Tag: feminism

Blandiloquent

MissM3 Comments

One of the most crucial things to realize as a feminist is that ALL people-both male and female- are participants in our patriarchal society. This means that women contribute to their own oppression. 

My Women’s Studies professor brought this to our attention the other week in class, and she couldn’t be more right. My initial reaction was, “why would women bring oppression on themselves? We don’t do that, we all hate oppression.” I had a hard time agreeing with this, which provoked my investigative mind. 

Our class discussion was intended to introduce things like genital cutting and foot-binding in other parts of the world and how oftentimes, it is women, not men, who are committing these acts; rites of passage, as they might be in other cultures. 

But I wanted to apply this concept on a more local level. 

How do women contribute to the oppression of women? I’ll tell you how. We oppress ourselves and the women around us because we hate other women. 

Admittedly, I am guilty of this. I intentionally avoided the entire female population in my high school. I’d never had more than one girl friend in my entire adolescent existence. To this day, there are very few women in my life that I could confidently call a “friend.” I had generalized that ALL girls were stuck up, back-stabbing snots, and I wanted no part in that. 

Also, I’m really good at judging other women-unfeministically (yeah, it’s a word now) labeling girls who wear short shorts or low cut tops “sluts”, girls who make snarky comments or have a bit of an attitude a word-that-starts-with-B, and the like. 

I know, it’s hypocritical of me. But, let’s face it, every last one of us is a hypocrite to some degree. So don’t go judging me just yet. 

The beauty of it all is that now that I’ve realized my wrong-doings, I have the power to decide to change. 

This morning, in the bathroom at the university, while I was washing my hands, a girl who was self-consciously examining herself in the mirror told me she liked my outfit, and it gave me quite the confidence boost. I don’t know if it’s because of the lack of female allies in my life, but I don’t receive compliments from my own gender very often. Perhaps it’s because we tend to see other women as competition or something. 

What I’m trying to get at here is that if girls could learn to treat other girls with the respect and equality that we demand for ourselves, the entire female population would be substantially more empowered. 

Instead of being individual “feminists” who are fighting the good fight against the patriarchy on our own, wouldn’t it be extremely helpful to have some allies on our side? 

I’ve realized that my views on feminism were rather selfish. What I wanted was equality for myself. I wasn’t particularly interested in empowerment and equality for the rest of the women in this world. But that’s all changed now. 

So what do you say, ladies? I think the majority of you will agree with me that we girls can be nasty and hostile toward one another. But what if we all realized that we’re in the same boat, at least in regards to gender inequality, and help each other out a little? 

I’m not saying we should all be “besties” or whatever. But we don’t have to be enemies, either. 

That way, we could be each others’ support system, and actually bring about some progress in eliminating our own oppression.  

Now who’s with me?

M. 

 

 

 

 

The Eloquent Salesman

MissM3 Comments

Hate is a strong word, but I really really really don’t like the kiosk guys at the mall. 

As if the infinite, bombarding advertisements in the store windows weren’t enough, we now need walking, talking, breathing advertisements to shove more products down our throats and suck the dough right out of our wallets. 

Kiosk guys are the most incessant, vexatious breed of salespeople. And just as the best of arguers, I am prepared to abet my argument with viable evidence. 

Kiosk guys choose their targets in a very scrupulous manner. Even when you think you’ve escaped their gaze, they’re watching. Waiting. Constantly pursuing their next dupe. 

But, ladies and gentlemen, I am no dupe. 

Exhibit A: 

There I was, artlessly roaming the mall. Consciously desisting eye contact with the enemy. Gazing longingly through store windows at items that I could only afford in my dreams, subconsciously anticipating the possibility of a sales-pitch confrontation. 

And boy, did I get a sales-pitch confrontation. 

A man leaning against a kiosk, selling some kind of fancy hand cream had spotted me. He watched me from behind his spectacles  as I wandered nearer and nearer to his booth. As soon as the opportunity arose, the hawker snatched my dainty wrist and pumped a coin-sized dot of lotion onto my hand and began massaging it into my skin. 

