Domestic Bliss? Or…
It’s been a few weeks since I moved in with TNG, and I hope I can say the worst is behind us. We’ve argued, I’ve cried, he’s hid, I’ve packed a bag (and then put it away), we’ve argued some more, I’ve cried some more… and now we finally seem to be getting into a peaceful groove. Dare I say we’re settling into domestic bliss? Don’t get me wrong, the house is a disaster zone and I still haven’t unpacked a box, but now that I’m not a crazy lunatic pulling all-nighters, he seems a little more relaxed and a hell of a lot happier to have me around. And yes, I took your advice and decided to be a little more assertive (and a lot more fun) – and it worked. We went on a “date” last night (got drunk) and I baked banana bread this morning – while doing laundry – how much more domesticated can I get? But now that the beginning chaos is over, I’m realizing how little I know about living with a guy (nothing). After years of living alone, I’m feeling like it’s my first year in my college dorms and I have to figure out how to coexist with my new roommate. So, I have a few questions.
After a year of seeing him just on weekends, I’m realizing that he only knew the “groomed” side of me. I made sure I shaved my legs every Friday, I had makeup on, my hair was clean, etc. My question is – do you guys even care? He of course hasn’t said anything, but since I’ve moved in, I’ve definitely been lacking in all of the above. Am I already that woman who I mocked in earlier blogs? The one who trades in her skinny jeans for sweatpants and her makeup for cold cream? Okay, so I’m not totally her yet – but I’m definitely hovering over the drain. Do you think he’s noticed? My gut says no, but I shaved this morning just in case.
Speaking of noticing, let’s talk bedroom – and sleepwear. I sleep in pajamas. They’re cute pajamas, but they’re jammies nonetheless. And yes, sometimes even socks. I know, I know, I just killed the porn dream of the girlfriend who answers the door in skimpy lingerie (which I did a few times) but if this is my home, I gotta be comfortable. So, after I finally found the box with my pajamas, I put them on. Did I just snuff out the fire with one glimpse of heather gray cotton?
As long as we’re on the subject of grooming and sleeping preferences, let’s talk bathroom. I know – T.M.I. – but now that I’m living with someone, I’m really starting to realize just how uptight and tightly wound I actually am. He’s so relaxed about everything; he even leaves the door open. Not only do I have to be on another floor of the house with the fan on… honestly it’s actually better if no one is home. I’ve said it before; I think this man was put in my life to loosen me up a little. He actually snickers at me when I come out looking sheepish. In my family no one can go to the bathroom… call it years of repression. I guess I don’t really have a question on that one. He had to know that at some point in the relationship I would finally go number two.
I’m making small strides. I’m no longer asking for permission to do things, I’m just doing them. I still haven’t adjusted to the fact that someone is in my bed every night (neither has my insomnia) but the mornings sure are nice. Which brings up another question… Now that we live together, do I still have to make the girlfriend run to the bathroom to brush my hair and use mouthwash? I know these seem like stupid questions, but we have met, right?
Hey, at least I’m not crying anymore.
Domestic Disturbance
B-O-R-I-N-G.
I’m happy for you… I really am. As close friend, writing partner and one of your biggest fans, true happiness is all I’ve ever wanted for you. Maybe you’ve (finally) found it. Maybe baking banana bread while folding laundry and debating the merits of shampooing the living room carpet is a hidden nirvana for which I lack the depth to appreciate. Maybe re-arranging closets and adjusting to the personal bathroom habits of a loved one warms the cockles of many a heart, despite leaving mine numb and in search of an exit sign. Maybe true love has less to do with passion and fire and living the lyrics of a classic love song, and more to do with all of the little things that transpire between a man and a woman while washing dishes or mowing the lawn or falling asleep together in front of a reality TV show. For the sake of those who still believe, I choose to hope so. For the romantic cynic that still resides in me, I’m not so sure.
