I don’t think I’ve ever actually had The Talk with anyone. You know the one I mean, the chat you’re supposed to have when you’ve been dating for a while, you have no intention of seeing anyone else and you want to check that - to get all American on you - they’re on the same page.
With The Ex I just phoned him when I was drunk and slurred, “Are you my boyfriend?” at him. And with all previous boyfriends I didn’t even do that, I just ignored the subject altogether. I only found out that Work Ex had actually considered me his girlfriend after we broke up.
I’d like to do things differently this time and try acting like an adult. I’m still dating the chap of Leigh vs the first date fame and things seem to be going well so the thought of The Talk has started to play on my mind. Not that I’m in any great rush to have it. I don’t have a burning desire to be able to call him my boyfriend, that all feels a bit soon and scary. But sooner or later we probably do need to have a conversation about Us. Especially as we met online, therefore raising the whole deleting of profile issue. I’d quite like to get rid of mine now as I’m not doing anything with it and I was going to delete it anyway before he contacted me but that might look a bit premature to him so I’ve just left it for now.
I’m beginning to think my blog may have magic powers. I blog about giving up online dating and then a nice man sends me a message. I start writing about having The Talk with said man during the day and then that night he calls me his girlfriend. So I guess that negates the need for The Talk.
I almost feel cheated out of it. My inner drama queen was a bit miffed by the simplicity of it all. Where was the angst and the struggle to bring it up in a way that doesn’t make a Big Deal out of it? You’d almost think I’m having an adult relationship or something. That can’t be right surely?
So I write about how rubbish I’ve been at online dating and then I get a message from a man I find attractive AND who makes me laugh. And get this, instead of ignoring him for two weeks while I mentally attempt to draft something witty, I just replied. Just like that. Then he sent me another message, and I only went and bloody replied to that one too. Do I get a high-five or a fist bump or something?
Instead of feeling sick with fear or only replying out of obligation I found myself being excited and smiley when I saw an email pop up letting me know I had a message from him. And when he then asked me if I wanted to go for a coffee, I didn’t even have to think about whether to say yes.
Obviously, I wouldn’t be me if I hadn’t had a little nervous wobble. I had to text him to postpone because of an overrunning hair appointment and the daft, scared part of me really wanted to just cancel the whole thing instead. But fortunately I didn’t as his face is nice, he’s funny, eloquent, has nice muscles and I could spot a sexy bit of chest hair, which I’m rather partial to.
One coffee turned into two, which turned into going for dinner and before I knew it was half nine and he was walking me to my car. All I could think about was whether he was going to kiss me and not in the oh god I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me way that I’ve become accustomed to, but in a I wonder if he’ll kiss me. I hope he kisses me. What if he doesn’t kiss me? Shall I kiss him? kind of way.
And then he did kiss me. And my brain shut up.
I don’t want to gush* for fear of tempting fate and it failing before it’s even really begun, but I like him. He’s fun and I fancy him and I’m looking forward to seeing him again.
I seem to have fallen into somewhat of a pattern where my romantic life – or lack thereof – is concerned. It goes something like this:
Feel a bit lonely, think it would be nice to have one of those man shaped things in my life.
Join a dating site.
OH NO, THE MENZ ARE TALKING TO ME!
Immediately close browser in fear and only log on again to cancel the account.
Feel a bit lonely.
Join a dating site.
ARGH, THE MENZ, THE MENZ!
Leave dating site. Again.
Repeat ad nauseum.
Even the good messages turn me into a basket case. No, especially the good ones. I had a really funny, intelligent message from one guy, who I actually found quite attractive and I took so long to reply that by the time I went to send it (drafted offline of course, in case The Men saw I was online) he’d quit the site.
The furthest down the communication line I’ve got is to swap mobile numbers with one man, who turned out to be a bit weird. Which will serve me right for being superficial as I thought he was boring all along but he was quite hot(/adept at picking flattering pictures). Every time he text me, instead of feeling excited I felt almost put out. Mildly cross at being obligated to reply. I remember lying in bed reading at 8 o’clock on a Wednesday and thinking, “do I really want to give this up?” And if you find reading alone in bed more exciting than even communicating with a man, let alone going out with them, he’s definitely not the man for you.
