Dategirl
The job of an advice columnist might seem pretty cushy, but really, its a pressure cooker. Much like the life of a medical professional, Im on-call 24/7. Why, just the other day, my buddy Ike (fake name!) called me at the ungodly hour of 11:30 a.m. to get my take on a dilemma he was having.
"And you cant tell me its because men are punks," he offered by way of pre-emptive caveat. (Shit! Now what do I say?)
"Why is it that as soon as a relationship starts to get going good, men get scared and do something to fuck it up?"
"Men?" Or you? See, Ike had just started seeing a young lady and was surprised to find himself smitten like a fuzzy widdle kitten. While youd think this turn of events would fill my formerly lonely friend with glee, that turned out to be far from the case. Instead, he was in a full-blown tizzy, wondering what it all meant and how he could weasel himself out of it.
Hmmm. That I wasnt allowed to blame men for being weak-willed punk-ass bitches certainly limited my answer repertoire.
"Vagina dentata," was the best I could come up with.
"Are you making shit up?" he snapped in an accusatory tone.
"Youre afraid shell bite your dick off," I insisted. "Youre petrified that if you let yourself fall in love with this broad youll find yourself emasculated, wearing a frilly bra and panty set, begging her to let you watch the game." Not exactly insightful, I know, but when your pat answer has been snatched right outta your hands, a girl has to make do.
Eventually, he admitted I might be right. It helps that Im, ahem, always right.
But the thing is, everyone gets shit-scared at the beginning of a relationship–thats not male-specific. And why not? Falling in love is like walking into sixth-grade gym class knowing youve got the kick-me sign taped to your back.
The second I decide to like someone, I become almost funereal in demeanor. So much for the fun-haver he thought he was out with. For the first date or two, I no longer "get" jokes, literary allusions, even television references. Its as if in my terror, Ive been transported to Planet Stoopid. I stare at my would-be paramour, all wide-eyed, guts knotted up inside like Im waiting to take a punch. (Metaphorically speaking.) To fend off the inevitable left hook to the heart, I start blurting out all manner of inappropriate drivel. I guess I reckon that as long as Im talking, they cant tell me that they hadnt realized how funny-looking I am.
After a few minutes of audible brain farts, Ill stop myself–usually mid-sentence–to apologize for saying whatever the hell Ive just said, which hasnt made much sense in the first place anyway. Pretty soon, full-on panic sets in. I get all clammy and turn bright red in splotches. Then I have to poop. (All that gut-clenching gets to a girls bowels after a while.) Meanwhile Im still yammering on nonsensically, leading the poor guy to think his once-promising date has an exotic combination of Tourettes and irritable bowel syndromes. Every once in a while Ill yelp that Id completely understand if hes having a bad time and I wont hold it against him if he wants to leave.
I never said I was cool.
Ikes problem is that once he starts seeing someone he could possibly see a future with, he does something so incredibly stupid that the girl has no choice but to dump his ass. His method usually involves infidelity, but there are any number of romantic atrocities in the scaredy-cat bag o tricks. One ex of mine would begin an argument long before wed even spoken. "I cant believe you wont have Christmas at my house–you are so selfish," he once bitched. This might have made sense had he ever asked me to in the first place. But no, psychoboy would have had both sides of any fight going on in his head for days before I was ever privy to it.
Another lunatic told me that although we were attracted to each other physically, emotionally and personality-wise, we couldnt be together because he couldnt "give me what I wanted." As my requirements for the first month of any relationship run along the lines of "dont be a dick," this was a bit confusing. He was much younger, so I eventually chalked it up to the emotional retardation that often accompanies puberty.
Besides cheating, Ikes other ace in the hole was chronic lateness. Were not talking the occasional 15-minute delay either. Were talking, "Ill be there at eight and show up, drunk, at five in the morning." As for the inevitable and completely understandable shriekfest that followed, he told me, "It was almost a cleansing or something. The fact that thered be an argument would be like a baptism."
Wait a second–this is sounding very familiar
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