Ladies and gentlemen, the art of wingmanning is called an art for a reason. It takes time and practice to become skilled, or even adept, at picking up tail for your friends. So when you truly and pitifully suck at it, don't blame me--blame yourself. Don't call me a douche. Don't call me a bitch. Don't tell me I'm a mean person, or that I have issues, or that I need to get a stick out of my ass. Instead, why don't you get your face out of your cell phone and go learn some social skills.
On the rare occasion on which I go out, I am confronted by the most pathetic attempts at pickups that usually begin with the line, "Have you met my friend..."
No, I haven't met your friend. Why is your hand on my hip? Oh, you're walking away now. Hello Friend. I said hi. So you don't speak? Did you know your "wingman" was going to do this and then disappear? Do you know I'm judging you not on your appearance, but on the company you keep? Still nothing to say? Well this has been fun.
I can't honestly say what I am expecting since I doubt there is any super satisfactory pickup line out there, but I think beginning with an introduction isn't the worst way to start. The role of a wingman is not to hit and run, but to draw the target in. Without basic conversation proficiency, I don't see how you hope to do that. Understand that I am not the best model to follow on how to socialize, but I also not so dimwitted that I can't make a general observation to get the ball rolling. It's more crowded than usual in here! Did you see the Pirates game? That bachelor party could use less cologne and less alcohol, don't you agree?
Yeah...don't know. Not that fucking hard.
As these bar exchanges happen more and more frequently, my patience is growing thinner and thinner. I try to be very open-minded about meeting people, but this type of behavior is unbelievably frustrating. Yet while I could ignore these people completely, I don't! I say hello, I shake hands, I give them the opportunity to say something interesting, and then politely tell them I'm not interested or I'm trying to enjoy the company of my friends. Tell me, madame wingwoman, would you prefer to watch me use your unattractive jerkweed of a friend for drinks and then disappear after I've run up his tab, or would you prefer the honesty of someone who genuinely does not want to use other people for their time or resources? I realize that not all women are polite when dismissing you, but name-calling and cursing is not going to change anyone's attitude or make you or your friends more desirable. My low tolerance for idiocy is balanced by my general curiosity for meeting people (and selfish need for blog material), but my attention is going to take some work from your end. I am sorry if this makes me the cruel, nasty person you're going to give death stares to the rest of the night.
The simplicity of communication through technology has very much ruined the social experience. I was much funnier and outgoing before I had a smartphone and my conjoined twin Dell Precision. Luckily, I've maintained my female genetic coding for the incessant need to talk and still spend about an hour of my day talking to friends or family with speech and not text bubbles. What little social ability I managed to acquire in college, though, is slowly creeping out of me the more time I spend texting, gchatting, and writing this dumbass blog. I am not a good wingwoman, I will never claim to be so, but I have a sense that I am probably not as bad off as I once believed.
This weekend's winners:
"My friend is sad, do you think you could cheer him up? "Would you girls take a picture with us? We need photos with pretty girls to make his fiance jealous." "So you girls are half dancing. You should come whole dance with us." We were not dancing. Then the guy that just stood right behind us and smiled. Then the guy that was gyrating licking his lips at my friend. Then the other guy that just stood right in front of us and nodded. Then the other guy that just stood right in front of us and nodded.