After that realisation I left my account active but I didn’t even log on for window shopping until recently, when a colleague signed up too and we start chatting about meeting boys and finding speed dating to go to. She made interacting with the opposite sex sound fun and not terrifying so I started to be a little more proactive. There were two men I was encouraged/gently bullied to contact so I did and a couple more that I built up the courage to send messages to without coaxing.
And not a single one has replied. Cue major crisis of self confidence. I’m obviously either boring and/or hideous. There’s no other explanation for it. It couldn’t possibly be that I’m just not their type or they’re not really feeling the online dating thing. No no, I’m a repulsive dullard. Obviously.
I’m not even sure why it bothered me so much. If any of them had actually replied I haven’t got time to go on dates because I’m marathon training. Almost all my weekday evenings are taken up with runs and then the weekend is carefully orchestrated around The Long Run. Shoehorning a man into it just isn’t going to work. (That I say stuff like that just goes to show how likely it is that my independent streak is going to lead to me dying alone.) Yet, bother me I did. I won’t initiate contact anymore and it’s only really sontarans or men who look like they’re melting who start conversations with me. So I think it’s probably time to cancel the account.
Now, where do I get a cat?
*I’m trying out a new naming convention, I’ll probably drop it fairly quickly.
Online dating is something I keep going back to, despite it not really working for me. I did have a brief relationship with a guy I met online a few years ago but he’s the only person I’ve even met up with from a dating site. I obviously like writing about myself or I wouldn’t have a blog and I think that, combined with the online shopping feel to it, is where the appeal of online dating lies for me.
Whatever it is, I’m back at it. I’m actually on a couple because the first one made me cut down my ad to fit and I’d agonised over it so much that I had to find one where I could use the full thing. I was quite proud of my ad but now I’m worried it just makes me look a bit weird and doesn’t give that rounded a picture. Sod it, you can read it if you like.
A fun but slightly odd individual is looking for a funny, intelligent person to fill an exciting new role initially as date but the post has the potential to develop into that of boyfriend for the right candidate. The ideal applicant will understand that the rapidly rising price of Curly Wurlys is a serious issue – 38p at time of writing! (Sidenote: Is the plural Curly Wurlys or Curly Wurlies?) He will also possess post-apocalypse survival skills such as motor repair and hunting. Applicants MUST be able to laugh at themselves and should not embarrass easily. Knowledge of Garfunkel and Oates (yes, that is what I mean), The Princess Bride and the inherent evilness of HTML and CSS would be a bonus. Dog people preferred but not essential. Responsibilities include:
Drinking wine (or other beverage of choice) and talking crap.
Attending music and comedy gigs.
Offering protection from threats such as zombies, caterpillars (horrible, furry little wiggly things) and clowns.
Going on adventures – both the active, outdoorsy kind and the more gentle sightseeing and culture seeking type.
Attending horror movie marathons (see above re: protection from zombies etc.)
Being silly – you will be expected to join in with conversations about ninja dinosaurs, mermaids and other topics of that ilk.
Stopping employer from drinking tequila.
Successful candidate will benefit from a laidback working environment, flexitime is available and there is a generous leave allowance – employer is very independent and doesn’t want you around all the time. You won’t be dragged to go see chick flicks or on shopping trips but you will be expected to go on the odd fancy dress night out (sorry). Despite being ridiculous a large amount of the time the employer is capable of serious conversations – and will in fact turn even ridiculous topics into serious conversations. Yes, it does matter which of your colleagues you’d eat first if you had to.
To apply send a CV (not really) and covering letter (well, message). Please be aware that applications may be rejected if the wrong your/you’re or there/their/there is used. Messages written in text speak won’t even be read.
