I have an actual psychological phobia about things with inappropriate numbers of legs (generally, more than four). That being said, with the exception of house centipedes, which are the most horrible creatures on the face of the earth, I don’t usually bother killing bugs or arachnids. But if perchance one happens to be in my bedroom, and if perchance it happens to fall onto my bed, and if perchance I am able to find it again… well… Let’s just say this guy had a date with the Grim Reaper in the form of my pink Croc. I still haven’t gotten up the courage to get its corpse off the side of my bed yet. 😦 I’ll have to wait a bit longer until my panic attack subsides completely. Also, did you know spiders bleed? I didn’t until I looked at that picture close up. *shudder*
So, remember my twittercrush? Well, it was several months ago, and it didn’t last all too long, to be honest. Here’s how the end went down.
Twittercrush: Food tasted so bad I nuked it to the point that the heat would overpower the taste. Result=partial success. My tongue hurts.
Me: @Twittercrush I think the rule is, if you have to make your food so hot you can’t taste it in order to eat it, you just shouldn’t eat it.
Twittercrush: @Me Where were you 10 minutes ago?! But srsly, that rule only applies to people with time or money to eat decently.
Going OK so far, right? I mean, not exactly what you want to hear from a crush (“I’m busy and poor”), but not a deal-breaker. I decided to offer a bit of helpful advice.
Me: @Twittercrush Take a bag of ramen, add some frozen vegetables, & you’re set! Cheap, tastebuds intact, + a hint of nutritional value.
And this is where things went downhill. Steeply. Granted, this was the first thing I read in the morning when I sat down at my computer after not enough sleep just after 5 a.m.
Twittercrush: @Me NO. Blegh. I refuse to eat that stuff as long as I know how to cook real food.
I think it was the all caps “NO” and the “Bleh” and the “real food” comment that irked me.
Me: @Twittercrush Yeah, because burning off your tastebuds is SO much better than ramen. :-p
On the drive in to work, I decided to swear off all men. The rest of the morning went like this.
I turn on my iPod, and up comes CelebCrush. All right, CelebCrush. Obviously my vow doesn’t apply to you and your velvet voice. Sing to me, beautiful. He does. I swoon. And then fate laughs at me. Next up: “Mad About the Boy.”
“I’m mad about the boy. I know it’s stupid to be mad about the boy. I’m so ashamed of it but must admit the sleepless nights I’ve had about the boy. On the silver screen, he melts my foolish heart in every single scene. Although I’m quite aware that here and there are traces of a cad about the boy. Lord knows I’m not a fool, girl. I really shouldn’t care. Lord knows I’m not a schoolgirl in the flurry of her first affair. Will it ever cloy? This odd diversity of misery and joy? I’m feeling quite insane and young again and all because I’m mad about the boy.”
Fine. Point taken. Back in the doghouse, CelebCrush. I scroll through the artists. Billie Holiday. She’ll know how I’m feeling.
I don’t know why but I’m feeling so sad
I long to try something I’ve never had
Never had no kissin’
Oh, what I’ve been missin’
Lover man, oh, where can you be?
Yeah, that’s pretty close. Sing it, Lady Day.
It seems one minute I’m all butterflies and rainbows, and the next, I’m fire and brimstone and googling the nearest nunnery. I’m sure it’s a result of having been through the ringer as far as putting up with less-than-ideal circumstances in a relationship. I want to live the fairytale instead of the reality TV dramafest for a while.
So, when I see a hint of a spark in someone, and then he does something, however miniscule it may be, that doesn’t jive with whatever dream I’ve conjured in my mind, it crushes me. And when I get crushed, I get angry. And then I swear off men. Until one does something to make me feel warm again. And, to be honest, it usually doesn’t take all that long. I am a fickle and fiery beast.
I sign the receipt as the cashier grabs at a plastic bag.
