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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, July 19, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Confessions of a (Recovering) Shy Woman
Some of you have seen my status updates referring to an elusive Bartender.
Some of you have witnessed my adventures (or, rather, lack thereof) with this elusive Bartender boy.
Now that a respectable mourning period has passed, now that the adventure is over, the case is closed, the end to the saga has come and gone, it is time that I finally disclose the mysteries of my heart, the nonsensical thoughts in my head and my asinine (and failed) attempts to do just one simple thing – TALK TO THE GUY. My hope is that you, Gentle Reader, will be able to learn from my mistakes and, in turn, REMIND me to act on what I’ve supposedly learned from my mistakes. ‘Cuz sometimes a girl needs a friendly nudge, a swift kick in the arse, or a smack upside the head in order to get the f@#$ over herself and get the f@#$ over IT.
About 8-10 months ago (God, that’s a painfully long time in the world of crushing), I found myself frequenting a club in San Francisco, CA. There is nothing particularly special about this club; it’s definitely not the hottest spot, the “place to be,” the club with the most eye candy or the best DJs. This club, however, had a one up on its competition. This club literally had one thing that made it MY place to be. What was the club’s “secret sauce?” Simple. There was a HOT BARTENDER BOY.
Now, if you know me, you know that I don’t drink. I am always designated driver. Even on my own freakin’ birthday, I’m driving my drunk friends home. Yeah – basically, everybody wants to party with me, Chauffeur Extraordinaire. But, no joke, I actually wanted to develop a drinking habit just so I could find some reason to talk to this Bartender. I found myself at this club almost every weekend. I would dance near the bar. I would watch him from across the bar, sometimes from across the room. I stared so hard I’m surprised I didn’t bore holes through his beautiful head. I stared so much I’m surprised he didn’t catch the deranged (but hopeful) look in my eyes more often. He probably thought I just “happened” to be scanning the crowd, I just “happened” to be looking over at him. (WTF – But for the millionth time in one night?!? Please tell me guys aren’t really this dense.) My friends tried. They tried to encourage me – they gave me pep talks, words of advice, counsel, mental and emotional support; they grudgingly returned with me to this club week after week, even though the music was getting old and so was my schoolgirl crush. Sadly, I couldn’t progress past the staring and the crushing. I was petrified. Frightened. Frozen. During the week, I would imagine having the courage to speak to him, all the magical conversations we would have; when Friday or Saturday night came, I would freeze and resort to the staring and the sighs from across the bar, across the room. I would dance my heart out, but my feet wouldn’t move towards him. I couldn’t even be within three feet of the bar without completely freaking out. Every time I tried, it was as if I had touched a too hot tea kettle; I would jump back, retreat, tail between my legs.
Weeks passed. Months passed. Half a year passed. What was once funny was now pathetic. My friends were on the verge of taking measures into their own hands. Their encouraging words turned into threats. What was wrong with me?! What was my problem!?
Me. The problem was – the problem is – me. I am terribly, horrible, pitifully shy. Sigh.
There. Now the truth is out there. Feel free to bust me upside the head or smack me something silly the next time you see me.
“But, Nancy, WTF. How old are you?!”
“But, Nancy, you’re so,…LOUD! And friendly! And talkative! What do you mean, you’re shy?”
“But, Nancy, come ON. What have you got to lose with some guy you may never see again?!”
“But, Nancy, come ON. He can’t be THAT hot. Whatever.”
First of all, YES, he can be THAT hot.
Second, I’ve already run through every reason why, every scenario, every solution, every antidote, every possible kind of “help” to this “problem” of mine and, still, nothing (yet) has been able to get my feet to budge, my mouth to move. I’m still frozen.
Third, this argument about age – it doesn’t help. So shut up.
Now, the point of sharing all this is not so that I can rehash the past and figure out what went wrong and how I can fix it. Screw it. I’ve made a choice: This crush is OVER. The End. I’ve said my silent good-byes to the Bartender, I’ve closed a chapter to a book never written, I’ve shut the door, I’ve moved on. Oh – and the Bartender quit so, really, I can’t do anything about it anyway.
