing the issues

Consider this a further meditation on image and the precedence it takes in the dating game. Consider this a specific dalliance into the topic of weight and how that translates into finding a relationship. Consider this a complaint, a call to arms, a confessional. But whatever you do, do NOT mistake it as me fishing for compliments.

My whole life I have struggled with weight. I’ve been up, I’ve been down, but mostly I’ve been up. I may be overweight, but I’m not stupid. I know that this issue could be at the forefront of my problems attracting men. I know that it could be at the forefront of my problem with men seeing me as only a friend. It’s easy to see the fat funny girl as nothing but a prop, there to amuse you and support you but not there for you to make out with. I get it.

It’s almost like I have a physical barrier keeping me from being truly seen. I have this layer of flesh that keeps people from seeing what else is inside. It clouds judgment. It’s holding me back. I get that I could do something about it. But does that make it easy? No. And does that make the attitude right? Hell to the no.

Men in their 20s will take the bitch with the bod over the good girl with the girth all day, every day. That’s the way it is. If my experiences have taught me anything, it’s that. Will it eventually change with an increase in age? I hope so. But why should I have to wait years to get what other girls my age are getting now?

I know what you’re thinking. Well, are you going after men who are considered overweight? The answer is that I don’t close myself off from anyone. But take a look around. Those guys aren’t dating the overweight girls either. There is a total double standard when it comes to weight in men and women in their 20s, again I think stemming back from the ability of women to make a more emotional connection. Men want what they want, and they think not with their heads nor their hearts. Their nether regions are referred to as junk for a reason.

So where does this mediation leave me? What do I do with this fact? I can’t change it - again, history has taught me that- so I suppose that means I have to lose weight. But not for this reason, of course, because that just straight up won’t work. I have to do it for myself. I have to do it to obtain the confidence needed to look at a guy and say screw you and whatever you think of me because I feel great. I have to do it for health reasons. I have to do it for peace of mind.

I can’t say that it won’t hurt a little if I do indeed lose weight and then start getting asked out or hit on. It will hurt. But the hope, I suppose, is that while my looks may draw them in, my personality and heart will keep them around. And that, I guess, I can get behind.

Mirror Mirror, On the Wall

When Andre Agassi started off his tennis career, he could be seen on television spots in his awful denim tennis shorts and his unnecessary mullet staring into the camera and saying, “Image is everything.” It was an apropos sentiment for the 80s, a time when yuppies and punks alike were proving themselves based on clothing and hairstyle alone. But there’s more to Andre’s (read: Canon’s advertiser’s) words - put into another context, I believe they have greater weight and meaning.

When it comes to meeting members of the opposite sex, image really is everything. It’s important in getting someone to approach you. It’s important in getting someone to see you as more than a friend. It’s important in being the type of person a guy (or girl) wants to show off to their friends. It’s just downright important.

I have encountered proof to this hypothesis when chatting with male friends about their thoughts on a certain girl. I’ll have a judgment about the girl in mind and ask what they think about her. I have found that nine times out of ten, even if the girl is bitchy or crazy, if she’s pretty the man will answer with a “she’s great, I really like her.” Their judgment has been completely clouded by big boobs, a nice ass, and an incomparable way with makeup. Now while I respect the fact that aesthetic beauty is something to be appreciated, I am not quite sure how it can completely ascribe certain aspects of a girl’s personality that simply aren’t there. How is it that guys are able to look past personality flaws in favor of a flawless physicality?

The opposite is true, as well. A guy can speak to a girl that he gets along with really well. He could love talking to her, laugh at all her jokes, go to her for advice. But if he didn’t think she was attractive to begin with, or immediately want to jump her bones, chances are that feeling is never going to change. He’ll label her as a friend and be happy to stay like that forever more.

Are women any different? We are absolutely more emotional beings than men, that much has been proven, but can a man change our minds based on how they treat us and how well we get along? I can’t speak for most girls, but I know I can be swayed. I once befriended a guy I wasn’t attracted to at all, but once I got to know him and realized how compatible we were I grew to like him as more. That story didn’t have a happy ending (as evidenced by this blog's title), but the phenomenon did happen.

But was it because of the compatibility and the mistaken chemistry, or was it because I was fooled into thinking that friendship translated into more? It’s a question I’m often asking myself in terms of relationships. But that’s a problem best tackled for another day, another blog post: My own personal what came first, the chicken or the egg.

Pavlov's dog: A lesson in relationships

(500) Days of Summer has a sequence towards the end of the movie where Joseph Gordon Levitt’s character, Tom, goes to his ex girlfriend, Summer’s house for a party on the roof. He goes hoping that reality will match up with his expectations. He expects to be greeted with a kiss - he isn’t. He expects to have alone time with her - he doesn’t. He expects to be the only guy she’s interested in - he’s not. In fact, it’s this moment in which he finds out that Summer hasn’t only gotten over him, she’s moved on to another guy she actually loves. And they’re getting married.

I am no stranger to grand expectations. Reality often has a way of not just kicking my expectations to the wayside, but ploughing a giant snow bank over them as well. Maybe it’s my writerly nature, always thinking about the perfect way the story of my life could go. I’ll go out with a guy I like, we’ll hang out, it’ll become increasingly clear that he likes me, we’ll talk for hours etc. etc. But there are scant times in my life where reality has even come close to those expectations.

It’s almost a version of masochism. Pavlov’s dog has exhibited smarter tendencies than I have in such things. I get my hopes up, expect something good to happen, then I get the electric shock. Unlike that famous dog from the psychological experiment, I haven’t yet learned from the negative reinforcement. I work within the same patterns over and over and expect a different result. It’s easy to blame it all on someone else, but how could that possibly be fair when I am the only constant in each scenario?

I’ve heard that living a life with no expectations is no way to live, but I’m not quite convinced. If you don’t expect anything, you can live life without anything to tether you down. You can just enjoy great things that happen, and roll with the punches when they’re dealt. I’m hoping to condition myself to this new way of living. I saw Tom’s face in (500) Days of Summer and I knew exactly what it felt like. If I never have to endure that face again myself, now that is a life I can expect good things out of.