Man Repellent Over the past several days those of you living on the east coast have known my joy. This July has been graced with the cool crisp weather of late September and I could not be more thrilled. As a result, I have turned off window unit and been enjoying the breeze while I live out my last few days in my South Side apartment. However, what has brought me so much pleasure has also brought you today's post. While enjoying my tea and catching up on this week's True Blood, I was suddenly inundated with the screams of a couple on the pavement outside my window. "You were texting HER weren't you?!" "Babe. No. You're being ridiculous." "Then why won't you let me see your phone." "I did let you see my phone." "yeah but not until you deleted the message." "When I deleted what message?! I was carrying your purse with one hand and had my other hand in your back pocket. Please tell me when you think I deleted a message... ...and so on... ...and so on... The fact that these two were arguing in public didn't bother me, nor what they were arguing about really. Yet for some reason a wave of nausea came over me as I listened to these two squabble, and it hit me: I don't have a romantic bone in my body. Alright, it didn't just hit me; I've known since my fifth grade boyfriend used the last of his lunch money to buy me a rabbit's foot because the other boyfriends at our table had spent all their money on their girlfriends. Ten year old Stephanie scoffed because of the impracticality of the insincere gesture. I don't have it out against romance, but romantic expectation is for fools. Without ever meeting the girl on my sidewalk, I can tell what kind of status she posts, how many phone calls to her boo she makes a day, and how many Coach wristlets from ex-boyfriends are sitting in her closet. So in response to the internet and dumb bitches everywhere, I give you my perfect guy. How about #105 Clean up after me. In this imaginary relationship I have a life, and you better have a life. I'm not down with stage 5 clingers. I am preoccupied with work, school, friends, and interests so find some hobbies. If you don't have hobbies, do my laundry. It's a great hobby; my mom loves it.
I'd prefer if you didn't. I am permanently emotionally unavailable and chances are I'll be bored with you pretty soon. If you love me infinitely I'll just feel like a dick when I decide our time is not best spent together. In fact, don't love me at all; it's best for everyone. What? Why is that even appealing? Say it were to appeal to me, I constantly pump my body full of fried food and alcohol while actively avoiding all vegetables and other forms of nutrients. Tack on sleep deprivation, dehydration, anxiety, and a thyroid disease, and you have the perfect host for pneumonia. My immune system is not ready to handle the environmental exposure slobbering in the rain is going to cause. I highly suggest letting me walk away. If I am angry enough to walk away half way through a conversation, save yourself a world of hurt and let me take some deep breaths. You are an idiot (they're always idiots) so allow me however many moments it takes to remind myself that you are not an entirely worthless human being. What selfish bitch wrote this? Care about other things--your job, your family, your dumbass friends even, your pet maybe. I would never want the guilt of retracting attention away from things that are important in someone else's life. I'm selfish, but only to a certain degree. Don't text me at all. I hate texting. I only participate because it is the social norm, but I much prefer phone calls. I find it much more gratifying to ignore you via phone call than if I let your message sit unread in my inbox. 90% of the time I don't want to talk to you anyway; if I did you would hear from me. #70: Speak when spoken to. Have fun. Act like a grownup.
You could just ask me. Or pull off an incredible lie; points for creativity.
I don't cook; you can cook for me. Or be satisfied with my eating habits; oatmeal can be dinner, crab cakes can be breakfast. Sometimes I require five meals a day, sometimes only two-get over the inconsistency. I don't do vegetables. Thanks.
Don't do that.
Or that.
Definitely don't do that.
No.
No.
Under no circumstances should you ever do this
.
I can't deal with this right now. This sounds alright in theory, however I know when I haven't showered or changed clothes or brushed my teeth or emptied the wine glass from the night before I am not going to want someone there to witness me watch 8 consecutive episodes of Parks and Rec. Spend the night before a lazy day with me and then leave in the early hours of the morning. And put breadsticks by bed. And diet coke. I don't particularly like touching so if there is a television in the room this can happen. If cuddling is the only activity count me out. Like you mean what? What is it? I don't understand any of this...ugh!
Calling to say goodnight is so unnecessary. I am twenty-four years old; I am not going to die in my sleep. If I die in my sleep, you having said goodnight to me the night before won't change that. You're stupid to hold onto nonsense like that, and I will ignore you. This is fine, but you should try to make me better. Don't try to change what you can't, but challenge me. Whether improving my design skills, or studying a new topic, or understanding how to be a better person, I am open to learning and you should never settle. I sure as hell won't. I do not give a flying fuck if you are sweet with little kids. For someone who is great with kids, I am really not too fond of them. If you're drop-kicking my cousins we're going to have problems, but if children aren't your thing leave the room. Strangers' kids are fair game. But only for a few hours. I have things I would probably rather be doing so make sure surprises are short and sweet. Sure, make me feel like your plaything in public. I'm not trying to earn any respect in the world or my profession so jostle me around as you see fit. I love looking and feeling like a child.