And let's set aside the fact that, really, I have no business crushing on this Bartender boy. (I know, I know. Sigh.) That's another story for another day.
The point of sharing all this is to help that Shy Girl, or Shy Guy, take those tiny little steps – whether it’s to confront his/her own personal Bartenders or Demons or Crushes or whomever, whatever. Because I realized, through all these months of angst and having no balls (well, figuratively speaking, that is) to do what I wanted to do, being painfully shy is not just some “cute little trait” that some of us are born with. To be as shy as I am, to the point where people can’t tell if I am a Queen Bee Bitch or just really weird and oblivious, there is probably some hidden issue you’ve gotta get resolved and be FREE of. I figured out what my issue (or issues) were and, since my discovery, I’ve been praying and working it out to be FREE of them ("thawing myself out," if you will) so that, the next time I see some Hot Bartender Boy type or some Hot Bartender Boy type sees me (okay, obviously, he doesn’t have to be a bartender and he likely won’t be), I won’t treat him like he’s some untouchable king among men. Good Lawd. The guy is just a guy. I need to stop trippin’ and start thinking straighter. In the meantime, here are some other helpful lessons I learned along the way:
1) That other person is JUST A PERSON. Just like me, just like you. Stop idolizing.
2) Crushing might seem fun but, it’s NOT. If a crush lasts more than a couple weeks, you need to get over it. That’s all there is to it. Anything more than a couple weeks, you’re borderline obsessing. And that ain’t cute.
3) Crushing is non-committal so, if you realize that you have issues with commitment, deal with it. Don’t sweep that s@#$ under the rug.
4) Don’t beat yourself up. If you’re still chicken s@#$ and your friends are giving you s@#$, forgive yourself. The more you focus on all your flaws, the worse the problem SEEM to be.
5) Don’t let that other person define you. You are who you are, NOT because of how hot your crush is, how many guys/girls like you, who does or does not want you but, BECAUSE you are simply wonderful and wonderfully created. And Somebody out there loves you. If that other person doesn’t see it, that’s ok. Move on.
6) If everything seems blown out of proportion - including this crush, your feelings, your failures and your incompetence - just remember to maintain perspective. You WILL get over it. You just have to make that choice.
7) If you really, really can’t get the courage to talk to that other person and you really, really believe you are supposed to and you really, really have to - drinking alcohol works. Just don’t get stupid, drunk - or drunk, stupid.
Okay, so Lesson #7 should be performed under strict direction, observation, assistance and with the utmost caution. And, in case you didn’t get it, I was KIDDING.
Anyway. Hope this helped somebody out there. If anything, I hope it gave somebody a laugh. I think it was a little therapeutic for me, documenting this drama.
Peace out.
Some of you have witnessed my adventures (or, rather, lack thereof) with this elusive Bartender boy.
Now that a respectable mourning period has passed, now that the adventure is over, the case is closed, the end to the saga has come and gone, it is time that I finally disclose the mysteries of my heart, the nonsensical thoughts in my head and my asinine (and failed) attempts to do just one simple thing – TALK TO THE GUY. My hope is that you, Gentle Reader, will be able to learn from my mistakes and, in turn, REMIND me to act on what I’ve supposedly learned from my mistakes. ‘Cuz sometimes a girl needs a friendly nudge, a swift kick in the arse, or a smack upside the head in order to get the f@#$ over herself and get the f@#$ over IT.
About 8-10 months ago (God, that’s a painfully long time in the world of crushing), I found myself frequenting a club in San Francisco, CA. There is nothing particularly special about this club; it’s definitely not the hottest spot, the “place to be,” the club with the most eye candy or the best DJs. This club, however, had a one up on its competition. This club literally had one thing that made it MY place to be. What was the club’s “secret sauce?” Simple. There was a HOT BARTENDER BOY.
