“No one over the age of 25 who doesn’t take her clothes off for a living should be calling herself “The Kitten.””
--Mike (the author’s personal friend)
When I was about eight years old, or maybe younger, I decided I wanted a nickname. I didn’t particularly like my own plain name, and I was resentful that my parents hadn’t named me something more pretty and exciting, like “Madeline” or “Brittany.” I sometimes fantasized that my life as I knew it, as plain old “Marcy” living in the suburbs, was just a dream that I would soon wake from. In my real waking life, I must surely be a pretty girl with long, shiny, black hair, with different parents, living in a different place. I must surely be named Madeline or Brittany. Surprisingly, I never did wake up, and to this day, I wonder how my life would have turned out if I had been named Brittany or Madeline. Would I be thinner and richer? Would I get invited to more parties?
So there I was, a kid stuck with a decidedly un-cool name. With no other options, I decided that the next best thing to a cool name was a cool nickname. In fact, a cool nickname might even be better than a cool real name, I thought. The thing about nicknames, or so it seemed to me, was that they conveyed a jovial familiarity, an affection bred from something that the nicknamed person did and/or said. It seemed like a nickname was a badge of honor in a way – a mark of popularity. And so I wanted one. Even if I had to give one to myself.
The first nickname I tried to give myself was “Marcy Mouse” or just “Mouse.” Looking back, it is clear to me that a nickname like “Mouse” was just as unlikely to steer me into a life of popularity and excitement as my real name was, but I was collecting mice at the time. Not live mice mind you, but mouse things: mouse candles, mouse stuffed animals, mouse figurines, mouse pencil tops, and mouse earrings.
My grandmother was a collector. Her home was resplendent with her various collections, all displayed behind glass or in organized clusters on end tables. She collected birds and sea shells and pigs and rose glass and angels. I was fascinated by her dedication to these figurines, her care in their display, her maintenance of the collections. Of course, no one ever nicknamed my grandmother “Sea Shell” or “Pig” based on her collections, but that was lost on me back then. It seemed fitting that I should be called Mouse. I was surrounded by mice! I loved mice! Looking back, it is clear to me that collecting mice is really lame. If it was excitement and popularity I was looking for, I should have concentrated on building a sweet record collection, or all of the Teen Beat issues that featured River Phoenix or Scott Baio or something. Anyway, “Mouse” as a nickname never stuck. Which is probably a good thing.
When Mouse didn’t work out, I concentrated on variations of my real name. I figured that there must be a livelier version of my real name, and in the second grade, I was determined to introduce my fellow students to a livelier version of myself too. I announced to Ms. Nell, my second grade teacher, that she and all of the students could call me “Marcella” from now on. Marcella had a delightful ring to it – almost regal, like an exotic foreign princess. Ms. Nell readily agreed as I recall, but what I don’t recall is anybody ever actually calling me Marcella in the second grade. I do remember carefully writing the name in the top corner of my school papers, trying to perfect the curl on the M so that it looked exotic and princess-like.
Although I am now way past the second grade, Marcella is not a name I have completely forgotten. After I graduated from law school, I thought that “Marcella McDermott, Esq.” had a titillating ring to it. A regal, exotic, foreign-princess-like lawyer! A good friend agreed, and she continues to call me that from time to time. Of course, when she does call me “Marcella” I think she has me mixed up with someone else and wonder if she is losing her marbles.
“A nickname is sometimes considered desirable, symbolizing [sic] a form of acceptance, but can often be a form of ridicule.”
--seen on Wickopedia, the clear authority on many things
As I continued to search for the perfect nickname, there were occasions when I myself didn’t come up with the name that was bestowed on me. Yes, there were times when some idiot came up with his own hilarious name for me and it caught on. Like in the 4th grade. What I remember of my own personal 4th grade nightmare is that it all started on a typical day. Typical except that we had a substitute teacher. Naturally, my peers and I were all a little rowdy and restless on that day, eager to get away with something because we had a sub and we could.
I had known red-haired, freckled Ryan Kelly forever. He had known me forever. He definitely knew that my name was not Chauncey. However, on this nearly-typical 4th grade day, for some inexplicable reason, he began addressing me as Chauncey. And once he started, everyone in the class started calling me Chauncey too. Nothing I said or did could deflect the Chauncey chant. And the unthinkable happened. During a reading exercise, the substitute teacher swiveled her bespectacled head in my direction, looked straight at me and said “Chauncey, will you please read the first paragraph out loud?” The horror. And the collective mirth. Oh yes classmates, that was indeed hilarious. Luckily, our real teacher, who knew my name was not Chauncey, returned in a matter of days and Chauncey failed to stick. Also a good thing.