Only when I'm drunk or in heels. If both then yes. If we are doing something athletic, play like you mean it. You're not doing anyone any favors by letting me win. I would rather measure my physical strength and skills against a legitimate competitor. I don't want you to embarrass me, but allow me the opportunity to try to embarrass you. As long as you don't intend to speak. Silence in the morning is my favorite thing, so if you're awake, don't interrupt me. You can see why this might be necessary.
While I typically respond to this with a frigid lip curl and raised eyebrows, this phrase has really begun to warrant a swift kick to the face. Sir, the reason I look unhappy is not only because I have a bad case of resting bitch face, but because I have been whistled at, hollered at, and honked at and have only been walking for five minutes. Yes, I am wearing shorts, it is 85 degrees outside and I am walking four miles to my destination, but this kind of behavior has happened when I was wearing harem pants with unwashed hair, no makeup, and glasses. I, like many of us, am a target of your sexual harassment simply because I have that extra x chromosome. Being a girl already sucks, we don't need a bunch of perverts catcalling us on our way to work.
The Daily Show has recently done an excellent job highlighting this very same topic:
Not unlike my my Stupid Cupid stories, allow me to share some fairly recent acts of questionable male behavior.
The Licker
As in most cities, when you work in Pittsburgh you spend a lot of time in your car commuting. Normally any attention I get during this time comes from truck drivers perched high in their semis pulling their cord while we're stuck in a standstill. Occasionally an old guy in a Mercedes will slyly pull off his wedding ring, but very rarely is there any aggression on the road. Yet, a couple weeks ago as I was on my way home from a very long day of work I was confronted by who I warmly refer to as "that bald fuck in the minivan." Moving at a snail's pace in converging lanes of traffic, I stopped to let a van with it's turn signal into my lane. Since things weren't really going anywhere I smacked a little honk out of my steering wheel to let the vehicle know I was letting it pull ahead of me. Instead of pulling in front of me though, he honked back and made no movement. Alarmed, I turned to see why I was being honked at for being a considerate driver, and was met not with anger, but a smiling middle-aged guy waving at me. I awkwardly smiled back and tried to ignore him, but when I pulled forward, but he pulled up to stay side by side with me and honked again. He honked a third time and when I finally looked he had his face shoved against his window and was LICKING HIS LIPS at me. Having literally nowhere to go I just put my visor down and waited for traffic to pick up again. It was not until the cars behind him began honking that he put his tongue away and drove off.
The Reacher
Slightly less recently, I had a much worse encounter with a man at a quaint little venue known as McFadden's in Columbus. Those of you who went to Ohio State circa 2010 knows that this club was like a flame to the sleeziest of moths, but when you're not so...legally allowed to drink...you make do with the places at which you probably won't get arrested. Against my better judgement I continued to return to this venue because of cheap drinks and hot upperclassmen. That is, until one night when I was walking upstairs, glowing because my fake ID had worked again, when a heavyset thug who was standing on the landing reached clear up my skirt as I was walking by. My friends, who had no idea this had happened, where the palest I've ever seen them the moment I had reached back and punched this shithead in his fat fucking face. Bouncers flew to me from all directions, questioning my actions, panicking because they knew they shouldn't have let me in to begin with, and completely ignoring the fact that this guy was sexually violating women in their bar. They asked no further questions and although they seemed to believe me and allowed me to proceed to the bar, this man was not thrown out, but simply asked to relocate to the downstairs. I went home shortly after and never returned.
The Visitor
Living in New York City in a large apartment with a pullout couch, I tend to entertain a lot of visitors. While under any other circumstances I would lock my door at night, my apartment has a jack and jill bathroom which requires my guests to walk through my room to do their business, and as a good hostess, I allow them to do just that. For just one evening I had a friend and his roommate come stay with me, and though I had never met the roommate, I trusted my dear friend's judgement and accepted them both into my home. To be honest, I've made worse mistakes, but as a person who finds herself in MANY uncomfortable situations, this has to rank among the most uncomfortable.