I gave him a befuddled look and attempted to pull my hand back to my side but he resisted. The man didn’t speak English well, but his sales pitch went something along the lines of how his product would enhance and rejuvenate my fair, dry, and cracking skin. I decided i’d humor him, and inquired the price of his miracle cream. The man wanted 29.99 for a 3-month supply of his lotion. Outrageous. 

Do people actually pay that much for lotion? I buy the Equate brand from Walmart that costs me about six bucks and it gets the job done just fine. Plus I only run out of it biannually. 

Continuing with my anecdote, I allowed the kiosk guy to finish verbalizing his rehearsed spiel of reasons why I needed his product. (Mostly because he was rubbing my hands the entire time. Which beyond creepy and made me a captive audience.) I nodded and thanked him for the free handful of lotion, and continued, rather irritatedly, on my way. 

This whole encounter took up roughly five minutes of my valuable time. (Kidding, it’s not really that valuable, and I had nothing better to do.) And the kiosk guy clearly overstepped his boundaries by physically forcing me to listen to his live infomercial. If I remember correctly, I hadn’t shown an ounce of interest in purchasing hand cream that day. 

This aggressive method of selling not only makes me want to visit malls less, it makes me totally resistant to purchasing anything from a kiosk ever in my entire life. 

My words of retail shopping wisdom: Keep your limbs in tight and your eyes on the floor. 

That’s Hot.

MissM7 Comments

MEN: This may come as a surprise, but I just thought i’d casually bring to your attention that NOT EVERY ASPECT OF MY LIFE IS INTENDED TO PLEASE YOU.

Ready for my real-life example?

The other day, I was discussing my career plans with a man friend. I told him I was considering a career in English teaching or journalism, to which he bluntly responded, “That’s hot.”

Umm, okay?

What’s hot about my aspiration to become an English professor? Or a newspaper journalist? Is that some kind of joke? Or do people really have fetishes for those with a fondness for language arts?

This sort of makes me feel as though my man friend wasn’t taking my career plan seriously.

If this conversation had been an intelligent, two-sided conversation in which both participants were genuinely interested in what one participant was expressing, it would have gone a little more like this:

Me: “I’m thinking I want to be an English professor.”

Man friend: “Oh, really? What made you decide that career path?”

Me: “Well, I love to write and learn about literature, and I think it’d be a fun, challenging career to teach students how to write.”

Man friend: “Well that sounds like a great choice for you, then!”

And then it could continue in the same manner.

But, this was indeed not a two-sided conversation in which both participants were genuinely interested in what one participant was expressing. It was a boy belittling a woman’s intelligence and ambition.

I wasn’t trying to be hot. I was trying to answer his inquiry of what I would like to become when I grow up. Did it ever occur to him that maybe it isn’t my constant goal to impress him and gain his approval when we talk? That maybe I was trying to have a person-to-person conversation and express what my aspirations were?

It all comes back to shallow, physical attraction, doesn’t it?

Because Heaven forbid some guy would actually want to know what my passions and interests were, just for the sake of getting to know me better.

Another lad and I were having a similar discussion earlier today. In an effort to flatter me, he asked if i’d ever considered modeling as a career. I told him that I hadn’t because I do not advocate the fashion industry and media’s glorification of physical beauty and skinny-ness.

His response? “Well, maybe you could try acting then?”

Arg. Another point completely missed.

He thinks I have the looks to be displayed and manipulated in the media as an icon of what “ideal beauty” is. Which, frankly, I don’t take as a compliment at all. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that maybe I had no interest in a career in the media.

This is just a prime example of the objectification of women. The belief that my physical beauty should be used as a commodity to promote and sell physical items, as well as a skewed and artificial icon of what a beautiful woman is.

There is way more to a woman than her physical appearance. I have far more to offer than my looks, thank you. And I intend to pursue a career that suits my interests and puts my intellectuality to good use.

M.

Undamaged

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Some lessons are best taught by 9-year-olds. 

I have the pleasure of playing “mommy” this weekend while my parents are basking in the Floridan sun. One of my parental duties is to get my baby sister ready for school in the morning. It was her third grade class elections yesterday, so I insisted that she get up early so that I’d have time to curl her hair so she could “look the part” while delivering her campaign speech. (Aren’t third graders a little young to be having a student government? Like what are their issues? Broken crayons?) 