“I actually don’t need a sack, but thank you,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
I hand her the receipt. She hands me my stack of two books and three DVDs. Clearance sales at Borders are my friend and my enemy. I turn. My eyes lift to the door. They meet another pair of eyes. Dark eyes. Nice eyes. They belong to a tall man with chin-length, dark, wavy hair — perfectly unstyled. My cheeks flush, and I look away. Courage rises in my ribcage, and I look back. His eyes are still on mine. I smile.
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
It’s me. Of course. I chuckle uncomfortably as everyone in the vicinity turns to look. I hold up my DVDs as if surrendering. I do the walk of shame back to the cash register.
“Sorry about that!” the cashier proclaims in gratingly chipper fashion, obviously unaware of the role she’s just played in the demise of what I’ve already convinced myself could have been a fabulous romance.
“No big deal,” I say.
She hands them back to me, but the damage is done. When I turn toward the door once again, the eyes and the hair and the man to whom they belong have disappeared. I walk out the door alone, with only an armful of fiction to comfort me.
You know that scene in He’s Just Not That Into You where Drew Barrymore is complaining about being rejected by seven different forms of technology? Well, I know how she feels. Frankly, that movie stresses me out.
I’m on twitter, you see. And I love twitter. But it’s sometimes hard to tell where banter crosses the line into flirtation. Usually, it’s no big deal. But if this happens with a twittercrush, it can lead to all sorts of neurotic overanalyzation.
For example, from time to time, I’ve expressed my desire for an on-call shoulder-rubber. A masseuse is a bit more than I need. Just an occasional neck and shoulder rub would be enough to alleviate any writing- and/or exercise-induced muscle achiness.
Well, after one such tweet, the following exchange occurred.
Twittercrush: @me I once thought about going into professional shoulder rubbing.
Me: @twittercrush You should have! I bet there’s a large market among writer-types.
Twittercrush: @me I’m self-taught. 🙂
And this is where I headdesked. Now, the only good thing about this happening via twitter is it gives me a forgiving window of time to come up with a pithy, witty, and/or charming response. My process is usually something like the following:
Warm fuzzies: 5 seconds
Wallow in the fact that he’s probably not flirting at all: 5 seconds
Let my angel of confidence and devil of poor self-esteem battle it out: 1 minute
Tell them to shut up and complain out loud to my dogs: 1 minute
Desperately try to think of something that walks the line between flirtatious and friendly: 1 minute
Frantically type it out, edit it down to 140 characters, and hit send: 1 minute
This process is followed by Second Thoughts, which is usually a little conversation between myself and that Devil of Poor Self-Esteem I mentioned earlier.
Could I have used a different word to make that tweet flow better? (This isn’t Shakespeare, honey. It’s Twitter.)
Was that abbreviation clear? I always feel silly using abbreviations. I hope he doesn’t think Im’ silly. (You are silly. Look at yourself.)
I hope that’s not too flirtatious. Or what if it wasn’t flirtatious enough? (Obsess much?)
Neither being nor having a twittercrush is an easy situation. So here’s my solution. Hashtag your intentions, people. How much easier would my twittercrush conversation have gone?
Twittercrush: @me I once thought about going into professional shoulder rubbing. #flirting
Me: @twittercrush Well, if you ever feel like doing any pro bono work, I’m your girl. #flirting
Twittercrush: @me Good to know. 🙂
And so on. Or, alternatively:
Twittercrush: @me I once thought about going into professional shoulder rubbing. #justfriends
Me: @twittercrush You should have! I bet there’s a large market among writer-types and cube-dwellers.
Twittercrush: @me I’m self-taught. 🙂 #justfriends
Me: Impressive. 🙂
See? Ambiguity gone. No headdesking. No schizophrenic angel-devil fights. No strange looks from my dogs in response to my neurotic whining. Hashtags ftw.
(I am Gigi, by the way. I’ve actually used the “Is that an invitation?” line in real life.)
Is there a source for proper Single People Etiquette out there somewhere? You see, I could have used it this weekend. An old friend invited me to a Game Night she was hosting. The get-together was mostly populated by couples, but there were three single people: Me, Other Girl, and Guy.
