Carly Rae Jepsen is wrong
Posted on August 3, 2012 by Kris Nelson
I have to preface this by stating that I was iffy about posting this, but I’m going for it in light of the great Gore Vidal’s passing. In some weird way, I feel him coaxing me somehow. Gosh, does some immense tragedy have to occur before I post something? Here’s hoping that’s not true.
Hello! Welcome to another installment in the ramblings I type-vomited a couple of weeks ago when I was apparently possessed by some latent angst and urge to spew my life-story to strangers, I guess.
I don’t really talk about myself much or at all in person, so this is me attempting to squelch that. Stupid, I know. That’s another thing about me… I’m stupid. We’ll touch upon that more another time, perhaps. What is that? You already knew? Oh wellz, enjoy! Oh, also, abort reading any further if you are any shade of prude or if you believe sex=love. xoxo, Kris
Okay, so you know that ubiquitous Carly Rae Jepsen song ‘Call Me Maybe’… well I don’t get it. I have never understood why girls give out their number to random/randumb guys they’ve just met. It’s creepy and desperate and bizarre and I just don’t get it. And then, they’ll actually stare at their phone all day and feel upset if the mildly attractive stranger didn’t call/text them. And then they whine about it and obsess over it to/with their friends until the next guy comes along and does the exact same thing to them.
Why, girls, WHY??
I can honestly say that I have never given out my phone number to someone I just met. Unless we just had a one night stand, or a quickie in a restroom, then maybe, if they were good, but not with someone I just exchanged glances with or flirted with a little. That’s insane. Bodily fluids first, digits later, that’s my motto. But I digress.
I never had to give out my number because I just went from long-term boyfriend to long-term boyfriend. Yep, I’m a keeper *winkwink* Quit laughing; I’m within earshot.
To be perfectly honest, I’m really dumb when it comes to guys. In fact, I sometimes never knew we were on a date or dating until they introduced me differently. Or they’d try to hold my hand or some weird romantic stuff guys do, like spoon after sex. *eye roll*
Even in the First Grade, this cute boy grabbed me and kissed me in front of the entire class (which my mom giddily recounts every time we look through picture albums together. I think he’s a lawyer now) (Also, not my first kiss. Slutty!). This is how extreme it has to get for me to realize guys like me.
Another “Really Dumb Kris” fact: up until mid-college, I thought the highest/most romantic compliment I could give a guy was “you’re like my best friend” or “you’re like a brother to me”. How freaking dumb is that?? The last guy I said that to, where I actually realized this was the worst thing you could possibly say to a dude that’s into you, I could actually hear his heart breaking. I finally realized something was wrong because he just kept repeating it. “… a friend? a friend. a friend?!!” and I’m like, “well, more like a brother. You’re special”. And then it was beyond repair, what should’ve remained unspoken (or tactfully rephrased) had been brutally blurted and I felt like shit. For years. Actually, I still kind of feel like shit. I wanted to apologize to him somehow awkwardly on Facebook last year, when, during a lapse in better judgement, I briefly joined Facebook (and quickly left, for the third time since 2004. I’m still there, kinda, albeit ghosted).
I did, however, sort of apologize to my good friend Daniel, whom I basically ignored towards the end of our High School Junior year because of my wee bit possessive boyfriend (who was in college and didn’t want me to have any male friends that he didn’t know/approve of, which in retrospect I realize was awfully selfish because all of my good friends were guys, but I foolishly complied). Daniel and I were in advanced math and science courses, and JV tennis and soccer together; we even created our own language one day together… it was basically Spanish and English portmanteau, but that’s just what a fun friend he was. (Yes, that’s FUN for NERDS, okay). (Also, I dunno why I’m going on about this; perhaps it’s because Cyprien sort of reminds me of Daniel, so although I am of the vast minority here, I just cannot find him attractive, despite him SPEAKING FRENCH, OH MY GOD. Run-on sentence alert). And there’s another moral in there: don’t bend for anyone who doesn’t accept you wholly. And you should seriously question being in a relationship with someone who doesn’t truly trust you.
How modern technology becomes the pseudo therapist; releasing our guilt into the ether…
…Naw, I still feel like shit.
Weird thing is, I still think it’s a compliment to feel so close and connected to someone in that way, in an almost platonic way, to have so much in common with someone that it’s almost scary psychic just finishing each other’s sentences and sincerely laughing at their homebrewed jokes, and just, just getting the other person.
Of course I also had a lot of guy buds (just friends) who were like absolute platonic “surrogate” brothers to me in the sense that they were older and linebacker-types (some were actual linebackers or fullbacks) and they protected me… like I was the star quarterback. So note that guys, if you want a girl to feel special, treat her like a quarterback.
Okay… so what was my point? Ah yes, the POINT:
When I first moved to the City, at times I just wanted to be totally alone, to forge my independence. I wanted to experience things that people deem “socially unacceptable” or “awkward” or “loser-ish”, because I don’t personally feel those things are “weird”. Things like dining at a restaurant alone, riding public transit alone, sitting in a park on a sweet sunny day reading a book alone. Little did I know that all these things translate to some guys as “please pester me for 40 minutes until I begrudgingly agree to come back to your place to be unsuccessfully wooed and possibly murdered”. Seriously, it was like I was trapped in a warped hoity-toity cinephile’s projected synopsis, you know like: “one naïve country girl’s erotic journey, fucking her way through the big City”. I was even accosted reading Camus in a sushi dive joint where some dude perved on me kitty-corner, and later actually cornered me near the restrooms to ask if he could pay for my meal and watch me eat sushi some other time. Seriously. He said “WATCH me eat”, not actually eat WITH me.
So yah, so that is why I became a social recluse. And why I took a self-defense class. Or two.
Also, I am usually the sexual aggressor, I’m the tiger, so it’s difficult for me to relinquish the huntress role. That’s just yet another reason why I am completely clueless in this arena. Because no matter how many times you are on the prowl, hoping you’ll meet a cute boy in the Huxley section of the quaint, hip local bookstore or J.Crew or Whole Foods or wherever (yah, that’s right, I troll the preppies — in the fishing sense, not the internet troll sense), you soon realize “well-rounded handsome down-to-earth driven mondo-intellectual” (which is idealist Kris-speak for an Elon Musk or Professor Brian Cox facsimile) rarely exists. “Cute boy in the cool jacket perusing only the photos of Modern Art design magazines, who’ll do” on the other hand… dime a dozen.
So ANYWAY, (the point, the point is finally HERE yay!) when guys asked me for my phone number, I would politely refuse (oxymoron much?) and ask them for their number instead. And it ain’t no big thang to ask a dude for his number, if you think you’ve hit it off and he has a compatible bloodtype (j/k) and you’re pressed for time.
So girls, maybe try that one out. You’ll be the one who can pick and choose amongst your suitors instead of pining and whining about “what-if’s” and “why-hasn’t's” (good job with the grammar there, Kris) and you’ll never lose sleep over it. Unless you’ve also met Gavin, the cute boy with the Art magazines. He’ll keep you up all night, if you know what I mean.
I mean he reads in bed with the light on. Sickos.
More blah-blah-blah: Bullies, Batman, Bullets