Now, if you know me, you know that I don’t drink. I am always designated driver. Even on my own freakin’ birthday, I’m driving my drunk friends home. Yeah – basically, everybody wants to party with me, Chauffeur Extraordinaire. But, no joke, I actually wanted to develop a drinking habit just so I could find some reason to talk to this Bartender. I found myself at this club almost every weekend. I would dance near the bar. I would watch him from across the bar, sometimes from across the room. I stared so hard I’m surprised I didn’t bore holes through his beautiful head. I stared so much I’m surprised he didn’t catch the deranged (but hopeful) look in my eyes more often. He probably thought I just “happened” to be scanning the crowd, I just “happened” to be looking over at him. (WTF – But for the millionth time in one night?!? Please tell me guys aren’t really this dense.) My friends tried. They tried to encourage me – they gave me pep talks, words of advice, counsel, mental and emotional support; they grudgingly returned with me to this club week after week, even though the music was getting old and so was my schoolgirl crush. Sadly, I couldn’t progress past the staring and the crushing. I was petrified. Frightened. Frozen. During the week, I would imagine having the courage to speak to him, all the magical conversations we would have; when Friday or Saturday night came, I would freeze and resort to the staring and the sighs from across the bar, across the room. I would dance my heart out, but my feet wouldn’t move towards him. I couldn’t even be within three feet of the bar without completely freaking out. Every time I tried, it was as if I had touched a too hot tea kettle; I would jump back, retreat, tail between my legs.
Weeks passed. Months passed. Half a year passed. What was once funny was now pathetic. My friends were on the verge of taking measures into their own hands. Their encouraging words turned into threats. What was wrong with me?! What was my problem!?
Me. The problem was – the problem is – me. I am terribly, horrible, pitifully shy. Sigh.
There. Now the truth is out there. Feel free to bust me upside the head or smack me something silly the next time you see me.
“But, Nancy, WTF. How old are you?!”
“But, Nancy, you’re so,…LOUD! And friendly! And talkative! What do you mean, you’re shy?”
“But, Nancy, come ON. What have you got to lose with some guy you may never see again?!”
“But, Nancy, come ON. He can’t be THAT hot. Whatever.”
First of all, YES, he can be THAT hot.
Second, I’ve already run through every reason why, every scenario, every solution, every antidote, every possible kind of “help” to this “problem” of mine and, still, nothing (yet) has been able to get my feet to budge, my mouth to move. I’m still frozen.
Third, this argument about age – it doesn’t help. So shut up.
Now, the point of sharing all this is not so that I can rehash the past and figure out what went wrong and how I can fix it. Screw it. I’ve made a choice: This crush is OVER. The End. I’ve said my silent good-byes to the Bartender, I’ve closed a chapter to a book never written, I’ve shut the door, I’ve moved on. Oh – and the Bartender quit so, really, I can’t do anything about it anyway.
And let's set aside the fact that, really, I have no business crushing on this Bartender boy. (I know, I know. Sigh.) That's another story for another day.
The point of sharing all this is to help that Shy Girl, or Shy Guy, take those tiny little steps – whether it’s to confront his/her own personal Bartenders or Demons or Crushes or whomever, whatever. Because I realized, through all these months of angst and having no balls (well, figuratively speaking, that is) to do what I wanted to do, being painfully shy is not just some “cute little trait” that some of us are born with. To be as shy as I am, to the point where people can’t tell if I am a Queen Bee Bitch or just really weird and oblivious, there is probably some hidden issue you’ve gotta get resolved and be FREE of. I figured out what my issue (or issues) were and, since my discovery, I’ve been praying and working it out to be FREE of them ("thawing myself out," if you will) so that, the next time I see some Hot Bartender Boy type or some Hot Bartender Boy type sees me (okay, obviously, he doesn’t have to be a bartender and he likely won’t be), I won’t treat him like he’s some untouchable king among men. Good Lawd. The guy is just a guy. I need to stop trippin’ and start thinking straighter. In the meantime, here are some other helpful lessons I learned along the way:
1) That other person is JUST A PERSON. Just like me, just like you. Stop idolizing.
