Judgmental in a Backwards Sort of Way
When boys and I talk, it’s comparable to when a lactose intolerant person eats dairy. Sometimes it’s by accident. Sometimes it’s on purpose because I want to give it a try and see if it’s still painful. But either way I pretty much know it’s going to end a little messy and with some stomach cramps.
If I took a little time for some self-analysis, (or as I refer to it: “the cheapest form of therapy that I prescribe to maybe a little too often”), I’m incredibly judgmental. But not in the way I think you would think. When my friends see a boy they’ll sometimes ask me if I think he’s hot. And I’ll typically answer, “Well, how am I supposed to know? I haven’t talked to him yet.” And my girl friends will sigh and pinch the bridges of their noses in unison frustration, and this time it’s not just because I’ve never seen Sex and the City.
I’m judgmental in a backwards sort of way. I’m only mildly concerned with a boy’s physical appearance, which I think is fair enough because I am in no way claiming to be a supermodel. What I’m really interested in is if he can carry a conversation. I’m not going to get stuck talking to the guy who might have six pack abs and a jaw chiseled by God himself but who also only goes on about the protein shake he instagrammed that morning with the hashtag “#fitfam” and uses Tinder but not as a joke. I ate three frozen slices of pizza for breakfast but you don’t hear me bragging about it.
However, if that same guy wanted to talk to me about the Kurt Vonnegut book he just finished or how hilarious and quotable John Mulaney’s stand-up is, now that’s a different story. Though, this still usually doesn’t happen. Because boys can smell the looming fog of fear surrounding me. Because as much as I’m judging them, I’m the hypocrite who is so frightened at the thought of boys judging me that I won’t even get close enough to give most of them the chance.
While I’m still using the term “boys” rather than “men,” you can still call me a “girl” because it seems I haven’t grown up enough to be a woman who can distinguish the wisdom-of-knowing-if-you’re-compatible-with-someone from the fear-of-rejection-defense-mechanism.
Maybe at the next party my conversations will be better compared to when a lactose intolerant person switches out whole milk for soy milk; A little different and awkward at first, but by the end I’m actually finding it to be enjoyable and not quite as awful than I originally thought. And in the mean time, I’ll be working on my metaphors.
