The Boyfriend Malaise

Misleading title alert - before you get your horses, I don't know, unheld(?), note: no, I do not have a boyfriend. No, indeed, if a woman's relationship status can be accurately gauged by the kinds of movies she watches when she's alone - which is an intricate science being developed at the University of Wisconsin, I'll have you know - I have already whipped past uplifting MTV biopics, psychological thrillers and pathetic rom-coms and have settled in nicely on the Resident Evil franchise. That's right gentlemen - this sassy young lady has traded her hopes of romantic escapades for Mila Jovovich snapping zombies necks with her thighs. Zombies.

But I have noted an alarming trend as of late amongst my female compadres/compatriots/coconspirators. I am friends with some truly fabulous (young) women (when does one drop that clarification? I feel like it probably is when you have some lasting/meaningful/relevant relationship. With a person. And not a cat. Or when you're truly old I guess...). I have friends who are really smart. BAs, MAs, Law-degrees-in-progress. But those amalgams of letters do not exhaust the font of awesome that are my friends. They are also, for the most part, athletes, or at the very least take care of their bodies and their health. Add to this a general care for appearance - my friends are stylin' bitches! Some are funny, some are fabulous conversationalists, some are established rapstresses, some have phenomenal boobs. They are all, in my humble opinion, fucking awesome people to be around.

And yet.

Yet.

Of an rough estimate of ten close girlfriends (what? How many legitimate close friends do you have? What. Ever) three- read that, THREE - of them have boyfriends. And though I don't know if this is to their credit or to my general annoyance, they are all long-term relationships. I'm going to credit it to my annoyance, simply because what I find so infuriating lately is that my sexy, accomplished, smart friends are not being asked out. As you may recall, my prior experiences dating men since moving to Montreal resulted in creepy carny hands and an offer of vitamin sales. This leads me to ask the inevitable question: quesque fuck?

I find it baffling, yes, but also alarming. When this trend has been discussed amongst ourselves, over beers and wine, as we do, we comfort ourselves with varying bullshit:

men these days just seem to like stupid insecure girls

we are really just very intimidating - when they grow up, they will stop slut-hopping

I don't want to be with anyone who actually thinks I have my shit together. If someone thinks this is the pinnacle, they are deeply distrubed

etcetera, etcetera etcetera.

Is it bullshit? Is it He's Just Not That Into You incarnate (ok, I did get at least one pathetic rom-com in)? We make ourselves feel better about being single by blaming the cowardliness of guys, their lack of standards or, on the inverse, their standards being too high for batcases like us. By doing this, do we displace our own agency in the situation? Do we need to filter through the Usana salesmen and circus freakshows if we expect to stop our bitching and moaning?

The alarming corollary is that many of these women also find themselves pining over men they've already been with. In a world where new men don't appear to exist, girls look back over their past boyfriends and think "wow...maybe that was as good as I will do?" or some much more optimistic "love-of-my-life" reiteration of same. This seems even more depressing than the possibility that I have the endeavour through a bunch of awful dates. This seems to imply begging for forgiveness, if the ex-revival is actually possible, or just escapist, nostalgic fantasizing. Lets just eat a plate of petite madeleines with Proust and put ourselves out of our misery.

I mostly rant about this with no conclusions. I think women in their early twenties shouldn't have to worry about relationships or lack there of. But then again, I don't know much about reproductive biology, and my cultural guide being reruns of Friends leads me to the conclusion that everyone will just end up with someone perfect in the end. Except Joey.

But what if we are Joey? And the stupid girls who put out and did coke in high school are Rachel? What if, rather than establishing cool varied groups of friends with great 9-s hairstyles, the self-fulfilling prophecy of "like attracts like" has been realized, and my friends and I are a bunch of Joeys, never to see a fulfilling relationship that wasn't one-sided and heartbreaking, to be perpetually throwing prosthetic limbs into proverbial fires. Ok. I don't know what that means. But my point stands - maybe we don't all get a fairytale romance. Maybe good vampires and sexy werewolves aren't going to battle for my heart.

To be clear. I really do not feel bad about being single. I know my rants give that illusion, but I'm of the third of my examples' school of thought: when I have my shit together, then I'll worry about why men aren't falling at my feet. Until then, well, there are two days of unwashed dishes in my sink and job opportunities I should be perusing. What is frustrating is that the option would be nice. And not just for me - I'm no diva - but for these fabulous women I know.

And yeah, cuddling is nice.

Whoa

After google searching the name of my blog (because, lest you missed the header, I'm a narcissist) I discovered that my chosen title- "Wear Rags and Picking Sides" (seriously dude, read the header) - could be an artist turn of phrase indicating gang-war. Do-rags and blue flags, motha fuckas.

I am very, very white.

Childhood Ruin

I have been jamming out to country lately. It's just such ideal summer music, and though summer is scarce, it was sunny about 4 days ago, and I haven't been bothered to switch off of my country playlist.

Until today.

I actually paid attention to the lyrics of a classic old Garth Brooks song, Two of a Kind, Workin' on a Full House. I loved loved loved Garth Brooks when I was little. I used to wake up early, sneak down to the basement, and listen to the Compact Disc, In Pieces, on our stereo system and dance around like a crazy person. Which is about the only proper description of a twelve year old choreographing dance moves to country music in the privacy and secrecy of the basement at 6:30 in the morning.

