You Mean THAT Guy?? O.o

I’m going to tell you a little story about how random my dating life is.

For the past, oh, 8 years, I’ve been trying to use my mother’s influence as a college professor to my advantage. By this I mean, I’ve been trying to convince her to scope out good looking guys in her classes as possible candidates for romance. Now, I realize this may be unethical, attempting to take advantage of my mother’s access to the budding minds and bodies of tomorrow, but when you’re in a situation like mine, you start to get a little desperate. My low point came when I realized that I had almost nothing in common with any of the boys in my class and I needed to start looking up.

When I was about fourteen, while the boys in my class were throwing spit balls at each other and trying to burp the loudest in order to peacock their way into our common female peripheral vision, I was trying to talk to them about things. Not things which would actually interest them, like boobs or food, but other things; books, music, the conflicts in the middles east and their not so positive views on the “gentler” sex. I didn’t have much luck with this approach.

As I got older, I realized I was being a little too picky with the traits I was looking for in a man. Smart, funny, capable of carrying on a multi-syllable conversation, able to read beyond the eleventh-grade level, not smelly, seriously, able to read anything without more than one picture per page, interest in my mind and not just my ass…the ability to write “attractive” correctly in a text, or use the work attractive in a sentence period instead of hot. All of these were simply beyond my reach, given the limited availability of boys in my class. (I studied at a private school and my graduating senior class was of twenty one students…more than half of them being girls.) My educational/social pool simply wasn’t deep enough to hold the variety of men that I felt would somehow better flavor my life. The kind of men I read about in my paperbacks; dark, brooding, with a hint of danger than made you only want to try and fix them all the more. This was pre-Twilight, so none of them sucked blood to live or glittered more than the average boy in the daylight.

Literature had ruined me for the real boys in my life, and I knew I’d never be happy simply dating one of them. And so, my quest began…

My mother was always telling me about the guys in her classes. She’d tell me the story about the boys who played pranks in class. The ones who spoke out loudly while she was trying to teach, but later came up to her and revealed a deep and hidden interest in science and the world. The ones who were drop dead cute, but already dating/married to/engaged to someone and thus unavailable to me in every way. It was like having my own real life audio candy store. Except filled with hot guys. Whether they were actually attractive in my tastes, I’ll never know. I almost never met the boys she spoke of, being much younger, and when I did they tended to underwhelm. I clung to hope though; knowing that someday she’d find the flower blooming among the weeds and he’d be all “Hey, ‘sup?” and I’d be all “Nothing much. ‘Sup with you?”

It would be magical.

Well, the years went by and I never did meet my prince charming through my mother’s student database. I met and dated my own range of boys. Some more successful than others in peeking my interest, other boring me beyond what I imagined possible. And then, we reached this semester…

I, once again, harangued my mother until she relented and agreed to scout out a good looking specimen; despite the fact that in about two weeks I’d be moving to another continent. Finally, she comes home one day and tells me, “I’ve found him! I have a boy in my class! He is cute and funny. I think you’d like him!” Joy and hurrah! The day had finally come! I insisted that the next time she had class with said student, she take a picture with him, so that I may see if he was indeed cute in my eyes. She agreed, but only if she could tell him what the picture was for. I thought it funny and said “Sure. What’s the worst that can happen?” Comedy really does strike when one least expects it…

A few days later she arrives home and after eating dinner together, I follow her upstairs to her room and ask her about the picture. She tells me a little about the mystery man, vague details about his class habits and personality, and ends the description with this little nugget of information: I had, apparently, dated this boy before! My minds went blank. How could this be possible? My list of former beaus was sadly short enough to be counted on one hand. At least those lasting enough to be considered someone I “dated”. I ask her for more details. As she continues on describing him and how we had apparently had a thing, I realize who she’s talking about…

My mother took a picture with a boy I had “dated” when I was about eleven years old…We met at a day camp in the summer, held hands for about three days, talked on the phone a bit, and then never spoke again. This was the boy my mother though was so cute. The boy who dropped the L bomb on me after talking for a few days, over the phone, when he was two years younger than me, and who I never spoke to again…I didn’t know whether to laugh at how funny the situation was, laugh at the fact that he actually remembered me, or feel saddened by the fact that in the whole pool of testosterone swimming around me, the only boy in a UNIVERSITY that my mother found who mildly fit my deepest wishes was someone who I had already met and discarded when I was eleven…

What else could I do? I laughed long and hard with my mother about it. When I went with her to work in order to use the internet and saw him in her class, I made a funny face and looked away. I didn’t dare actually say hi and talk about how my mother came close to almost setting us up. I felt embarrassed by my younger self and how she couldn’t handle crushes back then, and I wondered how my future self would feel about these kinds of events and what a spaz I am now.