So now what? A quick rewind of the last six months of your life reveals a ton of pros, the occasional con, and an engagement as endearing as it was lame, a relocation that probably came too soon, two weeks of tears and terror followed by… domestic bliss. Talk about an oxymoron. Who decided to combine “domestic” with “bliss?” A man and a woman living together and getting married is tough enough… The pressure of turning the “domestic” into “bliss” can be enough to derail even the purest of love affairs. Domestic and bliss should never be paired together; they do each other a complete injustice. Domestic is easy – you had domestic figured out before you even had your driver’s license. Every fairy tale and Disney movie has made sure of that. It’s the bliss, and its elusive nature that renders us all clueless. It’s the bliss, or its lack thereof that turns our hearts upside down and our minds inside out. It’s the bliss that had you move in with this man you love way before you were ready and it’s the bliss you feared you’d lost that had you packing your bag the second week you were there. The bliss is what we all seek, yet only occasionally find. The bliss, at least the promise of it is what keeps us coming back for more, rarely ever knowing if it even exists.
So I repeat… now what? You’re engaged. You live with him. You’re marrying him (eventually). He’s messy? Boo freaking hoo… deal with it. He craps with the bathroom door open? Do you know what that makes him? Every man you know, including your writing partner. You have questions? You don’t need my answers. You’ve always known this is the way it was going to be, and now you’re making shit up because somewhere deep inside you’re afraid it’s all supposed to be different. Somewhere deep inside, you’re afraid it’s supposed to be … better. From this fear, you should release yourself. This is a fear we all share, yet will never solve. This is a fear that simply comes with the territory. This is a fear that keeps people like me living alone and a fear that you chose to ignore when the moving van pulled up in front of your apartment last month. Your new home has plenty of space, but it has no room for this fear, and any regret that might come with it.
He probably thinks you look really cute in your jammies and sweat socks… But yeah, the mouthwash is key.
You’ve Got Male
I want to go home.
But… I am home.
I moved in with The New Guy last week – and I’ve literally cried every single day since. If someone had told me that with each passing year I spent alone, living with someone would be that much more difficult, I probably wouldn’t have listened, but maybe I would have shed a few less tears.
As I watched the movers pack the last box of my independence into the truck, I knew that life as I knew it had just changed forever. My perfect, neat and tidy little beach apartment that I loved so much was about to be swallowed up in the chaos of a bachelor household sixty miles away – and so was I. And I can’t help it, but I’m feeling every devastating bit of the loss. With each enormous box coming through his door, I watched TNG’s eyes grow wider as he finally wondered aloud what I had been thinking for months – where in the hell was all of this shit going to go? Simply put, there was no room for me in his house. And, there still isn’t… I think it’s partially due to the fact that he hasn’t physically made much room for me, and partly because I haven’t emotionally made any room for myself.
The only way to describe it is that I feel like I’m visiting. My mail is lost in a black hole somewhere, my friends won’t call me anymore, and I’m being watched – all the time. Suddenly the romantic fantasy land I was living in during my year of pre-cohabitation bliss was gone – poof. And it’s weird, it’s like my fabulous relationship got lost in the move too. I’m suddenly living with more than one guy… sometimes he’s my brother, sometimes he’s my lover, but most of the time he’s my father. Because that’s exactly how I feel – like a child, not wanting to disappoint the grownups. I find myself asking him a million questions: “Is this okay?” “Should I put this here?” “Where do you want this?” I know it’s supposed to be my house now too. But it’s not. As I watched his cat claw my pristine furniture, I couldn’t help but feel like she was sending me a message – I don’t belong here.
I’ve cried more in the last week than I have in the last year. At first it was just a quick, quiet little muffled cry hiding in my closet or my office. By day five it became a full-on, snot-nosed wet-neck sob into my pillow while in the fetal position on the bed at 7:30pm. Yes, I’m exhausted. Yes, I’m misfiring on all cylinders when it comes to work lately (direct quote from a big boss – “Your writer leaves much to be desired…”) and yes, I’m sad and I’m lonely and I miss my friends and my old life. But the real reason I’ve been crying?
I’m envious.
