*I wrote this a while back, but being that I am having a fit of un-inspiration today, decided to remove it from the depths of my desktop and share it with the world– moderately altered due to the fact that I am no longer allowed to flirt with Costa Rican bell boys. More on trip prep tomorrow. Although Roommate A did offer one for the list before he left town yesterday.
#11: Have fun and don’t get dead!
Sucks being one of the boys
At 23 years old, I still wish I could employ the playground tactics of flirting. I’d like nothing more than to walk up to a cutie in the bar, give him a swift kick to the shins and then hand over my phone number. It’s amazing K wants to date me. I don’t get the coy flirtation, hand on the leg, sly smile—whatever it may be. I’ve got no game. I’ve always been one of the boys, despite all of my intentions. And it sucks. I can change motorcycle oil, form tackle and am comfortable showering in a bathtub full of mold (both gross and doable), but can’t get a phone number. My interactions with boys taught me how to be a good pal, not a good girlfriend.
To be fair, the odds have been stacked against me since birth. Coming from a gigantic Irish-Catholic family, I was the first girl born in ten years. I’ve got two younger brothers. My mother, despite her best intentions, is a total tom boy. Give her a chain saw and she’s golden; mascara and she’ll probably poke herself in the eye. My mother told me not to throw a baseball like a girl or act like a helpless girl. She taught me to tack a horse and drive a stick—but not how to put on make-up or accessorize, mostly because she didn’t know herself.
Living in the frat house sure doesn’t help. When I moved in over a year ago, there were a variety of factors involved—the rent was cheap, it was close to the Metro, my current place sucked, I was incredibly sick of apartment hunting. I also figured with a houseful of boys would come a houseful of male friends and insight to the species that bewilder us women so. I was confused on that matter. They accidently cock block (it’s like dating a girl with three older brothers), tell me things I don’t want to hear and I now know things I can never ever un-know.
Don’t get confused. I am in no way saying I don’t like girls. My relationships with women are very near to my heart, but damn if I understand us as a gender. I hate the word “bestie” and I’d rather not hear about your drama. Yet unfortunately, time and time again, the fact that I wear high heels and lipstick and pretty dresses doesn’t distract from my truck driver vocabulary or that I’m willing to share a bathroom with 3 dudes.
Mostly I’m shocked that I’m still willing to get up to bat—well, that and the fact that some of you guys ever get laid. But as one of the boys, I’ve learned a number of things that seem like common sense. Males tell us exactly what they mean; we just translate in the way we see fit. If he doesn’t call, it is because he doesn’t want to. Don’t sleep with him on the first date. And they always tell their friends—even if they promised they won’t (and sometimes their female roommate too).
In light of all this misinformation, I am still making valiant attempts at dating in Washington, DC. Hopefully minus the shin kicking, some of these tried and true methods—online, bars, blind dates, signing up for stupid group activities like kickball on the Mall, continually attempting to trick K into thinking I’m normal—will work. I can’t be stuck being one of the boys forever. At least I sure hope not.