Friday, September 30, 2011

Game Doesn't Really Work For Me...

I'm not much on game, but I can tell when it's being shoveled at me.

True, men game women all the time, and it's not a bad thing in my eyes; if they do it right, it leads to an open, playful start to a relationship. I've been known to coach dudes through it when they approach me wrong, telling them what they did well and what they need work on. I smile and invite them to try again later, and I breeze on by. It leads to the mystery of Tes, the breezy, openness of me that makes it seems like I'm the fun girl. And I am to an extent.

A young one from my job and his friend tried to push up. I was joking around with my friend, pretending to holler at her, and he interjected saying I was doing it wrong. I invited him to show me how it's done. He tried to maintain his cool, but he was a little flustered. I like them flustered. He and his other half (why is it when they're younger they depend on their wingmen more?) whispered and giggled a bit before he asked me for my Facebook. I told him if he wanted to talk to a girl like me, he'd need my number; grown women don't Facebook - we face time, otherwise we talk. He asked for my number instead and I gave it. I don't plan on him calling, and I'm not sure he does either.

Besides, I'm not interested. Johnny's got my full attention in that area for now; he's maintained that level of dopeness that made me interested in the first place and he's not letting up. He's honest and open, to an extent, and funny and smart. We communicate easily and we seem to always be speaking the same language. Plus his eyes are just gorgeous and make me wanna melt.

I let the young one know that I wasn't necessarily interested, but that just seemed to make him more eager. What's up with that? The old adage nobody wants someone nobody else wants? In any case, I let him know I was kind of occupied, but I could still have friends. That's all I put up, so that's all he should expect. But does it ever really play out that way?

Why is it men think they need to resort to game to get a woman interested? Which is preferred; the man with good game or the man who's just genuine? Is there such a thing as "genuine" game, where a man is just himself and it works in his favor? Also, why is it when girls use game we're called sluts and tramps? And is there such a game as not having game at all? I need answers!*

*Sorry for the hiatus...but between writers block and sleep what's a girl to do? I did miss you guys though. It makes me happy to see people still read me :)

Sunday, September 25, 2011

We All Feel Ashamed

Awhile ago a friend on one of my social media taverns posed a question: What are five things that you think all the time that make you feel ashamed? Some of the answers were laughable; "I often wonder about my best friend's mom in her bathing suit...leaving it there." Some were serious; "I wonder whether I'm going to heaven or hell?" All of them though made me think "what are my five things?"

1) If I could do so without it being obvious, I would constantly dumb myself down. Being the one who knows anything about everything* gets weird; when a smart ass approaches my group of friends and they all look to me to bring down an intellectual b*tch slap on the person I often sigh and wish it could be someone else. If I could, I'd try being the dumb girl because no one expects greatness from her, nobody expects depth; they just expect blank stares and nervous laughter after a joke has gone over her head.

2) I'm afraid of never finding love and being alone. Yes, independent woman, woot woot, and all that jazz, but on the real, I'm scared it's never going to happen (excluding parents and W). I know I'm young and I have time but it always feels like I'm always slightly out of touch with what's real in the world or out of reach with the ones I'm interested in. "Marvin's Room" conversations happen to me all the time and they always leave me feeling the same way: lacking and confused. They all say the same things "I thought you were too good for me," "I wasn't the one for you," or my favorite "I'm not ready for someone like you yet." So it's not my fault, but it is my fault? Which leads me to...

3) I do think I'm pretty and smart and fun, but I still have low self-esteem. Can't even explain that one. It's just one of those things. Which also leads into...

4) My boyfriend record or lack thereof makes me feel insecure and embarrassed. Logically I know, you know, that it's fine I haven't dated many people exclusively, but when faced with societal norms my track record is laughable. I know that sometimes things just don't work out, people aren't meant to be together, yadayada, but for me? It always seems like there's something I could've done, or said to keep that person, whether they were worth it in the end or not if just for the sake of not being alone. It's not my fault, but it still feels like it is...

5) I'm unintentionally whiny**. In the world of Grey's Anatomy, I'm a Meredith. Meredith seems to have her sh*t together; she's a doctor, she's got a McDreamy doctor boyfriend/husband/person, and she's got awesome friends. But Meredith is almost never satisfied and constantly talks about the wrong things in her life. And in that way, I'm a Meredith. Or, philosophically speaking, a Socrates; it's better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied...right (I did a whole six-page paper on this for class awhile ago and I'm still unsure if it's true)?

So...what are your five things?

*No, I do not know everything about anything; I'm a useless trivia person with really good music memory and grammar, which apparently comes in handy to a lot of people.
**The only person who hears me whine consistently is W, and she for the most part understands it's for reasons out of my control (which is why I whine about it) and listens like it's the first time she's ever heard me say anything about it.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Shy Girl? It's Overrated by Far...

I'm a shy girl, which to me is ironic, because I'm also super friendly and approachable. But the fact remains, when there's someone I'm interested in, it takes a lot of guts for me to just up and admit that, and even more for me to convince myself that every little thing isn't a sign that I'll get shot down.