Anyway, after forcefully removing her from her bed and dragging her downstairs into my bedchamber, I sat her down in front of my mirror and began taming her bed-head. 

Twenty minutes later, after i’d finished curling her hair, I told her how pretty she was. She responded perfectly. 

“I know.” 

When was the last time you responded to a compliment like that? Can’t remember? Me neither. 

This feisty, little 9-year-old has yet to have her self esteem torn down, ripped to shreds, and irreversibly damaged, despite the toxic environment around her. She doesn’t compare her outward appearance to the girl next to her. She doesn’t look at covers of magazines and think “man, I wish I looked like her.” And you better believe I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that her self-esteem stays untouched. 

How beautiful would that be, if we were all able to have the same confidence as my baby sister? To be able to sincerely accept and believe a compliment. To have an unchanging perception of ourselves, and to love that perception in its entirety. 

I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what that would be like. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t refute a compliment from a stranger, or gaze in the mirror with an attitude of disapproval. 

And also, why is it so frowned upon to accept a compliment? If someone were to tell me I had beautiful eyes, and I were to respond with “I know,” the complimenter would think of me as an arrogant, stuck-up snot. But I say, what’s wrong with expressing that you like something about yourself? I mean, definitely, moderation in all things, but in my personal opinion, there is nothing wrong with agreeing with someone when they tell you they like something about you. 

It’s okay to love yourself. In fact, it’s crucial. 

M. 

The Young and the Faltering

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At 18 years old, I feel like life is passing me by. I can’t scroll through my newsfeed on Facebook without viewing an annoyingly-ecstatic ex-classmate’s engagement announcement. THESE CHICKS ARE MY AGE. I’m all for everyone making their own choices and doing whatever the hell makes them happy, but I’m not going to lie, I’m jealous of these girls. Their lives actually seem to be going somewhere. 

Granted, I am nowhere near being ready to make such a commitment. I can’t even commit to a breakfast cereal long enough to buy the Costco-sized value pack. Which is totally fine, especially for someone as young as myself. But let’s be honest, at this rate, all the relationship-worthy men will be snatched up by my fellow pubescent peers. 

Lately, I feel as though nothing is necessarily wrong, but nothing is definitely right, either. I just want some golden opportunity to jump out at me and steer me in some progressive direction. Currently, I am floating through life. Indecisive, uncommitted, and scared to death. 

The decisions I’m supposed to be making right now will determine the quality of the rest of my life. The thought of making a wrong (or lesser) choice terrifies me. I’d like to wave my rights to make any more life decisions, because past experience serves evidence enough that I am not capable of making aforementioned decisions. 

I think the most frustrating part about it all is that at this time last year, when I was still drifting through the breeze that was high school, I thought i’d have it all figured out by now. I was convinced that somehow, upon my graduation, everything would fall into place, and I would discover who I truly am and what my real passions in life are and all that jazz. I could not have been more wrong. 

To be frank, I don’t have the slightest clue of what I am doing. 

All I want is to be happy, and to find people to surround myself with that will help me be happy. I can no longer endure this wishy-washy, floating-around, take-it-day-by-day lifestyle. I want to pursue something gosh dang it. 

And all this talk about preparing for my “future” is ridiculous. We never stop preparing for the future. I seem to have forgotten how to live in the present. Why do all of my actions have to somehow prepare me for this thing we call “future?” Why can’t I just do something that brings immediate satisfaction every once in a while? 

In summary, I think i’ll pass on the whole “growing up” thing. That way, I won’t have to deal with watching disgusting couples be happy together, choosing a career path, the patriarchy, or anything else for that matter.

I think instead I’ll go back to the days when the hardest decision I had to make was whether or not I wanted sprinkles on my ice cream cones and I could spend hours outside playing in the sprinklers with the neighborhood kids, and nothing was a waste of time. 

M. 

But A Number

MissM3 Comments

The other day, my little sister McCall and I went on an adventure to the Holy Krishna Temple to participate in their Festival of Colors. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s basically some religious celebration in which people gather at this temple in the middle of freaking nowhere to bond together over the throwing of chalky, neon-colored powder. I highly recommend this event, it’s the cheapest, messiest form of entertainment I’d ever participated in.