Years passed without a nickname. My dad remarried and my new step-brother and step-sister each had adorable nicknames. My dad even had an adorable nickname. By some miracle, I somehow survived high school without earning a nickname despite the nickname-worthy facts that I gained 40 pounds, drove around a hot pink Monte Carlo, and was a member of the astronomy club.
But in college, I got a nickname that made up for the high school absence. In college, my friends called me “Super Dud.” I don’t remember how it started, but if “Super Dud” doesn’t evoke an image of a short, round, four-eyed freak roaming the campus with a cape flying behind her, I don’t know what does. And it wasn’t even true! I was cool! Sort of. What I mean is that I had a lot of friends. Of course, some of those friends were the ones who nick-named me “Super Dud.” Having a nickname, I quickly realized, wasn’t all I had cracked it up to be. Super Dud? It proved that I was accepted and loved, but by whom? A pack of equally nerdy and dud-like cohorts?
True, I was popular in college, but not in the way I had once envisioned. It wasn’t the popularity of golden-haired sorority sisters or collegiate athletes that I enjoyed, but rather the popularity that comes along with being the class-clown, the outrageous and funny chubby girl who can talk to the hottest guy on campus because she knows she doesn’t stand a chance and therefore doesn’t even get nervous. Professors loved me. Students of all types loved me. I was Super Dud!!
The Super Dud moniker didn’t last past college, which was a wonderful thing. After graduation, I was determined to change the Super Dud image. I shed some of the weight and even learned to flirt with guys without also pathetically trying to set them up with my hotter friends. I went to parties and had an interesting, eclectic group of friends. I hung out in coffee shops and talked about poetry. I earned an academic, if not experiential, knowledge of human sexuality (always a crowd pleasing conversation topic). And when I was about 29 (yes, almost 30), I decided that the appropriate nickname at this juncture of my exciting and adventurous life was “The Kitten.” That’s “The Kitten.” Not to be confused with just” Kitten.” To me, the “The” before “Kitten” added a unique and sophisticated flair that was imperative to the success of the name. I would be the only one, the only Kitten, hence “The Kitten.”
Don’t ask me what possessed me to think that “The Kitten” would be an appropriate nickname in any regard. I didn’t have a kitten, I didn’t look like a kitten, my name didn’t derive from Katherine or Kit or anything remotely similar, and I wasn’t a stripper. I thought it was sassy though, and I like the way it looked when I slipped it into my full name:
“Marcy-The Kitten-McDermott.”
Getting this name to stick was crazy hard, however. Most people didn’t take it seriously. I really can’t imagine why. And the “the” proved to be a stumbling block for most people. “So, you don’t want me to say ‘Hey, Kitten, how are you, but ‘Hey The Kitten, how are you?’” my friends would ask in confusion. “Yes!” I would exclaim, “that’s it exactly!” Note: if you have to explain to people how to say your nickname and how to use it in a sentence, it’s probably not a very good nickname.
The more interesting thing to me though is why? Why on earth did I want a nickname like “The Kitten” or any nickname at all? Sure, I thought it was hilarious, and I thought it would be even more hilarious if it actually caught on, but was there more to it? Did I still believe, at the ripe old age of 29, that a nickname would prove that I was accepted, appreciated, and viewed with affection? Did I believe that a ridiculous nickname like “The Kitten” would brand the image of me as a fantastically sexy and interesting ingénue into the minds of all who uttered it? Even though in reality I was nearing 30 and feared that it was all downhill from there? Who knows. Even I cannot plumb the depths of this psychological mystery.
I told the story of The Kitten nickname at work recently. It came up because one of my co-workers has at least five nicknames and naturally I am jealous. He is a very funny guy and he is well-liked by everyone. Coincidence? So I told my The Kitten story with the smallest hope in the back of my mind that my co-workers would see the name as a natural fit for me and start a trend. Unbelievably, it worked! A small group of dedicated people have started calling me The Kitten on a semi-regular basis. Of course, when I asked one of these dedicated co-workers if he knows why I want to be called “The Kitten” he looked at me in all seriousness and said “Isn’t it because you are trying to be a Cougar?”
