A boy I went to high school with wrote this original post on his tumblr, and I found it quite moving. So, I wrote the female counterpart. The large bulk of it is his, and his is a lot more fluid. You should check it out at the above link. And just as a disclaimer, this is not based around my life or average weekend at all, or anything. Like really.
I know. Sometimes, I don’t. But sometimes, I know.
I know how it’s supposed to go – what I’m supposed to say. I know how to act normal – how to speak only in codes heavily laced with implications of my potential willingness. I know how to attract a boy. I know how to treat him with carefully balanced disinterest and enthusiasm – and show him that he’s not the first boy I’ve been with or around. And I also know that he likes that, for some reason. Knowing I’ve rehearsed the steps sufficient times to recall the choreography but not more times than I can count my dance partners. I know what I’m going to hear – he’ll probably [hopefully?] suggest it – and at what point in the night it can we slip away without causing an awkward silence?
I know how to fill the blanks in our conversation with carefully structured questions– I’ve got a whole list of ‘em. No way, you like music, movies, and food too?! You have career goals?! You grew up somewhere, in some city in this world?! Wow, I have a friend whose cousin’s dog groomer is from there, or something!
Blaring from speakers somewhere, the song changes.
I uncross and cross my legs.
The song changes again.
Tuck my hair behind your ear, bite my lip, drop my napkin, place my hand on his knee to brace myself as I reach for it. Gold star for locking eyes on the way back up.
The song changes again.
Yawn. People respond well to yawning. No one likes being boring.
The song changes again.
Close my bar tab.
I know to hold a boy’s hand when we walk down the street, pretending either of us truly believe in this implied affection. I let him give me his coat, because boys don’t feel cold, and that’s why girls don’t wear coats. To relieve boys from wearing theirs- those poor overheated creatures.
I know how to smile big when he walks on the outside of the sidewalk. Opens the car door. Offers to get me anything I need. Say no one ever does that anymore, haven’t had a door held for me in ages, you’re too sweet! I know how to laugh lightly and promise my apartment is a total mess too, no I don’t mind at all. Actually, I happen to love cheap American beer, that’s so funny and great that you have nothing else for me to drink! I know how to blush at innuendos – act totally surprised to discover why we’re in his apartment.
I know how to segue – by accepting an offer to see “posters in his room” which don’t exist, or to listen to “this great new album.” Before I know it, I’m in his bed, and we both know exactly why – and both know exactly how it will end. I know boys don’t like condoms, questions, or eye contact. I pick a couple to avoid, strike a pose maybe he hasn’t seen, and cue the one-night-only performance. No encore, Count 1-2-3…I-gotta-wake-up-early. I know how to do us both a favor and respond to his fabricated early morning study session with a 9’ o’clock yoga class or a headache. I know why I was there, I know that reason ceased to exist.
Simply put – I know how to get what I want. I know how to use the same gestures and identical formula to get the same result every single time. And when I’ve completed my task – I know how to watch them disappear, too. I know how to exchange numbers merely out of habit. I know how to microanalyze and repeat each second of the evening in conversation over a double pump latte and low-fat muffin with a friend as we search for any moment that might possess a shred of something genuine. I know how to eventually pretend the whole one-night thing never happened. And I know how to pretend it’s just another funny story, I’m just another Sex & City Samatha.
I know how it’s supposed to go.
& I know how it actually goes.
I watched Blue Valentine tonight, put me into perspective. Go see it though, a-m-a-z-i-n-g.
Yesterday was 1/1/11. My dear friend was with me at 11:11 on this date and we made wishes as all those in our generation probably were as well. It reminded me of a story she had told me earlier about on all her birthdays. She blew out her candles, pressed her eyes shut, and wished for- well, she can't remember what she wished for. She can only remember hearing her mother shouting out "Happiness! Wish for happiness!", drowning out whatever desires and dreams she had thought up on her own.
I'm not sure why this story stuck with me so much. I mean to me, I think if one were truly happy, nothing else would matter. I like to think possessing the feeling of genuine, non-artificial happiness would give the owner to power to control everything else in their life, therefore making wishing for a perfect body, job, or spouse useless. On the other hand, I don't really buy into this whole "Money [or insert whatever else you want here] doesn't buy happiness" bullshit. What makes people unhappy? Being hungry, having debt, bad health, and in today's society let's be real, wanting things we can't have. Cure for all of the above, hate to say it, is a couple ole green backs.
So is it fair to force happiness upon someone? Is it fair to control your children? Mothers, maybe you've been told you know best, but mothers you're human too. And mothers, believe me, we children are overall thankful for the immeasurable amount of love you always give us. It's just sometimes we don't want happiness. We want a pony. Or a the star quarterback to ask us to prom. Or a new car. Or bigger boobs. Or for you to accept we're never going to be the child you prayed for because maybe we don't even believe in prayer ourselves.
Does anyone really even understand their children? Does anyone really even understand anyone?