After a wild day of drinking, these two gentlemen stumbled into my apartment in the middle of the night and pretty promptly passed out, but only a half hour passed before my door opened. Without fully waking, I could hear someone move from the living room, through my bedroom, into the bathroom, but never re-emerge. I ignored this. Unfortunately, I then I heard my light-sleeping roommate open her door and walk into the bathroom. My phone immediately lit up with a message from her saying "I think your friend is lost in the bathroom." With very little motivation to do so, I pulled myself out of bed and escorted my drunk guest back to the couch, then returned to sleep. A second time I heard the same routine: living room, my room, bathroom, nothing. I went to retrieve him and back to the couch he went. After a brief nap I heard a door open again. same story, but this time, he came back out...just not back into my room. The creak I heard was that of my roommate's door followed by an immediate flip of light switch that marked the moment when this drunk idiot had walked into her room instead of mine. This son of a bitch is lucky my roommate is so cool, because I probably would have stabbed a bitch if I had been in that situation. I later found out he had, upon realizing he wasn't where he was supposed to be, attempted to climb into bed with her nonetheless. She removed him to the living room where he belonged and locked her doors. Completely ashamed, I tried my damnedest to pretend like none of this was happening, but the fourth time he walked to the bathroom I turned all my lights on so there was no way he could get lost again. My plan worked and he came back into my room, but this time I had no hope of returning to slumber and was on my computer doing work. He realized I was awake, apologized, but then sat on the end of my bed telling me how drunk he was. I sympathized. Sure, three doors is an awful lot of doors to go through to get to a bathroom, even though they're all less than five feet apart and your'e an architect, but ok, you're drunk and I get it.
"Since you have your computer can you tell me how often the buses come that take me to the airport?"
Knowing he had a flight to catch in a few hours and dying to get him the hell out of my apartment I pulled up the M60 schedule to let him know when he should leave. At that moment he hauled himself from the foot of my bed and crawled up beside me. Thinking he was trying to look at the schedule himself I didn't say anything until all of a sudden he was holding me by the face trying to stick his tongue in my mouth. I slammed shut my computer first, then slammed him against the wall , then woke up my friend and told him this guy needed to be controlled. In a short amount of time he was out of my apartment and I was able to forgive his drunk behavior, but retrospectively realizing how not OK that was. Luckily he wasn't a very big guy and was completely obliterated, but it was eye opening to exactly how much in danger I could have been.
The Prowler
Two summers ago I was living with my parents in their lovely home in some lovely suburbs outside of Pittsburgh. Although this area is known for being clean and safe, we are an extremely paranoid family who takes a lot of time locking doors, double checking those doors are locked, then sleeping with scissors under our pillows 'just in case.' My mother and I have a bad habit of falling asleep in the tv room, but this night, unlike most, I had decided around 1230am it was time for us to go upstairs. I had work the next morning and was going to take a shower, but the moment I went to step of the sill, my dog began to bark. When Misty, who is the quietest, gentlest, mildest dog I've ever met starts barking late at night, we take that shit seriously. Thinking that a squirrel had found its way onto the deck, I put my clothes back on to investigate. Before I had even reached the first floor, my mother had run past me and was feverishly turning on all the lights and gathering kitchen knives to walk around with. Assuming she was being ridiculous I went straight to the source to see exactly what my sweet pooch was so worked up over. However, the moment I was about to cross the threshold into the tv room (which opens onto the porch) my father, who had been asleep but woken up upon hearing the barking, started screaming for me to call the police.
"Uhh...Hi. Someone just tried to...break into our home," I made up, not knowing what was happening as my dad sailed past me, shotgun in hand, running into the darkness. He had, as I soon discovered, looked out the window in time to see a man running down the stairs from our porch out into the yard. The cops arrived within moments and began questioning us. We each recapped our timeline, my mother declaring that it had to have been the cable guy who was in our house earlier coming back to rob us, while my father and I both knew that a guy in a white tshirt was not there to steal anything, but more likely to watch a 22yr old sleep. He shared his suspicions with police, explaining my typical routine and how anyone watching our house would have known how much time I spent in that room, but they weren't taken seriously. I know this because a second officer took me aside,
"Now I know you may not want to tell your mom or dad, but did you maybe have a friend try to come visit you tonight? Were you planning to sneak someone in or sneak out yourself?"