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There we are, all pretty and tinged. (I’m the short one.) As I mentioned before, this event was boisterous, in the best kind of way. Strangers became friends (or enemies, based on your mood) by flinging handfuls of color at each others faces, limbs, and glutes. I’m For some reason, being in a crowd full of people covered head-to-toe in neon chalk gives you all the confidence in the world.

Everywhere you looked, you’d see strangers kissing strangers, guys slapping random girls’ butts, homeboys holding “Free Kisses” signs, and, my favorite, photobombers. 

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I don’t have a clue as to who this guy is. Maybe he cleans up well. We could totally be a couple.(: 

It is a rare person who escaped that event without having her personal bubble ravaged by some dude who thought she had a nice tush. 

However, it’s even more rare to be asked if you’d like a “handprint on your ass.” Yes, kids, that’s a direct quotation. A spirited young fellow literally asked me if i’d like his handprint on my butt. No thank you, sir, I’m golden. 

My sister and I were approached the second we got out of the car by two thirty-something man-children who informed us that we were pretty and gave us each a lingering embrace. 

We’ll never see handprint guy or the tenacious huggers again, which makes it all okay. 

McCall and I took multiple laps around the Holy Krishna, sprinkling our chalk on strangers, taking selfies in front of the temple, and getting cat-called and smothered in blues, greens, yellows and pinks. Having the time of our lives. 

One particular bloke had shown his fondness for my appearance by throwing multiple handfuls of color in my face, over my head, and at my tummy. Later that day, he’d found me again, but this time he didn’t throw anything at me. Instead, he said “Hey, how old are you?” 

My typical response to that question is “how old do I look?” 

He hesitated, but finally responded that I looked around sixteen or seventeen years old. This typical of strangers. Can someone please tell me what it is about me that makes me look like I’m still in high school? Please and thank you. 

A little annoyed, I bluntly, and rather sassily, informed him that I was nearing my nineteenth anniversary of life. He reacted exactly the way I would have expected; he asked for my I.D. I looked over at McCall, who was grinning from ear to ear. She gloats in the fact that nearly every stranger we encounter assumes her to be the elder. She really doesn’t look older than me, though. I’m convinced that the only reason for this nonsense is the fact that she is a solid four to five inches taller than me. Her superiority in height seems to entitle her to an attitude of condescension toward me, which I do NOT tolerate well. 

I was huffing with exasperation at this point in our brief interaction. This stranger sensed this, uttered an apology, and assured me that he believed that I was telling the truth about my age. Then, he granted us the opportunity to reconvene later that evening for a hot-tub sesh, and insisted that I save his number in my phone. I humored him, and typed his digits into my contact book, and later cleared that entry. 

This is just one of multiple flustering events  in which people mistake me for being much younger than I am, which is extremely frustrating when my maturity level indicates otherwise. People always tell me I’m going to love it when I’m forty, and people think I don’t look a day over thirty. And that may be true. But right now, it SUCKS. (For lack of a better word.)

When I tell you I’m almost nineteen, don’t question it. I get that this fellow was trying to validate that I wasn’t “jail bait” or whatever, but once I told him I was no longer a minor, that should have been the end of that conversation. Geez. 

Other than that incident, McCall and I had a very enjoyable afternoon. However, it takes DAYS to completely cleanse yourself of all that chalk. It. Gets. Everywhere. 

And also, it dyed my golden locks a murky, purplish-green color. Which I am just not edgy enough to pull off. Seven shampooing treatments later, and no sign of it fading. I’m a plum-head.  

I AM THE OLDEST SISTER IN MY FAMILY GOSH DANG IT. 

M. 

 

 

The King of Condescention

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I have met a male that is at least 12 times as “confusing” as the average female. I met this young man in none other than my Women’s Studies class, a class dedicated to stirring up its female-dominated audience against the patriarchy.(AKA my most favorite class I ever did take.)

From the first day of class, I would catch this gent staring at me from across the room multiple times per class period. After a couple of classes, I suppose he finally caught my full name, and found me on Facebook. We engaged in casual cyber-conversation after I’d accepted his friend request, and he attempted to flatter me by telling me how visually appealing I was to him.

