B!tch, please.

Welcome to the first installment of "B!tch, please."

This is an entry that I will probably publish about once a week.  Sadly, what that tells me is that dumb sh!t happens to me on a regular basis.

So, I'm a member of a certain gym, located in a certain city that shall remain anonymous.  At my gym, there is - as there often is at such establishments - a good-lookin' white boy trainer.   He's not really my type but, I would definitely say that homeboy is solid eye candy.  You may be wondering why I would pass on a rare piece of man candy - especially in Silicon Valley where, as we all know ladies, the odds are good but the goods are odd.  Well, first of all, I am not about to sell my birthright for a bowl of stew, if y'know what I mean.  Second of all, well,....how do I say this delicately, tactfully,....the guy looks like a stripper.  There.  I said it.  I ain't gonna lie.  The guy has a body that is just waaaay too sculpted and arms, shoulders, pecs, and abs** that are just waaaay too perfect.  There is no way in hell he works a 9-5 or some part-time job at your local Verizon Wireless store.  Historical evidence (i.e., stereotypes) and personal experience (i.e., reading too many bad romance novels) dictate that he must be a construction worker named Brad who wields a powerful instrument by day and, er, another one by night.  Anyway.  You get my point.

For the purposes of this entry, I'm going to refer to this trainer as "Brad."  Not only is it easier to write "Brad" instead of "hot white boy trainer," I also don't know his actual name.  Anyway.  Over the last few weeks, Brad has initiated a few conversations with me.  Nothing big, nothing mind-blowing, just a few comments here and there.  If I didn't know better, I would say that it almost seems like the guy is circling around and in before he makes the kill; in other words, it almost seems like he is working his way towards hitting on me.  I don't know.  Maybe I'm reading too much into it.  Maybe he's just being nice.  Maybe "Brad" is actually "Chad" and he's gay and I've got it all wrong.  What say you, gentle reader, of the following -  First, he started making small talk.  Then, I would sometimes catch him looking at me.  Initially, I thought that it must be coincidence; or I must look so dang nasty and sweaty that he was silently judging me.  But then, he stopped to tell me that I have "the most beautiful hair."  And then, he caught me off guard the other day when he said, "Bye, Nancy."  WTF.  He knows my name now?  But, today - today - is the day that has convinced me that "Brad" is not a "Chad" but is, in fact, a "Chaz."  Who or what is a "Chaz?"  "Chaz" is sometimes defined as the "pet name" for "Charles."  That seems innocent enough.  On the other hand, if you hear the name "Chaz" and are overcome by an immediate, inexplicable urge to gag, roll your eyes, kick the guy closest to you, or hurl, it's probably because there is an innate, primordial reaction inside us all that equates a "Chaz" to a "Douchebag."

This is the conversation that went down:

Chaz [to my trainer]: Did you see her [me] in those jeans earlier today?
Side Note: I wore a t-shirt, jeans, and heels to work and went straight from work to the gym. 

Trainer: No, why? What happened?

Chaz [to me]: You looked good in those jeans, Nancy.  You looked goooood in those jeans.

Me: Uhhh,...okay.  Um, thanks.

Chaz: Y'know, I love a girl in jeans.  I'm not so much into heels but, jeans work for me.

Me: [pause] [awkward laugh]

Wow.  Wow.  Excuse me, Mr. Chaz Almighty.  First of all, who died and made you the fashion police?  Second of all, did I ask what "works" for you?  Do I give a flying f@#$?!  Did I wake-up this morning wondering to myself, "Gee, I wonder if Chaz will approve of my outfit today?"  Did I get dressed this morning musing to myself, "Gee, I wonder how I can impress Chaz?"  I'm not sure I understand how wearing my goddamn work clothes to the gym extended an invitation for Chaz to sign-off on my outfit.  Y'know Mr. Chaz Almighty, I don't think I got the memo that the world revolves around you, can you please resend it so that I can rip it into shreds and use its fibrous remains to fuel my fireplace?  Should I now toss my sizable investment in 50+ pairs of heels because, clearly, I am starving for attention and affirmation from you?  Should I now address you as "Your Royal Highness" and wash your feet with my hair and, after feeding you Ruby Roman grapes and fanning you with palm fronds, should I return to my chamber and await your next command?  Can somebody please tell me when did I become a concubine?  Is my right to vote soon going to be repealed?  Are my feet going to be bound in the shape of a lotus flower in preparation for being bound to a husband?

B!tch, please.


** = I deduced that his abs must be perfect based on what I have actually observed of the rest of his anatomy.  Hey, if A=B and B=C, then A=C.  I'm just sayin'.

