What "type" are you?

Admittedly, I'm a bitch from time to time. In fact I've been a bitch in the last three or four posts I've written. I think it's some kind of sub-stage from my feminist streak (boys have been less than agreeable with me lately). Although one of my guy friends has told me that he appreciates said angry rants, I'm going to take a moment to diverge into my rather pathetic pattern of a non-existent love life. Here goes...

As protocol for all match making websites, a "type" of partner is in question. Whether it be match.com, eharmony, or some other sort of cyber dating phenomenon, they all in some way, shape, or form ask you, "What characteristics would you like in your future husband? What type of partner would be your best foil in a relationship? What are you looking for in a partner?" And the first thing that pops out of everyone's mouths: "oh gosh, I would love someone smart, funny, and attractive!"

...

Yeah, okay... Well, unlike you, I would like someone with the mental capacity of a sock, dull as the man who used to do those contact lens commercials, and looking like Jared before he chowed down on Subway. Unfortunately, we can't all have the dumb, boring, ugly types so I'll just keep those for myself. My point being that we don't completely weed out every factor of a perspective girlfriend/boyfriend until the relationship is over and we've dumped them for all the reasons we should've spotted earlier. We are slow to spot our "type" and instead, end up with a quick fix of a boyfriend. So although we always talk about our "type" of a person, do we really know what we are looking for until we have it? Or don't have, as the case may be.

Lately my friend and I have been frequenting Smoothie King. We've been inspired by the book, "Skinny Bitch" by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin, and have since then introduced workout Wednesdays, fitness Fridays, ect. (none of which we actually abide by). Anyway, we've recently struck up a sort of frienship with one of the guys that works there who I have taken it upon myself to name my "Smoothie King boyfriend Billy" (who I might add is neither my boyfriend nor is his name Billy but that's beside the point). On one particular day I was bed ridden with a splitting headache on account of the paint fumes spreading across my house like a disease (I'm redoing my room) and Sarah picked up our smoothies for us. She preceded to tell me after her visit to my new haven that "Billy" had inquired of my whereabouts after she ordered my drink (strawberry kiwi breeze) and had told me to feel better after he heard of my fatal illness. Of course, my hopes could go nowhere but up, as always. 

As the week progressed we started to become regular customers at our local smoothie shop, our drinks beginning to be made even before we spat out our orders, and with a smile, as well! Because the other staff members are far from sociable, Billy has naturally become our favorite with his hot pink staff t-shirt and southern manners (he politely re-punched my Smoothie King card when I jokingly complained of the sloppily punched manner in which it was given to me). After one particular day of flirting at the cash register, we sat outside the shop and sulked at the fact that we hadn't asked for his real name in order to stalk him on Facebook. Upon this saddening news, there fell a realization even more unsettling. While our weekly visits paralleled Billy's flirtatious attitude, there is quite a large possibility that his coquettish persona is merely part of his job. In this moment, it dawned on me that I go for the unattainable over-the-counter guy. From a scary crush I had on an unidentifiable Borders cashier to caribou guy to Smoothie King boyfriend Billy, there is one unequivocal common trait. They are all shy flirts. I associate shy with nice and nice with good boyfriend material and thus, I'm fucked. Of course, not literally because that would assume I had someone to fuck which is apparently not the case because everyone I would consider fucking is unattainable! It's a vicious cycle.

And yet, I have neither dated (nor hooked up with) anyone I have really connected with. I remember lying on the guest bed on the phone with "old Billy" (the same name was a coincidence, the name Billy just fit Smoothie King guy) trying to convince him that yes, I really loved him while he persisted on his dad's theory that it was just puppy love. And now I sit thinking, "it may have just well been "puppy love". Apart from my feelings for Billy, I was in love with love. And what's most disturbing of all is the overt irony: in the eyes of each of these guys I am simply a customer to please, a product, which completely undermines my feminist foundation. I am just another object on the conveyor belt waiting to be serviced. 

Although my new years resolution to be nice fell through quite quickly, I remain tenacious in my search to find my "nice guy". I honestly believe that in relationships its not necessarily the opposites that attract but that we all need a cushion to our personalities. Someone who will soften the blow to those overwhelming facets that each of us have. 

Furthermore, as I started to generalize all of my crushes, I wondered what type am I? The tasteful bitch? But then again, I only feel comfortable unveiling this part of myself when I become close to someone. Moreover, in most situations I unveil it only because I can. What will I be next year? The cute southerner? I would hate to think that it's possible for me not to fit with my "type". And if this is true, the worst part is that it's quite possible I will never fall out of my cycle. I will forever fall for the over the counter guy who reels me in with his trained smile and smooth conversational skills. Good thing Boston only has about a gazillion coffee shops. 

By the way, I met a rising junior last night who goes to BU and is originally from Charlotte. So, my theory withstands. Boy is cute.

Booty at BU? I think not.

