So what?

A few years ago - maybe ten, who really knows - there was a craze that swept the nation via a little show called Sex and the City. No, I’m not talking about cupcakes or Cosmos. I’m talking about a phrase: “He’s just not that into you.”

Then the writer/contributor, Greg Behrendt, who came up with the concept wrote a book solely devoted to what that one phrase means. And once again, the phenomenon swept the nation. Women were supposedly revolutionizing the way they think about men. Greg got his own syndicated talk show for God’s sake.

And finally the phrase inspired a movie. The movie pretty much turned the entire concept on its head, telling women at once that they aren’t the exception to the rule, and yet displayed some sixteen famous beauties that were. But still, the phrase was in the national consciousness.

They say “He’s just not that into you.” I say, so what?

Greg Behrendt wrote the book from a man’s perspective thinking he was saving us time and effort. But what he didn’t consider is WHY women make excuses for the men we obsess over.

At the end of the day, what makes you feel better? Thinking he didn’t call because he’s stuck at work, or thinking he didn’t call because he’s just not that into you? Feels like a logical conclusion to me. Greg might think that he’s saving me time by telling me the man doesn’t like me, but what about my delicate female feelings? They want to believe that there was an elevator malfunction that kept him away from cell service.

Men will move on from a failed relationship because it’s over. Women won’t truly move on until they find someone else. The last man you were with is always in the back of your mind, ripe for comparison to every new guy you meet. Therefore, the theory that bluntness is saving me time is a moot point. I’m not going to move on until I’m good and ready anyway, so what’s the point?

The goal, of course, is to find a PERSON that makes excuses a moot point, and not just a theory. But until then, I’ve decided to use my blogger creativity to create fun excuses. For the man I’m currently hung up on, I have a variety of options:

1. He has a secret girlfriend.
2. He’s scared of having something real.
3. He has a condition that precludes him from intimacy.
4. His mother wrote in her will that he can’t date anyone named Blair.
5. We’re in a Nicolas Sparks novel and he has a rare disease that he’ll die from in just a few months and he doesn’t want to hurt me more by getting close to me.

I can pick any one of those excuses on any given day. At the end of the day, he may not be that into me, but fake diseases and conditions are just more comforting.

Tale as old as...last year

Once upon a time there was a girl named Blair, and she was starting a new internship. She knows there’s going to be another intern working there, but she knows nothing about this mystery man. The intrigue grows when the other intern is allegedly out sick on her first day. She obtains his screen name and is instructed to work with him via g chat. They hit it off - immediately. The conversation is smooth. He makes her laugh - via pure words, no tone or inflection. The next day the same awesome conversation ensued - not to mention good work achieved together.

The next week they met in person and ... the intellectual sparks didn’t seem to lead to physical chemistry. And so they embarked on a friendship. A work friendship. He talked about his failed relationship, she talked about being afraid of birds. All was well. But as often happens with our heroine, getting along so well with someone got her thinking every so often. She’d cast the ideas out of her head, but there was only so far they could go. The depths of her mind were still prime real estate.

Their internship ended and he went away for a while. They still talked. He came back and they had lunch - they hadn’t lost their intellectual chemistry. But it seemed like something changed. She couldn’t put her finger on it - and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. That could get dicey.

But apparently he didn’t care. He did want it to get dicey. The next time they talked via g chat he hit on her. Hard core. Made it as clear as anyone had that he liked her. It was brash but for a girl that hadn’t had much experience with that, it was refreshing.

She thought he asked her on a date. He showed up with their other intern friend. She was pissed. But as they sat there shooting the shit, it seemed like all hope was not lost. The other friend left. They went to a bar that his best friend was at. Suddenly she was on an audition for his friend. And she passed with flying colors. They left. The boy in question walked her back to the train station and as the train came up they kissed. It was like the perfect date that was never really a date.

Here’s the thing. That should be the beginning of the story. Instead it’s the beginning of the end. Because, like so many stories told on this blog, then it got weird. He started avoiding her. Only hanging out in groups. Claiming he wanted to wait to take her out until he got a job. Excuse after excuse. And she ate them up like a life line, wanting to believe.

Months later, after he moved away, he chatted her up. She wasn’t sure she should bite, but took a chance. Alas, just like all the times she rebuffed him after he spent a couple months avoiding her, he said he wanted to hang out with her when he came back to town. He hit on her using a metaphor. And she finally got her answer. After six months of wondering what it was that happened between them, he told her.

He was scared. He saw it going somewhere and he wasn’t ready. It was the same old cliche bullshit you’d expect. But you know what? At least it was an answer.

That happened to me just about a year ago. I wasted six months being hung up on a guy who didn’t have the balls to really give it a shot with me. And now I’m afraid I’m doing the same thing with someone else.

Does anyone know of a support group for girls with a penchant for unavailable douches? If so, please give me the time and place. Stat.

Here goes nothing

In just 24 minutes, I turn 25. You can account for the time of birth, but now that I’m in my mid to late twenties I have no time for semantics.

My mid to late twenties. A quarter of a century. Somehow 25 just feels like a different league than 24. I know, I know, there’s nothing but a day separating the two ages. But in one day I go from one demographic - the 18-34 set - to two as the newest member of the 25-49 set.

With that new demographic I feel like I should have my shit together. Twenty five used to seem so old, but I feel no more sure of my grasp on life than I did when I turned 21. At least then I had an excuse to drink a lot. Now the only excuse is not feeling like a have a firm grip on where things are going. It’s a vicious cycle!

Of course I’ve come a long way since my 23rd year. Most of my 23rd year was spent living in my parents’ house and searching for a job. In 2011, I somehow managed to score three jobs and finally earned the independence I really needed. Twenty four brought all of that.

And what will 25 bring? I have no idea. I suppose that could be the fun of it. The idea that anything could happen. Because even though, a few posts ago, I wrote about not having expectations in the bitterest way possible, I’m still convinced I actually had something there.

But maybe it isn’t so much about expectations. Maybe it’s about not closing yourself with a set life plan. Because there are things you could never plan for. Some are great - like finding three jobs in a year after an almost-two-year dry spell. Others? Not so much. The key is being open to both sides of the same coin.

I’ve never thought of myself as a planner, but the truth is that there was a part of me that expected to be at a certain place at a certain time. I’m not talking crazy-girl, married by 26 and kids by 29 talk, but a general “this isn’t where I thought I’d be.” Nope. Not anymore.

May 25 be the year of letting go. May it be the year I become less concerned with where I’m going, and more concerned with where I am.