Now that we’re living in the same household, I actually get to see how different we are. I’m neurotic and seemingly unstable, and everything rolls off his back like water off a duck. I worry about what people think, and it affects everything I do – it always has. He doesn’t have a care in the world, especially when it comes to what people think. NOTHING gets this guy down. I knew this all along, but now that I’m living a foot away and can watch it up close and personal, it totally pisses me off. I suck at time management. I always have. I procrastinate and then I stress about procrastinating, and then I stress some more, until I work myself into a total frenzy, convincing myself that I’m a total failure until I eventually force myself to succeed. He somehow manages to get his work done, mow the lawn, go for a run and then winds up sitting in the hot tub drinking wine and reading a book by day’s end. Meanwhile, I’ve said yes to 50 people who I don’t want to disappoint and I suffer. Oh, how I suffer. Got a dictionary? Look up the word martyr, and my picture is right there, next to my mother’s.
Maybe it’s all one big lesson. Maybe TNG was put in my life to teach me to be different. It’s 9pm and I haven’t cried yet today. So I guess things are looking up.
If I could just get some mail.
House Call
I know a couple from high school that stayed together for 19 years before they got married… the marriage lasted eleven months. Two of my oldest and closest friends have been a legitimately happy, married couple for almost 25 years… They knew each other a grand total of nine weeks before they tied the knot. My point is that there are no rules or guarantees when it comes to men and women and love and commitment. It’s a good thing too, because I can count on one hand the couples I know in a committed relationship that’s worth admiring… I’d hate to think that what I’ve seen of marriage and its ilk actually has some sort of rulebook behind its resounding lack of success.
On the other hand, there’s a reason why we have rules, even those that are fundamentally flawed. You managed to break one of the more important of these – the “timing is everything” rule. Good timing can offset a multitude of sins… bad timing can destroy a love affair worth remembering. You probably fall somewhere between the two, but simply put you packed up and moved before you were ready.
I remember thinking to myself, “So soon?” I also remember thinking to myself, “They have an engagement. They have a rough game plan. They have a moving day. Who am I to cast doubt on something so good because the timing doesn’t feel right?” Now we have the benefit of hindsight, and you know what they say about hindsight – it’s crystal clear. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready logistically, and you weren’t ready emotionally. It’s almost as if you panicked… NOT because you were afraid to lose him and NOT because you haven’t gotten damn good at flying solo. You panicked because the female gene deep inside you, the one that took hold of you before you ever had a chance was all of a sudden doing your thinking for you. You lost sight of the fact that you LOVE living alone and you lost sight of the fact that you LOVE your freedom. You became the sweet little girl they always told you to be, the one who willingly put her own needs and desires on the back burner to accommodate those of the man she loves. We only know this through the power of hindsight, but know it now, we do. Hey, men panic too… but when we panic, we run in the other direction.
So now what do you do? Like you said… you are home. You could go back home again, but it will never be the same, and you know it. From the cheap seats, allow me to offer a few suggestions:
Stop being so polite. Stop asking, ever so sweetly if that third drawer on the right with the broken handle might be available to you. You gave up your life for this. You uprooted everything you knew and owned to be with him on his terms, and his timetable. If you’re going to have big enough balls to do this at all, don’t give them up once you get there.
Stop being bummed at him for being who he is. If I can think of the single most hypocritical point of view when it comes to commitment, it is this: we fall in love with, and sometimes even choose to marry someone because of who they are – and we then spend the rest of our time together bemoaning the other for the exact same characteristics and habits. If you knew his makeup going in, don’t expect him to be any different because you’re there. If you didn’t know his makeup going in, timing might not have been your only problem with this move.
Stop stressing over boxes and drawers, and start fucking – a lot. Stop caring about furniture. It’s… furniture. When he hangs in the hot tub with a beer in his hand, stop being jealous. Instead, grab a beer and join him. That’s the girl he thought was moving in with him. That’s the guy you fell in love with.
If you’re going to go down, don’t do it with a whimper (and a bucket of tears)… do it with everything you have.
The Last Hurrah
Last weekend my best girlfriends came over for one last girls’ sleepover before I moved in with The New Guy. We’ve been doing this sleepover for years; every spring for my birthday, and usually once in the fall when school started for their kids. Nothing fancy, they’d just come over to my place and spend the night, just like when we were little girls. Well, except for the fact that these sleepovers include lots of booze and very little sleep.