When You Stumble, It Causes Me To Stumble

So I have this theory.  Actually, this "theory" is a fact and I'm just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.  If you're already on-board the "Nancy-is-right-yet-again-how-does-she-do-that-damnit" train, good for you.  Pass "Go," collect $200.  If you're not on-board, we'll try not to blow too much steam in your face on our way to "Nancy-is-right" Town.

Soooo,.....What is this fact?

Clumsy chicks got game.

Yeah, your read it right.  C²G², baby.  And now that you think about, I bet y'all are scratching your heads and nodding in agreement.  "Well, to be honest, at first that sounded like a totally retarded theory but, yeah, she's got a point there,..."

Just think about it, gentle reader.  Think about any of your uber cute / pretty / hot / "insert adjective that describes aesthetic value in positive light" girl friends.  What is the common denominator?  What is that inexplicable thing these ladies have (or, in this case, do, albeit inadvertently) that leaves you in a perpetual state of both dumbfounded offense and supreme awe of their "mad skills" to attract the affections of the opposite sex?  I used to attribute the "mad skills" purely to the physical aesthetics of my girl friends.  After all, men are typically led by their eyes.  (Let's not talk about that other part of the male anatomy that tends to lead them...)  While looks do play a significant role, I propose that the icing on the cake, the factor that really tips the scale in favor of our uber cute girl friends, is that they are also attractively, adorkably klutzy.

Let's test this theory and see if the observable data accordingly corroborates.  Using the scientific method, I shall:

1) Gather data (i.e., observations about something that is unexplained).

Observation #1: My girlfriends who are the hottest commodities are also the clumsiest.

Observation #2: When comparing two female subjects of relatively equal attractiveness, as soon as the behavior of one indicates some level of clumsiness, men will tend to select and/or fall head over heels for the subject that is clumsy or clumsier. 

Observation #3: I've heard, on more than one occasion, from various reliable sources of the opposite sex, that guys like girls who are clumsy.  Wow.  Straight from the horse's mouth.  'Nough said.  But, just to hammer this point home, let's take this study to completion.

Observation #4: Fergie even sang about this whole Clumsy phenomenon. Dude. If The Duchess says it's so, then who are we to argue?!

2) Hypothesize an explanation for those observations.
Hypothesis: Guys dig it when girls are clumsy. Duh.

3) Deduce a consequence of that explanation (a prediction). Formulate an experiment to see if the predicted consequence is observed.
Prediction:  I bet if I trip over a rock, bump into somebody while on my way somewhere, or spill a drink during lunch, some single male or some single men, observing one of these classically clumsy behaviors, will fall for me.  And I bet, if I do all three during the course of the day, I will have a host of suitors before I can drop my books or bruise myself from banging my leg on some table.

4) Test for corroboration.
Okay so, I didn't test my prediction.  Puh-lease.  I'm not about to intentionally make myself black-and-blue just to get some guys to holla at me.  That said, perhaps I will attempt to spill my drink - on somebody else - and see if my theory is just as successfully corroborated.

In fact, I urge you, gentle reader, to test this theory yourself.  Sharpen your observation skills.  Pay closer attention.  Bust out your detective hat, Sherlock!  Dig a little deeper, Watson!  'Cuz you and me baby ain't notihn' but mammals so let's do it* like they do on the Discovery Channel.

[* = Er, "Do it" in this context is interpreted to mean OBSERVE IT.  Let's keep it Rated G, kids.]

Anyway. You get my point.  Now that the world makes sense again, you can thank me in the Comments section.

Details

She wondered if anybody understood, if anybody knew.

She wondered if anybody else felt this way.  Was she the only one?

She wondered if anybody else shared these thoughts.  Was she going crazy?

Everything was wrong.  Everything was out of place.  Everything mattered.  Nothing mattered.

The face in the mirror stared blankly at her.  She hated what she saw.  The hair, the skin, the eyes, the teeth, the lips, the arms, the body, the color, the dullness, the bulge here, the drooping there, the crookedness here, the lopsidedness there, the imperfections,...everywhere.   Everywhere.  It was everywhere.  It surrounded her, enveloped her, overwhelmed her, swallowed her alive and spit out her remains.  When she brushed her teeth, she walked all around the house, up and down the stairs, room to room, until she had to rinse.  When she combed her hair, she scanned the imperfections of the oatmeal colored bathroom walls.  When she applied her make-up, she stood at just the right distance and just the right angle.  Any closer, she might see too much; any farther, she might see it all.  She was so observant.