There were times in the past when I asked to hang out with guys and it just went wrong. We'd hang out and it was either terribly boring or there was just no chemistry when we were together and that is something that's just easy to accept and move on from for me; like I gave it a shot, he gave it a shot, and it just didn't work, that's cool. But other times, dudes just flat out said "Nah, I'm good," and to a teenaged girl (at least the ones like me, I'm finding) that's like saying "I can't tell you exactly why I don't like you or want to hang out with you, I just don't," which is a harpoon to the chest for someone always seeking reason and logic. Like, have you met me? Do you see how awesome I am here? Why wouldn't you (not being narcisstic...okay maybe I am but really? I'm kind of cool.)?

I think that contributes to my shyness the most and turns it into this kind of aversion to bothering people. Whenever I get the urge to ask for anything from people that aren't my parents or close friends I always wonder or fear that I'm pestering them. Nobody wants to feel like a bother to other people, but I find that that's frequently what it feels like to me to even take a chance outside the norm for a person.

Prime example is that I've been trying to ask Johnny from work to hang out for like a week, but one thing after another keeps getting in the way. Wrong numbers here, not enough time there, we don't see each other in the office as much, and it's just like 'Maybe that's your sign, Tes.' But for once though...I don't think it is. Yes, I've tried sending texts that he apparently doesn't get and I've tried calling (damn you, error 505...)  and it's just not it for me. So I've decided to do the thing I haven't done in ages, the unthinkable (no Alicia)  and just bite the bullet, wait until I see him, and ask.

It's funny that when I think about it, it terrifies me, but somehow I know that when I get to talking, it won't even seem that big a deal for me. I feel comfortable in myself, and enough in him, to know that he's not just gonna clown me in the street on some "YOU?! HELL NAH SON!" He's a nice guy, I'm a nice girl, and it won't get to that level. And it took me four years of fearing the rejection to finally have the epiphany that, yeah, that sh*t'll sting, but it won't be the end of me. And if he doesn't want to, or can't, that won't be the end of us as friends. And I'll still be the nice girl, and he'll still be the nice guy, but I'll have gotten just one step out of this chalk outline that I've drawn for myself as the shy girl.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Scars Go Deeper Than You Think

I am a girl with prominent acne scars and they make me feel unpretty.

I've never written that, or even said it aloud before, but the fact remains that it's still truth. They were right; truth hurts.

I would suppose it started when puberty did, around 11 years ago when Mother Nature went all "I've Got The Golden Ticket" and dropped Aunt Flo by for her first of many visits. Until that point I'd seen teen aged girls with acne and I thought it was like on TV, just make up that they could take off at any time they wanted to. That was until I started getting pimples of my own.

I was so self-conscious and always trying to assimilate to new surroundings as a shy girl that acne was the last thing I wanted to happen, and so it began. It was a cycle; the pimples would come and I'd feel ashamed, I'd pop, squeeze, tease, poke and prod them until they popped, I'd feel ashamed, they'd scab, the rough patches would drive me crazy with how they'd never just smooth over and go away so I'd pick, only to make huge scars, which made me more ashamed. Rinse, repeat.

It never occurred to me that it was a stress reaction until recently when I noticed I was doing it again (that and gaining weight). I don't think I know how to un-stress; my reaction to stress is to get depressed which, as you can guess, really doesn't help the situation at all, but rather perpetuates it.

I try to hide it; I'm the peppy, friendly girl. I've got the headful of confident curls and brains, an easy smile and a soft voice that speaks strong words but... But the sides of my bath tub should be sponsored by Bath & Body Works in conjunction with SoftSoap. My sink looks like a dermatologist's spread with creams, ointments, treatments, astringents, scrubs and cleaners. And I stand in the middle of it all holding a make-up brush inches from my face.

I try not to be ashamed, and I try to feel prettier. I try to see past the scars into the person. I want to will myself not to hide who I am, my flaws behind CoverGirl's mask of pressed powder and feel okay about it. Other people keep their scars and insecurities inside, why can't I? And with a decided flick of the wrist, I tell myself I'll stop wearing make-up tomorrow. Or Saturday. Two weeks. Until. Maybe.

And the funny thing is, even with all the make-up on, even with all the discoloration hidden and smoothed I still feel the same. I still feel as if the world can see that I'm a girl who doesn't handle her stress well, and I take it out on my own face. I wonder what it would take to make me feel confident enough to not be ashamed to say that I get stressed. That I get depressed. That I get lost. But I just turn away and I don't think of it again until I have to face another mirror...

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Life Is Funny With How It Evolves You

"A clean house is note of a life unlived." -Anon.

My room is clearly evidence of said quote, as when I look around it all I see is stuff, stuff and more stuff. Kind of like an understandable version of "Racks on Racks" except with actual items; make-up, shoes, clothes, purses, and accessories litter my floor as if two super models stay here (except there are food wrappers scattered around so...).