So far I haven’t really taken it very seriously and I’ve been too much of a pansy to initiate contact with any of the men on there that I actually like and the ones who’ve contacted me have either been troglodytes, dumb, creepy or all three. But I’m going to start being more proactive. I’ve been single for two years next month. TWO YEARS. How the hell did that happen? Two years without a single date. People remarry quicker for crying out loud.
There doesn’t appear to be any actual point to this post. It could really have just been summed up with, “I’m online dating now,” but there you go.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve been sat across a table from a man who’s telling me I’m wonderful. I suppose I can blame being out of practice for my pfft!-eye roll combo response. Accepting compliments has never been a strong suit of mine but it’s made even more awkward when you’re supposed to be enjoying a post work drink with a friend, not a date.
I’ve known Socially Awkward Boy has liked me as something more than a friend and colleague since the work Christmas do, when he told me so but it still doesn’t make it any easier to know how to react when he compliments me.
Do I just say thank you? Do I try to nip the whole thing in the bud at that point and tell him – again – that I’m not interested. The problem with that tack is that I’m not 100% certain that I actually am not interested.
I like him a lot, we get on really well. He is easily one of my favourite people. If we bump into each other in the kitchen at work I usually end up sidling back in half an hour later, hoping no one noticed how long it took me to make a cup of tea. We hang out after work on a Friday night quite often. Mostly as part of a group but this week it was just me and him and one drink turned into a few, which turned into dinner, which led to a missed train and staying out drinking until half 3.
He’s lovely, he makes me laugh, he’s intelligent, he cares about grammar but I just don’t want to have sex with him. If we didn’t work together and there wasn’t the potential for a whole bunch of awkward I would possibly just chance a drunken snog and see if there were tingles. If there was no spark I’d still have to see him almost every day and I don’t think he’d be happy to just forget anything had happened. He’s the sort of boy who if I kissed him, he’d think we were Going Steady.
I’m not entirely certain he doesn’t think we’re dating as it is. We talk a lot, we have text conversations most days and now there are the unaccompanied trips to the pub, there’s been one or two lunches and we have plans to go see The Cabin in the Woods together. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m being very foolish because I know this is giving him the idea that something relationship shaped might develop.
Every time we discover something new in common or a similar viewpoint on a particular topic I can see him jotting it down on his mental list of reasons we’re “made for each other” – this is an actual thing he has said, I’m not just being flippant. Months ago he said that we were made for each other because we both like Day of the Dead more than Dawn of the Dead. Zombie film preference is THAT important.
I’m really worried I’m going to one day find myself in a relationship I had no intention of being in just because I’m too much of a wuss to have a conversation about what the hell is going on and too selfish to stop hanging out with him so much. I seem to be using him as my proxy boyfriend. It’s nice having someone who wants to spend time with you, someone who can be relied on to always say yes to invites to the pub and reply to inane texts.
And he’s such a lovely proxy boyfriend that I do wonder if it would be such a terrible thing if he was to become a real boyfriend. He’s intellectually stimulating and he makes me laugh, surely that should be more important than the fact he’s skinnier than me and I couldn’t imagine him pinning me to a bed in a million years. Aren’t shared values more meaningful than ticking every box on the physical wishlist? Then why can’t I get over the fact that I like stubbly boys with muscles and hair I can thread my fingers through and he has none of these things?
Once upon a time I fell for a boy who had a girlfriend, we’ll call him Mr What If. We used to flirt and there was a definite connection between us but nothing actually happened (well apart from one or two misguided kisses when we were drunk – I know, but I was young) until he got dumped by his girlfriend before she was moved away to go back to Uni. Then the flirting turned into stolen kisses in the stairwell of our shared office building and phone calls that only ended when the lightening sky gave away just how long we’d been talking for. I was completely besotted with him but despite his claims that he felt the same we never actually went on a date. With him actually using how much he said he liked me as his excuse – he didn’t want me to be rebound fling apparently and was scared that he’d mess things up because he wasn’t ready for another relationship.
