I just noticed that Guy I Dated for a Minute has RSVP’ed “yes” to a mutual friend’s holiday party I also said “yes” to.
Whatever, fuckface — I ain’t scared.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to spend the next 3 weeks getting pretty and practicing ignoring douchebags. Because that’s what Jesus would do.
(I’ve realized recently that whole thing messed me up more than it should have. But screw it, that’s what therapy’s for. Let’s dance, Psyche.)
Texting a friend about therapy:
Me: “We ended up talking about why I don’t consider myself ‘beautiful.’ She showed me a fucking Dove commercial. I’m never going back. (Kidding.)”
Friend: “No one should be forced to watch a Dove commercial.”
And by the way? I don’t consider myself beautiful, and I don’t see a problem with that, so fuck right off, Dove. But I am a middle-age American woman who mostly thinks I’m cute, sometimes pretty, so I do think I’m a goddamn miracle.
Besides, “beautiful” doesn’t even crack the top 100 on my list of issues. When I think about my last pseudo-breakup, my appearance isn’t what keeps my brain spiraling. He once got hard while we were taking a walk because I made a JOKE about wearing high heels during sex — it’s easy enough to believe he found me attractive. So can we focus on this weird haze I get into where I think I’m not smart or interesting enough to keep a dude around AFTER we have sex, even as a friend? That seems to be the dominating self-esteem weirdness here.
Ah, yes. A key decision in any “relationship” — do I end it now while I’m pretty sure I can handle it, or let it ride until it crashes and burns in the most damaging possible way?
Pfft. JK, it’s not actually a question. Y’all know I’ll suffer for a good story — let’s dance, Feelings!
Kidding. The beauty of having played the He’s Just Not That Into You home game for 2 years a while back is that I can see it easily now. Plus ending the 10-year relationship right before THAT… I mean, it can’t hurt TOO much if this one ends. “We’re done? Oh, OK, cool. I’ll have more time to clean.”
But it turns out the “slut shame” doesn’t come from the sex. It comes from sex being all there is — from me not being feelings-worthy for whatever reason, from being kept around solely for my ability to wet a dick.
I’m not built for that. I don’t need Edward Lewis, but I damn sure ain’t settlin’ for Stuckey.
I acknowledge the possibility that I’m hormonal and misinterpreting, but I think I’m right. If I can’t tell that you, um, like me, or want to spend time with me, that is legit insane-making for my membranes.
I deleted (not blocked) his number, and, with it, my ability to text him anything belligerent and cunty. He’s still free to contact me, though, so we’ll see what happens.
Hm… Though I guess I probably should’ve seen what happened before I spent the weekend getting myself over this based on these assumptions… Oops. Ah, well. Call it preventive care.
I almost forgot to report that Waffles Guy texted me Sunday morning asking when we could get together again. And that is my fault. I did let him kiss me, and let him leave the last date thinking there’d be another. So…my bad. I did want to kiss him, and I’ll admit I didn’t have the balls to a) stop him from kissing ME, or b) sack up and say to his face that there wouldn’t be a third date.
I let the text sit for a day because I was busy and didn’t have time to think about a response. He texted again yesterday morning, asking if I’d gotten the FIRST text. I apologized for the delay, told him I had, but that: “I actually don’t think we should get together again. I had a nice time, but I don’t see it going further.”
I said essentially the same thing to Elbows Guy, and he was cool with it, so… brilliant, right? I’ve created The Line? Kind, but clear? I AM a real writer!
Yeah, no. Waffles Guy texted back and said, “Why, what happened?”
And for as much of a snarky asshat as I was when recounting what happened on that date…nothing really “happened.” It was all MY preferences and issues. There’s gotta be a woman who’d find him charming…no woman *I* know, but surely someone.
So I told him nothing specific happened, but I didn’t think we had “anything in common except for George Carlin. :),” and he responded, “Didn’t get together enough to really find that out…oh well…good luck :)”
…Um, how much more time do YOU need? I knew 30 minutes into the second date. Do your stories about diverticulitis or shopping for shirts get better?
I told a friend about this and she said, “You didn’t need to give him any response, but seriously, was he hoping you’d say, ‘Never mind. You’re right. We should date some more?'”
I gave him a, “Thanks, you too!” and called it a day.
Waffles Guy, we hardly knew ye.
Email to a female friend, subject: “Be proud.”
Me: “When I wrote the email telling Elbows Guy I don’t want a second date, I revised a few different ways, but each time made myself remove the words ‘I’m sorry.'”
Friend: “I am VERY proud of you. Well done.”
Me: “I didn’t even lie and say I met someone. I just said I didn’t want to.”
I ran the email past a male friend first to get a man’s perspective, to ensure it wasn’t douchey but didn’t leave room for debate. He said the email would be fine for a normal guy, but told me with this dude, I may get asked for an explanation.
Five minutes after I sent the email, I got a text from the Bitches Get Shit Done group: “You will survive being uncomfortable. You may even be better off for it.” Kelly Sue DeConnick is the aunt I’ve always wanted.