2) Crushing might seem fun but, it’s NOT. If a crush lasts more than a couple weeks, you need to get over it. That’s all there is to it. Anything more than a couple weeks, you’re borderline obsessing. And that ain’t cute.
3) Crushing is non-committal so, if you realize that you have issues with commitment, deal with it. Don’t sweep that s@#$ under the rug.
4) Don’t beat yourself up. If you’re still chicken s@#$ and your friends are giving you s@#$, forgive yourself. The more you focus on all your flaws, the worse the problem SEEM to be.
5) Don’t let that other person define you. You are who you are, NOT because of how hot your crush is, how many guys/girls like you, who does or does not want you but, BECAUSE you are simply wonderful and wonderfully created. And Somebody out there loves you. If that other person doesn’t see it, that’s ok. Move on.
6) If everything seems blown out of proportion - including this crush, your feelings, your failures and your incompetence - just remember to maintain perspective. You WILL get over it. You just have to make that choice.
7) If you really, really can’t get the courage to talk to that other person and you really, really believe you are supposed to and you really, really have to - drinking alcohol works. Just don’t get stupid, drunk - or drunk, stupid.
Okay, so Lesson #7 should be performed under strict direction, observation, assistance and with the utmost caution. And, in case you didn’t get it, I was KIDDING.
Anyway. Hope this helped somebody out there. If anything, I hope it gave somebody a laugh. I think it was a little therapeutic for me, documenting this drama.
Peace out.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Warning: Graphic Entry. Near-death experiences are no joke, man.
So, my "monthly visitor" came and went.
Initially, nothing really unusual. Some of the typical abdominal discomfort but, bearable.
Halfway through the day that my "Monthly Visitor" first came a-knockin, the discomfort gradually increases to a series of annoying pangs. Ummm, yes, Monthly Visitor, I know that you're here. No need to keep knockin'. After lunch, I dial into a conference call at work and, fifteen minutes into the call, it starts to feel as if Monthly Visitor is not only knocking on my abdomen, Monthly Visitor is trying to beat and kick the bloody (no pun intended) door down. I notice that, although I am wearing a hoodie and sweats (yes, this is how I roll to work) and the warm California sunshine is streaming into my office, I am cold and I start to shiver. The discomfort-turned-annoyance-turned pain in my stomach and abdomen is increasing in intensity and I can't sit down any longer. I start to feel like I am caught in the movie "Aliens" and some shrieking, hissing, slime-covered monstrosity of a foreign being is going to tear, claw and burst its way out of my abdomen in slow motion. I stand up. No good. I sit down. No good. I'm cold. I'm sweating. I'm shivering. I start to feel nauseated. At this point, I am on the verge of yelling, "SHUT THE F@#$ UP I AM DYING HERE!" Probably not a very diplomatic way to end a business call. I stand up. I sit down. Would be wrong of me to simply hang up on the other participants? Would it be just completely unprofessional to vomit into the wastebasket in my office? I stand up. "Um,..I'm sorry, I have another meeting right now, I'll follow up over email. Thank you! Bye." I throw my headset, hightail it to the women's restroom and then throw myself at the toilet.
Initially, nothing really unusual. Some of the typical abdominal discomfort but, bearable.
Halfway through the day that my "Monthly Visitor" first came a-knockin, the discomfort gradually increases to a series of annoying pangs. Ummm, yes, Monthly Visitor, I know that you're here. No need to keep knockin'. After lunch, I dial into a conference call at work and, fifteen minutes into the call, it starts to feel as if Monthly Visitor is not only knocking on my abdomen, Monthly Visitor is trying to beat and kick the bloody (no pun intended) door down. I notice that, although I am wearing a hoodie and sweats (yes, this is how I roll to work) and the warm California sunshine is streaming into my office, I am cold and I start to shiver. The discomfort-turned-annoyance-turned pain in my stomach and abdomen is increasing in intensity and I can't sit down any longer. I start to feel like I am caught in the movie "Aliens" and some shrieking, hissing, slime-covered monstrosity of a foreign being is going to tear, claw and burst its way out of my abdomen in slow motion. I stand up. No good. I sit down. No good. I'm cold. I'm sweating. I'm shivering. I start to feel nauseated. At this point, I am on the verge of yelling, "SHUT THE F@#$ UP I AM DYING HERE!" Probably not a very diplomatic way to end a business call. I stand up. I sit down. Would be wrong of me to simply hang up on the other participants? Would it be just completely unprofessional to vomit into the wastebasket in my office? I stand up. "Um,..I'm sorry, I have another meeting right now, I'll follow up over email. Thank you! Bye." I throw my headset, hightail it to the women's restroom and then throw myself at the toilet.