As I said before, maybe having a nickname isn’t all I’ve cracked it up to be.
“Good nicknames are hard to come by. Usually, you can't give yourself a nickname because other people will think you are a stupid loser.”
-- seen on Wikihow, another clear authority on many things
Monday, September 1, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
MySpace and Me
Note: The Author wrote this in 2006, but as she continues to explore social networking and dating websites, she believes it a timeless piece of work and decided to copy in into her current blog. This does NOT mean that she has run out of ideas for her blog, however.
HEADLINE: "I am Quirky and Unique, but not in a Weird or Creepy way, I am Totally Popular (as demonstrated by my 803 friends), and I have More Fun than any Normal Person could Handle."
Here is how MySpace fucks with my head. It starts innocently enough. Maybe I get a message from "Bob" or "Not Cocky, Just Confident," and the guy is hot or has a nice smile or something, so I click on his picture to read his profile. I study the profile very carefully. Many people on MySpace describe themselves using a mix of cliches and worn expressions. Often it sounds canned, like you can just as easily copy the code to a MySpace ready-made profile as you can to a MySpace ready-made layout. The canned version is a basic profile that doesn't make one sound overly-eager, but that reveals a generally positive glass-half-full personality.
But if the profile seems remotely sincere, I check out his age, his stats, his schools, and his work, etc. And then I get to his friends. This is usually where I get tripped up. It's the friends, always the damn friends. You see, I am not a normal, confident girl. Oh no. I am an insecure, obsessive maniac, and this is what happens.
Well. He only has female friends. Interesting. Not a male on his "Friend Space" anywhere. Is he on MySpace to search for hook-ups or to find dates or to have cybersex? Okay. Well, I'll just scan through these girls who are his friends. Dude, who are these girls? They are all models. They must be! None of them wears a sweater or a turtleneck. None of them wears glasses. The majority of them show off exposed midriffs with sparkly belly-button rings twinkling on flat stomachs. It appears that they have all participated in a professional MySpace photo-shoot. Oh jeez, and look at these girls' friends! Their friends are hot too! It's just a god-damn bevy of babes, all linked up to him, all of them in his extended network, which presumably extends across eons of virtual hotness and non-stop fun. While I sit here in my sweats, wearing my glasses, singing along to Ace of Base, and drinking hot chocolate. I am so lame. Why did this guy send me a message in the first place?
Maybe these girls-these friends of his-are not as great as they appear. I'll just click one of these girl's profiles and check her out. Am I the only one who does this sick shit? Anyway, let's see. Damn-that's a lot of pink stuff on one page. I can barely read the profile because of all the flowers, hearts, and other unmistakably female graphics that crowd it. Cheesy. So, she's kind of cheesy. But, wow, she likes to do a lot of different things. She enjoys drinking wine, water-skiing, cuddling by a fire, getting her groove on, and cooking? She likes crazy nights on the town and yet also likes quiet nights at home? I am so boring. I don't water-ski. Do I even have groove? And if I do, would I even know how to "get it on"?
And the pictures!? Has this chick ever taken a bad picture in her life!? The reason I only have like two pictures on my MySpace page is because in most pictures I have three chins or crossed eyes or something equally unattractive. Yet this girl has countless pictures of herself with an expression on her face that seems to say "Yes, I am thinking about ripping the clothes off my hot best girl friend who is posing next to me right now, after which I will whip up a gourmet meal, cuddle up with my sweet doggy, Mr. Muffin, and spend the rest of the night reading "Anna Kerenina." Well! I'll have you know Ms-Hot-MySpace-Girl, that I am thinking about ripping these sweats off, whipping up some microwave popcorn, cleaning up the hairball that my cat just expelled, and cuddling up with a copy of "How to Find a Husband when you're over 30." Beat that, biatch!
Hmmppphh. I'm not even going to respond to this guy. He must have sent me a message by mistake. I mean, why would he want to add my picture to that display? Plus she has 1,268 hot friends. And I am just little old me: Neurotic as hell, often grumpy, and regularly frumpy. Sigh.
"Wouldn't this be a great world if insecurity and desperation made us more attractive? If "needy" were a turn-on?" ("Broadcast News")
HEADLINE: "I am Quirky and Unique, but not in a Weird or Creepy way, I am Totally Popular (as demonstrated by my 803 friends), and I have More Fun than any Normal Person could Handle."
