Les Affaires de Coeur: December 2010 Archives

A friend of mine with whom I work told me she was describing me to friends of hers, and that their reaction was, "Wow, she doesn't sound at all like what she does."

I thought, "Thank god." And then I thought, "It's time to change that."

I don't know what anyone would guess that I'd do, looking at me, but it reminds me of that game bloggers play whereby they tell you a list of things you don't know about them.

I don't like the word meme (I have an allergy to popular lingo, and anyway I'd rather keep that word as its French self in my head - pronounced "memm" and meaning "same"). But I do like lists. I like lists for the same reason that I like Twitter - little nibbles of information have a tendency to be charming and quirky, more so than the same information imparted in paragraph form.

They operate like poetry - sometimes you need a little air around something to see its shape and appreciate it properly.

Or because it lets me out of having to lay down grand ideas for you, when I need to let my grand ideas jell on the back burner.

Thing One: I was a caffeine-free zone for five years. Expected I'd stay that way indefinitely, but one day I was planning to have a boy over, and I knew he was a coffee-drinker, so I went out and bought a little French press. You know what happened next, right? He did that freaked-out-boy thing whereby he skedaddled immediately upon waking up and never called me again. A few days later, I looked at the French press and thought, "I might as well make some coffee so it's not a total waste of money." Been hooked ever since. As my friend K says, "Coffee is a harsh mistress."

(Apparently this list may take the form of paragraphs when it's necessary to tell a story. I make no apologies for inconsistency.)

Thing Two: When boys dump me or force me, by their bad behavior, to dump them, I give them epithets to assist in the getting over them process. The French press boy, who was so tall and skinny he reminded me of a crane, became Bird Boy. Another one (whom I had trouble giving up) went from being referred to as Blonde Heroin on a Bike (BHOB) to simply the Junk, which led to the following hilarious conversation:

I'd planned to meet my friend J for brunch one Sunday. In the meantime I'd booty-called BHOB. I called J to see if we could meet for dinner instead.

J: Sure, sweetie, we can meet for dinner. Hey...are you off the Junk yet?
Me: Oh yeah, I'm off the Junk.
J: (pause) You are so totally ON the Junk. I bet you're at his apartment right now.
Me: (sheepish) Yeah.

Thing Three: As much as I think and talk about boys, I don't get involved with that many of them. I don't think, to look at me, you'd be able to tell I have such bad luck with dating. Although I have wondered whether being pretty is actually a handicap. Maybe if I'd grown up with an awareness of being pretty, it'd be different. But I grew up as a nerd, so I'm a weird hybrid. My brain knows I'm pretty, but my heart still looks out at the world and expects to be treated like Elephant Man.

I'm not sure what the solution to that is.