"Officer, I'm 22. I've graduated from college. I assure you I was not trying to sneak a boy into my house on a Tuesday while my parents were still awake and I have work the next morning."
I should note that my sass rarely gets me anywhere, but more importantly note that this officer of the law's first assumption was that it was the young girl was responsible for whatever incident had just occurred. I remember telling my sister who a few weeks later came home for a visit not to walk around in her sports bra in case someone was watching our house and was just as bad as them! I was telling my sister to cover her body in OUR OWN HOME because a cop made me feel like it was my fault that some fucking pervert was there to watch me sleep.
The Biker
This very same summer I was working as an intern for people I enjoyed working for. They were wonderful to me, putting me on projects I enjoyed, mentoring me whenever possible, and letting me work in the beautiful front room of our first floor office. It was in this room, however, where I was isolated from my coworkers and spent most of my time completely alone since the other employees were out and about for the better portion of the work day. This was hardly an issue except on days when the Biker came in. The Biker was in his late forties, divorced with two kids and deeply in debt, but also not an employee of our company. He, in fact, only rented the desk across from mine, would show up once a week for thirty minutes, brag about who he was taking to lunch or to golf, say something offensive to me and then leave. If anyone else was in the office there were almost no words exchanged, but if I was there by myself it was
"Stephanie, you look like you got some sun." "Thanks, actually I did." "Your bikini must be pretty tiny if I don't see any tan lines."
"I have a motorcycle if you ever want to go for a ride." "That's nice, but no thank you." "You don't even want to try on the helmet?" "No. Thanks." "But it's black, it would look pretty badass with your blonde hair." "I need to make a phone call."
"Does your boss make you wear pants?" "No?" "You should wear more skirts and shorts then."
"Stephanie, would you mind looking at this product I'm developing?" "I'm working." "Well maybe after work we can go get di..." "Let me see... right...I'm not an industrial designer. Good luck." Then this
which he slipped over the partition onto my desk because other people came back into the office. After choking back my vomit, I promptly asked to speak with him in the hall and told him it was inappropriate for him to make advances at me at work. The next day I spoke with boss, showed her the note, explained my response, and very firmly alerted her that there was no reciprocation on my part. Her reply was that his father was a friend of her family and she was doing him a favor by letting him keep his office there, that he was just an idiot and I shouldn't take anything he says seriously. Even though I was upset by this response I agreed that he was probably pretty harmless, but explained that if she had no intention of evicting him or relocating me from that office that if were ever alone together again I would leave work for that day, which she seemed to accept. After this discussion though, she apparently told my coworkers because the next day I was met with nothing but teasing about how I was being hit on and how it was the cost that came with being a pretty girl.
While these stories are funny and entirely true, I should not treat them so lightly. I am following suit by addressing serious issues with humor since I do not have the platform or the ability to adopt the necessary tone to treat this issue with the severity that it deserves. I use this blog as a way to entertain my friends with stories of people (or myself) being ridiculous human beings and do not, in any way, hope to perpetuate the careless attitude our society has toward these issues. I have had very close and dear friends sexually harassed and sexually assaulted by people they trusted. None of those criminals were ever brought to justice because these poor women felt in some way responsible for what had happened to them and did not take immediate action. It is horrifying to know that this can take place in this country. While the Daily Show parody is hilarious it is difficult for me to swallow because it is so painfully accurate of what every single girl goes through on a daily basis. I doubt that any of my readers are violent sexual predators, but dudes, quit being dicks. It is exhausting to hear you talk about my ass as though you've in some way earned the right to touch it. All the women in your life are sick of it. I want to wear my shorts and my high heels and allow myself to feel good without you assuming that I'm 'asking for it.' It's just outrageous.
Last week I celebrated my 24th birthday. It was a normal day packed with one hundred activities I was committed to, no time in which to do them, and sacrificing a real shower to make them all happen. While in transit from NYC to New Jersey (because that's a normal thing) my brother called me to wish me a happy birthday and to kindly let me know that I'm running out of "good years." This, of course, is in reference to my deep desire to be a trophy wife, and was sad but true reminder.
