There’s something inherently confusing to me about America’s favorite pastime. Ahem, not baseball, my friends. I get baseball. I’m referring to dating. Yes, dating. Why? Because. It’s baffling. Annoying. Irritating. Stupid. Moronic. Idiotic. Okay, scratch those. Honestly, dating’s best described as “utterly bewildering,” or “throw-my-brain-against-the-wall frustrating.” Yeah, now that’s more like it!
The proverbial “they” always say, “You gotta play the game.” I mean, c’mon. “Playing the game”? Why do I have to do that? Can’t you just like me and can’t I just like you, and can’t that be that? No, I might get baseball, but that sort of game-playing I don’t get. If we’re going to “play a game,” aren’t we supposed to have protective equipment and some ground rules for governance of the activities, anyway? Hell if I’ve ever seen any of those. In fact, the entire concept is one I’ve never quite grasped, and as a result, I’ve yet to figure out how to do it “correctly.” Needless to say, my foibles and fumbles have been epic in nature, and well, I could tell you stories that would make your head spin right off your neck in disbelief. However, I will not, because that was documented in a blog from days of yore. I’d like to covet a few shards of dignity here.
But sometimes, it’s just hard. Hard to keep sight of what you’re worth in attenuated, sticky situations of enamor. You try to roll like Timex, and your attempts are sometimes unsuccessful – you take a licking and you do your best to keep on ticking. But instead of “ticking,” you may only find yourself buzzing.
I mean, what’s “the game” and what’s just plain intolerable? I might assume I know the answer to that inquiry, but in practice, I may opt for the wrong answer. And don’t tell me to “go with your gut,” because we all know that guts have a tendency to lie right to your face when he’s “so cute” and “was really nice to me” and “kisses like butter.” Um, yeah. It can become incredibly easy to doubt and question what you will and won’t stomach. And what you do and don’t deserve, for that matter.
Gwen’s recent post gently nudged me on a fact I claim to know – that I’m a superwoman, of course. But do I only assert that I know that, or do I really know that? Moreover, do I live that? My friend Michelle always tells us that we’re “at the top of the food chain,” and that we “f*cking walk on water,” and we should be treated as such – and nothing less. Two points I agree with wholeheartedly, for certain. But do I understand that? Do I breathe that?
I’m not sure.
When I’m staring at a call log on my cell that doesn’t include his name (no matter how far down I scroll), or when I am refreshing the browser with my Gmail open and only CNN Breaking News tops the list, my self-image falters. It wobbles. I’ll admit it; it does. Because while I’m certainly not the type to let a relationship (or lack thereof) with a male suitor define me, I want to be treasured and admired by someone who appreciates me. Just like anyone else does. It’s a good feeling, or so I think, and there’s nothing wrong with desiring it. It’s an entirely new interest to me, as I’ve spent a lot of time believing it’s a weakness that I could avoid. But now I think it’s only human to seek it. And while I believe that I’m intelligent, phenomenal, and (really, really) awesome, I waver a little when the opportunity I have given him to evaluate me on such an intimate level is exploited.
It cuts. It stings. It bites, and maybe it bleeds. Maybe. But it’s not the end of the world. It never is. Of this I’m well aware. I suppose that’s why even when I’m a mess, I still put on a vest, with an S on my chest. ‘Cause no matter what happens, and no matter what he decides, I’m still – very much – a superwoman. Yes, I am.