Then I met The Ex, sorry, Mario. Well not met, I’d worked with him for a couple of years by that point but we’d never spent any time together socially and he’d always been fairly mute around me. But at a work away day that featured cocktails in the evening I saw for the first time how funny he was and then I started noticing how nice his smile was and how well his arms filled out his shirt. By the end of the night I had a schoolgirl crush.
When it was clear that he liked me back I turned a little harpyish with Mr What If. A couple of days before my first date with Mario I pretty much issued Mr What If an ultimatum: either we went on a date or I was moving on. The date didn’t materialise so I moved on and gradually fell head over heels in love with Mario. At which point Mr What If decided to pop out of the woodwork to tell me that I was with the wrong man and I should leave Mario to be with him instead because he was in love with me and there was even some schmaltz about soulmates.
Obviously, I didn’t leave Mario for him but I did often wonder how things would have turned out if I had. I thought he was destined to be the guy I’d always have unanswered questions about, hence the name. We did stay friends though (up until he got a girlfriend) and we’d have lunch every now and then or hang out if we bumped into each other in the pub by the office. Over one such lunch we discovered similar taste in fiction and I lent him some books. And FINALLY, I get to the main point of this post!
That was about two years ago and I still haven’t had the books back. I want to lend one of them to my mum and I went to buy it again but it’s out of print so when I saw him in the pub a couple of weeks ago I asked if I could have them back. He moved house a few months ago so he requested I text him the titles and he’d have a look for them as they might be in his Dad’s house. I dutifully text him the names of the books and who they were by. Silence. Oh well, best give up on getting them back then. Always a risk you take when you lend someone a book.
But last Wednesday I suggested to a group of colleagues that we go for a mid week drink as it was such perfect beer garden weather and he happened to be there too, clearly having the same thought. I was minding my own business when he spotted me and called across the pub to me, “Leigh! Books! Yeah… They’ve been destroyed I’m afraid. I’ll replace them though.”
Sorry, what now?
Destroyed?
Lost, I could understand. Even given to a charity shop, but “destroyed”? Seriously, what the fuck? Did he burn them? Did his girlfriend eat them?
Reading is my first love and I adore books. I’m really anal about them and I read carefully, treating my books almost with reverence. He knows that and he even went on to have a conversation with one my companions, to whom I’ve also lent a book, mocking me for it. He knows that watching someone break the spine of a book makes me shudder and he stood there and told me that some of my books, some of my favourite books, had been destroyed, with no explanation and barely a trace of apology.
I regret that it took me a little while to get angry. It was some time later, while I was walking to my car that I realised how furious I was. I don’t care that he offered to replace them – even if I believed that he actually would, I am so annoyed by the lack of respect a boy who once claimed to love me, showed my property that he could give me three copies of each book and I’d still be fuming.
I ranted about it to everyone I know who likes books and was just starting to forget about it when I get a text from him saying, “Found your books! I’ll bring them in tomorrow.”
Riiight… So, my books hadn’t been destroyed at all but he told me they had been anyway. Despite knowing what I’m like and that it would upset me. Perhaps precisely because he knew it would upset me. I can think of absolutely no reason to tell someone something of theirs had been destroyed when it hadn’t other than to upset them. Surely most people would say they’d lost them even if they actually had destroyed them.
And with that, every drop of feeling I had left for him evaporated. No more moments will be spent wondering how my life would have turned out if I had chosen him instead, if I’d waited for him or if I’d broken up with Mario when he asked me to. Goodbye what if, hello lucky escape.
For those of you not on Twitter (Is anybody not on Twitter anymore?), Follow Friday, or #FF if you like, is a trend where people recommend other tweeters you should follow. As I’m so shite at writing blog posts lately, I thought I’d do a blog edition and point you in the direction of some of the good posts I’ve read this week - in between the flailing and swearing at the horrible job I’m battling with at work.