The next day in class, the boy avoided any sort of visual or verbal contact with me. Things grew awkward really fast due to his deliberate “ignoring” of my presence. What? Was he embarrassed that he’d validated my suspicion that he thought I was cute? Naturally, I returned the favor, and, in attempt to increase the awkward tension, I avoided that boy right back.

The semester progressed, and so did the platforms in which the boy communicated with me, none of which included face-to-face interaction. One day, he found me on SnapChat. He then sent me a selfie with the caption, and I kid you not, “I want you. All of you.”

So here’s this kid who doesn’t even have the guts to have a face-to-face conversation with me. Telling me he “wants me.” These type of messages continued, and he repeatedly notified me of his desire to cuddle with me, kiss me, and most recently, go hot tubbing with me. It’s amazing how greatly your confidence increases when you’re safely sheltered behind a computer screen or mobile device. Because there is no way in heck this boy would approach me in real life and say ANY of these things in the hallway after class.

Don’t even get me started on the damage social media has done to our social skills.

Continuing on.

The other day, this boy wrote me a message on Facebook, asking a question on one of our assignments. I answered his question, to which he replied, “that’s what I thought.” I responded, “you thought right, champ!” to which he said “generally.” I sarcastically praised his humbleness, and in retaliation, he informed me that I was an arrogant brat.

At this point, I had lost my sh*t. I was infuriated. I went off, my fingers swiftly and forcefully pounding the keyboard. I told him that he had no right to call me that just because I’d damaged his ego in refusing to kiss, cuddle, or whatever else he wanted, with him.

He didn’t message me for a week or two after that little episode. Then, yesterday, I the following status: “GUYS. It is totally hot tub weather. Who’s in?”

Minutes after posting this, I received another message from this boy. He told me he’d “tooootally” go hot tubbing with me. I began listing reasons why I could no longer go hot tubbing. Somewhere within the conversation, he called me “sweetie.”

ATTENTION, EVERYONE: don’t you DARE call me “sweetie” if you wish to keep your larynx functioning properly. That is the most condescending thing you could ever say. “Sweetie.” That stupid pet-name is how mommies and daddies refer to and address their three-year-old offspring. That was an insult to my intelligence, age, and hinted that this boy thought he was either above me, or somehow a significant other who had the right to use gushy pet-names that supposedly indicate affection.

This boy, may I remind you, won’t even have a verbal conversation with me. What right does he have to call me anything other than my name? I am infuriated. And we will most definitely not be going hot tubbing together any time in the near future.

Don’t call me sweetie, or I will show you fifty shades of sour.

And also, if you think I’m cute, come tell me in person. I am the least intimidating person in the history of non-intimidating people.  Typing “ur cute” and hitting the “send” button means absolutely nothing to me.

M.

 

The Harm In Formality

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First dates are so formal. If you think about it, you spend three or four hours engaging in some sort of structured activity with another person, nervously and anxiously trying to impress the dude and try to get to know him at the same time.

My question is, how are you supposed to get to know someone when they are putting on a front just like you are in order to impress you? I know i’m guilty of spending an extra half hour making sure my hair has more bounce and shine than usual and that my eye makeup is just slightly darker in attempt to make my eyes that much more alluring, and sucking on breath mints until he arrives.

Then he comes to the door, wearing a just-more-than-casual button-up shirt that he may or may not have ironed beforehand, and wouldn’t be caught dead in on a typical day. You exchange a stiff “hello” and follow him to his car, where, if he is a “gentleman”, he will open the passenger door and wait for you to self-consciously climb inside before jogging around the automobile to climb in through the driver’s side.

I don’t care how much of a “gentleman” your date is, there is no way that he regularly opens the car door for his passengers. It’s just not natural.

As the time passes, slowly at first, but progressively faster, you anxiously and cautiously engage in a conversation in which all you can think about is the kind of person you’re coming across as and anticipating possible conversation-starters just in case, heaven forbid, the current topic of conversation dies out and you both end up sitting across the table in an awkward stupor of speechlessness, and how you only get one first impression and oh gosh now it’s raining and he’s going to see your hair transform into an untamed, frizzy mess and nobody is into an untamed frizzy mess.