Here is how MySpace fucks with my head. It starts innocently enough. Maybe I get a message from "Bob" or "Not Cocky, Just Confident," and the guy is hot or has a nice smile or something, so I click on his picture to read his profile. I study the profile very carefully. Many people on MySpace describe themselves using a mix of cliches and worn expressions. Often it sounds canned, like you can just as easily copy the code to a MySpace ready-made profile as you can to a MySpace ready-made layout. The canned version is a basic profile that doesn't make one sound overly-eager, but that reveals a generally positive glass-half-full personality.
But if the profile seems remotely sincere, I check out his age, his stats, his schools, and his work, etc. And then I get to his friends. This is usually where I get tripped up. It's the friends, always the damn friends. You see, I am not a normal, confident girl. Oh no. I am an insecure, obsessive maniac, and this is what happens.
Well. He only has female friends. Interesting. Not a male on his "Friend Space" anywhere. Is he on MySpace to search for hook-ups or to find dates or to have cybersex? Okay. Well, I'll just scan through these girls who are his friends. Dude, who are these girls? They are all models. They must be! None of them wears a sweater or a turtleneck. None of them wears glasses. The majority of them show off exposed midriffs with sparkly belly-button rings twinkling on flat stomachs. It appears that they have all participated in a professional MySpace photo-shoot. Oh jeez, and look at these girls' friends! Their friends are hot too! It's just a god-damn bevy of babes, all linked up to him, all of them in his extended network, which presumably extends across eons of virtual hotness and non-stop fun. While I sit here in my sweats, wearing my glasses, singing along to Ace of Base, and drinking hot chocolate. I am so lame. Why did this guy send me a message in the first place?
Maybe these girls-these friends of his-are not as great as they appear. I'll just click one of these girl's profiles and check her out. Am I the only one who does this sick shit? Anyway, let's see. Damn-that's a lot of pink stuff on one page. I can barely read the profile because of all the flowers, hearts, and other unmistakably female graphics that crowd it. Cheesy. So, she's kind of cheesy. But, wow, she likes to do a lot of different things. She enjoys drinking wine, water-skiing, cuddling by a fire, getting her groove on, and cooking? She likes crazy nights on the town and yet also likes quiet nights at home? I am so boring. I don't water-ski. Do I even have groove? And if I do, would I even know how to "get it on"?
And the pictures!? Has this chick ever taken a bad picture in her life!? The reason I only have like two pictures on my MySpace page is because in most pictures I have three chins or crossed eyes or something equally unattractive. Yet this girl has countless pictures of herself with an expression on her face that seems to say "Yes, I am thinking about ripping the clothes off my hot best girl friend who is posing next to me right now, after which I will whip up a gourmet meal, cuddle up with my sweet doggy, Mr. Muffin, and spend the rest of the night reading "Anna Kerenina." Well! I'll have you know Ms-Hot-MySpace-Girl, that I am thinking about ripping these sweats off, whipping up some microwave popcorn, cleaning up the hairball that my cat just expelled, and cuddling up with a copy of "How to Find a Husband when you're over 30." Beat that, biatch!
Hmmppphh. I'm not even going to respond to this guy. He must have sent me a message by mistake. I mean, why would he want to add my picture to that display? Plus she has 1,268 hot friends. And I am just little old me: Neurotic as hell, often grumpy, and regularly frumpy. Sigh.
"Wouldn't this be a great world if insecurity and desperation made us more attractive? If "needy" were a turn-on?" ("Broadcast News")
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Father Knows Best
The other morning, during brunch with my family, my dad happened to mention that there is a new online dating service called Chemistry.com. "It's supposed to be great," he said enthusiastically. "Dad," I exclaimed, exasperated, "I've already done Chemistry.com. And did I find even one date to go on? Even one? Nope! Jeez." He was taken aback, I think, and surprised that I actually look for dates on my own sometimes.
My poor father. Oh, the things he's been through. Very soon after I graduated from college and was spending my potential dating time hanging out with rowdy fellow food servers in smoky bars rather than with potential husband material, he offered to pay for me to join a service called "Dinner for Six." He even brought home brochures adorned with glossy photos of people (six of them!) clearly enjoying fantastic conversations with each other and making love connections, all while eating a gourmet meal. Of course, I was horrified and refused to join any such service. I didn't need a service! Who did he think his daughter was? Some troll-girl who couldn't get a date on her own? I blew him off and instead continued to hang out with my rowdy group of friends. I remained dateless. For like, years.
