One of the guys

Peggy Olson:  I know what men think of you: That you’re looking for a husband, and you’re fun. And not in that order.
Joan Holloway: Peggy, this isn’t China. There’s no money in virginity.

I’ll never be one of the guys.

Why?

Do I even want to be?

I dunno.

It’s odd though.  I hear it from my guy friends all the time.  When they think a girl, possibly a friend, or the girlfriend of one of their buddies, is super cool…they say “she’s one of the guys.”

I guess that’s not even remotely close to what I’d want to “be” to any one of them. Or is it? After all, girls who are “one of the guys” never seem to have a problem attracting guys.  But still.  Here I am, past three decades of life, and I’ve realized…I’ll never be “one of the guys.”

It might be because I don’t have brothers and don’t know how to have a completely, 100% platonic friendship with a guy.  Ok, that’s huge.  And maybe something that’s a better topic to share with a close friend or a therapist.  But I dunno.  It’s weird when every guy you ever meet is a potential boyfriend, husband, lover.  I’ve never really known any that couldn’t be.  Besides male relatives of course.  But, I haven’t hung out with them enough to perfect the art.

Though I look at Joan Holloway…Joanie to Richard [Sterling]…you know, from Mad Men?  Now, if I were into girls…she’d be my #1 crush.  She’s sexy hot, curvy, feminine, but she dishes it out…just like the men.  She’s the only girl in the boardroom.  Seriously…even Peggy only goes in when she’s making a pitch to a client.  She’s not afraid of speaking her mind.  She knows how to put people in their place…matter of factly.  Perhaps I watch a lot of Mad Men…it’s true. I’m obsessed with their 1960s’ complexities.  How women are only secretaries.  Yet even in this world, I call places and people assume I’m the secretary.  Still!

But if I could be a Joan…I’d be thrilled.  That’s not to say she’s got it all figured out. She obviously married the wrong guy.  Well, he was the first good one to ask.  She makes mistakes, falls back in to old habits, but never truly exposes her vulnerabilities.  Is that what makes her the type of guyish girl I’d want to be? Because I relate?

But Joan…she relates to Marilyn Monroe.   I mean, remember when she was laying on Roger’s couch, dabbing her eyes?  Roger had to assure her that she wouldn’t end up alone and in despair…like Marilyn had.  Yes.  Like Marilyn had.  Marilyn…one of the sexiest, most feminine, admired women of our pop culture history.  She’d ended up alone, and in despair.

Yet what did Joan want most out of life? To be a well-off housewife.  The ultimate goal of her existence.  And she was pained to think she could possibly be bored, lonely, and miserable as one. Is that the sad fate of a femme fatale? Someone sassy and bold…who never stops being a woman?  Does she end up bored, lonely…in misery?

But I’m not even close to being as strong as Joan.  Unlike her, I have a way of looking at guys, with these puppy dog eyes, a way that makes them feel like they’re more to me than they really are.  It’s not intentional.  But it’s real. A guy once told me, “Don’t look at me with those eyes…” and I thought “What eyes?” No really.  He was accusing me of flirting with my eyes.  I wasn’t.  Honestly.  I didn’t have feelings for him.  Though, I have to admit, the first time we met, I thought maybe I could.  How telling….

Let’s break it down…I read chick lit.  I smell like vanilla.  I don’t wear baseball caps.  I don’t give “thumbs ups”.  I’m scared of the dumbest things. I have a way of whining, that only girls can perfect.  I am sensitive.  Emotional.  I cry…not enough, but I do.  I like having colorful fingernails, long hair, carrying clutches and wearing cute earrings.  I don’t watch sports.  And I don’t really care about them (unless a boy I like does).

I’m educated, independent, and successful.  Yet, I’m not a feminist.

But let’s explore some more.  I’m dramatic.  “Boys” aren’t.  I try too hard.  “Guys” don’t.  I’m not elusive.  And if, for some reason, I’m hard to pin down…it’s probably cuz I’m holding out.  I don’t drink like a fish. No, seriously.  One or two drinks and I’m good.  Better than good.  I seem high maintenance…(I’m totally not…but I’m perceived that way….).  Apparently, guys don’t like that.   I seem like I’d get grossed out easily…but I don’t. I swear.