Again, I thought the point of dating was to get to know someone and see if they make the cut for a second date, and eventually, a relationship. But it’s really hard to do that when you’re putting on a faker-than-fake persona that you THINK he will like. Let’s be honest, people. You can only hide your crazy for so long.

So there you are, sitting across the table with someone that you can now call an acquaintance, and the conversation is beginning to flow a little more freely. The tension is gradually being lifted and you feel yourself relax. That is, until it’s time to order, but luckily you’ve premeditated appropriate food options in order to avoid getting food on your attire, face, or worse, in between your teeth. And also, it can’t be a hamburger or else he’ll think you’re a total fatty.

Then there’s the matter of how much you should eat. You can’t possibly finish the entire dish in front of a GUY, even though you skipped out on lunch today and can feel your tummy eating itself it’s that hungry. And you better not eat more than he does. And you better not eat too fast, but you can’t take too long and make him wait for you, either.

What’s the big deal? If a guy is gonna treat me to a 12-dollar dinner at my favorite restaurant, you better believe I’m gonna enjoy it. ALL of it.

The date comes to a close, and let’s say hypothetically he does like this fake-o person you improvised, based on your assumptions of what he likes, and you get a second date with this suitor. How long are you going to play the part of the well-mannered, exceedingly polite, normal girl that you were on your first date? And by the way, he’s doing the same thing. Where does the formality stop, and a couple decides to be themselves instead?

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good, well-planned, structured date. But I HATE the pressure that comes with it. All it is is two people putting on a show for one another while out for a night of public entertainment. Maybe I’m the only one with this problem. I just find it immensely difficult to be myself on a date when there is a mutual expectation to behave as a proper, formal person who is just talkative enough to make herself interesting, but doesn’t give too much away, and is instantly intrigued with everything that comes out of her date’s mouth.

I guess everyone’s different, and some people just need some time to break out of their little shells when they’re around new people. But I just wish there weren’t so much pressure to impress people. On dates. In everyday life. Like I said, you can only hide your crazy for so long, and after spending X amount of time with the same person, they’re bound to meet the REAL you. And the faster you can be the REAL you around someone, the faster you can weed out the ones who aren’t going to stick around when they meet you in your entirety.

Can I get an amen?

M.

 

The Lad From The Library

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The other day, while I was diligently slaving over an assignment in the school library, I couldn’t help but notice the young fellow sitting across the aisle, slumped in a swivel chair, and looking me up and down repeatedly. Y’know how sometimes you can just feel someone’s eyes on you? Yes. It was one of those instances.

Awkwardness was beginning to satiate the air as his eyes met mine and he realized he’d been caught red-handed. I’d resumed my business and continued typing my essay on the computer in front of me, but moments later, to my surprise, he was standing right next to my desk in an insecure stance.

He introduced himself and we chatted for a moment or two about school and other mindless conversational topics. Our gratuitous chatter began to die down, but before he returned to his seat, he told me that I was “too cute to be this nice.”

That is a direct quotation, ladies and gentlemen.

Hmmm. Let’s let that sink in for a moment, shall we? I was previously unaware that physical attractiveness correlated at all with how kind a person could be.

And what is “too cute?” I didn’t know one could possess excessive cuteness. This brings me to a whole new theme to rant about. I can’t be ugly, because then nobody will like me and my value as a human being will decline. But if i’m too much of a looker, people will think I’m an arrogant and antagonistic brat.

There’s no such thing as too much cute.

Furthermore, I was unaware that degree of cuteness an individual possesses were indicators of how nice said person could be. Last time I checked, looks have absolutely no influence on one’s personality or character traits. I know some dang alluring beings who happen to be the kindest, most friendly people around.

But, according to this bloke, I am TOO cute to be this nice.

Which means that NO ONE is excluded from negative stereotypes. Good-looking people, bad-looking people, doesn’t matter. Which also means that the lad from the library made a generalization that cute people are not nice.

That’s the thing about generalizations, folks. They are NEVER 100% accurate. They are stereotypes.

Who was he to assume that because my physical features were pleasing to his eyes, that I would be unfriendly, standoffish, or conceited?