Okay, that's not exactly true. I dated random guys here and there (most of them flagrantly NOT husband material). Then, seemingly out of the blue, I decided I was gay. Clearly. I took my dad to lunch to break the news to him. I wanted his support and his understanding. I certainly didn't want him to act shocked and appalled. He didn't. In fact, not only was he not shocked or appalled, but he didn't even seem to believe that I was gay. And if I was, well then, no big deal. No big deal? Was he going to start searching for gay dating clubs for me to join now? Was this some bizarre reverse psychology tactic? We'll see how much of "not a big deal" this is when I start bringing my girlfriends home for dinner, I thought. So I dated a girl (who I met without the help of any dating service) for a few weeks. Then, definitely not out of the blue, I decided I was straight. Clearly.
There might have been a lull in his efforts for a while then. Did he tell me about Match.com? I can't remember, but I don't think so. That was one service for the loveless that I tried on my own. The only love connection that I made through Match.com was when I invited my friend to go on my first Match.com date with me and my date invited his friend to come along too, and now the two of them are engaged to each other. Isn't that just so damn cute? My date and I only went on one other date after that first date, and I ended up ditching him for another guy half way through. Yeah, I know. My dating karma has got to be bad.
And then my father seemed to give up for a while. I was in law school and I thought I had met the love of my life. And if he wasn't the love of my life (which was the case as it turned out), my dad probably figured I would have my new important and exciting legal career to keep me warm at night.
But although my dad might have given up on finding me a mate, he didn't give up on me. Instead, he switched to other topics, like self-esteem and career. My bookshelves are graced with such titles as: "The Tender Heart: Conquering Your Insecurity;" "Why Good Girls Don't Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do;" and "The Secrets of Savvy Networking." Typically, I have accepted his gifts and stashed them on my shelf without reading them, thinking to myself: "Who has time to read about being a "gutsy" girl when they are out living it? And what exactly is he implying anyway? Does he think I lack guts? Does he think I am insecure? What kind of support is that?!"
And so the books sit, gathering dust, until one day, I take one of them from the shelf, usually either while in the midst of a personal crisis or out of sheer boredom, and find that it is exactly what I need to read - find that I should have read it years ago. And the excitement in his voice when I tell him that I am finally reading the book that he gave me five years ago is so satisfying that I wonder why I didn't read it sooner - why I didn't show immediate appreciation for his knowledge and understanding of me - an understanding of me that I don't even have of myself, it often seems.
A few months ago, my dad heard a hypnotist interviewed on the radio. She had written a book, complete with CDs designed to put the listener in a state of hypnosis, called "The Dating Makeover: Four Steps to Attract the Love of Your Life." Naturally he bought it for me immediately and made a special trip to my office to present it to me in front of my co-workers. The package also includes a workbook chock full of writing exercises that allegedly illuminate your relationship patterns and where you have gone wrong in the past. When I saw that, I groaned. "Dad, who has time for this? Why can't I just meet a guy in a bar or at a party like normal people do?" Well, because I can't.
In fact, in order for me to meet a guy who I actually like and who likes me equally in return and who I don't mess it up with, may require hypnosis, therapy, and divine intervention. Considering all of this, I may actually listen to these CDs before the technology to do so becomes obsolete. After all, even though he is often an annoying pain in the ass, my dad has certainly proven himself to know best. About me and so much more.
The author just finished reading "The Tender Heart: Conquering Your Insecurity," in which she discovered that she, like the patients in the book, was born with a sensitive temperament that lends itself to the crazies when exposed to events that remind her, even unconsciously, of certain events from her childhood. She had a stiff drink after finishing the book and felt much better.
My poor father. Oh, the things he's been through. Very soon after I graduated from college and was spending my potential dating time hanging out with rowdy fellow food servers in smoky bars rather than with potential husband material, he offered to pay for me to join a service called "Dinner for Six." He even brought home brochures adorned with glossy photos of people (six of them!) clearly enjoying fantastic conversations with each other and making love connections, all while eating a gourmet meal. Of course, I was horrified and refused to join any such service. I didn't need a service! Who did he think his daughter was? Some troll-girl who couldn't get a date on her own? I blew him off and instead continued to hang out with my rowdy group of friends. I remained dateless. For like, years.