The brilliant Arielle of Not the Mermaid wrote a great post about why being single is awesome. As someone who would far rather be single than in the wrong relationship, I love finding other people who agree and this is such a refreshingly honest look at singledom. Being single may be great for a bunch of happy, shiny, I-can-do-what-I-want kinda reasons, but it’s also great for other reasons that are often overlooked.
If you’ve never heard of Postsecret, the best way to see what it is to click the link. The Sunday Secrets are one of the highlights of my blog reading week.
The lovely Jo makes something as shitty as flat hunting entertaining to read about. I particularly liked her statement that basements are a good place for hiding boyfriends. A boyfriend I could keep in the cellar and just bring out when it suited me sounds ideal!
Brandy has written posts that have made me laugh, made me cry and inspired me. This week on the blog she wrote a lovely post about something she’d written – I know, meta right?
I also discovered that Jenn, previously of Free and Flawed is still blogging at Bottle up the Crazy. This made me happy as I thought she’d stopped blogging and I miss her Paint masterpieces.
I’ve read a couple of posts today looking at the different sides of the old Valentine’s Day debate. Popvulture is against it. LaRainbow is for. And the lovely Lauren Bravo (I’m sure the other two are lovely too but I’ve met Lauren in real life) just talks a lot of sense.
Personally I’m not a fan, mainly because I’m an emotional cripple and any expression of love makes me deeply uncomfortable. Err, I mean commercialism, Hallmark Day, rarr!
It only dawned on me the other day that the biggest reason I have for not liking Valentine’s Day is that it steals my thunder. It’s my birthday on Friday so technically this week is mine. Hell, I’ll take all of February if you let me but this week at least, is definitely mine. Then Valentine’s Day waltzes into my week and other people get presents and attention. Thunder gone. I think there should be some sort of rule where people have to hand over their presents to me and give me cake to apologise.
Even worse than thunder stealing friends with their, “look at my shiny thing/tacky schmaltz/flowers,” are the boyfriends who think it’s okay to combine birthday and Valentine festivities. Not because I’m greedy and I want two days of treats, that actually just makes me feel guilty, but because it feels like I’m losing my special day somehow. It’s suddenly about them too. Well them and them and the 50 other couples rammed into the restaurant that usually only fits 20 of course.
So this is me starting my campaign to get Valentine’s Day abolished. February is a short month, there’s only room for one day of rampant consumerism and that’s the 17th damn it!
Thanks to a stomach bug that left me unable to stomach much more than a turkey sandwich and a couple of crisps from Christmas Eve to Boxing day, yesterday* became my Christmas day. There was fizz and turkey and what I believe is technically termed a metric fucktonne of trimmings. Followed by party poppers, mandatory wearing of glow in the dark tat and silly string fights. It’s all class in my house.
It was when said silly string fight had petered out i.e. when we confiscated it from my maniacally giggling Nan that I made a comment about last year’s silly string fight, only to be reminded that it wasn’t last year at all because we were elsewhere last year.
“Oh of course! I wasn’t present last year!” I announced to some strange looks from everyone except my mum who confirmed that I was indeed “away with the fairies” last Christmas and New Year. I don’t really remember the festivities from last year because I had so completely and utterly checked out. I spent almost the entire time shut away in my aunt’s spare room crying and avoiding human interaction at all costs. A bit like a teenager really.
It wasn’t until I saw a very nice doctor in January and he prescribed me Citalopram that I started on the road to recovery. Well if recovery is shutting yourself off from everyone in your life except your mum and only leaving the house to go to the doctors for more time off work because you have panic attacks at the thought of going back.
Depression is one of those things we don’t talk about, not really. People will say they’re depressed when they don’t really mean it – “They sold out of Bombay Sapphire, I’m so depressed!” – but if someone really is depressed or was and got through it they “weren’t very well” or were “going through a tough time”.
When Gary Speed killed himself my twitter timeline filled with some beautifully moving tweets from people expressing their sadness and sharing their thoughts on what he must have been going through to drive himself to suicide. One such tweet I favourited because it resonated with me was @Katie_Khan saying: “It’s only really possible to share regarding depression when you’re out of it.”