While half the population still mistakes me for a high school student, what they can't see behind the makeup and current fashion trends are the effects of six sleepless, agonizing years of architecture school. The crow's feet at the corners and the bags below my eyes are clearly here to stay. A ten hour night of sleep can't make those bad boys go away. The stress wrinkles on my forehead are still pretty superficial and I'm hoping a jar of Rite Aid's finest face balm will prevent those from becoming any deeper for some time . While I'm, for the most part, accepting of this fate, I struggle with the other fact: I still have ACNE. Who's sick idea of a joke is this?
"Give her the pimples of a 15 year old, but the creases of a 35er. Yeah...that'll be hilarious."
I am doomed to spend the rest of my twenties in an ambiguous age window that will leave potential sugar daddies scratching their heads. Moreover, this also seems harmful in a profession where, on one side of this spectrum, I have been treated disrespectfully because of my apparent age. If the acne persists, it will probably, in conjunction with my downright delightful demeanor, overpower my skills and perpetuate the notion of the forever-intern. Conversely, wrinkles won't help anything because WHO THE FUCK WANTS WRINKLES IN HER MID TWENTIES?
While I'm on the subject let me list the other ways in which architecture school has ruined my body, my relationships, and my general well-being.
- Vision: from spending so many hours looking at a computer screen or small print I now can't see anything outside of 8' of me clearly. I just wave to everyone now. - Rem sleep: when the hell is the last time I've had a full cycle? - Skin: in addition to acne and wrinkles, I also have the beginnings of varicose veins from sitting with my legs crossed for so many hours. LUCKY ME - Hygiene and Eating habits: hahahahaha I haven't had a routine schedule since 2008 - Social Skills: I do not know how to interact with anyone besides other architects/architecture students - Everything Else: because i'm so freaking broke from paying for architecture school I can't resolve any of these other problems...so...great.
Fortunately, I'm in this with all the other knuckleheads who thought going to design school was a solid idea.
The good news is I probably won't end up with laugh lines.
Friends, I've returned. I know I have been absent for some time, but sadly I hardly have the time or energy to devote to bathing let alone to spell-check an angry rant about girls who pee on the seat. Allow me to apologize for having other priorities. Yet, here I am, ready to fill your summer with piss poor blogging that so many of you seem to enjoy.
Yes, Stephanie. Insult your readers; that will keep them coming back.
Some topics to look forward to this season: traffic jams, Craigslist, catcalls, and probably some general drunkenness.
Look around you. It's not difficult to see the signs. The pain, the discomfort...you can see it in their eyes, in their expression. One in four individuals are suffering from Valentine's Day hate. And you, the one posting photos of that beautiful bouquet your normally douchey boyfriend sent, and you, taking kissing selfies on your romantic walk to that overpriced dinner, oh and you, with the status about how you and your man ordered pizza and are drinking beers because you are just "that kind of couple," this is your fault. The anguish and the disgust that your single friends are feeling is on your shoulders. Valentine's day was a harmless holiday until you romantic jerks and your social media started inundating the servers with your mushy garbage. The good new is you can help. For zero cents a day you can stop being an attention whore and keep your romantic gestures between you and your significant other. Email your sister? Ok. Text your mom? Fine. Instagram? NO. Facebook? NO. Twitter, Tumblr, Snapchat? NO. Keep your stupid shit to yourself. The problem with this holiday is not the romance, nor the gift-giving, nor even the prescriptive nature of the whole ordeal. In fact, I like Valentines Day. I participate in Valentines day. Sure it's just a way for Hallmark to make money, but I think it's a lovely little nudge to do something nice for the people in your life whom you care about. The problem is the blatant and over the top flaunting that makes people want to stab a pen through their own temples. Someone loves you and that's awesome, truly, that's great, but there is no need to brag about it and make your friends feel dejected and/or nauseous. I don't know if you're insecure and feel that you somehow need to prove to your community how important you are to someone or that you're just insensitive. Either way nobody is a fan of your garish facebook status. So everyone, when tomorrow rolls around please don't tell us how "lucky I am to be in love with my best friend," or how you're "with the most amazing person that brings out the best in me in every way," or how fucking #blessed you are to have found that special someone. Please just don't.