Okay, that's not exactly true. I dated random guys here and there (most of them flagrantly NOT husband material). Then, seemingly out of the blue, I decided I was gay. Clearly. I took my dad to lunch to break the news to him. I wanted his support and his understanding. I certainly didn't want him to act shocked and appalled. He didn't. In fact, not only was he not shocked or appalled, but he didn't even seem to believe that I was gay. And if I was, well then, no big deal. No big deal? Was he going to start searching for gay dating clubs for me to join now? Was this some bizarre reverse psychology tactic? We'll see how much of "not a big deal" this is when I start bringing my girlfriends home for dinner, I thought. So I dated a girl (who I met without the help of any dating service) for a few weeks. Then, definitely not out of the blue, I decided I was straight. Clearly.
There might have been a lull in his efforts for a while then. Did he tell me about Match.com? I can't remember, but I don't think so. That was one service for the loveless that I tried on my own. The only love connection that I made through Match.com was when I invited my friend to go on my first Match.com date with me and my date invited his friend to come along too, and now the two of them are engaged to each other. Isn't that just so damn cute? My date and I only went on one other date after that first date, and I ended up ditching him for another guy half way through. Yeah, I know. My dating karma has got to be bad.
And then my father seemed to give up for a while. I was in law school and I thought I had met the love of my life. And if he wasn't the love of my life (which was the case as it turned out), my dad probably figured I would have my new important and exciting legal career to keep me warm at night.
But although my dad might have given up on finding me a mate, he didn't give up on me. Instead, he switched to other topics, like self-esteem and career. My bookshelves are graced with such titles as: "The Tender Heart: Conquering Your Insecurity;" "Why Good Girls Don't Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do;" and "The Secrets of Savvy Networking." Typically, I have accepted his gifts and stashed them on my shelf without reading them, thinking to myself: "Who has time to read about being a "gutsy" girl when they are out living it? And what exactly is he implying anyway? Does he think I lack guts? Does he think I am insecure? What kind of support is that?!"
And so the books sit, gathering dust, until one day, I take one of them from the shelf, usually either while in the midst of a personal crisis or out of sheer boredom, and find that it is exactly what I need to read - find that I should have read it years ago. And the excitement in his voice when I tell him that I am finally reading the book that he gave me five years ago is so satisfying that I wonder why I didn't read it sooner - why I didn't show immediate appreciation for his knowledge and understanding of me - an understanding of me that I don't even have of myself, it often seems.
A few months ago, my dad heard a hypnotist interviewed on the radio. She had written a book, complete with CDs designed to put the listener in a state of hypnosis, called "The Dating Makeover: Four Steps to Attract the Love of Your Life." Naturally he bought it for me immediately and made a special trip to my office to present it to me in front of my co-workers. The package also includes a workbook chock full of writing exercises that allegedly illuminate your relationship patterns and where you have gone wrong in the past. When I saw that, I groaned. "Dad, who has time for this? Why can't I just meet a guy in a bar or at a party like normal people do?" Well, because I can't.
In fact, in order for me to meet a guy who I actually like and who likes me equally in return and who I don't mess it up with, may require hypnosis, therapy, and divine intervention. Considering all of this, I may actually listen to these CDs before the technology to do so becomes obsolete. After all, even though he is often an annoying pain in the ass, my dad has certainly proven himself to know best. About me and so much more.
The author just finished reading "The Tender Heart: Conquering Your Insecurity," in which she discovered that she, like the patients in the book, was born with a sensitive temperament that lends itself to the crazies when exposed to events that remind her, even unconsciously, of certain events from her childhood. She had a stiff drink after finishing the book and felt much better.
Monday, June 16, 2008
In the Valley of the 20 Somethings
I recently dated a younger man. A very young man. Before I met this man, I could not conceive of dating anyone younger than say, 29. Any younger than that, I reasoned, and our goals in life - the stage we found ourselves in - would be too vastly different. I want to be in a serious relationship. I tire easily and suffer from nasty hangovers. I own a condo and I have a "serious" job. I get heartburn and my debt is crushing. Did I mention that my biological clock is actually a time bomb? So, yeah, I just couldn't picture myself (my oh-so-mature self) hanging out with a younger man.