Already the feeling was different on this one. There was almost a smell of desperation in the air – this one would have to be the absolute best girls night ever – because in their minds, it would be the last. I’m their last single friend, and now I’ve gone to the dark side – I’m getting married. They’re losing the last single apartment – now every household “would have a man in it.”
What I didn’t know is that this would also be an impromptu bachelorette party. One by one, they showed up at the door with an evil glint in their eyes, and I knew they had something up their sleeves. Our usual two bottles of “getting ready” champagne suddenly turned into four, and as we got ready to leave, I was ambushed and adorned with a hot pink feather tiara, huge flashing plastic rock on my finger, and blinking pin that said, “Bachelorette” on my shirt. I was also given my very own shot glass to be handed to each bartender.
We started out at our usual sushi place and were greeted with “oohs” and “ahhs” and “Congratulations” from the employees and patrons. My friends giggled with delight as the bartender placed a “Blow Job” shot in front of me. “Wait, one more picture,” they said, laughing as we all posed provocatively for the camera. Even the sushi guy got in on the act, making me an engagement ring out of tin foil. I hate to admit it, because I usually mock stuff like that, but I loved every minute of it.
As the night went on, I kept thinking to myself, this is it. This is my last night in the neighborhood that I love so much. This is my last impromptu night at my favorite sushi joint, with my favorite bartender, and my best girls. The next time will require massive coordination, and couple hundred miles for all of us. I looked at my girlfriends’ happy faces, flushed from laughter and alcohol, and I thought nothing could top this moment.
In keeping with the “This is Your Life” theme of the night, it would seem the whole city came out to say goodbye to me. All of my favorite staff were working at every place we went, the bartenders I’ve chatted with over the last ten years, the servers I know by name… and of course the first guy I dated when I moved to the beach. This guy was my Achilles heel for years. He was Mr. Untouchable… the guy who played me like a fiddle for months on end, and then would disappear until we would run into each other again at these very same spots and start back up on the road to nowhere. As he gave me a longer-than-usual congratulatory hug and kiss on the cheek, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was suddenly “the one that got away.”
Hours later, the girls and I piled into a cab and went back to my place. I made our usual “drunk pizza,” passed out Tylenol and set up piles of pillows and blankets. Early the next morning I looked at their sleeping faces, remembering those same sleeping faces at seven years old.
It may have been our last night in my apartment, but I think this group will be having sleepovers in our sixties. I’m already booking a hotel room for next year.
And God Created Woman
Do you know what’s sexy? Well, a lot of things, but definitely one thing in particular is a group of otherwise responsible and committed women, beyond velvet rope age, at the bar or lounge of a respectable establishment with a twinkle in each eye and a martini in each hand. You know me. You know I don’t approach women when I’m out at night (due to a healthy combination of respect and cowardice) when even Ray Charles can see that I should make a move. However, when I’m out at night with a friend or two and I see a group like yours, I don’t even think twice about if I’m going to go over and say hello – I just have to make sure I’m on my “A” game when I do.
When it comes to hanging out with other dudes, you’ll never catch me in a group of more than three guys at a time. There’s just no way. Every time I see a group of four or more men out at night, I’m almost embarrassed to call myself a guy. They’ve either come from the office, sporting their Brooks Brothers suits and graduate degrees, or they’ve just finished lifting weights together and it’s time to reward the ladies of the world by showing off the results of all that grunting and chortling. I don’t belong at either table. Whenever I’m with four or more dudes, I usually end up discovering that I don’t even like any of the guys I’m with. How counterproductive is that? I’m convinced that when it comes to guys hanging out in a group, size does matter… only this time it’s the smaller, the better.
It’s different for women. First of all, the more women in the room, the more good-looking women in the room. It’s simple math. There are plenty of times you’ll see a pair or a trio of women and none of them are particularly special to look at. When you add a fourth woman, and then a fifth, the odds start tilting towards a major upgrade. The fourth shows up and the whole table gets better looking. The fifth shows up and music starts playing (the hot ones are always late, aren’t they?). When a fourth or fifth guy shows up, the only thing that changes in the room is the noise level.
