A few months ago on Oprah, Lisa Ling headed to Detroit to spend a day in a convent with a bunch of nuns. By the end of the program, I couldn’t help but ask myself if maybe Jesus really is the only nice, respectful, available man out there for us.
As I begin to approach thirty, I can’t help but reflect back on my limited dating life. In elementary school I was quite the dating pro, going from boyfriend to boyfriend – even landing myself a kiss on the cheek from my favorite kindergarten guy at my sixth birthday party. As we got to middle school, “going out” was all the rage, all resulting in never actually going anywhere. After tying up the phone for hours each night, my parents finally broke down and I got my own phone line. I even had one of those clear plastic phones that would light up when it would ring. I was officially cool.
High school came and went and I didn’t date much. I would occasionally find myself with a boyfriend (a term I would use loosely here) but it really only involved us meeting by my locker at break and exchanging notes or me doodling “I love SOS” on the top of my folders. Most of my love affairs were from afar. I would focus all my attention on one guy and I would remain loyal to them, regardless if we were dating or not. This has been a very hard habit to break.
My college dating life was… interesting. But I did date. I had a few short and failed relationships and one long term relationship. But looking back, I was so overcome with my own insecurities any relationship actually succeeding really was next to impossible. But then again, aren’t we all insecure in college?
In December of 2006, I moved to New York City and visions of glorious dates and perfect boyfriends danced through my head. I knew this city would open up so many doors for dating I would be overcome with options. I would be beating men off with a bat. I would live on Park Avenue, spend my days in Manolo Blahnik’s with Mr. Big on my arm and a smile on my face. Needless to say, I was lied to.
One evening while at a swanky martini bar, I met a very good looking attorney in a suit who lived on the upper west side. We chatted, we danced, we laughed. I had a nice time. Then, in the middle of our nice, slightly intoxicated conversation he literally screams at me, “I want to fuck you senseless”. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so I got up from my seat, gathered my things and left the bar. He proceeded to try and follow me home.
A few months later at a friend’s dinner party, I met a very charming British man. After a bit of hesitation, I gave him my number and we went out a few times. Things seemed to be going well and we made plans for the coming weekend. I never heard from him again. I pretend he died.
I met another lovely gentleman through a friend and a very strong connection developed between us that went from zero to sixty in a two week period. One morning he told me he was going to check the meter on his car and never came back. A part of me wonders if he’s still wandering the streets of Astoria trying to find his way back to my apartment.
Then a big relationship came with the closest thing I ever found to my Mr. Big. He was tall, Italian, loud and extremely cold and emotionally unavailable. I was completely in love. Finally after two years, I decided to tell him this. And he finally decides to tell me he can’t offer me anything. And the only way I could get away from him was to move across the country.
So, as I write this blog from my parents basement, I realize I went from one extreme to another. In New York, I was a bit of a prude. I was considered shy and maybe even slightly moderate in my political views. In New York, people don’t give a shit if you’re bisexual, transgender or a dragqueen. And I like it that way. But here, in the land of conservatives, I’m a raging liberal, over confident and maybe even a bit of a hussy. Everything from my politics to my favorite television shows are thought to be ridiculous. I was even told on my most recent date that “any woman who watches Sex and the City is flippant and retarded”. What?
So, what ARE my options? I suppose I can keep hoping that maybe somewhere down here in the south there's a single liberal looking for love. Or I could give the convent a call. I'm sure they have an extra bed for this single girl.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
the impact of a bathroom sink
I was fascinated by my third grade teacher. She was a tall, thin, older woman who wore full body lingerie that would sometimes peak out from under her bright yellow and green suits. I couldn’t help but stare with my jaw to the floor when I noticed the black lace. I thought people only wore things like that in movies I wasn’t allowed to see. She had long, pointy red fingernails – always freshly polished and the perfect shade of red that matched her curly red hair.
I assumed she was someone very special because along the side of her bright red hair, she had a long thick chunk of perfectly silver hair that she referred to as her birthmark. I also had a birthmark. Mommy said God gave it to me because I was so special. But mine wasn’t pretty like hers. Mine was on the right side of my torso and was referred to as a “strawberry birthmark” and looked kind of mushy. But to have a silver birthmark in your hair?! Then she must be extra special. I think she must have known she was special, too. She was always going in the bathroom to “freshen up”, and between lessons would grab a mirror from her purse and reapply red lipstick and powder her face. Yes, she was obviously someone very important. I wanted her to like me and teach me how to be pretty. She would talk to us about her weight struggles, but I couldn’t understand what she was referring to. She was already so thin.
