I am the epitome of a cool girlfriend. This title is not self-imposed. Past boyfriends and friends of past boyfriends have told me this more than once. I’ve discussed in the past my ability to be one of the guys, heavily influenced by the fact that I was basically the only female child in my family until I was 11. I should also note that the street I grew up on was also basically exclusively male, in that all the kids my age were boys. I have always taken immense pride in my dude-ness. I was never a very moody girl, I don’t particularly care about girly things. I wear barely any makeup and can do my hair exactly four ways: straight, naturally dried, in a braid or in a pony tail. I’m so confused as to how girls give themselves elaborate hair styles regularly. I even put the seat UP when I’m done when I’m in an all-male household. Literally, the only things I don’t understand about men is their seemingly natural ability to handle their finances and why they get so worked up when something goes wrong with their car. And, this is because my dad handles all automobile problems of mine. He will do this until my eventual-husband takes over and if that day never comes, my brother and cousins will be busy men until I kick the bucket when I’m 110. I love beer, I love sports, I understand the need to play video games and take naps and even sometimes sleeping through an obligation. I get mad when a ref makes a bad call. I feel more loyalty to Hockey players than I do some of my friends. I get it. I can blatantly see and recognize when a girl/girlfriend is being unreasonable and ridiculous. I almost never side with them. For my whole life, I have identified better with most dudes than I have with many of my female friends.
This being said, because so many men have deemed me such a “cool girlfriend” (I’m confident enough to put that in quotes. Those exact words have been spoken) it’s always baffled me that I can’t seem to hold on to a boyfriend. My longest relationship to date is approximately four months. My brother dated a girl for something like a year when he was fifteen. I’m a failure. But then, it dawned on me. Relationships do something to me. They make me a crazy version of myself who I really don’t like very much. She is moody and clingy and impatient and not very understanding or caring at all. I essentially hate her. That being said, there are not enough benefits to outweigh all that craziness so, until I learn to get a reign on that, I’m gonna fly solo. Knowing all of these things about myself lead me to a pretty outstanding insight today:
In my Clint Eastwood Authorship class, we watched the film “Play Misty For Me” which I’d never seen or even heard of. The screenplay was shit but the story was pretty good. Basically, Clint plays a radio show host and some batshit crazy fan stalks the shit out of him and deludes herself into thinking they’re in love and attempts to ruin his life after she’d lied to him and tells him she’s only interested in no-strings-attached sex. (HA! Hilarity. There were obviously no sexually empowered women prior to Chelsea Handler.) So, poor Clint is stuck with this chick constantly showing up and cooking him dinner and offering to sleep with him and he is just so utterly unenthused. What I failed to understand about the scenario is why he continued to let her into his house when she showed up. Like, he straight up welcomed her in and then slept with her. In the end, (SPOILER ALERT) he punched her in the face and she fell off a cliff and Clint and his terrorized girlfriend lived happily ever after, but I was still unhappy that he took advantage of this psycho for a little sex which, by the way, was clearly available to him in a variety of other places. He’s fucking Clint Eastwood in the 70s. He was going to be fine without this girl.
So, while I normally talk to no one at school, between Clint’s class and the class I T.A. for, I was talking to a dude who’s in both classes and he asked what I thought of the film. I told him I liked the story, but voiced my concerns with Clint’s willingness to entertain the crazy chick when he was clearly in love with the girlfriend. I shit you not, the following is what this kid said to me:
“Yeah, I guess but I mean, if a chick shows up at your door naked, you don’t turn her away…”
…Now I know why I don’t talk to anyone at school. Please, please if any man who isn’t related to me and trying to set a good example disagrees with this, tell me. I truly don’t want this to be what’s forever implanted in my mind as a man’s idea of sex. I will hope to God forever and ever that this kid is just a poor film student with no other options. But, assuming this is the popular opinion because another kid in the room echoed it, I’m going to tell you the single largest difference between me and men based on this assumption.
If a man – batshit crazy stalker or not – showed up at my house naked and unannounced, he would be turned away. The door would be locked. I would not allow him in then and probably never, ever again. I might even call the police. In addition, I hope that me being present and naked are never, ever the only qualifications needed for me to be invited inside a house for any reason, let alone to have sex. I’m sorry, I have a bizarre need to be liked as a human being with thoughts and a brain by the person I’m involved with at any level. In case you haven’t noticed and I haven’t said it enough, I’m pretty freaking awesome. My girlfriend resume, although with limited references, is outstanding. I am funny and smart and will never give you a hard time for wanting to watch football over have dinner or do something equally stupid that we can do at any other time that football isn’t on. I will always order beer and will get you one, whether you asked me to or not. I will offer and genuinely want to pay when I can afford it. I am both very cute and hysterical. I laugh at poop jokes and dead baby jokes and women jokes and other equally offensive things and never get offended, and I will NEVER fart in front of you. Ever. As far as you’re concerned, the only thing that goes on in that bathroom is makeup fixing. Honestly, the benefits of dating me are truly unending. DO NOT INVITE ME IN SOLELY BECAUSE I’M THERE AND NAKED! If I am batshit crazy and clearly trying to kill you/your girlfriend/your house keeper with a giant butcher knife, JUST SAY NO! There are a slew of other reasons TO invite me inside. Do not belittle me and my brain by having nakedness be the one that wins out.
And, I’ve decided that along with the clear anatomical differences, this desire and need to be liked as an actual person is the very biggest difference between me and the male species. The end.