Earlier this week a dear friend of mine called to catch up, and while the gesture was lovely, I couldn't help but notice she was distracted by something. snap*snap* "FOCUS." "Sorry...I am pissed...and I have an idea for your blog." "...go on." "Old. Nasty. Naked. Women. Locker rooms. GO." I was immediately thrown to the moment during my sophomore year phys. ed. class when I suffered my first full frontal. There she was, stripped of her one-piece, standing in the yellow glow of the poorly lit rape-dungeon that was the girls' locker room waiting for an open shower. For a girl who had only ever watched Featured Films for Families, I was paralyzed to see the first naked body outside of my own. No one around me flinched so neither did I (having learned social ques earlier that week I'm sure), but that image is frighteningly burned into my mind. Know how I know I'm straight...? "Oh I have this." Now days later, I'm not quite sure I 'have this,' but allow me to illuminate why being naked in the locker room is disturbing on more than one level. 1. The Oldies Listen, Pops and Memaw. We get it, you lived through [insert traumatic world event here] and no amount of criticism will cause you the same anguish as [above event], but that doesn't mean you need to make us suffer the hazing ritual of looking at your saggy genitals. You may be comfortable with your body, but it's a reminder to the rest of us youthful Adonises that, we too, will some day be as wrinkled and disproportional as you. The condition of our bodies is fleeting and we know that, and we don't want your flabby ass in our face to remind us. 2. The Fatties Look, I'm glad that you're 'proud of your curves,' but unless your curves are cast in marble and guarded by two men wearing earpieces at the Louvre, don't flash them my direction. Your indulgences have made you the way you are and my sacrifices have made me the way I am. I'm sorry I'm not accustomed to cascading layers of tissue occupying the space where my abs should be. Agree to disagree. 3. The Super Fit Ok. Congratulations. We're all jealous. You've earned this, but you should know that apart from the few of us that admire you, most people want to shove your chiseled body into oncoming traffic. You represent the things we want and just can't achieve because, gosh dangit, we f*cking love bagels and pizza. 4. The Average Joe You're naked because you want us to know how few shits you give. Well guess what, we still give the same amount of shits about you. Put your effing robe back on. Honestly, if I went to the gym more often maybe I could provide a more exhaustive taxonomy of naked individuals. However, I'll leave the type-casting for the comment section. I am not ashamed of my body, in fact, between scoring highly in the genetic lottery, my commitment to fitness and, frankly, my desire to be better than everyone else at everything, I am a pretty big fan of my body. Nonetheless, I am not going to go streaking down your street or skinny-dipping in your hot tub (subject to owner of said hot tub/company), let alone stripping down to my shower shoes in a public locker room, so neither should you. Keep your clothes on, people. You're making the rest of us squirm.
2013 was a year of many things: NSA enlightenment, Manti Teo's fake dead girlfriend, progressive Pope Francis, and twerking. But 2013 was also a year in which, for some reason, being an introvert became trendy. Judging by the incessant posting of links declaring introversion across the Facebook switchboards, I have A LOT of introverted friends. I have a theory for the self-diagnosed shy kids: I'm pretty sure you're not an introvert, you're just in your twenties and addicted to the internet. "Now wait a minute, I hate going out and meeting people,and I really hate parties." Well, that's because you're in you're not in college anymore. Meeting people was never an issue when you lived in a proximity to thousands of other students with whom you could corroborate on common interests like classes and sports. Now as an adult, you and your peers don't remember how to make friends with ease, therefore trying to impress others, or simply perpetuate a sense of amiability toward others, is exhausting. Of course you would rather sit at home and binge on hot pockets and House of Cards than go to happy hour with coworkers or to an acquaintance's housewarming party. "I'm serious though, I would much rather stay in than leave the house." Yeah? Me too; turns out the internet is more interesting than most of the people I know. Additionally, leaving the house typically means spending money, money I certainly don't have and the rest of you are probably trying to save. When 'experiencing' the world can be done from the comfort of one's own couch, the motivation to leave home is greatly diminished. All things you used to have to leave your home to do--ordering food, maintaining friendships, walking around (I really hope I'm not the only one who explores places using Google street view)-- you can now do on your iPad. Between online shopping and live streaming, who the heck doesn't want to stay in?
