an alternative to ennui
Monthly Archives: July 2014
I wish I could become sexless and nobody would want me. The truth is, the guys squirming in the friend zone have it tough. But what about the girls on the other end? Why are they the offenders and blamed for not reciprocating such feelings? My count is three… I think. Three guys I deemed ‘friend’ who left when I refused to open my legs.
The only difference between boyfriend and friend is that I would be physically intimate with one and not the other. Otherwise, friendship – a platonic relationship – can be just as strong as a romantic/sexual relationship. I have never had a boyfriend. I have never felt strongly towards anyone to the point of pursuing a more meaningful relationship with them. I don’t believe in getting into loveless nothings simply because that’s expected of me. I tell myself that I don’t want to be tied down. That I have more important things to think about, like my two jobs and final year of University. But really, I should just come clean and say “yes”. Yes, I would like a boyfriend. I would like to find that person I trust with all my being. Who causes me physical pain when we are apart. To kiss and share all my insecurities with. I would not feel pressured into having sex with them. I would want to have sex with them. I would love their flaws and they would love mine. There would be no awkward silences. We would become each other. I want that. I really do. I just don’t know how to find him.
I could make due with a friend. A friend who doesn’t turn on me the second I refuse to sleep with them. Who, after sharing my insecurities about relationships with, would not exploit them and make their unrequited love feel like a fault of my own. Why is it even called unrequited love? These boys don’t love me. Or maybe they do. I’ve been trying to see it from their perspective and maybe, maybe they love me. But it feels like more of an infatuation: the impenetrable girl they could add to their roster and brag to their buddies about. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just date one of them. Fuck it – let’s try this out. Let’s pretend I love you back and we can make out, share ice cream. It will be so. much. fun. Or maybe I’m just terrified of sex. Of being bad. Of being ugly. Of being exposed – naked and vulnerable – the way I do when I type these entries.
I’m going through a phase. I know it’s a phase because I’ve been in this head space before. My tastes are changing. I’ve been dressing with purpose and listening to particular music. What should I call it. This is rhetorical; no need for a question mark. How about… Grandma Grunge. Haha, I definitely like that.
My brother and I decided to label our fashion styles and that’s how Grandma Grunge was born. In high school, I prided myself on confusing stereotypes within my wardrobe. I’d wear something like black army boots, skinny black jeans, and an argyle sweater. Or my baggy KISS t-shirt dress, flare blue jeans, and Converse. I like black. Black something with a coloured something. I guess I was going for a punk(ish) look. I clearly didn’t pull it off.
I started thrifting when I was in high school too. I thought it was cool and frankly, I couldn’t afford (nor did I want to pay) for the clothing sold at regular retailers. I wanted pieces nobody else had. I wanted old, moth eaten sweaters that would make me look like a spider – boxy on top with long, thin limbs. Or, not as thin as I had thought.
I was on the pill for acne. It helped. Sort of. I no longer had a sea of little bumps across my forehead, albeit I’d get an occasional HUGE puss-popping pimple right between my eyebrows. My friends warned me that I may put on some weight, but I never found that to be the case. When I was swimming competitively, I weighed about 127 lbs. Once I stopped and stopped exercising all together, I dropped to about 123-125 lbs. I thought I looked good. I’d compare my flat stomach to other girls’ little poochy bellies and feel great about myself. But, then again, I had linebacker shoulders and needed to go up up up a size in pants to compensate for my big hips. Needless to say, throughout the majority of my high school and University experience, I thought that that was how my body was. Done. No changing. Hammered into that shape. Forever. But, October 2013, I went off the pill I had been on for nearly five years and simultaneously experienced quite a bit of anxiety. My eating habits changed and for nearly a week, I lived exclusively off fluids. I dropped from a size six at American Eagle to a size two. People I hadn’t seen in years would tell me I lost quite a bit of weight. My friends asked if I was anorexic. I’m not, I promise. I ate a whole bag of chips last night and I still look and feel the same. I don’t exercise. I don’t watch what I eat. This is clearly me, me off estrogen fuelled drugs.
So my body is a balloon – coming down from its helium high. Slowly, slowly deflating. There are days when that hole is taped shut. I’m a good weight. Any more and I’ll be too thin. But, there’s something obsessive about numbers. 115 is a nice number. 116 isn’t. 110 is even better. So, I quietly peel the tape off and watch as more helium escapes from the balloon. Eventually, it will go limp and be thrown away.
This metaphor is making me scared.
I still like my old lady blouses and black skinny jeans. I like my hipster glasses and my hipster bangs and my grungy boots and my grungy plaid shirts. I like Pop Punk and Alternative. I’m thinking about dying my hair pink again. Or blue this time. But, I also like my blazers and blue jeans. My blonde hair. My hemp bracelets. My crochet purse. My overalls. My Superman boxers. My black mascara. Indie. Rock. New Wave. Metal.
I’m going through a phase. I know it’s a phase because I’ve been in this head space before. My tastes are changing. I’ve been dressing with purpose and listening to particular music. What should I call it. This is rhetorical; no need for a question mark…
I take off my rings to type this story. I prefer typing to writing by hand. My ideas flow through my fingertips pumping away at lettered buttons. All this much faster than a clenched hand cramping from the hard impression of led on paper. My left index finger shakes. I don’t know why. The chances I’ll ever show this to anyone is slim, but it shakes anyway.
When I was fifteen, I went bungee jumping and when they hauled me back over the bridge’s railing, I placed my hands under their noses – palms down – and showed them my bravery. I willed my hands not to move; it was fun, but not scary. I was good. Then again, my left index finger shook. It was probably the adrenaline. Maybe that’s what it is now.
I feel a numbness in my chest. A kind of premature nostalgia. A longing for something that is yet to come. It’s all very romantic and makes my eyes sting and my throat tighten. These plastic trees make it hard for me to swallow.