[Warning: This entry gets a lil' more graphic. You can quit while you're ahead or be a brave soul and continue reading,...but don't say I didn't warn you.]
As I sit on the toilet, still shivering and now short of breath, I contemplate how I am going to, er, expel from both my upper and lower body orifices. Where's a freakin' bucket when I need one? Which mess would be easier to clean up from the bathroom floor? Either way, the cleaning staff is going to hate me. I manage to expel a bit from the "baja" region but, the pain, chills and nausea only worsen. I turn around and shove my fingers down my throat, hoping to make myself vomit because the nausea is so unbearable. Nada. I sit back on the toilet. I want to lie down but I can't even get up so I remain seated on the toilet, hanging onto the rail for dear life, wondering why my abdomen is pulsing, my heart is racing and my body is still shivering. Why the f@#$ is my body doing and feeling things it's not supposed to, damnit?!? I hear people enter and exit the women's restroom and wonder if any of them have endured this kind of pain before. Could this be what childbirth is like? OMG, am I having a baby? Is it another immaculate conception? Finally, I manage to pull my pants up and crawl to the bathroom floor. I lie there in fetal position, wondering if I am going to die, right here, right now. Oh Lord, I wanted a more noble death than this but, at this point, I'll take anything to end the pain. I must have been locked in the bathroom stall for about half an hour when I decide that I should probably request assistance and attempt to save my life. Fortunately, the woman who responds to my feeble plea for help is a teammate. She calls the volunteer emergency response team at work and I think I begin to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Suddenly, I experience a moment of clarity. WAIT. Who is responding to her call? Are women going to respond, or is the emergency response team going to send a bunch of guys? Oh dear God, please tell me they have the common sense to send some women to my rescue. A few minutes pass. I hear commotion outside the bathroom. The door opens.
Two guys walk in. Two freakin' guys.
F@#$ me.
I quickly assess my physical state. Pants on - check. Shirt on - check. Tampon on - er, negative, ma'am. Tampon is near me, never made it to its rightful station. S@#%. Not only am I an undignified mess on the bathroom floor, I might be a bloody undignified mess on the bathroom floor.
One of the men hovers over me and begins to question me, check my vital signs. Then a game of "20 too much information/personal questions which I do not care to answer" ensues.
Hovering male: Tell me what happened.
Me: Well, I started my period this morning and,...
Hovering male: Is your period pretty regular?
Me: Um, I think so.
Hovering male: When was the last time you had your period?
Me: About a month ago.
Hovering male: Are you pregnant?
Me: Um, NO.
Hovering male: Are you sure?
Me: Um, YES.
Hovering male: Is there any chance,...
Me: Look. If I'm pregnant, then it's another immaculate conception.
[Awkward pause]
The Two Hovering Men ask me whether I'd like to go to the hospital. I'm already an undignified mess on the floor, and now they're going to send even more men to hover over me and interrogate me?! Surely, surely, after assessing my condition, these Two Hovering Men will have the common sense and common decency to request and send in some women. And, well, even if an infantry of men storm in, I decide that my health is probably worth more than my dignity so, I give them the green light to call an ambulance. A few minutes pass. I again hear commotion outside the bathroom door.
Five men enter. Five. Freakin'. Men. Five. F@#$itty F@#$ F@#$.