It’s funny how small a small island can really be… I wonder how many more moments of reliving my past I’ll have once I move. I doubt many, since I don’t actually know many people in NYC and can’t possibly date enough of them to casually be set up with them twice. I wonder where life and love will take me. Who knows if the boy I think is Mr. Wrong now is actually Mr. Wrong Right Now But Much More Suited To You In About Five Years? I certainly don’t know and never will.

All I do know is that I’m done having my mother scope out man candy for me in her classrooms. I just can’t run the risk of her setting me up with exes anymore. They should live in the fantasy that I’m happy and successful; dating someone steadily for four years now and just waiting for him to pop the question. It wouldn’t do to have them know I’m still single and looking, content with my life but open to having my other half bump into me one day.

We can’t have them know that I’m a normal person with normal feelings, hoping for love but fearing the crushing weight of rejection, now can we?

I Laugh Because You're Stupid...

Day in and day out more and more men, for in this particular rant I shall focus on that Y chromosome, act foolishly and irresponsibly; stumbling along with their knuckles dragging in the dirt, making assumptions about the female mind, and proclaiming that only they are entitled to piss on the metaphorical bush of life. Just when I think I've gotten the relative gist of the whole thing, perhaps a vague outline of how the male mind works, it shocks me with another act of blatant stupidity. Alas, then I sit back and remember: These are my male counterparts I'm talking about, so of course this shouldn't surprise me. It's really sad to think that I've become so used to seeing idiotic acts in my everyday life, that they no longer stir a genuine reaction in me.

As an explanation for this observation of the males in my presence as of late, let's take Mr. A into consideration. He's a young virile example of masculinity in the prime of life; attempting to make his way into the world through recently acquired work. While one may look at this man-boy and see potential, I look upon him and see the past coming back to haunt us all. For he is not in fact living out his own life, but that of those that came before him. I speak of course of Being-Better-Than-My-Daddy Boy. Not to be confused with I-Have-Daddy-Issues-Guy, who carries around with him a WHOLE other collection of problems that can only be handled by a professional charging $200.00 by the hour. BBTMD Boy lives in the proverbial and ever present shadow of his father figure. While having the desire to work his way out of this suffocating and all consuming presence, he does not have the capacity to go about this in a decent manner. His idea: I Shall Whore Around Whenever Possible, Thus Spreading My Seed to the Four Winds and Securing My Legacy! The victims: Every female within spiting distance.

While one may find themselves overwhelmed by the presence of this at times cunning but mostly moronic figure, it's really all up to the individual to handle these encounters. One may take the Romantic Approach, also known as the Path of Moron, and think they can change this individual. That upon meeting such a fresh faced and special girl, Mr. BBTMD will see the error of his ways and learn to love the right way; one at a time and with a condom. As you can tell by my name for this path, however, I disagree with this course of action. My way of handling this type of boy is simple: Light It, Smoke It, Toss the Butt. Whenever this type of individual walks into my life and I happen to be single and bored, I take advantage of the situation. Usually this results in a few weeks worth of trysts, as the individual tends to have one specific significant other whom he rotates the rest of his agenda around, and heated but brief sessions. (In rare instances, BBTMD Boy will have a significant other who is herself a BBTMWF GF or Be-Better-Than-My-Whore-Friends Girl Friend. This girl enjoys the stability of a relationship, while simultaneously finding happiness with any and all penises near by). It's a simple set of rules to follow. Do not get emotionally attached, do not think you're more important than you are, and always be prepared to bail out as soon as necessary. Case and point: When BBTMD Boy starts to say he wishes he had met you before he met his significant other, it's time to start packing your emotional luggage and buying yourself a ticket on the next train out of Dodge, because bold statements like these only serve to pull you in even deeper so in the end you will be the Dumpee and not the Dumper. You can take the adult-ish trail here and express your ideals to BBTMD Boy, hoping that you can mutually part ways and both continue your semi-normal existence OR and here is where I am an expert: AVOID, AVOID, AVOID. Eventually you will fade from BBTMD's consciousness, simply because he is too busy keeping track of his various love affairs to notice that he has been ditched. This leaves you in the free and clear to seek out another fling to fill the days.

I realize this blog might seem like it doesn't really have an end point to it, but now I shall try to summarize my feelings in a neat package.

Men, and I will add here not all men, as sometimes one can be lucky enough to stumble over enough rocks and man-whores to land next to a pretty decent chap who will split a date night check and NOT look at a woman's ass when she walks by, are easily fooled into thinking that they know everything and can keep secrets from us. They think that we don't know they pretend they're only interested in us, while really having about three other girls on the back burner. They think we don't know that when they get quiet while chatting with us, it means they're talking on the phone with the BBTMWF Girlfriend. They think we don't know the rules of this game their playing. But the truth is, we wrote them. We know all the tricks, we know all the rules, we know all the cheat codes, we're just pretending we don't. You laugh because you're getting away with murder, but the truth is I know where all your bodies are buried. I laugh because you're stupid...and you didn't even notice I stole your Microwave when I left.