And then I met a younger man. A younger man who reads Hemingway on his lunch break. Need I say more?
The first night I went out with him, I felt like I had stepped into a Liz Phair song - the one in which she sings about dating a younger guy ("Rock Me All Night"). I met up with him and some of his friends at a bar. All of his friends have baby faces with nary a line to crease the glowing skin around their eyes. After drinks, we went back to the house that he shares with a bunch of guys and he gave me a tour. He led the way and I followed, stepping nimbly around the used and mismatched furniture, the multitude of bikes in various condition, the skateboards. He showed me the unfinished basement and the drum set. That's where we kissed for the first time - right next to the exposed brick and a drum set.
Did I have my doubts? Of course. I wondered why in the world he would want to hang out with me when he could be out flirting with firmer-bodied girls or drinking with his friends. Right away, I thought that he had too much life to live to get caught up with the likes of me.
But he was persistent and infatuated. And so I let it happen. And, as Mr. Big himself might say, it was abso-fucking-lutely fantastic. Why? Because there was always something to do, always something to talk about, always something to contemplate. He had not outgrown his hilarity or goofiness and by acting upon it on a regular basis, he gave me permission to do the same. Something wound tight inside me started to loosen when I spent time with him. I had forgotten what spontaneity was all about until he came along and reminded me how sweet it is to let the endless internal list of "shoulds" go for a while and just have fun. I found that I didn't need as much sleep as I thought I did - that I could drink more beer than I thought I could and still function the next day. It was like for a brief time, I was that age again too and life was exciting and full of the promise that adventure after adventure was coming my way. As unfocused as he might have seemed, to me, each new idea that he hatched, each new plan that he came up with was a demonstration of his potential--of his freedom. It was intoxicating.
I don't know that he felt the same way about his position in life. I do remember the anxiety that accompanies that freedom - for me it was the anxiety of making the wrong choice (that anxiety has not gone away, actually). Nevertheless, he can still join the Peace Corps if he wants to or grow his hair into an afro just for the fun of it. These are things that I cannot feasibly do in my current circumstances, and the loss of that freedom makes me a little sad.
Of course, as fast as the relationship started was just as fast as it crashed and burned. It's probably for the best, as Liz Phair says in the last line of her song: "Let me save you because life might change you, and I might change my mind." And that's the sad truth - that life will change him. It changes everybody, I think.
But in the thick of that change, you might be lucky enough to have someone come into your life who will remind you of the parts of yourself that you had forgotten - who will remind you that you still own wanderlust and creativity - that you still have the capacity for ridiculous fun and unabashed hilarity - that there still are a few adventures coming your way.
That's what I got from my 24-year old boyfriend, and I can't thank him enough.
And then I met a younger man. A younger man who reads Hemingway on his lunch break. Need I say more?
The first night I went out with him, I felt like I had stepped into a Liz Phair song - the one in which she sings about dating a younger guy ("Rock Me All Night"). I met up with him and some of his friends at a bar. All of his friends have baby faces with nary a line to crease the glowing skin around their eyes. After drinks, we went back to the house that he shares with a bunch of guys and he gave me a tour. He led the way and I followed, stepping nimbly around the used and mismatched furniture, the multitude of bikes in various condition, the skateboards. He showed me the unfinished basement and the drum set. That's where we kissed for the first time - right next to the exposed brick and a drum set.
Did I have my doubts? Of course. I wondered why in the world he would want to hang out with me when he could be out flirting with firmer-bodied girls or drinking with his friends. Right away, I thought that he had too much life to live to get caught up with the likes of me.
But he was persistent and infatuated. And so I let it happen. And, as Mr. Big himself might say, it was abso-fucking-lutely fantastic. Why? Because there was always something to do, always something to talk about, always something to contemplate. He had not outgrown his hilarity or goofiness and by acting upon it on a regular basis, he gave me permission to do the same. Something wound tight inside me started to loosen when I spent time with him. I had forgotten what spontaneity was all about until he came along and reminded me how sweet it is to let the endless internal list of "shoulds" go for a while and just have fun. I found that I didn't need as much sleep as I thought I did - that I could drink more beer than I thought I could and still function the next day. It was like for a brief time, I was that age again too and life was exciting and full of the promise that adventure after adventure was coming my way. As unfocused as he might have seemed, to me, each new idea that he hatched, each new plan that he came up with was a demonstration of his potential--of his freedom. It was intoxicating.