I spent the first half of the evening chatting with everyone pretty equally. Guy seemed all right — he was nice enough, funny. I filed him under the category of “Would Like to Get to Know Better But Probably Not Interested.”
Unfortunately, about halfway through the evening, I noticed two of the Coupled Girls whispering away across the Scene It board. My friend leaned over and muttered, “They’ve been trying to hook up Guy and Other Girl for a while.”
What I said out loud was, “Ah, gotcha.” But what I said in my head was, “Well, fuck me,” due to the realization that I’d quickly become the 9th Wheel. One of my criteria for attending events is “Will there be single people there?” so this came as a bit of a blow.
For the rest of the night, I felt like, if I talked to Guy, even with no intentions other than getting to know him, I might be perceived as a threat to Other Girl by Coupled Girls. Also, Other Girl seemed to be a genuinely nice person, and, in the case that she was interested in Guy, I didn’t want her to think I was butting into her territory either. I spent the rest of the time mostly chatting with my friend until I bit the bullet and became the first to bow out for the night.
So, my question is this: What is Single Person Etiquette here? My fear is that I came across as standoffish and disinterested when really I just felt guilty for taking any attention that others might have felt should be bestowed on someone else. Should I have said, “To hell with it,” and turned on the (friendly) charm even though I wasn’t romantically interested? Or was I right to back off even though there didn’t appear to be much of a spark between Other Girl and Guy?
In the dwindling pool of Single People, I imagine the issue of Territory will come into play on a not-so-irregular basis. And I don’t always want to be the one to back off. So, some guidelines would sure be helpful.
Sometimes life seems like trying to get onto Platform 9¾. You’re running around with this cart full of baggage. There are people everywhere, some helpful and some not. You see a wall ahead, but you know that if you believe hard enough and stay relaxed, you’ll barrel through it with no problem.
And then, occasionally, some house elf seals up the portal and you crash into the wall instead of passing through it, and all your baggage goes flying up and then down, at which point it lands on top of you.
What? That’s never happened to you? OK, perhaps I’m stretching the metaphor a little far. My point is that, as a divorcée, and especially as a divorcée with my particular set of circumstances, I carry around some pretty weighty baggage. I’m sort of a hoss, so I can deal with it most of the time. But occasionally I hit a wall, or a wall hits me.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Yesterday I found out that The Ex is dating again. I’d suspected this for a long time, and I’m not averse to him dating. Despite everything, I really do want The Ex to be happy. I wouldn’t want him not to be dating.
It’s just difficult, especially knowing whom he’s dating. You see, I watched The Ex fall in love with this woman while we were still married, while we were still “working through things,” etc. I don’t believe anything happened in the typically acknowledged sense of the word. But I saw their romance begin. She was there for him, and he helped her through some really rough times. And I knew that she would be better for him than I could ever be again. And so, while we were still going through the motions of attempting to save a marriage, I effectively stepped aside. And I watched her take my place, not just with The Ex, but with his parents and our friends, too.
And now The Ex is telling people about “the girl he’s dating.” And even though I support it, and even though I wish them the best, it still stings.
Over the years, I’ve cut myself some slack slack by telling myself I’m old-fashioned, shy, playing hard to get, and a variety of other euphemisms. But, when I’m being completely honest with myself, the sad truth of the matter is I’m just a big dweeb.
Now, keep in mind, being a dweeb is very different from being a nerd or a dork or a geek, all labels with which I also identify. Here’s a quick rundown of how I define the terms:
Nerd: Intelligent and often focused on a field of academic study. Sometimes socially awkward.
Geek: Uniquely enthusiastic about a usually non-academic subject.
Dork: Goofy in an amusing and often endearing (but sometimes annoying) sort of way.
Dweeb: Engages in behavior that can be attributed to neither overintelligence or overenthusiasm. It’s the sort of stuff that makes you facepalm and think, “What the heck are you doing?”
—–
Case No. 1 In Point
There is exactly one cute guy who works in my office. He is also either engaged or married; point is he’s unavailable. Due to said unavailability, I am not interested in said Cute Office Guy. Honestly. And that’s what makes my behavior during the event I’m about to relate even more ridiculous than it would be if I were interested.