We crossed over the turnpike and my body shifted in the taxi as we rounded a corner. I ignored the scratches made in the back of the seat, 'boston sucks', and turned down the window. My eyes lifted towards the sun and I saw, in all its billboard glory of bold black letters and a snow white background,

Marc Jacobs

81 Newbury

oh yes, I picked the right city.

Or at least, that's what I thought. My thoughts were nervous but hopeful as the taxi took us to the Hyatt, only a 15 minute walk across the BU Bridge [one of the few places in which a plane can fly over a car driving over a train moving over a boat] from my soon to be home for the next four years. With minimal energy, I was thrust into orientation amongst a group of people who I would be reluctant to call my friends. The rest of the week would be spent touring the city of Boston, listening to countless lectures on things such as safety and payment plans, and 'bonding' with my new acquaintances in the tight quarters of the subway and the classrooms where we completed placement tests in more than stressful environments. As ready as I was to leave after soaking up the agonizing phonetic variances between the soft curls of the south and the bostonian accent [read: "car keys" is pronounced as "khakis"], I couldn't wrap my head around one miniscule detail. 

Where are the pretty people?

I know I'm a judgmental bitch from time to time. Everyone already knows that who has been introduced to even an inkling of my personality or has read my latest blog rants. But high school and the south in general have given me unreasonable expectations about beauty. I figured that in a big city like Boston everyone would be morphed by the subliminal and not so subliminal messaging of the media promoting to a great extent the idea of anorexia but not limited to designer underwear or even our vocabulary. Obviously I was not regarding this phenomenon to bear the equivalence of my high school where babies popped out with sublimely sculpted faces and 100 bucks tucked in their diapers but I assumed that diversity was a pretty thing.  

However, I couldn't have assumed farther from the truth. As I was split from my parents and shoved in a banquet hall with a portion of my future classmates, I was slapped, rather punched, in the face by the shockingly accurate definition of 'diversity'. It was, in fact, very diverse. Who knew? My naive view of the world was smashed to pieces through the progression of the day as I intently scanned the crowds from acne to beer gut to a large percentage of social misfits. I didn't believe I was being prejudiced because in no way was I belittling their self-worth, intelligence, or disposition. All of the people I met were quite friendly, which is normal to find in an environment where everyone is scouting out for a security blanket. However, it was in plain sight that the physical attributes of the people around me clashed with those below the mason-dixon line.

For the first time in my life I was struck with how royally screwed up my environment and attention to the media has made me. It went beyond a shallow nature and a tendency to judge. I had crossed over into an inherent political incorrectness. I am psychologically fucked up if I refuse to converse with a human being who may happen to be physically... shall we say, unfortunate? Furthermore, it's sad to think that my happiness depends on the aesthetics of one's face. I should also mention at this point that I fully recognize that I'm sure as hell not a conventional blonde bombshell but nonetheless, I have certain attributes that can win someone over apart from my personality. And although I'm secure with my body, enough so to flaunt it when desired, if I looked differently I think my personality would change. First impressions are very much based on what we look like and subconsciously we are more likely to want to converse with a prettier person. I feel, in a way, it makes us feel more secure with ourselves to know that an attractive person is talking to us; we are their focus of interest if only for a few seconds. So if this has some grain of truth to it, is it possible that  the only reason I'm secure with myself is because I have had the backing of a pretty population all of my life?  

I stumbled on this question for a lengthy amount of time while simultaneously cutting conversations short and participating mindlessly in group name games. Fortunately, I met a girl from Romania who was not born and raised in the North [jackpot!]. Oddly enough, she was quite pretty in her bohemian chic. After much pleading to the rents to skip the evenings activities, I lost and was forced to join again with my familiar group. I tagged along with a group of people, including my new bohemian friend, to a local burger restaurant in Harvard square. The seven of us slid into a booth and I somehow found myself squished in between a barely understandable foreign exchange student and a nymphomaniac. Between the grunts and the moans I couldn't find a word in edgewise and frankly, I didn't want to. That is until the table was thoroughly molested by the words of our very own sex fein. While waiting for our food to arrive, the girl to the right of me who was no exception to my recent discovery insisted that everyone go around and name three things that they are addicted to. I had never heard of this game... but participated anyhow. The girl pointed to me [notice the name games did not do much for my memory] and I began to stutter.

Me: "Ummm, I don't really know what I'm addicted to? I guess, okay, well I like music, John Mayer! Yea, I love him. Umm, [giggling uncomfortably] I love reading and I love writing, there we go."

Nympho: "Cool, okay you're up next", pointing to a scraggly guy sitting across the table from me.

"Mmm, I like the Red Sox, big fan. I love sports in general and burgers! 

After everyone had pumped out three things, the nympho took the stage. 

Nympho: "Okay, my turn! I enjoy watching the Red Sox too! I enjoy playing music. And I enjoy.... booty.

  

[insert open jaw here]

Unbeknownst to me, "booty calls" was apparently polite dinner time conversation. I realize the term "polite" is to be used liberally amongst a group of upcoming college freshman but there's no doubt that the topic of conversation went to the extremes of an 'ice breaking' game. As the table sat speechless, Miss Booty continued on about her satisfaction that she had gotten some last week so it was all good! Thank goodness because I was beginning to think that she was a prude...

