| Girl
On Love |
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I was out with a friend the other night when she was approached by a young man. His friend suddenly appeared at my elbow. He was enough of a looker that I responded to his conversation, but I quickly realized it was not going to be pleasant. Within the first ten minutes I managed to piss him off by asking how old he was and then shuddering when he responded. I also managed to make fun of his hometown, his father, his chosen profession, and some other things he was in a snit about. When it seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, he mentioned being a Republican. I would have walked away, were his friend not paying such close attention to mine. We were forced to draw out an awkward, stilted, angry conversation in which both of us were horribly offended the entire time, until he paused and muttered something like “your hair looks...” All of a sudden he buried his face in my neck, licked it, and bit my shoulder. While he was doing so, I calmly and without moving an inch said, “What are you doing?” He backed off and mumbled “I...um—don’t know.” Fists still clenched, I said, “I’m going home now,” and did. Now it may be slightly odd that I didn’t have a more incendiary reaction to the proceedings, and all I can really say is, it’s not the first time exactly that has happened. In fact, that’s not even the second time it has happened. The events of my life have largely been shaped by the fact that I attract and actively encourage aberrant behavior in others. I don’t know exactly why I didn’t walk away from that boy once he started scowling, or why once I noticed he was in a bad mood I then ridiculed him about his childhood, family, and career, but a handful of reasons come to mind. First off, I have a sixth sense of sorts when it comes to knowing a potentially strange incident is afoot. Second, I love basking in the attention that comes with telling a good story around the water cooler, and single-girl dating mishaps are so much more interesting to others than pleasant evenings out. Finally, and this is what triggers all of it, I am of the pigtail-pullers’ belief that one’s true worth is measured by one’s reaction to being mocked mercilessly. In the best case, an unsuspecting young man might mute me with his sparkling wit. In most middle-of-the-road cases I just end up smirking through his blustering nonsense. And in the worst case—well, to be honest, I recently experienced the worst case, and I’d rather be bitten by a gloomy stranger at a bar than have anything like it happen again. I was... involved with a young man for the better part of a year. I hesitate in saying “involved with” because the term is a bit more polite than the “relationship” warranted. In any case, after seeing each other every once in a while over quite a long time I came to the realization that he was, plain and simple, not a very nice person, and, moreover, insane. This wasn’t quite enough to extricate myself from the situation, however, because, as discussed above, I crave lunacy, to my frequent detriment. In addition, I was swayed and swayed again by the simple fact that he was purty. As he got less and less pleasant his purtiness worked its way into the background until I said I didn’t think I wanted to see him again. Deeply irritated by my unwillingness to compromise, he said some not-very-nice things, to which I responded in a not-very-nice manner. He finally emailed me at work saying something like, “you clearly still want something from me or you wouldn’t be responding.” I was so white-hot furious that I wrote him back what I was feeling at the time: “Here is my interest in you at this point: You’re like a car crash engulfed in flames, and I’m a mesmerized bystander with a squirt bottle of gasoline, spraying at intervals and stepping back just a little more each time, watching intently, horrified, and stoking the mess.” I sat back to read and reread my handiwork, which I thought summed up quite well my lifelong approach to, and interest in, really difficult people. I wasn’t expecting a response ever again, and certainly not the one that arrived after a calculated pause: “I only wanted you because I have a thing for chubby girls.” His
claim is so much more offensive than its face value because I’m
just... not. Fat. From all accounts I’m a looker. Striking,
even. He said it purely to push my buttons, because he
knew he was in possession of a shutdown that would cripple any
less-confident woman. After a good eight hours of being
absolutely sickened—at him, at myself for ever having had
anything to do with him, at the extent to which I had let my horrid
little mindgames take over, and at the pure malice that would drive
someone to say something like that solely to hurt someone’s
feelings—I did what any sensible girl in my position would
do: gussied myself up the next morning and spun it into a tragicomic
tale which I shared around the water cooler. The gaping mouths
and collective rage of my friends and coworkers didn’t exactly
ease my dismay, but it made it easier to bear. As a storyteller
I must admit I got a deeply twisted sort of satisfaction out of
being on the receiving end of what is, hands down, the worst thing
anyone could ever say to a girl. After all, I might as well make
the most of an otherwise ghastly experience. If that makes
ME the lunatic, so be it. A2P Email girlonlove@annarborpaper.com.
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