I had one of the most beautifully ignorant compliments ever from a man given to me this morning. I must share. It made my day in a wonderfully ironic way.
I rolled into Tech Writing a healthy 15 minutes late this morning. Spinner buses were running a wonky 5 minutes early, so I missed both 8 AM buses. Love life. Anyway, I grabbed a coffee at Jazzman's on my way to class, because I figured, hell, might as well-- already late! and waltzed into Foster and plopped down next to Southern Charm. Who happens to be in my long report group. (He asked. Actually, he swiveled around in his chair when Warren told us to group up, pointed a finger at his chest, and then turned it to me while mouthing, "Me? You?" I may have responded with something like an empathetic head nod and a "Yesyesyesyesyesyes!" while daydreaming about other situations involving him and me and empathetic "yesyesyes"s.) This may be the reason I am now actually getting up to go to my 8 AMs, even in the cold and dark Vermont early winter. What can I say? I like looking at pretty, smart things. I am so easy.
Because I was late, So Charm turned and asked me for a stunning idea for our long report. I looked blankly at him and asked him what time he woke up.
Sami, our other group member, woke up at 7.
"6:20," I told them. "I am not responsible for any thinking."
"Why did you wake up that early?!" So Charm asked with shocked concern.
I just looked at him. "I don't just roll out of bed looking like this."
"Really?!" he asked, totally shocked. Stunned. Totally unbelieving and off-guard.
God. Bless. Him.
"...uh, no. I have to shower. And then blow dry my wet hair. And then straighten it."
"My hair's naturally wavy. It gets in the way."
"I have never seen you with wavy hair."
I love these little times in life when men realize how much effort women actually put into looking good...usually, for them. Again, it's the little differences between the sexes. Women like to look good. Men like to feel good. Who knows, maybe they're concerned with looking good, too. (Some more than others, surely. Other days, it's totally "I'm wearing the first shirt that hits my hand when I reach onto the floor," for them.) (I hate them for this. I'm forever thinking, "Who might see me in this today? When was the last time I wore it? Will anyone who saw me in it then, other than my roommates and close friends, see me today? Does it match these jeans? Do I look fat in it? Is it doing that weird thing to my hips? Can you see my bra? Do I need to wear a tank under this? Is this slutty cleavage, or "Yeah, my boobs are bangin'," cleavage? Do I really want to be dressed like this in front of my professor? Or that creepy kid in my class? And will my boss care about it? Do I even feel like wearing this shirt today? No? Yes? What are my other choices?")
Anyway. More serious things to talk about than my dressing decisions. Sorry. It's a Friday. My mind is scattered.
Recently, I found out the sad and rather angering news that one of my oldest and dearest friends has been emotionally cheated on by her S.O. Though he has since confessed to her, and pledged to reform, there have been three slip-ups, and though they've been working things out and he's trying his best, I'm still ridiculously affronted for her. Angry, upset, disappointed, pissed, sad, disgusted...these all aptly describe how I feel about this particular happening. Time, vows, and respect have to mean something. A man cannot have both feet in two different camps. There is no playing for two teams.
How can I make this clearer? Because I feel like this is something men just don't seem to get. My friend's S.O was wishy-washy about cutting off contact with the other woman for awhile. Perfect certainly made his choice deciding that commitment, or at least, the level of commitment I was willing to front, wasn't for him. Fine. Go play the field. But give me the same freedom you give yourself.
You cannot have your cake and eat it, too. Sorry. It just doesn't work that way.
I am so amazed and proud at how my friend is handling all of this-- it's almost super-human. In cases like this, the only thing that I can say is what I told her-- "You take care of you. At some point, you and your emotional well-being have to come before the two of you and the "us" and "we." You are the most important person in this-- not him. He made his choice-- now you do what's right for YOU."
The only other thing that I know to do to prevent something like this are the little, easy, stupid things: Don't let the spark die. Fan that baby, hard. Make time for each other. Stay childish. And possibly the biggest thing to do: compliment your man on one thing that you admire about him every day. It can be something as simple as "I love when you take charge like that," "That shirt looks great on you," "You're so smart," "I really appreciate when you do that," or just a simple "You are so hot," when you don't have anything else to say but drool. (This isn't just my wisdom-- I must admit, as a consummate Cosmopolitan Girl, I may have seen this tidbit, oh, two, four, maybe five times in the past 4 years of my readership. So apparently, it's important. And I don't think women remember to do it enough after the newness and honey-moon phase of a new relationship starts. [God knows I'm guilty of this.] Hence the wandering and susceptibility to women who will tell him how hot, how strong, and how smart he is. So you be that woman, so when she says it, he goes, "Yeah, thanks-- I know. My girlfriend told me this morning." Take that, BITCH. Now stay away from my man.)