 

After being thoroughly doused in verbal STD's I spent the majority of last day of orientation sitting in the comfort of Starbucks. I peared out the window and sighed with relief; this was the first moment I'd been able to get away from everyone and everything. My eyes glazed over the "T Train" as it rolled past and admired the Victorian styled Commonwealth Hotel across the street. Within seconds of this "spectacle de la rue" I became fully aware of the fact that it was only when I was by myself that I felt like I belonged. I knew it couldn't stay this way but I longed desperately for the soothing accent of a boy from the south and a worn baseball cap tipped forward. is that too much to ask? At this point I'm thinking my best bets are to abstain from sex or become a lesbian but given that neither of these options are in my line of desire I'm thinking I'll just have to dig my head out of society's ass. As my fellow southie said when I called him, my voice deep in sadness and expletives, "people are people". So while I may have to adjust to the culture shock of less than agreeable faces and unexpected greetings of penis whiplash, I will survive. 

Side note:

DON'T READ IF YOU'RE EASILY DISTURBED BY THE FEMININE REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM:

The crimson wave has hit and I need meds. Can I blame my untimely bitchiness on the monthly mayhem? I don't think so but I feel like my uterus is housing a rhino so I really don't care. Have a nice day.

the monopoly of love

I turned the doorknob. A rusting bronze knob from his garage to his kitchen any other day but tonight it was a free ride to the overwhelming dissonance of our relationship. It was a gateway to the never-ending side glances of longing, the hints at our past, and the seemingly negligible nudges of the arm. In this way, it wasn't a free ride after all; rather, I paid my way in full. As much as I wanted to get off this ride, he wanted to forge ahead at 300mph. 

As we divulged into the complexities of relationships at a familiar coffee shop about a week ago, a friend mentioned the hardships and confusion of the move of two people into one relationship. Simply put, how do we go from friends to "more". Moreover, how do we digress from a relationship to "just friends". After much debate and a week of thinking I talked to another friend about the ridiculous idea of games. Whether we are hoping for a "get out of jail free card" or trying to take "$200 and pass go", we are pawns in a game that never ends. I am a hopeless romantic; there is no doubting this. Thus, my constant analytical talk about "love" and "single life", blah blah blah. However, upon recent blabber on said matters I've come to dislike the common proverbs that inflict false hopes on our world. Inevitably, my friend mentioned, "I hate games; I don't play them". Contrary to popular belief, we don't have a choice whether or not we want to start a game. Love is a game and we all have an innate human quality that wonders how to best win. There is no sense in trying to play and too much sense involved in figuring out how. There are rules and strategies and directions to tell us how to proceed. We move over a seat to be closer to someone. We make a pointless remark to see if they'll respond. Every move takes so much more effort because we have to build up the courage to imagine that they could feel the same way and that eventually, we could pass the finish line. 

As I sat there through the waves of panic and disillusion I realized that just like this game cannot be avoided, love is not simply a leap of faith. We cannot fall into his arms and hope to be caught time after time. Sometimes it's important to take that step and tell someone exactly how we feel... but most of the time half the fun is playing the game. But how do we play? Do we just sit around and wait for that person to understand? I think we often stew in one's own juices, hope clinging to every thought and biting our lips so hard so as not to let slip the one thing that we want so badly to be said. But we know,

"The kind of love that offers its life so easily, so stupidly, is always the love that is not returned."

Ann Patchett

Unfortunately, even after accepting such agony, our silence sometimes can no longer be quiet and our feelings act out. We want so badly to attain the unattainable that we try to cheat the game, ignore the obstacles, and skip to the end. We accidently touch his arm or stare with eyes wide open and give ourselves up completely. Not only do we curse ourselves for potentially ruining our cover but we are left with a guilt that sticks like glue. Because although some of our favorite memories are the unexpected kisses that make everything worth it, the kisses that we never get to steal have a permanent home in our heart. I suppose it's okay to be swept off of our feet but we tend to forget that in order to fall and survive, a parachute is a prerequisite. Because if by chance the butterflies in our stomach fail us, we will head straight downward into a ravine of suckage. We have to play the game to get to the end... to get anywhere.

We start a new game each time we decide to play with a new person and we search desperately for the rules. However, after so many times of my expectations being crushed, there is an irrepressible understanding that love is individual and although there are rules to every game, rules can change. We've learned to hear those three words within our homes; a place that we've never had to work to receive them. It is special but limited in its own way because while it teaches us that love can be built from nothing, it doesn't prepare us for the real world where this kind of comfort has to be earned. We have to gain its respect and show that we deserve such an enormity of power. Unfortunately, we don't learn this until we give away our love so freely (as we have learned to receive it) and find that love is all... but it is not everywhere. It does not come on command but instead, blinds us and dictates our thoughts. We can never 'find' love just like we can never find the rules. But it does happen. And before long, I've fought my way through the tears, the awkward moments, the fights and suddenly...

I've won.