She was too observant. 

Epic Fail: The Story of How A Mother's Good Intentions Almost Destroyed the Universe

Y’know how, in movies or dramas, blind dates usually have this delightful little twist? Like, maybe the female protagonist and male lead initially want to gouge the other person’s eyeballs out and serve said eyeballs on a stick to party with now emptied eye sockets, until female protagonist is wooed by her discovery that the male lead is actually a deeply sensitive man and male lead is inexplicably drawn to her adorkable klutziness and both eventually fall head over heels in happily-ever-after-in- love land? Or maybe after the chance meeting, the two leads discover that they are fated lovers-to-be, the manifest promise of a centuries-old pact between two war-torn countries, and that their intertwined destinies and the subsequent consummation of these destinies via marriage will lead to the unification of their home countries, ultimate prosperity, and the freeing of a gajillion unjustly imprisoned civilians (including their long lost siblings)?

Yeah. That s@#$ doesn’t happen in real life.

Like a good Asian daughter, I decided to honor my mother’s request to go on a blind date. I’ve blown off her previous matchmaking attempts and I was starting to feel a little of that Asian guilt. Plus, I figured, if this blind date was a complete failure, I would have ammunition to refuse future requests. Either that or, if I scared the bejesus outta this guy, word would spread like a wild brush fire, fanned by Asian Old Lady Gossip (it’s a powerful inflammatory agent, in case you didn’t know), throughout the local Asian American community and my mom would never ever again be able to set up her unruly, Americanized daughter on a blind date. SCORE.

Let me just start by saying that I am not hating on the guy. To be fair, I sat and chatted with the guy for an hour. And I know it was an hour, because I kept staring at the clock on my cell phone.

But, mom. Really? Really?! Seriously?! Did you genuinely believe that I could be happy with a guy who looks like he is 40-going-on-60? A guy whose waist size is the circumference of one of my thighs? A guy whose glasses are a throwback to the 70s and not in the Super Freak kind of way, but more like the Super Geek “I-work-at-IBM-check- out-my-pocket-protector” kind of way? A guy whose pants were hiked-up so high that I could tell he was wearing white knee high socks? A guy who is straight-up from The Motherland and is not even a US citizen?!?

MOM. DID YOU SELL ME OUT FOR A GREEN CARD? HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THAT I AM YOUR DAUGHTER, YOUR ONLY DAUGHTER, YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD?? DO YOU EVEN LOVE ME ANYMORE?!?

Like I said, I’m not hating on the guy. After all, there was one good thing that came out of this. I had a moment of enlightenment, a brief pit stop on the fifth floor of Maslow’s hierarchy. At the end of the date, I silently mused, “Would it have been any different if the guy was loaded?” NO. That day, my friends, I learned that I am not as materialistic as I once believed I was; rather, I am actually much more shallow and superficial than I am materialistic. [KIDDING.]

What this boils down to is pure mathematics. We are NOT compatible. Y is not the complement of X, and vice versa. Y does not equal X, and vice versa. X AND Y is not a logical operation. Y is not some function of X. If Y were added to X, the result would be the complete structural and functional breakdown of X and Y, whereby Armageddon would immediately ensue, a cosmic explosion would occur, all living organisms on the planet Earth would immediately be consumed by an influx of gamma rays, some other scientific theory of catastrophic proportions would take place, and you would never forgive me because, well – you like living on planet Earth and you don’t wanna die yet.

Anyway. You get the point. Blind date FAIL. Of EPIC proportions. Of course, I didn’t expect any different. For all of y’all who thought this might be a “good idea” or “romantic,” I got three words for you: TOLD YOU SO. I can honestly say that this is probably the first time I’ve ever wished - and wishedreally hard - that a guy would find me utterly repulsive and entirely undesirable. Well, I am pretty sure he wasn’t into me. If he was into me, despite the obvious “B!#CH” in CAPS stamped on my forehead, he truly deserves a swift kick in the nuts. No joke.

Forgive me if I am being unnecessarily harsh and just plain rude. I wish the guy well. I really do. I hope he finds a woman who will appreciate his petite waistline and khaki highwaters, a woman who will love him as his hair turns gray (oh wait, his hair is already gray) - well, a woman who will love him as his hair turns white and his 70s frames are exchanged for bifocals. But, most importantly, I hope he finds a good woman who will love him well and who will love him just as he is, because everybody needs a lil’ love….including shallow, superficial, materialistic Queen Bees like me. Sigh. God, help me.

In the meantime, I’m working on how to forgive my mother. Double sigh.