I originally started this blog as somewhere I could write about what I was going through. Splurge the dark thoughts out of my head, shape them into something coherent and hopefully work my way past them. That didn’t really happen. I wrote one post, that sort of mentioned my depression and that was about it really. I then neglected the whole thing until I was back at work, feeling much better – well, better at least, much is stretching it.
—–
I started writing this in between Christmas and New Year - hence the Christmas reference at the beginning, the yesterday referred to was the 28th December - but got waylaid by the family shattering my peace and wanting attention. Since then I seem to have been struggling with a block between my brain and fingers. There have been lots of things I’ve wanted to write about and I’ll find myself mentally drafting posts when I can’t write, like when I’m driving or half asleep, but as soon as I’m in front of a notepad or keyboard the words won’t come.
Originally this post was supposed to be about how much better I’m doing now. I was going to write about how awful I’d felt and then self indulgently congratulate myself on not feeling like I’m about to crumble anymore. But on Monday morning I couldn’t get out of bed. Just couldn’t move. I woke up at alarm time and just sat there. I just stared at my wardrobe for about an hour and a half.
Nothing bad has happened, nothing’s changed at all, there’s absolutely nothing to explain why all of a sudden I felt incapable of facing the world. Choosing clothes to wear felt like a crushingly difficult decision, the idea of then getting in my car and having to drive for half an hour felt like a huge insurmountable task. I had a mild panic attack when I tried to push myself to get up and get ready for work. I felt ridiculous trying to explain that I was sick to my boss but I did, I tried to put into words feelings that I don’t even understand myself. In the past I would have just taken leave or fallen back on the migraine lie – as I’ve even been told to so before by a member of the management team.
Today was my first day back at work and I was dreading it. I feel embarrassed to suffer with depression, even though I know how ridiculous that is. I would tell anyone else they were being bloody stupid if they said they were embarrassed or ashamed of their mental health problems. I just can’t stand seeing the pity in people’s eyes. Or worse, doubt. Those people who put depression in inverted commas with their tone of voice.
I didn’t know how to act at work today. If I was happy, would people think I was just throwing a sicky? If I was quiet and down would they worry I was about to breakdown again? I worried about the how-are-yous and the are-you-feeling-betters you inevitably get after a few days off. How much should I say? Would they know?
Fortunately – or unfortunately, I don’t know really know - there’s been a stomach bug going round the office, so I just look like another victim of that and I didn’t have to deal with people looking at me like I’m about to crumble. I shouldn’t feel relieved that I’m helping perpetuate the reluctance to talk about depression and other mental illnesses. I should feel able to tell people that I had a bad couple of days in the same way I would tell them if it had been a stomach bug. Who the fuck decided that it was more acceptable to talk about vomit than anxiety and sadness?
It really is time to start changing how we think and the only way to do that is to start talking about these things. This is my first step. I suffer with depression. I still get bad days and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.
In my social group the only accepted way to mark an increase in one’s age is to don a silly costume and go get drunk. Fancy dress has been mandatory for birthdays so long that as soon as someone mentions a night out for their birthday the first question any of us ask is “what’s the theme?” My friend’s impending birthday celebrations have a nerd theme. I am not okay with this.
For a start it’s unoriginal – I much prefer my shunned suggestion of dressing as games. Mainly because I had an awesome Snakes and Ladders costume all thought out but also because it means being creative. You can’t just go out and buy a Mousetrap inspired ensemble, you’d have to make it and for me half the fun of fancy dress is in making your costume.
But I also find the whole theme marginally offensive. Firstly let’s look at the question of what actually is a nerd?
Doing a google image search for a picture of the stereotypical nerd to illustrate this post really went to show the many different views of what makes a nerd. As well as the expected pictures of people in fully buttoned shirts and bow ties wearing oversized glasses there was Daria, a scientist, a group of people at a historical reenactment and many, many screen shots from The Big Bang Theory.