One day after she read us our afternoon story, we sat surrounding her on the floor while she proceeded to tell her group of eight year olds that her sister was in the hospital. Apparently, her sister also thought she was fat. So fat she would throw up everything she would eat. But this time she threw up the lining of her stomach. When hearing this, my face became hot. I was dizzy. I was scared and curious all at the same time.
The next day during a routine bathroom break, it was announced by one of my fellow female classmates we would be holding a contest to see who was the fattest girl in the class. This would be determined by who couldn’t fit between the bathroom sinks. I stood there staring at these sinks with mere inches between them and wondered how anyone would be able to squeeze themselves in. The first girl went. She made it. The second did, too. And so did the third. One after another, these little waifs managed to do it. They all fit. And I was last.
I wanted to run. I wanted my teacher to come in and tell us break was over. I needed an escape. Yet, I found myself approaching the sinks with a racing heart and sweaty palms. Dear god, I thought. Please, please, PLEASE let me fit. Don’t let me be the fattest girl in the class.
I was taller than everyone else, so my hips were the first to try to fit. They couldn’t. I bent my knees, thinking I could squeeze my waist in. I sucked in. I pushed so hard it sent a pain through my entire body. I tried so hard, struggling and giving it everything I had. A little less than half of me made it through and I stood there, awkwardly bent at the knees, humiliated and holding back tears with the realization the contest was over: I was the fattest girl in the class.
All the girls laughed and celebrated their victory and I was left alone in the bathroom with my new title. One I would hold on to for the next twenty years of my life, regardless of my weight.
Even now at age 27, that moment will come flooding back to me from time to time. It's amazing...all the beautiful and incredible things I've been told throughout my life, a bathroom sink can determine a lifetime.
hm.
I assumed she was someone very special because along the side of her bright red hair, she had a long thick chunk of perfectly silver hair that she referred to as her birthmark. I also had a birthmark. Mommy said God gave it to me because I was so special. But mine wasn’t pretty like hers. Mine was on the right side of my torso and was referred to as a “strawberry birthmark” and looked kind of mushy. But to have a silver birthmark in your hair?! Then she must be extra special. I think she must have known she was special, too. She was always going in the bathroom to “freshen up”, and between lessons would grab a mirror from her purse and reapply red lipstick and powder her face. Yes, she was obviously someone very important. I wanted her to like me and teach me how to be pretty. She would talk to us about her weight struggles, but I couldn’t understand what she was referring to. She was already so thin.
One day after she read us our afternoon story, we sat surrounding her on the floor while she proceeded to tell her group of eight year olds that her sister was in the hospital. Apparently, her sister also thought she was fat. So fat she would throw up everything she would eat. But this time she threw up the lining of her stomach. When hearing this, my face became hot. I was dizzy. I was scared and curious all at the same time.
The next day during a routine bathroom break, it was announced by one of my fellow female classmates we would be holding a contest to see who was the fattest girl in the class. This would be determined by who couldn’t fit between the bathroom sinks. I stood there staring at these sinks with mere inches between them and wondered how anyone would be able to squeeze themselves in. The first girl went. She made it. The second did, too. And so did the third. One after another, these little waifs managed to do it. They all fit. And I was last.
I wanted to run. I wanted my teacher to come in and tell us break was over. I needed an escape. Yet, I found myself approaching the sinks with a racing heart and sweaty palms. Dear god, I thought. Please, please, PLEASE let me fit. Don’t let me be the fattest girl in the class.
I was taller than everyone else, so my hips were the first to try to fit. They couldn’t. I bent my knees, thinking I could squeeze my waist in. I sucked in. I pushed so hard it sent a pain through my entire body. I tried so hard, struggling and giving it everything I had. A little less than half of me made it through and I stood there, awkwardly bent at the knees, humiliated and holding back tears with the realization the contest was over: I was the fattest girl in the class.
All the girls laughed and celebrated their victory and I was left alone in the bathroom with my new title. One I would hold on to for the next twenty years of my life, regardless of my weight.
Even now at age 27, that moment will come flooding back to me from time to time. It's amazing...all the beautiful and incredible things I've been told throughout my life, a bathroom sink can determine a lifetime.
hm.
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