I don't know that he felt the same way about his position in life. I do remember the anxiety that accompanies that freedom - for me it was the anxiety of making the wrong choice (that anxiety has not gone away, actually). Nevertheless, he can still join the Peace Corps if he wants to or grow his hair into an afro just for the fun of it. These are things that I cannot feasibly do in my current circumstances, and the loss of that freedom makes me a little sad.
Of course, as fast as the relationship started was just as fast as it crashed and burned. It's probably for the best, as Liz Phair says in the last line of her song: "Let me save you because life might change you, and I might change my mind." And that's the sad truth - that life will change him. It changes everybody, I think.
But in the thick of that change, you might be lucky enough to have someone come into your life who will remind you of the parts of yourself that you had forgotten - who will remind you that you still own wanderlust and creativity - that you still have the capacity for ridiculous fun and unabashed hilarity - that there still are a few adventures coming your way.
That's what I got from my 24-year old boyfriend, and I can't thank him enough.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Sex and the City
Warning: Spoiler Alert
Not too long ago, when we played "Which Character on Sex and the City are You?", I proclaimed, with pride, that I was Samantha. She was the fun-loving, sex-crazed gal who didn't want to attach herself to any one man. "That's me!" I thought, rather titillated by my own independence, free-spiritedness, and Devil-May -Care-Attitude towards my relationships with men.
I recently started watching the series over from Season 1, however, and I find that I can't relate to her at all. What was I thinking? Devil-May-Care-Attitude towards my relationship with men? Uh, that's hilarious. And this time around, the fun-loving sex-pot seems tawdry - fake even- as if she is just fooling herself because what she, like the other women on the show, really wants is that one love relationship that blows her socks off.
So, I just came back from watching the "Sex and the City" movie. Well, not just. I did stop by my dear friend's place to drink some vodka straight-up before coming home to write this blog. Carrie Bradshaw and her writing has lit the proverbial fire under my ass. I want to write - even if my writing is a cheap take-off of the show: "Sex and Denver"? "Sexless in Cowtown"? "No Sex, No Cry?"
Anyway, once again, I find myself relating to - or if not relating to, than at least respecting - Samantha. During her relatively long stint of monogamy she starts to feel like she is disappearing. She wants to look down at her finger to see the ring she bought herself - not the ring that a man bought for her. She announces that the longest relationship she has ever had is with herself and that this relationship is more important to her than any other relationship. And she leaves him.
That was my favorite part of the movie. Was it Oscar Wilde who said that the greatest romance you will ever have is the one that you have with yourself?
And I'm so annoyed that Carrie took Big back. I mean - if he really wanted to find her he could have. Email? Are you kidding?
That's all for now.
Not too long ago, when we played "Which Character on Sex and the City are You?", I proclaimed, with pride, that I was Samantha. She was the fun-loving, sex-crazed gal who didn't want to attach herself to any one man. "That's me!" I thought, rather titillated by my own independence, free-spiritedness, and Devil-May -Care-Attitude towards my relationships with men.
I recently started watching the series over from Season 1, however, and I find that I can't relate to her at all. What was I thinking? Devil-May-Care-Attitude towards my relationship with men? Uh, that's hilarious. And this time around, the fun-loving sex-pot seems tawdry - fake even- as if she is just fooling herself because what she, like the other women on the show, really wants is that one love relationship that blows her socks off.
So, I just came back from watching the "Sex and the City" movie. Well, not just. I did stop by my dear friend's place to drink some vodka straight-up before coming home to write this blog. Carrie Bradshaw and her writing has lit the proverbial fire under my ass. I want to write - even if my writing is a cheap take-off of the show: "Sex and Denver"? "Sexless in Cowtown"? "No Sex, No Cry?"
Anyway, once again, I find myself relating to - or if not relating to, than at least respecting - Samantha. During her relatively long stint of monogamy she starts to feel like she is disappearing. She wants to look down at her finger to see the ring she bought herself - not the ring that a man bought for her. She announces that the longest relationship she has ever had is with herself and that this relationship is more important to her than any other relationship. And she leaves him.
That was my favorite part of the movie. Was it Oscar Wilde who said that the greatest romance you will ever have is the one that you have with yourself?
And I'm so annoyed that Carrie took Big back. I mean - if he really wanted to find her he could have. Email? Are you kidding?
That's all for now.
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