It’s also different with women because you dress up when you go out. The larger the group of women, the better and sexier you dress. Add to that the fact that women often go to great lengths NOT to dress alike, and the guys in the room are rewarded with a little something for everyone. When guys go out, we usually opt for a quick shower and the nearest clean shirt. We could just as easily be a beer commercial or an ad for The Gap – it’s all been seen before.
Mostly it’s different for women because there’s nothing more boring than walking into a bar, restaurant or lounge and entering to a room full of guys. Ladies brighten up a room. When you girls grab a table or occupy a space, the room looks, sounds and even smells better. I can’t speak for the knucklehead brigade, but when real guys go out at night we all secretly hope to run into a cool, fun group of good-looking women with enough brains and style to keep our eyes focused on your face instead of your cleavage. Otherwise, there’s a reason why ESPN Sportscenter is on seven nights a week.
I’m only disappointed in two things… 1) that I wasn’t invited and 2) that you didn’t do anything to be even remotely ashamed of. Where’s the fun in that?
So when you book the room for next year, let me know which hotel.
Tripping Out
Since I’m moving in a week, haven’t packed up my apartment and have more deadlines than I’ve had this whole year, TNG thought it was a perfect time to take our first trip together to visit the family. Being my new and improved easy-going self (yeah right), I agreed to go. I ignored the voices in my head that said, “Don’t do it – you’re going to have a total meltdown in front of him.”
I plotted prior to the trip – I’ll work the entire flight there and back, I’ll work when people are sleeping, and anytime I can steal in between. This will be fine, I convinced myself, as my stomach churned with anxiety. I can do this. As long as I don’t let myself cry or throw up. If I don’t cry or throw up, no one will know that I’m having a nervous breakdown on the inside.
The airport set the tone for the weekend. I got upgraded, TNG didn’t. Remember, five stars, two stars. I looked at him imploringly. “Take it,” he said, “You have to work and I’m going to sleep the whole way.” Some of you may think this selfish of me, but I took it. And I worked the whole way. And I sent him my wine and Milano cookies like any good fiancée would.
His mom greeted me with a hug. Not an overwhelmingly warm hug but a hug at least. Admittedly, I felt a little awkward and out of place – this is her son, her pride and joy, and I think the jury is still out on me especially because we got engaged since the last time I saw her and I’m shacking up with him in a week.
I swear I was meant to grow up in the fifties, because I actually felt uncomfortable when she showed us to our room. Luckily I worked all night so I never even really slept in the bed with TNG. When they got up the next morning they found me exactly where they left me – at the computer. Think I’m making a good impression for my future mother-in-law? Not so much.
She had rented a beach house for the weekend. It was myself, TNG, his mom, his sister and her husband and kids – all in one house. Let the games begin. It was complete and total chaos. His mom walked outside in her one-piece bathing suit and sarong and his sister in her tankini and button down shirt. My heart sank as I thought of my string bikini, tank top and shorts in my suitcase. Here we go, I thought. I shoved my 34 D’s into the top and headed to the sand. “Oh, I meant to tell you to bring a one-piece” his mom said as she looked me up and down. I could see my scorecard in her head getting another big fat X.
My curves were definitely the subject of the weekend. TNG’s adorable four year-old nephew is a serious boob man in the making, and was pretty much glued to my side, or rather, my chest at all times. At one point he said, “Wow, you have a really big bottom. Have you looked at it lately?” I wanted to bury my J-Lo booty (and my head) right in the sand. But the entire (skinny) family had a good laugh, and I think that was the moment when my scorecard got a its first green check mark.
As she dropped us off at the airport his mom gave me a hug and said, “See you at Thanksgiving!”
And so it begins.
