While I realize that this romantic comedy was meant merely to entertain and make women swoon at the possibility of true romance, bringing about an in-yo-face toward society’s obsession with perfection, it had me at:
“You’re all about comfort and efficiency!”
“What’s wrong with comfort and efficiency?”
“Well nothing, except no one wants to fuck it.”
So in 2010, I’m going to try something new. I’m not making resolutions. I’m resolving to make changes that start nowish, if they aren’t already in progress, and that 2010 will be nothing more than a number I keep forgetting to write on cheques.
I’ve made a lot of changes – in habits, ideology, beliefs – in the past year and a half. I’m coming to some major do-or-die (metaphorically) scenarios. One of them is moving on from my life as The Ex’s…whatever I was and onto being 100% my own person.
In part, this means continuing to recreate our life in the image I think it merits, not simply trying to stay afloat, and I’ve made grand changes in that regard as far as deciding to seek treatment for the crazy, speaking at a couple of conferences, reaching out to other people and letting them reach out to me. Forging trust and relationships, if you will. Asking for help, guidance, medication and an ear, liberally, when needed, was a mountain that I conquered the fuck out of this year. I’m proud of me for it.
I’ve created idealisms that seem like they could one day (sooner, than later) be real, like me going to school and getting Zoë a geared-to-her education, working as a freelance writer and virtual assistant so that I can be home and work during the times that work best for both of us. I have plans that just need my follow through to come to fruition – not a manic phase to seem possible.
It had to happen one day. That day is fast dawning. The concept of dating is on my mind.
See, I have a great checklist for all of the things that I don’t want in a person. I don’t have many things that I do want that aren’t directly proportional to all of the ways exes have failed. I have a checklist of all of the things I want myself to be as a person (in a relationship), but I’m not entirely free of the wall yet. Exorcising a lot of demons in mostly the latter half of not even two years kind of slows down growth.
I’m not quite there yet.
But, soon, I might be. And so, I transcribed snippets of wisdom from The Ugly Truth into my pink secret diary, hid the key where no one could find it and stashed it back under my mattress. I consider them a new form of The Rules – a melange between He’s Just Not That Into You and … Maxim Magazine. But I’ll share with you the top five things I took away from the movie that I totally plan to put into practice, with my current score sheet, just because you’re cute:
- If it doesn’t look good, it won’t get a second chance, regardless of the brains or personality attached to it. This one should be a no-brainer, considering I would be guilty of the same disinterest, but it still seemed like a revelation from god or something that if I’m unshowered, without makeup, with my hair in a ponytail, in the comfy jeans (the ones with a hole in the knee, the hems all frayed and beaten up that are at least two sizes too big), I look like it’s laundry day, not hot commodity day. Or you know, like I just don’t give a shit about my appearance. Which means that I either literally don’t give a shit, I’m taken and therefore have let myself go or I don’t want to be considered approachable. FAIL.
- Men want longer hair – something they can pull on. Good thing I’ve been growing mine out for two years now. It’s pullable. Also, when it’s washed and not in a ponytail? It looks like I just rolled out of bed. WIN.
- Apparently, being neurotic and a control freak isn’t attractive. I’d like to cry foul on this rule, except that I know how neurotic it would seem. While past lovers have seemed disenchanted with the crazy, they’ve – like the energizer bunny – kept going and going (with me), so that is the true reason I’d like to call this rule bull. Except. I know that if I met the male crazy version of myself? I’d duck and run for cover. And I could never happily date the women I have, because they all seemed fucking crazy to me. FAIL.
- Having a sense of humour is integral, even if you’re faking it. Imagine that. Men want women to think they’re funny? Okay, I know some pretty funny doods, so I might have to fake it a little; really, I’m a magnet for funny people, so maybe I won’t have to fake anything. I think I have a good sense of humour and bring the watery eyes at some points, so lets call this one a WIN.
- Faking it is semi-required, well, other times. Yeah. I don’t have to worry about that. Apparently, it’s selfish to think that I’d be the only one enjoying my own orgasm because there’s some kind of “yeah, that’s right I DID” thing that goes on in men’s brains, once the blood returns back to it. It, if I’m getting this right, is the Rocky running up the steps of that place and being self-congratulatory version of sex. Being hyper-orgasmic is an asset in this department – I’ve rarely had the occasion to fake it. That being said, if I did? He’s really doing it wrong. WIN.
So, what we can gather from this report card is that I need to tone down the crazy (never give dates this blog’s address – check. Hide medication – check. Avoid talking about weight, cleaning, childhood, work history – check), wear some damn makeup, hit the gym once in a while, take my hair out of the ponytail, take a shower and dress a little sluttier.
I can totally do that.