I've been a bustling broad lately; I work 8 hours a day, five a week, and spend a lot of time at work, on my way to work, or preparing for work. The rest of the time I spend sleeping, shopping, or eating, the latter of which has gained me five pounds that I'm desperately trying to get rid of. Don't get me wrong, I love the thickness, but I'm trying to be in my normal range of 140-155...anything else means I'm running up and down my flight of stairs until it hurts me.

I didn't use to have time for make-up, nor use. I had a lot of acne scars growing up and would spend my time with different concealers and powders, bases and creams, trying to fade them and hide them when one day I realized, somebody is going to be very upset if I'm flawless in the face when they ask me out, and flawed as hell when they take me out. I figure I want people to see what I look like naturally, and to be honest, I'm not all that bad. As W tells me often, it could be much much worse on some "Oh bless your heart," type sh*t.

I'll be honest, I absolutely love clothes shopping. I never used to have the means to go out and browse and try on because I knew if I did I'd want to buy and I'd be strapped for cash. Now? Dresses and slacks, blouses and skirts, heels and wedges (oh my!); no item is safe. I love things that fit flatteringly, things that don't require "support garments." I like to look nice, but not as nice as I've been trying to look lately.

See there's this guy at work...I'm not sure what it is, but I'm just feeling him. He's not necessarily my "type" per se but I still dig him. Let's call him Johnny. Johnny is...techy. He's funny. He's got lots of stories and seems like a really nice guy. Plus he has a deep kind of voice which so sweetens my tea. He makes me blush, actually, which is really tough to do, and he does it with little gestures here or words there, maybe a look...

I'm not really myself...I mean, I'm not who I'm used to being. I'm used to being high-strung and worried. I'm used to feeling unpretty and unproductive. I'm used to not feeling like I'm capable of what I wish I were. I shouldn't say I am, but rather I was. I was that high strung wallflower girl, but now...I'm that woman stepping tentatively into her own little niche of spotlight. And I'm a woman with a crush on a guy that makes her blush.

Womanhood was sneaky, but man, is the payoff worth it.

Friday, September 2, 2011

I Am Not My Hair (Except Yeah, I Kinda Am)

I have issues voicing my opinions to my father; I know it and anyone who's heard me talk to my father knows it goes deeper than just being a daddy's girl.

In my mind, when I was younger I used to think that if I was a better little girl, prettier, smarter, or better yet, perfect, he wouldn't leave so often and he wouldn't pick everything else over me anymore. I never felt quite good enough growing up because of that mindset, and so I wouldn't say anything contrary to what my dad said. Ever.

Fast forward to three days before his wedding and imagine his face upon seeing his little girl who used to wear sleek, smooth and shiny straight hair come off a plane with curly, kinky, big hair. The first thing he did? Hug me and touch it on the sly. The first thing he said? What are we gonna do about your hair? He asked me would I be willing to straighten it.

At first I was okay with it, at least that's what I kept telling myself; I am not my hair and whatever. However, the more I thought about it the more uncomfortable I became with the idea that to be accepted I had to change a part of me that had come to represent my metamorphosis from girl to woman. It represents me becoming a new person who makes her own choices and it kept getting harder and harder to give that woman up.

I am not my hair, except yeah, I kinda am.

I feel like my hair suits me in ways that are easy to explain but hard to justify. It's more work than my straight hair ever was, but I love it; nothing feels quite as cool as walking in the rain while other women are just a-running. My hair makes me feel sexy and smart, beautiful and strong. My hair makes me feel like I've been waiting to feel about myself for my whole life.

And so in the end, I told my father no, I wouldn't be straightening my hair, but I wouldn't mind other alternatives. And he completely respected it. The bridal party did too, to a point. My hair was gelled within an inch of it's life, held up with three industrial strength rubber bands and wrapped in a stray track of hair from a discarded packet of YAKI. But what made me smile then, and what makes me smile now, is the fact that even under all that, my hair was still my hair (and it was curling despite that damn Jam).

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Womanhood Is Sneaky

I've been catching my parents looking at me. I mean, yes, they can look at me however they want cause, you know, I'm theirs and whatnot, but the look has changed a little. It's kind of like that look I see them with in all my baby pictures, but it's also a little sad. Sometimes they just look at me like a stranger, as if I'm a body-snatcher in their kid's body.

That, and a few other things have led me to believe that I may be a woman now. When did that happen?

Sometime in the last few weeks I've felt...different. My job is going fine, I'm saving my money and painting my life in my mind's eye with broad brush strokes. I'm more accepting of myself as a person who, admittedly, has flaws like anyone else. I'm more ambitious with my dreams. I'm less focused on what my life is missing, and more so what it's full of that I love. I'm a woman.

I'm focused on myself as a person and understanding what it means to be me now, and what it'll mean to be me in the future. I'm cleaving more to my own understanding of the world than what I'm told of it and see of it. I still dig poetry and music, so not a lot about me has changed in my own eyes; I still feel like the same person, but I'm being looked at differently. Like a woman.

I feel as though womanhood just snuck up on me.  When did it all happen?