I know that his intent was to adulate me. It was a good intention, sure. But instead of complimenting me on my appearance, why couldn’t he just tell me he thought I was friendly or easy to talk to and that he’d like to converse with me again sometime in the near future?

I’ll tell you why. It’s because society has turned its people into shallow beings. Had I not been a petite, blonde girl with a youthful face, the chances of this man even starting a conversation with me would be slim. I’m not going to say he wouldn’t have introduced himself if he didn’t think I was cute, because that would be an assumption. And you know what they say about ASSumptions.

So thank you, lad from the library, for verbalizing your admiration for my appearance. It was a confidence-booster, and made my cheeks flush red for a fraction of a second, until you added that second part of your “compliment.” The part about me being “too nice.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go figure out a way to adjust my niceness level so that it matches my degree of pretty-ness.

Yeah, right.

 

How To Lose A Girl’s Interest In 4 Seconds

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I recently quit my job of two years at the local trampoline park, which has given me an abundance of this thing called “free time,” which I have been using to expand and strengthen my social circles. 

I began hanging out with some of my old guy friends from high school again. These fellas are a year younger than me, which makes them seniors in high school. (May I just say, the difference in maturity level between a high school student and a fresh graduate is unreal.) These friends have been their own exclusive group for who knows how long, but I have only known them for about four years. 

All was well, and we started hanging out all the time again just like the “good old days.” I had dated the majority of them throughout the course of my high school career. Never seriously, but my prom dates were always members of this clan. What I’m saying is I’ve had history with one or two of these gentlemen. 

With me graduating a year before these boys, we had become more and more distant, and I had assumed that I’d left all this “history” behind me when I obtained my diploma. But apparently, I was wrong. 

One night, we were all hanging out at this one boy’s house. Let’s call him Tom. We spent maybe an hour listening to a couple of us mess around on the piano and guitar. Once we all grew bored of that, we migrated downstairs to the basement to watch a select handful of them play video games. Yes. Video games. 

I was reminded rather quickly why I had allowed myself to “grow apart” from these kids. They play video games. A lot. And when that stupid controller is in their hands, they develop the personality of  a brick wall, and about the same ability to converse. 

So there I was, bored out of my mind and laying hopelessly on the couch, listening to the sound of fake gunshot from the TV, when Tom decided he’d come and “cuddle me.” 

I moved over and gave him a little space to lay next to me. Once he was situated, I laid my head on his chest and continued to stare blankly at that blasted television screen. I didn’t think much of it, and decided that Tom made a great human pillow. Him and I began to chat a little and before I knew it, his face was right up in my grill. And he was doing that thing where a boy stares at your lips while you talk and then you just KNOW you’re about to get kissed. 

Over my dead body. 

I pulled away fast and whipped out my phone and pretended to be deeply engaged in an SMS conversation to avoid his gaze at my mouth. That went on for a while, and eventually, the rest of the group decided they were as bored as I was with those video games, so we decided to drive to Krispie Kreme for a late-night pastry. 

After consuming our donuts, we slowly made our way to our cars. As I was approaching my own, one of the boys drove his car right up to me. Tom was sitting in the passenger seat with the window down.

“Give me a kiss.” He said bluntly.

The kid driving the car smiled and said, “Yeah, you owe him.” 

Um. WHAT. What does he mean I OWE him? And how dare he TELL me to kiss him in front of his bone-headed friend? 

I realize these kids are stupid high school boys with a significantly lower IQ and maturity level than a sophisticated lady like myself, but at moments like these, all I can think is “What the hell?”

He pulled my arm down toward him and put his face really close to mine again and attempted to kiss me, to which I politely refused.

Haven’t talked to the chap since, and we’ve been friends for four years. 

What makes him think that’s okay? If I wanted to kiss him, i’d have done it already.  I was livid. So angry. All I wanted to do was punch him square in the mandible. 

Boys, have some class, and use your brains. Nothing makes a girl lose interest faster than ASKING HER TO KISS YOU IN FRONT OF YOUR STUPID FRIENDS. Furthermore, he had already presented me with the opportunity to mack out earlier that evening, and I had declined. 

I know your ego’s a little damaged now, but rejection happens, psycho. 

Grr.