One day, a coworker from another department cornered me in the breakroom to ask me a question, since I am unofficially Master and Commander of Troubleshooting at Work. During this conversation, Cute Office Guy happened to meander into the breakroom, too. All of a sudden, I found myself very worried about sounding intelligent and capable and charming and like a girl. I think I even started to blush. In an instant, I was horrified by my attire: a long-sleeved T-shirt blaring the name of my sister’s high school soccer team with my dirty hair pulled back in a ponytail. (Dressing like this most days is my small rebellion against the corporate dress code where I work.)
I managed to escape, I think, without sounding like a moron. But I sure felt like one on the walk of shame back to my cube. Yes, the guy is cute. But he’s not that cute. And I’m not interested. So what the heck is my problem? I can tell you. It’s that I’m a huge, huge dweeb.
—– Case No. 2 in Point
A few weeks ago, all four sectors of the non-normal person in me aligned when I went to see the Lord of the Rings Symphony. Here’s how that played out. LOTR Geek. Symphony Nerd. Dork Factor achieved by arriving later than expected due to traffic and having to sprint from parking garage to concert hall in my nice clothes. And then the Dweeb Factor. During intermission, I, naturally, got up to go to the bathroom. On the way back to the hall, I had to navigate through a long and thick line. I happened to choose the tiny gap between a couple of guys.
“Excuse me,” I murmured. No acknowledgment. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get through,” I said, a little more loudly this time. Finally, out of my peripheral vision, I see one of the guy’s heads turn toward me. “Oh, just push this guy out of the way,” he says with a chuckle. I smile, nod, and pass through with a fleeting “Sorry; thanks.”
And as I was passed onto the other side of this river of people, I realized that I had kept my eyes down the ENTIRE TIME. Not once did I look any of these guys in the eyes. Not even when he acknowledged me and made a joke. When he attempted to engage me in banter. I’m perfectly capable of returning banter! Why didn’t I say something back? Why didn’t I give him an amused smile? Why didn’t I, at the very least, make freaking eye contact??? I think you know by now.
—–
I hope this is something I’ll grow out of with some active behavior and thought management (and there’s the nerd factor again). I think the real issue here is that I’ve got to deal with being ELIGIBLE again. Not just in the legal sense, mind you. I’ve got to start feeling eligible again; I’ve got to keep reminding myself that I’m worth it. I’m worth looking in the eye. I’m worth bantering with. I’m worth smiling at. Shame is unbecoming, and I owe myself better, you know?
Gabe: I’d hate to be your boyfriend. He must go through hell.
Rain: Well… I’m worth it. Husbands and Wives by Woody Allen
My name is E, and I’m a divorcée. I’ve been officially single for 70 days.
I never expected to be here. I had boldly proclaimed to myself and others that I didn’t believe in divorce. After all, I’d been through hell and back during our courtship. What could rock the boat enough to topple it now?
The short answer is nothing. Nothing short of the realization that I simply couldn’t keep it afloat any longer. I was underwater, steadying the damn thing against tidal waves and tsunamis, and I was drowning. I could have “made my marriage work.” Sure. But I would have sacrificed myself in the process. And in the winter of 2007, I finally allowed myself to believe in divorce — and in myself.
And so now, here I am. I’m 26 years old, and I am single for the first time since I was 17. I have truly kissed only one man my entire life. (Sorry, to my eighth grade boyfriend, with whom I shared a single kiss in a dark movie theatre. You don’t really count for statistical purposes.) I have only been physically intimate — or emotionally intimate, for that matter — with one man in my lifetime. I have never been on a true first date.
But I’m throwing my hat into the ring. And, being a writer, I am, of course, going to write about it. And perhaps people will, whilst reading about it, do one or several of the following:
Laugh
Shed a tear
Have their eyes opened
Shake their heads in disbelief
See a little slice of themselves and know they’re not alone.
The Accidental Divorcée 