I’m not laid-back…unless you lay me back. Hey-o!

A man sent me an intro message on OkCupid that said, “I can tell from your profile that you’re very laid back, which I like in a woman.”

Um… no, I’m totally not.

The insanely thorough profile doesn’t really scream “Cool Girl,” does it? How’d you arrive at that? Show your work.

Also, when you say you like “laid-back” women, I’m reading that you like women who won’t bug you too much, because “BITCHES, man, amirite?”

NOPE. I don’t care about things some men seem to assume all women do. I won’t try to make you watch The Notebook or come to my yoga class or go shopping with me. (I’d actually prefer you didn’t.) But you’ll definitely know when something’s important to me. An ex of mine said I “hint with a hammer” — subtlety isn’t really my deal.

I also drink too much coffee and take a crack-based drug for ADD, so I’m almost always jittery. Plus I have massive trust issues, and assume fight stance quick when I think someone’s testing them — my brain basically turns into River Tam toward the end of Serenity, beating the shit out of the Reavers.

I am high-the-fuck-strung, sir.

Again, George Carlin says it better: “I’m not ‘laid-back,’ and I’m certainly not ‘mellow.’ I associate those qualities with the comatose. The solar system wasn’t formed because matter was laid-back; life didn’t arise from the oceans and humans descend from the trees because DNA was mellow. It happened because of something called ENERGY.”

Hell no, elbow…

OK, this post is long, but a guy I was kissing after a first date took a timeout to mention the dry skin on my elbows, so I think it merits further analysis…

We’re at the end of a decent first date. We’re kissing. It’s not great, but not bad. I like kissing. I like being against a man, even it wasn’t quite the physical fit I enjoy. (Ever just FIT with someone? Isn’t that the best? It’s like two really dirty puzzle pieces.)

I’m wearing a tank top, so he’s been touching my neck and shoulders. His hands go under my shirt (because I put them there), and graze the curve between my ribs and hips. He’d mentioned that’s one of his favorite parts of a woman, and it happens to be one of my favorite/best physical features.

Then he runs his hands down my bare arms and says, “Your skin is so soft… Well, except your elbows.”

*blink*…Sorry, what?

I pull away from him, gesture up and down at my body, carefully outfitted in form-fitting jeans, low-cut tank top with subtle but effective cleavage, lacy bra peeking out if I shifted the right way (which I did…often), and I say, “Really? Allllll this, and you’re gonna heckle my ELBOWS?!”

He’s not a moron, so he quickly says he was joking, and we get back to kissing after a few minutes of me being Cool-Girl-pseudo-outraged and teasing. But it stuck in my brain.

I mean, he’s not wrong. I could stand to loofah. But…

A. Who the fuck thinks of ELBOWS in ANY situation, particularly THIS one? Is this yet another part of my body I’m supposed to angst over and tend to? Should I add this to the list that already includes more extensive maintenance than my fucking car?

B. That’s your choice on a first date? A woman is giving your hands free reign all over her body while she makes little noises near your ear so you feel all manly and virile, and you pause to say that out loud? So if we’re ever naked together, are you going to point out that I don’t wax? That I have cellulite? That I basically have no ass?

Related: Is every inch of YOU gonna be all Beyoncé “Flawless?”

C. Oh, sorry, I must’ve left “dry elbow skin” off my OkCupid profile. Much like YOU left out that you’re 5’6″ only if I don’t understand how rulers work — I’m 5′, and when I raised to tiptoe out of habit to kiss you, I noticed I didn’t need to. Do you exaggerate size often…?

D. If you have enough blood in your brain to notice and form comments about imperfections while your hands and mouth are roaming a woman’s neck, shoulders, and waist — all of which, by the way, are naturally soft and smooth like a baby’s ass — we have bigger issues.

Too bad, too, because up until that point, you had plenty of moisture where it mattered.

I didn’t realize in the moment how much it bugged me, but…no. I mentioned today, briefly and nicely among other topics in my response to his most recent email, that I may have taken it too seriously, so I’ll see what he says.

The beauty of this is, I really don’t care if some dude I’ve met once thinks I’m crazy, especially since we seemed kind of “Eh…you’ll do for now” about each other.

And I know I’m overreacting, but consider The Elbow Heckle in the grand scheme — FIRST date, you not only have a negative thought about my body, you tell me? Am I going to have to bring my A++ game EVERY time I see you or you’ll point out my “flaws?” (Yes, I did just extrapolate a likely innocuous comment into a portent of future emotional abuse… What, like you’ve never?)

I’m not Perfect Girl, sir. I DO have dry skin. I use lotion on my hands and legs, but apparently skip my elbows, and my feet. I also have a pudgy belly, enough thigh fat to make another pair of thighs, and if you spank my ass during sex, you’ll see reverb. My forehead is showing signs of early-onset Worf syndrome. I have pale, weak eyebrows if don’t fill them in with pencil, and you’ll know it’s time for me to go back to the hair salon when you see glints of gray growing in.

If you’re expecting perfection in any aspect, you’re not getting it from me. Go hit on Gisele. No, really. I BEG you to let me know how that goes.

Don’t make me hate you.

Over the weekend I finally settled an issue with a family member who “didn’t want to talk about this.”

I get that, I really do. I don’t want to talk about it, either. But if you keep refusing to talk when I need to, I will hate you. I won’t mean to hate you. I won’t want to hate you. But you’re telling me I’m not worth the time, or enduring the minor discomfort you’d feel during a conversation? No. I’m not gonna smile and play Cool Girl while I silently stew in your bullshit.

We’re adults. We talk about it, or we don’t talk. Your call. Reasonable? Of course not. But I’ve learned that NOT communicating solves nothing. It just creates larger problems because now everyone is operating on presumption and hurt feelings.

I forced a 10-minute, in-person conversation because I thought it was worth forcing (because I don’t want to spend my life butthurt), and now we’re good.

I fucking hate when hippies (ie, my therapist) are right and I can’t just be Irish and swallow my rage. Swallowing is my favorite. Oh. Wait, no…

Quotable “Cool Girl”

“Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.”

— Gone Girl