And these Five Hovering Men + Two Hovering Men = 1 absolutely mortified Nancy.
Immediately, the poking, prodding and interrogating ensues. They basically want to know three things:
1) What happened?
2) The "normal" state of my menstrual cycle
3) Whether or not I am having sex and, therefore, potentially pregnant
Granted, what they are asking makes sense in my condition. But, come on fellas, do each of you really need to hear it from me? Do you think I'll somehow tell a different version every time you ask me? Can't y'all just pay attention while I tell the story just once? Y'know, I've never participated in speed dating activities but, I imagine this is what it must feel like - a painful, awkward process of elimination. Only, in this case, I am the one being pinned against the wall and scrutinized. Sigh.
A couple of the hovering men convince me to go to the hospital to get tested. Can't hurt, right? The problem is, they want to carry me out on a stretcher. What the,...? Somebody please tell me to smile because I am on Candid Camera. S@#$. By this time, I am actually feeling 90% better and am positive I can walk. I beg them to let me walk but, they don't want to risk me collapsing. As they lift me onto the stretcher, I ask if they were able to grab my belongings. To my (short-lived) pleasure, a woman (OMG, a woman! Where the hell was she when I most needed her?!) enters and hands me the most important item - the tampon that had been lying on the floor next to me. Wow. Gee. Thanks. Could you be any more conspicuous? Why don't we broadcast my condition over a megaphone and, while you're at it, tape the tampon to my forehead and hang my underwear on a flagpole? I honestly do not understand how these Hovering Men were able to keep faces straight, 'cuz you know I was somebody's "Joke of the Day" at happy hour that night. Ugh.
Anyway, three hours later, I am released from the hospital. Of course, they weren't able to determine what happened to me but, thankfully, I feel 100% better. As my wonderful and wonderfully patient brother (he waited with me all that time in the hospital, bless his heart) drove me back to work, I pondered the significance of the situation. Was there a meaning, a purpose, to all of this? Was there a message for me, some lesson I needed to learn?
Indeed, there was.
A single thought repeated itself over and over in my mind throughout the entire ordeal - from the moment I crawled to the bathroom floor, even while I lay in fetal position, shivering and sick to my stomach, all the way through to the gathering of the Hovering Men Inqusition and the ridiculous ride on the stretcher. I kept thinking to myself, "I love being a woman. I love being a woman. I love being a woman. Goddamnit, I love being a woman. I really love being a woman."
Y'know, I don't care if that sounds foolish in light of everything I experienced that day. I don't even care if I sound like some delusional, brainwashed feminazi. For all the pain, vulnerablity, moments of weakness, heartbreaks, heartaches, pains and aches and even monthly menstrual menaces we women have to endure, I absolutely, wholeheartedly, unabashedly love being a woman. I love being a woman. There is nothing like it in this entire world. Nothing. Now, some of you might be thankful this is true. I, on the other hand, am truly thankful that I am a woman. The pain is worth it. The monthly madness is worth it. It is completely, entirely worth it. There are experiences, treasures, gifts that God has given us, that no man will ever have or understand. I don't care if we are accused (often, wrongly so) of being manipulative, conniving, unreasonable, illogical, demanding, weak, vulnerable, petty, backstabbing, "catty." Whatever. I say we women embrace it all - the good, the bad and the ugly. Because women are also beautiful, lovely, warm, loving, intuitive, understanding, encouraging, bold, daring, courageous, different, diverse. We notice the little things, we throw the best surprise birthday parties, everybody wants to participate in ladies' night out (especially the fellas, ha!), we know when to simply listen, we know exactly what to say and when to say it, we have the gift and ability to carry life within us, there is an inner strength in each of us and a fighting courage that keeps us keepin' on, we understand even when things don't seem to make any sense. There is just something all too wonderful and all too beautiful about being a woman that I can't describe with mere words. It is that "je ne sais quoi" which nobody can place, nobody can label. All I know is that, once God created woman, He must have seen that it was good, that it was very good.
And it is good to be a woman. So, so, so good.
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