Don’t Trip
Much of the time our blog consists of an event, large or small from your life, followed by my slightly-off-center male point of view in reply. For a man, I think I’m pretty respectful of your gender. For a man, as brutally honest as I can be, I think I also cut your gender a lot of slack. For a man, I think I’m pretty honest about my gender having our own laundry list of quirks and question marks. But you guys still make me wonder, sometimes…
There are general behaviors to which virtually all women fall prey. Your visit with the dark side of falling in love (that whole, “when we marry, we marry his/her family” thing) seems to have dusted off some classics:
Woman vs. woman: You guys actually compete with each other… for what, I’ve never been able to figure out, but when women meet women, the sizing up and the phony smiles can be downright comical. “Not an overwhelmingly warm hug?” Who sizes up a hug? Women do, that’s who. Maybe you guys should dust off the high five or learn to adopt the fist bump to avoid future discomfort.
Wardrobe wars: this is simply one more area where it is SO MUCH BETTER to be a man. You’d find our standard quite liberating. “Don’t dress like a douchebag.” That’s it. That’s where most of us draw the line. Oh, and if a guy does dress like a douchebag, we rip him for it… only we do it to his face. And one more thing: No father in American history would ever call his daughter’s boyfriend and offer a poolside wardrobe guideline. How did you manage not to drink a bottle of vodka after that touching, future-family moment?
Mothers-in-law: They don’t write songs about fathers in-law. They don’t make movies starring J Lo and Jane Fonda at nuclear war with each other called, “Monster in-law.” You may have only seen the tip of the iceberg on this trip. It doesn’t have to be all bad. The good news is, you’ll probably have a new best friend. The bad news is, you probably don’t need a new best friend. The good news is, she lives 1,000 miles away. The good/ bad news is, this means that you will see her less often, but in very close quarters for more concentrated periods of time, like Thanksgiving… as in less than two months from now… as in for a five day weekend… five long days. If I ever have a mother in-law again, I hope she lives right around the corner. We don’t need to be seeing each other in our jammies.
BTW, I get the awkward moment feeling when she showed you to your room? Still, I have a newsflash for you, Peggy Sue… you’re no spring chicken. Besides, think how much more awkward you would have felt that very moment if it had come after the one-piece bathing suit comment?
There’s a great line in sports broadcasting that references the inevitability of growing older as an athlete by stating, “The only sure thing in sports is that Father Time will always be undefeated.” My rendition of that line regarding the world of serious relationships is to acknowledge and surrender to the fact that everyone, and I mean everyone brings some amount of serious baggage into a relationship. TNG seems to be pretty damn comfortable accepting your baggage into his life. If you’re being asked to gracefully accept a four year-old boy growing a four year-old boner in front of his mom, also known as your sister in-law, that is simply part of the package.
You can always write a screenplay about it.
Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner
I’m not one to quote Dr. Phil-isms, but besides, “You teach people how to treat you,” my favorite saying of his has always been, “You have to go out and look for him… He’s not going to knock on your front door or land on the hood of your car.” Thus, my “If You Build It, He Will Come,” year that eventually resulted in The New Guy, an engagement, and relocation.
There’s nothing to define that moment where you suddenly realize you’re off the market other than meeting quite possibly the hottest man in the world. I’m talking George Clooney hot. And he knocked on my front door. Literally. Why did George Clooney knock on my door you may ask? Because he’s moving into my apartment. That’s right, this perfect specimen of a man will be parking his ass in the same spot mine’s been parked, placing his head where mine has lain, naked in my shower…
Some of you are going to be offended by this posting, saying I should not be drooling over a man who is not TNG, so you might want to stop reading – NOW.
Let me just set the scene for you. I have been working nonstop, so my appearance was less than desirable. I hadn’t washed my hair in a few days, (yes I bathed) so I had the greasy ponytail going. I had no makeup on, save for a generous gob of Vitamin E oil on the lovely brand-new angry red chin scar from my recent interaction with a boulder. I had on quite possibly the most hideous shirt I own, that even has a ridiculous ruffle at the bottom to make me look 10 pounds heavier than the 10 pounds I already need to lose. To complete the look, I was wearing too-short stretch pants… with holes in them from being stretched too much. Oh yeah, and I had glasses on.
Okay, now that you have a visual, let me describe what I opened the door to. Six foot three, with salt and pepper hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth and a perfectly tanned surfer body. You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Hi, I’m George Clooney (obviously not his real name), I’m the new renter” he said, and gave me a firm handshake. I don’t know about you, but I’m a girl who loves a firm handshake. Mine is usually stronger than most.