Stephanie, it's time to put a bra on...
"Well, I also really enjoy doing things by myself." Sigh. You're a pragmatist not an introvert. Nobody with a job has time to turn errands into a social exercise. Shop by yourself? You're an adult who no longer needs constant purchase approval from friends. You know who you are, you know what you like; no validation necessary. Even if you have the time, having company slows you down and you still have two more seasons of How I Met Your Mother to get through. "I ignore my phone all the time." Bullshit. You ignore your friends all the time. Your phone, however, is attached to your palm. I know this because all you fucking idiots keep sending me invitations to play candy crush. You're fooling no one. "I hate people. I do." If you truly hated people you wouldn't use facebook, instagram, or any form of social media whose sole purpose is to give you a constant feed of what other people are doing. You would rather play with your phone at parties than socialize because the internet is crack and, like I said, you don't remember how to be cool. You wear headphones in public not because you can't talk to strangers, but because you were raised in a world of media and need to be constantly stimulated. Also, you're probably afraid of being left alone with your own thoughts. "Ok, but I definitely hate groups." You probably just have figured out by now what you want in life and who you want to surround yourself with. Hanging out in groups runs the risk of engaging with someone who falls outside that inner circle and that is probably what doesn't appeal to you. I'm sort of just guessing on this one. Now I'm not calling anyone a liar here. I just want to point out that enjoying alone time and being an introvert aren't necessarily the same thing. Reality: you're in your twenties, broke, overworked, and sick of making new friends. I bet you still party hard every other week, but when you have free time prefer sit at home and be lazy. Instead of admitting that to yourself though, you'd rather credit your laziness to a personality disorder. Mmmhmm. That's what I thought.
This weekend my lovely and charming friend (read her blog here http://faubulousinpittsburgh.blogspot.com/) took my to a Pittsburgh Penguins game. You need not have attended a game ever to understand that the white stuff they players skate around on is ice, so using basic reasoning skills one should be able to deduce that hockey arenas are cold. The mother sitting two seats away from me at the game managed to figure this mystery out since she was decked out in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. Her young son, however, was wearing an Under Armor shirt and nothing else. Through his chattering teeth he told his mother he was cold. "Oh...your dad must have taken your jacket. Oh well." *watches game*. Upon overhearing this and watching the poor little boy shivering in his seat I offered him my coat to wrap around himself. He politely declined, the mother side-eyed me then continued to ignore my existence. So my question is this: why didn't the mother offer her son ANY of the warm winter apparel she was wearing when he was so obviously enduring the first stages of hypothermia? Wouldn't that natural thing be to wrap him in her own jacket, especially after hearing a complete stranger offer to do just that? Some people are clearly not meant to be parents. You all go about your lives, I'm just going to sit here and contemplate the downsides to mass sterilization.
I shouldn't criticize this woman too badly since she did have her kid at a Penguins game, after all. My parents never did that for me. Those jerks just sent me to college and put me in braces and taught me to be a good person and shit. Yes, the good person thing is debatable.
Selflessness just isn't a characteristic I'm ready to add to my pallet just yet (if ever). Apart from my general distaste for children, my awareness of this fact is what drives me to birth control. I certainly don't cherish the idea of an eight pound shit-machine squeezing its way out of my hoohah, but I know I would love my own children and take excellent care of them. Proof of this is in my relationship with my six, soon to be seven, cousins' kids. Sadly, I would be a great mother and am probably the kind of person society desperately needs to reproduce, but again, no thanks.
Cousin Stephanie to the rescue. Just kidding I'm probably the reason he's crying.
Your kids should come first, people. Even I know that. Don't make me show compassion in public again. Ok?