P.S. I just saw that he looked at my LinkedIn profile yesterday, which is not at all disconcerting. I think it’s locked down to just my network, though… Probably…
P.P.S. I underestimated him. He replied politely and even thanked me for NOT doing The Fadeaway. I mean, he said it in a way that made it sound as if all women do that (and maybe they do, to him), but I’ll still give him a point for it. Only one, though — he’d lost 50 points for heckling my dry elbow skin while all the moisture he needed was IN MY VAGINA, so he’s still netting out at -49.
Stacy: “Happy anniversary, Wayne.”
Wayne: “Stacy, we broke up 2 months ago.”
Stacy: “Well, that doesn’t mean we can’t still go out.”
Wayne: “Well, it does, actually. That’s what breaking up is.”
Email to friends:
“Do we remember the friend of my brother’s I ‘dated’ more than a year ago? The one who left my birthday gift at my door while I wasn’t home 6 months later because after we ‘broke up’ I kept avoiding seeing him to get it?
“He just texted me a Wonder Woman thing, and I figured the unknown number was a Facebook friend (which he isn’t) who’d seen the Wonder Woman thing I just posted. I responded asking who it was and he said, ‘It’s Ben, but thanks for losing my number…again…lol,’ (I’d deleted it before and we had the same discussion), and then, ‘We have to catch up sometime.’
“Christ, I thought *I* couldn’t take a hint. At least when someone used ME for sex and then stopped talking to me, I went AWAY.
“This is why I refuse to date any more family friends. Catch up on what? We were never friends. We didn’t have conversations, we had sex, and I don’t feel the need to catch up on that.
“How do I always end up picking the guys who aren’t just happy to get their dick wet a few times and move on?
“To save you the time typing your (much appreciated) advice, I already blocked his number.”
Look, I know, I’m a coward and an asshole. I should be honest, but I really don’t know how other than the ‘I can’t date you anymore’ conversation we already had, and he reminds me of a time in my life I’m working really hard to get past.
Do you know why we’re no longer sleeping together, sir? I couldn’t get it up for you anymore because we didn’t have good conversations. The only thing we had in common was binge eating, and during the month we hung out, you disrespected the only, like, TWO boundaries I have. We didn’t start as friends, and I can’t BE friends with someone whose only redeeming quality is being good at oral sex. Don’t get me wrong, that’s a fantastic skill — I will endorse you for it on OKCupid or whatever. But we can’t go get coffee like we’re long-lost besties.
(Again, I know. I’m a dick. In my defense, I told him up front I had issues, and he thought it was all quirky and cute and Deschanel. No, it’s bitchy and irrational. Fine line.)
Via XOJane: When My Boyfriend Moved Out of Our Apartment, it Felt Like Breaking Up Again
I can absolutely understand this. I was the one who moved out, but I still “see” him — just in my brain, in my phone, on highway billboards, songs, TV characters. When I like someone, I see them in a lot of weird places.
Mercifully, I don’t think his brain operates this way, but if he’d moved out and I was alone in “our” apartment, I think I’d have cried even more, hidden even more.
I don’t like my current apartment, and I’m planning to leave it soon. During my brief attempt at therapy, even the doctor said it sounded like “an easy place to be depressed.” Fucked up, right? What, just a couch and a TV and bare, asylum-white walls didn’t make the cover of “Martha Stewart Living?” Fuck you, it’s minimalist!
It IS an easy place to be depressed, and I wallowed and cried and hated myself and made horrible life choices* and cried some more. I keep faltering/getting set back in taking the next steps in getting a new place, but hopefully soon.
* I did buy a new bed, and sheets. If you’re going to be having ill-advised sex and then spending the next day in bed crying about it, you gotta be comfy.
I broke up with the last guy I “dated” shortly after Christmas. We broke up over the phone after a few weeks of not seeing each other. But I didn’t realize he’d bought me a gift, even though I’d told him not to. So he’d been texting me intermittently since then trying to arrange a time to give it to me, but the timing never worked out. I tried telling him to keep it, but he kept saying it wasn’t anything big and he wanted me to have it.
I stayed at a friend’s house this weekend, and got a text from the guy this morning asking if I was home. I said I wasn’t, and he said, “I was working in the neighborhood, so I left your Christmas gift outside your door.”
Ahem… “If it’s a severed head, I’m going to be very upset.”
I got home to find a gift bag with two cute little thoughtful things that, yes, were me-specific, and I could see where he just wanted them out of his house.
But then there was the gift card to Victoria’s Secret. Ummm…you probably could’ve kept that, sir. Much appreciated, really, but you do realize that if I use this to buy some lacy little thing, that’ll probably only benefit the NEXT guy, right? The “answering my door in lingerie” promotion is for current customers only.
Because I’m a weirdo, though, I’m using your money to buy a new sports bra. So I will think of you whenever I run and my breasts are neatly contained. (I’m a freak, and whatever I buy, I will always think, “He bought this for me.” So I can’t buy anything racy — it just feels weird.)
To be clear, I do feel like a dick about this whole situation, and I do appreciate him thinking of me. But you have to admit, the gift card was awkward.
Smug Singleton 