I've had a busy week, full of schmoozing with professors. These events are normally a huge ego boost because for the most part my incredible knack for bull honky gives me the illusion of an articulate, intelligent, put together woman. Not so.
Originally, I was planning on telling a nice story about going to a hot dog joint called Lawtons. (or with a French accent Law-tons sur le riviere). But after freaking V out with my sobbing, I thought I should share my thoughts in attempt to emotionally purge myself.
The trigger for this afternoon's outburst of tears was an essay excerpt by Maureen Dowd in the Sunday NY times magazine. Nothing remarkable about the essay, except to say that somehow in the modern era intelligent non sexy women still struggle to find a man. And that idea is what even now 3 hours after reading it is causing my eyes to well up.
My closest friends have always been females, but the majority of my buds have been males. Never understood this phenomena, but even in the second grade I was the only girl invited to Andy C.'s birthday party. I used to be that girl that was allowed to play dodgeball. I guess you could call me a tomboy, but I never felt like it because I was always confident that I was a girl. Perhaps I was a very precocious feminist.
In high school and in college, I somehow adapted the role of matchmaker instead of someone who was matched. Guys would come to me and tell me how they had a crush on my friends and would I please put in a good word.
Now many years later, things have not progressed very far. How often have I heard the phrase "Wow, Evil Twin #1 you are so much fun and cute," only for it to be followed by "I kind of feel like your big brother." To add insult to injury, women seem to feel the same way about me. When my friends' have significant others and somehow I get stuck with a bunch of boys talking about Daunte Culpepper vs. Eli Manning, no girlfriend, whether it be a guy friend's squeeze or one of my female friends, have ever been worried. Its not that I would ever steal someone's boyfriend, but couldn't I at least be thought of as a threat?
I guess my problem is that I am questioning my ability to be an alluring heterosexual female. To the heart of the matter: Will ET#1 ever have a boyfriend? According to Maureen Dowd, Oprah, and all dating guides things are looking pretty bleak. I am sarcastic, I don't play hard to get, I go to Harvard, and I don't wear panty hose (the sound of hose rubbing together gives me the willies). By 29, these traits are hard to change. As much as I joke about dying alone in my house of a million cats, its not really what I want. What I want is someone special, who thinks I am fun, cute, and wants to tear off my clothes.
The temporary solution to my low self esteem and negative outlook is to go out on Friday night. I plan on being half naked with really high heels and will allow anyone to buy me a drink. Shallow I know, but at least if they have only met me for 1 hour, I won't seem like their little sister.
1 comment:
Ms. Dowd's essay was disheartening enough to make anyone break down and cry! If femininity is affirmed by love of, and seriousness of, shopping, you should know I place you in an elite few who can appreciate this.
Some advice: go to a Habitat for Humanity orientation and volunteer with them-- plenty of guys! I went last week. Normally the volunteering world has a dearth of men, but not, apparently, at Habitat.
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