As he walked through my apartment, he commended my cleanliness, my enormous flat screen and my labeled shoes. “You’re a clean freak like me,” he said. He’s only known me 5 minutes and already noticed my best attributes. When we walked out to the garage (with me saying my silent mantra, “Don’t look at my ass, don’t look at my ass…) he raved about my car saying, “That’s my favorite car!” Four for four. When I inquired (stuttering) as to why this perfect specimen of a man was renting a one-bedroom beach apartment he said, “I’m getting a divorce.” And then he said, “I heard you’re moving because you got engaged.”
It was at that moment that I had my very first twinge. A year ago I would have thrown myself at this man. I would have worked every angle to get involved with him, even though he probably has baggage heavier than Ivana Trump’s luggage. For the last month, I’ve been waving my engagement ring around like a crazy woman; wanting everyone from the mailman to the lady at Subway to notice how shiny it is and say, “Oh, you just got engaged! Congratulations!” And this is the first person that noticed?
I looked at my beautiful ring, looked up at George Clooney and said, “Yep, that’s right.” And then I said, “Feel free to come back over if you need to measure anything!”
I’m engaged. I’m not dead.
By George, I Think She’s Got It
For what it’s worth (and if you’re smart, that will be “not much”) I am extremely impressed. You’re in love. You’re engaged. You’re willfully getting married. This is all good stuff, the best stuff to most of us. Still, you’re not dead… you’re not even dormant. You know what you are? You’re a dude. You’re one of us, and I am proud to have you in the family.
This planet is littered with the shattered dreams and broken hearts of women who assume what men want is full scale attention and utmost devotion. This may be true with some guys, but chances are that those guys are also the first ones to sneak off and bang the nanny or personal assistant once real life takes hold of things. Real men don’t want our woman to pretend George Clooney isn’t sexier than we are any more than want to be hammered into guilt and submission with undying adulation. We will ALWAYS take notice of a good-looking woman. We will ALWAYS turn our head when she walks by. It doesn’t mean we don’t love and respect you. It doesn’t mean we’re going to run off with the lifeguard from the kiddie pool. What it means is that we’re human. What it also means is that you get to be human too.
BTW, “Come back if you want to measure anything?” Are you serious? Do you think he knew you found him attractive? Do you think his mind went to the same place that mine went to when he heard you say that? The next time you come face-to-face with a good-looking dude, try not to sound like an actress in a soft-core porn flick. Lucky for you, TNG would be too busy laughing at that line to ever get pissed off or jealous about it.
So, welcome to our world. Now you know what men go through EVERY DAY. I could use my day today as a prime example, but if you’re a man, EVERY day is a prime example. Take me, for example. I may not be looking, but it doesn’t make me blind. Maybe I need to get out more, but today I went clothes shopping. Yes, by myself. As my head turned from one female shopper’s mission to another, I found myself asking why I don’t go shopping for clothes every free moment I have. Is it me, or does every good-looking woman in every town in America shop for clothes on a Saturday afternoon? Even the check-out girls had potential, underneath their insecurities and limited options in life. Yet even as I was enjoying the view, I also found myself rack-to-rack with an array of visual vignettes that represented mine, and many other men’s greatest relationship fears; The couple shopping together, sniping and arguing with each other every step of the way… the homely woman, shopping in the men’s department for her significant other while he plays golf or watches football with his friends at some bar and flirts with the waitress… the lonely dude, shopping with no style compass, barely capable of choosing his own underwear, much less a pair of pants and matching shirt. After a cursory exploration of the men’s department and a couple of random purchases, I couldn’t get back to my car fast enough.
My point is this; every time we leave the house (or, in your case, without even leaving the house), we are guaranteed to see a member of the opposite gender that will turn our head, maybe even rock our foundation. We might even allow a thought or two to pollute our already polluted minds about what they might be like to spend some time with, or how they look naked. This only makes us human… or men. In your case, consider yourself both, and lucky to be so.