So what is it that makes a girl “one of the guys” and that makes me the girl who can’t be there “without being there”…? I stand out…as a girl? I speak up…like a girl? It also doesn’t help that have the voice of a little girl.

But it’s important to note that I lose all my wit and intelligence around boys [I like].  I get flustered.  Really.  I forget how astute, calculated, and bright I can be.  Bottom line, I stop acting like myself.  And that makes me a girl.  A girly girl.  A girl’s girl.

My bestie once told a guy I was dating that he was a girl’s man.  Ya know…the opposite of a man’s man.  Sure he smoked cigars, drank stiff cocktails, and wore suits every day.  But he opened doors, ordered for me at restaurants, served me off communal plates, walked on the traffic side of the street, didn’t care a lick about athletics, and enjoyed drama.  Maybe that’s why I liked him.  The way manly men like girls who are “one of the guys.”

And that’s ok.  Like Katy Perry said…”I wanna be one of the girls…pretty in pearls, and not one of the boys.”

 

Photo credit: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/06/19/christina-hendricks-joan-_n_879910.html

 

©2012, Leegal Deeva.  All rights reserved.

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rain.

it happened. it was inevitable. i’m in a mental, “i dont give a sh*t” kind of place.  a tear just plopped down on my white shirt and all i can think is will my mascara stain it? i dont want to do anything today.  it’s possible that it’s monday and that’s the reason why. but i just can’t help but feel that i am the same on the other days…there’s just no excuse for it then.

perhaps it’s the rain.  it makes me feel so melancholy.  i love being inside during the rain. i nearly wished for it when i was sweating my butt of these past couple of days. wishing i was a skinny girl who could wear paper-thin sundresses, be tan (year-round without the risk of wrinkles, or worse–skin cancer), not worry about cellulite and jiggly arm fat.
why can’t someone love me for who i am? to look at me and think, i’m the ideal girl for him. cultured, intelligent, bright…beautiful.
i am all those things.  yet even at my best…in single digit sized jeans, perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect skin…”he” (whoever the “he” of the moment was) still didn’t want me. they’ve broken me.  to be rejected by people who never even had your heart or emotion? how would that make you feel? how would that work toward making u want to keep trying?
and that’s just it. i’ve stopped trying.  boys…i’d rather live without them. diet? a bowl of mac ‘n cheese (not that i’ve had mac ‘n cheese lately…but any comfort food will suffice) is always better than going out, feeling fat, getting rejected. catching a few episodes of a brainless tv show is easier than the routine of getting ready for the gym, sweating my butt off, showering, blowdrying, doing endless laundry…running out of socks and underwear b/c of my life-consuming gym habit.
friends suggest vacations. ok, i’ll go. but when i come back, reality always envelopes me with it’s mundane, unexcited, dead weight.
but what is it that really digs at me? i think it’s the boys.  the ones who didn’t want me. ok, they did…they wanted my information, knowledge, affection, interest, company, humor, advice…but they didn’t want “me”.  i wanted to give them all of it…and my heart, and my devotion, and respect, and love–forever.  but they handed it back to me.  the way you hand back something that’s too expensive and impractical…something that you’ve studied on the internet and read consumer reviews about but never actually consider buying.
instead, they go for the run of the mill.  the type they said they’d never enjoy. the blonde. the ditz. the smoker. the girl with wrinkles (no offense to anyone that has wrinkles). the one who speaks one language, and can’t spell.  the one who puts herself first. is selfish toward you. takes what you give without reciprocating. the one who absorbs all your love and affection but leaves you broken-hearted several years later, claiming: “i love you but i’m not IN love with you.” … “i love you but i love “him” more…” “i love you but i want to go ‘find myself'”
why her?
why not me? why can’t it be me? when i’m the one that’s IN love with you. when i’m the one who will always love YOU more (even than myself).  when i’m the one who wants to to create “me” around the concept of you and give you everything i have.
it’s not that i’m not enough.  it’s just that i’m too much. and i can’t forgive myself for always wanting to be “less” so that i can have “more.”

©2012, Leegal Deeva.  All rights reserved.