Scrappy Little Nobody (15 page)

I know it’s childish and lame, but it feels good, and you’re allowed to be a miserable shit for a while after you get dumped. You know your ex and his new girlfriend aren’t evil, but it’s easier to feel like they are. Breakups can turn fully dimensional people into stubborn little vessels for your most stubborn little feelings. It takes a while for them to change back.

Very recently a strange thing happened. Someone who still knows Erika brought her up to me. I cringed:
that bitch
.

“You know she still thinks you’re pissed at her.” This gave me pause. She still thinks what? How does she even know me? I was twenty, I was a mousy girl she met one time. I assumed she hadn’t even caught my name. I figured she didn’t know I was a person. But I realized,
Oh my god, I’m not pissed at her. I’m SO not pissed at her. I literally have no feelings about her
.
In fact I don’t think I’d recognize her if I fell over her!
Oh, hello, fully dimensional human, you’re free to leave my brain now!

It was a real lesson in my endless capacity to hold a grudge. I do it so well, I don’t even notice that it’s happening. I walk around with these calcified resentments for years until someone points them out and I can go, “Good lord, is that still in here? Let’s get rid of that. And throw out ‘pretending that watching boys play video games is fun’ while we’re at it.”

I had to take a moment to wonder who else fell into this category of default enemy. I went through a mental list of people who, in theory, I’d want to hit in the face with a meat tenderizer. My coworker from ten years ago who owes me like three grand? It was ten years ago! You were addicted to OxyContin! Go! Be free! My seventh-grade teacher, who told me that most child actors don’t succeed as adult actors? You just wanted to scare me into having a backup plan! Farewell! Good luck! Tori from fourth grade, who accused me of writing mean stuff about all our friends on the playground wall? BURN IN HELL, TORI. I
KNOW
IT WAS YOU!!!

I’m still working on it.

L
ike so many of us do after we’ve been dumped, I decided I could redeem myself by examining the choices I’d made and vowing to do the exact opposite from then on. I entered a classic phase of post-breakup overcorrection. This lasted about a year and came in two waves.

First, I became intensely wary of guys. I wasn’t going to be made a fool of again. I once made plans with a sweet-faced bartender, and when he innocently asked to reschedule, I said, “You know, where I come from, this is called ‘being blown off.’ ”
Where I come from
? Did I think I was from
The Dukes of Hazzard
?

Second, I wanted to exact my revenge on men in general. I realized that modern flirting was essentially just being mean while smiling. I hadn’t mastered the whole getting people to like “the real me” thing, but insulting someone to their face? That I could do. And it seemed like the more attractive the guy was, the more he liked being insulted. We’d meet, I’d be charming (i.e., unnecessarily mean), we’d go on a few dates, I’d trick him into thinking he was in love with me, and then I’d stop returning his calls.

I wanted to punish someone for how I felt, but it never
helped. It was stupid and unwarranted. I guess I felt more in control for a while, but soon I realized I was no better than the cliché “geek” from high school who grows up and bones as many girls as possible out of spite. Which really took the fun out of it.

By twenty-two, I was back to business as usual love-wise: alternating between being contentedly alone and scaring off anyone I actually liked with my intensity and desperation. I did, however, implement a new rule: no discussion of “the number.”

I’m happy to say that only a few years on, guys stopped thinking it was okay to ask me how many people I’d had sex with. I don’t know if that change was a reflection of my age or the quality of men I was seeing, but there was a time when, if a guy had known me for more than twenty-four hours, he thought it was his right to know my complete sexual history.

This is a trap for girls. I always felt embarrassed about my late start in the sexual world, but the fiasco with Landon had taught me that you could be labeled slutty after having only one partner. Was my number too low or too high? And what did this information measure? An STI is an absolute; you either have one or you don’t, and while a doctor can tell you that, knowing someone’s number cannot.

Outside of a health concern, the question seemed designed only to shame and discourage promiscuity. And if that’s the case, why just intercourse? Why did no one ask “How many people have touched your boobs?” or “How many penises have you seen?” or “Did you ever hump a swing set in first grade when no one was looking?” The logic is: I must avoid (even responsible, protected)
sex with someone new, because it affects my “number,” but this dude can go ahead and stick his face in my vagina because . . . who’s counting? I decided that I would not engage with this ridiculous and arbitrary metric.
^I

The first time I implemented this new rule, I’d been seeing a guy for a couple weeks. He asked and I said something like, “I’ve decided to stop answering that question, because I think there is no answer that a woman can give without being judged. If it’s a health matter, because you’d like to have sex with me, I can get tested and show you my results.” I fully expected that when I said this, the guy might assume I’d had so many partners that I was embarrassed to reveal the number. But I figured if it weeds out the kind of guy who infers shame from reticence or thinks sexually active women are disgusting, all the better.

He took me up on the offer and we both got tested, which I respected. So far, so good! What I didn’t count on was him pretending to be cool with me not answering while letting it fester and take on a life of its own. He brought it up several times in the following months. He never asked about my previous relationships, or my attitudes about sex or intimacy or fidelity. He wanted the number. I understood that if I simply told him that by his count he was number three, it would have brought him some comfort. But I didn’t want to give it to him. He wanted
some assurance that I wasn’t “too” experienced, but I didn’t want to comfort someone who found that objectionable.

When we had our first big fight, his true colors came out. Slut. Whore. I’ll bet you were molested when you were little. Charming, right? He was barking up the wrong tree in terms of trying to hurt me, but at least now I knew who I was dealing with.

In related news:

[INFOMERCIAL VOICE!]