I'm seeing a need for this whole "two camps= no-no" thing to be clearer and more understood lately. Last night, Gypsy texted me to tell me that we would have to reschedule our date-thing because he had a work meeting that came up. I am in the opinion that if a meeting title contains the words "Department of Defense," it is generally more important than I am. So I said fine, no problem-- life comes up; I understand. He then invited me over to his place to drink. I had gotten ABSOLUTELY SHWASTY Wednesday night (we are talking, falling down, laughing hysterically, swaying when standing, can't read shitfaced-- but still a good choice on my part after 12 hours on campus; came home to hold ice cream in one hand, and cranberry juice and raspberry Smirnoff in the other), so I wasn't feelin' it too much, due to the fact I was still feelin' the night before. I was still on campus, without my car to either get to his apartment or back to mine afterward, and told him my dilemma.
"You could sleep on the extra bed, and leave early in the morning," Gypsy told me. (Actually, he texted "eraly" because he was wasted already, but details, details.)
I looked at the text and wondered how truly naive he thought I was. I really wanted to ask him how dumb he thought I am. Maybe not quite like that. But really-- I have been told by so many men that I can sleep on their extra bed/couch/futon/sleeping bag/car/bed with them that honestly, if I had not been naive the first three times, I may still actually think that he meant I could sleep on the extra bed.
But no. That really meant, "Come over, get absolutely drunk so that you'll then sleep with me, in my bed, and do the Walk of Shame home when I kick you out in the morning, or when you have to go to class, whichever comes first."
...Actually, tempting, because I have never done a Walk of Shame, and feel like along with making friends with frat boys and going to a toga party, that is something I shouldn't graduate college without experiencing. Although I have done Drives of Shame and Running Out Of My Own Apartment in Shame before.
I begged Gypsy off with homework and not feeling up to it, although when he asked if it was his horrible spelling that was turning me away, I did admit that it was truly horrendous (Really-- do you know what "corguly" means? "Cordially," to the drunk, apparently. Also, "Awe. Well be sat," means something along the lines of, "Aww. Well, how about Saturday?"), although deciphering it was hilarious, but said we'd have to reschedule.
I didn't expect him to hop on it. I expected drunk and horny Gypsy to drop it and start humping the closest possible thing. God knows that what I would have done.
Instead, he cleaned up his act, and sent me this rather impressive text for mocking his typing abilities: "What are you doing on Saturday my dear lady, for I would very much so like to party with you."
Hmmm. So apparently Saturday. I am pacing myself. And I am not sleeping with him. Or sleeping on the "extra bed." I don't know-- I've been warned enough that he can be a player (actually, I believe the phrase so vehemently said by one person was "man-whore,") and I know it, too-- but this whole thing is bringing up the "two camps/two teams/eat the cake, too" metaphor. Yeah, it's flattering, but I almost want to say something along the lines of, "You are by no means the only one interested in me, so unless you're the one who can give me what I want or need, then you're not going to be the one getting it. Sorry." If you're going to be a player and I'm just going to be a conquest for a night or a few, sorry-- keep moving.
I'm going to make him work for it, like I suspect he never really has to. (This is where I went wrong with Perfect, who is remarkably similar to Gypsy in the luck/women falling at his feet category.) Again with the marketing-- supply and demand. There is only one of me, and I am finally, FINALLY, at 20 years of age, getting the concept that the highest bidder, (AKA: the guy putting in the most work, effort, and incentive,) should be the one I give it away to, not the guy who dropped out of the bidding halfway because some other shiny item caught his attention.
Yeah. I can play the players, because at heart, I love being a player, too, but at this point, I'm just tired of dealing with it. Step up. Go big, or go home. Don't make me waste my time. And don't make me give out to a guy who doesn't deserve it.
Oh yeah. I'm finally going to start doing things right. Whore reform.
...Hahaha...not really. Lord knows I never slept around enough to be a whore. Bummerrr.