I realized something today.
The difference between my emotional IQ now, at the age of 29, and 22 year-old me is merely that I am now fully cognizant of how delusional I am. This is a revolting development really. The painful part of going crazy is the part where you feel yourself slipping away, or so I'm told. Once you are crazy I hear it's pretty cool. Velcro shoes and crazy straws for everyone!
I am currently in New York, interviewing, visiting friends, and most importantly making poor decisions in my love life. My bad relationship choices are now officially bi-coastal. The realization that I really hadn't evolved much with age washed over me last night as I caught myself in a bold faced lie. A lie that many many many women have told before and many many many more will tell in the future. I looked directly into the big brown puppy eyes of the phone sexer and said "I'm not looking for a relationship either! Just fun is great for me!"
This phrase went through the rube Goldberg device that resides in the part of my brain where emotional/relationship intelligence is supposed to be stored and popped out the standard reasoning for this lie, "He says that, but look how he's looking at me. he'll change his mind. just give it time" I just can't seem to resist the emotionally unavailable. I feel like Odysseus trying to resist the Sirens song. I'm pretty sure I cannot do it alone. I am going to need someone to tie me to a metaphorical mast or whatever so I stop crashing my vagina into all these dead end men.
A few observations about why I might find these men so appealing that I have sorted out in my musings today.
First, for whatever reason, they all seem to be excellent in bed. My ex and the phone sexer are about as self-centered as they come. They orbit themselves. Yet, I have never come across two more INCREDIBLY giving men in the bedroom. Truly, what they do should be studied and comprehensive pamphlets should be handed out to descent kind-hearted men everywhere. In my personal research, the good guys just don't throw you around the surfaces of the apartment like that as often. I suppose I could ask that of the nice guy, but that seems awkward. "Umm, I was just thinking, how about you throw me up against the window of your high rise and pull my hair in front of god and all of Wall St, you know, for a change...of pace" SEE! It just doesn't sound as classy when you have to spell it all out. I prefer to have my castle stormed.
Number Two: I think there is a good bit of Groucho Marx in me. I don't want to be a part of any relationship that would willingly have me as a component. If I have to beat you into submission, then I can be reasonable sure that you have seen my crazy parts. Like the part of me that likes to wake up ultra early after a long night and eat 16 Eggo waffles in bed while discussing current events, for example. I figure, a rational person should pump the breaks a time or seven when they witness my neurosis in all its glory. If you can't wait to be a part of it? Well I find you suspect.
Number Three: My mother. Enough said there. I can't pin point it exactly, but I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that she is at least partially responsible for this. When in doubt, assume it's something your mother did.
That's it for now. I am going downtown and have some tequila. That feels like the right thing to do. I can't wait until I am full crazy, like Britney circa the head shaving. In relationships, as in fast food calorie count, ignorance is truly better. Sigh.
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