Ladies, if you ever date a guy who shows up at your apartment uninvited, or calls you from someone else’s phone when you block his number, or inspires you to attach a little can of Mace to your key ring, tell your friends! They will help you! If a guy threatens self-harm, or tells you that you are the crazy one and all your friends are on his side, they aren’t! Your friends want to help you! And if you start talking yourself out of it because you’re worried about looking overdramatic or vindictive because, I guess, he hasn’t ever
hit
you . . . No! Don’t do it! Don’t talk yourself out of it! Your friends don’t need you to get hit to want to help you! Yay!!!

Moving on.

More recently a friend of mine tried to play matchmaker for me. She proudly told me that the guy was reluctant to be set up until she showed him my picture. Of course, the picture she showed him was from a
GQ
shoot where I happened to be blond, backlit, and half naked. I texted her.

Me: Dude. Please get back to him and tell him to prepare to meet, like, a human woman. I did not know I would be attempting to live up to the expectation of a solid three man hours from a team of hair, makeup, and lighting professionals.

Sarah: Oh my god, stop, you’re being ridiculous!

Me: Let me do my impression of this guy’s evening: “Oh, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet anyone right now—wait! You didn’t tell me she was a half-naked blonde with baby oil all over her legs! Let me Febreze my “going out” shirt and call an Uber!”

Me: Then “Aw, what’s this? She’s wearing clothes and isn’t looking at me with lust in her eyes? I shaved my balls for nothing.”

Me: Please tell him that since this photo was taken, I have dyed my hair back to its natural, mousy shade, and I have eaten several sandwiches.

He didn’t show up.

I found that guys liked to showboat on the first few dates by talking restaurant managers into letting us in at closing time or hiking in restricted areas or sneaking into movies. These guys underestimated how much I love rules.

Also, while I love a good round of dirty talk, I don’t enjoy bawdy talk. A lot of guys didn’t understand that. For a while it seemed like men thought that pointing out that they had a penis would inspire some amazement on my part. I once told a guy I had to wake up early and he said, “I could wake you up with my—” Sir, I’ll stop you right there.

That is the least sexy thing you could say to me. Nothing about you is sexy when you are the reason I am awake—you are basically an iPhone alarm with a pulse. And I don’t want to fuck my iPhone. At least not at seven a.m.

But I get mine. For a while I had a fling with a guy who was so good-looking I think he was as confused by his interest in me as I was. The physical stuff was always great, but his perpetual expression was one of profound confusion. He obsessed over my body, but it seemed like it was because he was trying to locate the homing device that was scrambling his brain. I felt like saying, “I know, buddy, I don’t get it, either. But . . . for now let’s get you back to work!”

Something amazing happened to me when I hit my mid-twenties. I don’t know how it happened—I didn’t even notice it at first—but I stopped liking guys who didn’t like me back. In fact, I stopped liking guys who were bad people. I wish I could impart some concrete advice about how to achieve this, because I have to tell you, it’s incredible.

When I first realized this was happening I didn’t want to mention it to anyone. I didn’t even want to fully acknowledge it to myself. I thought I might jinx it or scare it away. How many times have I thought,
Wow, I guess I’m just at that point in my life where healthy foods are more appealing
, only to end up facedown in a plate of melted cheese and maple syrup.

I thought I was destined to fall for assholes forever. Misanthropic and fifteen years my senior? Sign me up! Makes misogynistic jokes but thinks I’m “feisty” for calling him on it? It’s love! I’m still not certain I’m out of the woods—you never know
where life will take you until you’re awake at four a.m. dissecting text messages from a guy named Jordan who has a
The Wolf of Wall Street
poster in his bedroom.

But I think I might be done finding shallow and sad people attractive. It’s paradise.
Pretty in Pink
was wrong; you can fall in love with Duckie.

A couple of years ago, I brought my boyfriend to a friend’s weekly
Game of Thrones
viewing party. As the episode began and we all settled into our seats, two of the male attendees started whispering to each other.

“Oh my god, dude, you know who’s on this show now?
Diana Rigg
. Wait ’til you see her.” They seemed positively gleeful. These two grown men were giggling like bitchy cheerleaders at the fact that a woman who was once a sex symbol had the audacity to turn seventy-five and (gasp!) be on TV!! I reeled from witnessing this exchange, and as I prepared to ask just what the hell that was supposed to mean, my boyfriend chimed in.

“Oh, Diana Rigg, man! She’s been on the last few episodes; she’s brilliant in this, right?” My sweet boyfriend didn’t even notice when the two men shot each other smug “That’s not what we meant, buddy” glances.

When we left I told him, “You realize what you’ve done, right? You just expressed that it’s possible for a woman you don’t find sexually attractive to have value. I think those guys might think less of you now.”

“Really? I hate those guys. So that would be great.”

•  •  •

I’ve still got stuff to work on. If a guy can convince me he has the answers or a better plan than me, I will follow him anywhere. I’ve fallen for it more than once. It’s not easy to pull off, because I happen to think most people are idiots, but if you can do it, I’m in trouble.

I would follow a confident woman just as blindly. However, in my experience, women are less comfortable pretending to know what they’re doing when they don’t.

I’ve been on the other side of it, too. I’ve met the guy who is young and talented and wise beyond his years and still looks to me for advice. What an ego trip that is. It took an older man saying point-blank “I like giving you advice” for me to realize that yes, that’s the bit you like. Not being helpful to me, but the sound of your authority reverberating in the ears of a younger woman.

It’s not that deep down I want someone to “take care of me,” it’s that I’m exhausted, and occasionally overwhelmed by self-doubt. I’m steering the ship, but I don’t know what I’m doing. None of us do. But it would be
so nice
to believe that someone out there did, and that maybe they could take the wheel for a little while.