Back to the trauma, however.

This fairly classic song contains the most horrifically sexual line that had gone completely unnoticed by my prepubescent brain. I must have subsequently blocked it out so as to not ruin the embarrassing, though charming, childhood memories of my brother being so impressed that I knew every song on whatever G.B. album my mum would play in the van. "You know all of them! That's amazing!" I know. It is. Was.

However, in this tongue-in-cheek love ballad (get it - it's like cards, but he means people!). Check out 1:06-1:14 (which is paired with inexplicable chest pumping and pointing...)




So, if you didn't catch that, "she's my honeycomb and I'm her sugarcane. We really fit together, if you know what I'm talking abooooouuuuuuuuuut."

No Garth, your upbeat and completely asexual demeanour had me completely misguided. But now, after 11 years, I know what you're talking about. And I want to cry.

Vanquished Red Head - Impolite Library Patron

So after just over a year as a spicy red head, I have returned literally and figuratively to my roots. Courtesy of the Funky Toque, the outrageously francophone salon I go to (in 2 trips I have had 3 people deal with me who "don't really speak good English"), I am once again a brunette. This decision was made initially on a strictly pragmatic basis - it is too time consuming and costly to maintain the fire engine shade of rouge that I liked best, and my inexplicable inability to book a hair appointment before my style has irritated me to the brink of a sanatorium trip left me often times looking like a ragged carrot. Ragged. Carrot. Let the image wash over you. I am a poet.

However, I am taking the opportunity to cue in a more metaphysical change. Because, with no philosophy in my life, I miss metaphysics.

Perhaps I will post a picture of this revolution inspiring hair-do when I am not sitting in the McLellan library not working on my 6'000 word paper. I have one week to write this paper which is, in case I have not already wined about this, based on a 947 page novel which I am 440 pages into. My previous hope that I would be able to write my paper without completing the mammoth tome has been quashed by reviews remarking at the incredible turn the novel takes at its mid-point. Great news.

It would have been far more appropriate if I had posted this prior to  procrastinating in the library, but here is my comprehensive list of bad habits which I hope to expunge alongside my ginger coif:

A propensity to avoid yoga

My tolerance for dishevelled living arrangements

An inability to reply promptly to a facebook message or wallpost, e-mail, or phone call

Putting off necessary chores - grocery shopping, filling prescriptions, getting laundry appropriate coinage from HSBC...

Binge drinking 

Binge eating

Leaving school work to the last minute

Procrastinating

Not answering on Skype

Leaving my cupboards open

Using my cat to kill spiders with which I have made inconvenient peace treatie

Talking myself out of working at the library

Bringing my laptop to bed with me - in the non sexy, playing sporcle to 2 am way

Playing sporcle until 2 am

the Biggest Loser

So This is What 6 am on a Sunday Looks Like?

I have officially cued the start of my healthier living.

After having a ludicrously late night and making some rather alcohol fuelled choices last Sunday, resulting in the mother of all 2-day hangovers and an exodus to find my purse - which I left at the house of someone I didn't know, and didn't remember the location of, with my phone in it, leaving me unable to contact anyone who could direct me to its location - I have vowed to start taking myself just a tad bit more serious.

First step - not more belgian waffles.

the "grocery" store near my house, which in no real sense is a grocery store, but a glorified drugstore with a dairy and chintzy produce section (it will be the reason I get scurvy, mark my words), carries, in addition to dairy and wilting asparagus, packaged belgian waffles, coated in sugar, which, it turns out, are ideal for popping into the toaster, coating in Light Butter (yeah, who knew you could make, by definition, fat, lighter?) and easing myself into obesity with. Hence step one.

Also, Cristyn and I have started taking our fitness seriously. We have gotten to the gym the last 2 days in a row as well as yoga. Thank God. I, again, fell off the wagon with yoga. Yoga is crucial step two. Not only because it will keep me sane as well as active, but because I discovered that, though I don't plan on being in Montreal for another whole month, it is 100$ more to buy a 20 class pass than just a Month Unlimited. So, I haven't done the math yet, but I think it would just be best if I tried to go every day from now until I leave for Calgary.

Next step - time to start educating myself a bit more seriously. I am actually actually going to start going and working in a coffee shop. I've been really bad about talking myself out of working away from home. If it's the library, I tell myself "if you're going to read, you may as well read where you can be comfortable, and you don't want to have to walk home after it's dark and gets significantly more freezing out;" when it comes to working in a coffee shop, "really, you're going to end up spending money that doesn't need to be spent on goods you don't need to be putting in your body." And then I end up asleep in my bed with waffle crumbs on my sheets.

So I am going to the 8 am Moksha class with Cristyn shortly. I am supposed to then go to the Otto Dix exhibit with Claire. However, her texts last night had some superfluous letters, explained that I should "call tho cuz i am fuckev" and debated the pros and cons of doing coke. Debated may be too lofty a word: "yay ir nay?" At least I am making an attempt at being cultured. If all else fails, Cristyn and I will be meeting up again to watch rugby this afternoon. And then the library.

Gosh, this new Sydney is going to be so learned and fit.