Please press play:
Scene from “Pretty In Pink:”
Andie: “EEEEEEEEEEEE! It happened! He asked me.”
Andie: “I accepted.”
Dad: “Well, congratulations. No more moping around the house waiting for the telephone to ring.”
Really, Andie? Just like that, Andie? Andie is a biznitch.
The scene above between Andie and her father has stuck with me since I first saw the movie. Why? Because I don’t understand how that happens…in real life. DO MEN EVER ASK LIKE THAT? Like, for real-for real??? Studies (a.k.a. my envious observations of friends during the years when dating/relationships became a thing) show they do.
I’m a turning-31-year-old lady and unlike the Caramilk secret (which I nailed!), I have no idea how boyfriends and girlfriends become boyfriends and girlfriends. I’ve read about it, I’ve watched it on the big and small screens, I’ve been there for my friends in and out of their relationships/committments/exclusivities/marriages and I still don’t understand it because I’ve never lived it. As you know, I’ve had a boyfriend (one) in my lifetime. We decided this would be the next step while I folded his laundry on the floor of his apartment because we were feeling weird after kissing for the first time weeks prior and couldn’t really talk to each other like the best friends we were. Before the kiss. He eventually said, “So what are you thinking?” I said, “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” And then he said, “I guess we should try it” but with an upward inflection at the end. Then we shook hands and I continued to fold his laundry and he continued to clean his room. That was it. Case in point, it’s different for every-damn-body.
I know there’s no formula. There are no written rules. That relationship ended more than 5 years ago and since then…nothing. I was seeing someone for 8 months and every day I thought, well…we’ve been seeing each other and only each other for this long, we’re obviously in a relationship. We don’t need to label it, this just is what it is and I feel so grown up. Chest up, pride pouring from my core. Then he turns around and says, “Yeah – this isn’t a relationship by the by.” WTF?! So then what are we doing? I thought I was being breezy. I thought I was going with the flow. It technically WAS a relationship of sorts, was it not? Explain yourself (arms folded, foot tapping)! Instead he drove away and I choked on the dust from his exhaust. That was that. Why would there be any emotion, in his mind, there was NO relationship.
Was I touched in the soft spot at a very young age? Do NOT tell me that it’s not happening for me because I really want it to. I’m surrounded by men and women who knew what they wanted and they went out and got it. I know people who didn’t want anything of the sort and it just rolled up on ‘em and now they have 2.5 kids and a cottage up north. I will never, ever believe that just because you want something means it’s not going to happen for you. How does that make sense? Everything I’ve ever achieved in life is due to my perseverance and focus on the prize. If I know I’m perfect for a job, will I not do whatever it takes to land that job? If I want to make a meal, will I not scour the land for all the pertinent ingredients and use all the tools I own to make the best dish I can? So why would I not try? The last time I decided I’m just going to concentrate on me…three years went by. I wasn’t approached or asked out in 1,095 days. Guys? Guys. GUYS! Come on, that’s ridiculous. I literally wasn’t even asked out for me to turn to the gentleman and say, “Thank you but no, I’m concentrating on me right now.” I was just left alone. I’m not a game-player yet I’m being forced to play this game with zero instructions, a ripped board and no dice. HOW IS THIS FAIR?
Anyway, this post isn’t for any form of sympathy, obviously. This is me. I’m a big girl. This post is to legitimately ask, how the hell do people get in relationships? ’Cuz dating someone I like and who likes me doesn’t seem to work. Nor does asking the man myself, so…………… *single blink*
follow me on twitter, let’s talk about it: @bettykiss