According to the Venn Diagram we have on the wall in the IT Cave a nerd is an intelligent, socially inept person with obsessions. Uh, hello! I already AM a nerd, without having a don a single pair of braces or orthopedic shoes. I won’t bore you with my nerd CV but on Friday whilst chatting about my broken website and getting a friend to look at my CSS I actually uttered the sentence: “But my code’s really messy and I’m embarrassed.” I think that makes my point perfectly.
How the hell do you dress as a nerd anyway? There isn’t a nerd uniform. We’re hiding amongst you like the new Cylons. Anyone could be a nerd, there’s no way to identify us until it’s too late and you’re embroiled in a conversation about Ewoks being the scourge of the film world.
If we dress as the stereotypical nerd no one will know if we’re nerds or just particularly stylish. Big glasses are trendy, you regularly spot fashionable menfolk with shirts done up all the way to the top, clashing patterns are allowed, christmas style patterned jumpers are in all the shops. “Nerdy” is cool.
Choosing a theme that is basically dressing as smart people feels like bullying to me. I spent far too many years being called a swot because I did well in tests and exams (without revising I might add/brag) to want to dress as the victim of US pop culture mockery. Because I can guarantee my friends won’t even be regionally correct nerds, they’ll dress like they’re in American teen movies.
Another source of major irritation is that we will be obliged to sex it up. I will be surrounded by a gaggle of “Slutty Nerds”. I love fancy dress but the expectations of those around you that you’ve got to flash skin if you want to dress up annoys me greatly. For the same friend’s birthday a couple of years ago we had a ball gowns and tiaras theme. I raided the mother’s wardrobe and wore a late 80s/early 90s puffy sleeved monstrosity of a dress. I did not look sexy in any way shape or form but I felt like a Princess and to my mind I looked great.
Yet I got given stick by a girl in the toilet queue. She nastily wished me “good luck pulling in that”. Given that I had a boyfriend stood downstairs this didn’t concern me, plus I’d already had a very attractive man tell me I was pretty so she was wrong anyway. I politely informed her that I wasn’t aiming to pull but she just kept going on and on, not grasping that I was in fancy dress. If she hadn’t been a lot bigger than me I would have been more tempted to make a snarky comment about not needing to flash tit to pull when you’ve got a half decent face and possess a personality.
I saw quite a few articles and blog posts around Halloween regarding the slutty costume issue but I also saw this tweet.
I can’t help but feel this woman has missed the point entirely. Dressing “slutty” is not being proud of your sexuality, just as dressing modestly is not being ashamed of it. If you want to flash your legs in a Sexy Nurse/Witch/Tomato costume you go ahead but don’t say that you’re celebrating your sexuality. You’re celebrating your good legs. And good for you, you’ve got a nice set of pins that you probably work hard for, show them off all you want. But to claim that you’re flaunting anything other than your body is ridiculous.
Aren’t we more than just our sexuality anyway? My proudest Halloween costume is still my 2008 black widow costume where I made myself extra legs using tights, cotton wool and wire, which through an elaborate engineering system featuring braces, string and holes cut in the back of my top moved in sync with my arms. What’s wrong with flaunting our creativity or our sense of humour? Even if the fancy dress situation is being used as a pulling opportunity I for one would far rather get chatted up by someone who appreciated the fact that I was dressed as a woman being eaten by a shark. (A costume someone on twitter – don’t remember who sorry – spotted this Halloween that I think is genius.)
Instead of wearing a short skirt with braces and cinema 3D glasses with the lenses popped out as my companions undoubtedly will, I plan to wear jeans and a t-shirt with a computer joke on it. People will think I haven’t joined in and I’ll probably get told off by my friends for being a spoil sport but I’ll know I’m the most authentic nerd there.
Maybe I should take my Venn diagram to explain that.
A 28 year old adulthood avoidee, also goes by the name of Leigh, just trying to get through life without too many knocks. Has a tendency to get drunk and fall off things. Likes cheese.
