I am something of an enigma. To truly know me is to shake your head and say, "Huh?" a lot. And to actually be inside my head is like being dropped headfirst into a horror movie - the kind where scary clowns show up for no reason. Unlike in the comic books, where enigmas get awesome super powers, the only unexplained phenomenon happening to me is a preponderance of faux frogs.
Allow me to explain. Apparently, I'm something of an intellectual. My whole life, I've been described by other people as smart. (And also tall, but that's not really relevant here). Now, I've actually had my I.Q. tested and I can confirm that I'm really not as smart as everyone thinks I am - but there are a lot of morons out there, and when you stack me up against them, let's face it. I look like a genius. To perpetuate the myth of my giant brain, I attend graduate school, I read non-stop, and if you saw me in action at work, you'd see me put on my "smart, career woman" costume. You'd probably be fooled into thinking that I am, in fact, a smart and competent human being. Don't worry. You're not alone. I've come a long way in my career since graduating with a useless teaching degree from a liberal arts college. I've achieved unbelievable career success in business, thanks in no small part to my smart, career woman costume and ability to trick others into thinking I know what I'm doing.
The Cliffs' Notes for the previous paragraph are this: professionally, I am confident, smart (!), and successful. Take me out of the office, though, and you'll find a completely different kettle of fish. Or a fish out of water. Pick your awkward metaphor. At work, I solve problems, intuit things, and am regarded as an expert. In real life, I frequently find that I lack the basic skills necessary for survival. My greatest fear is that Darwinism really works and will take me out one of these days.
I don't know how to change the battery in the smoke detector. I saw a mouse in the garage four months ago and haven't parked there since. I rely on the kindness of friends I haven't met yet when my car gets stuck in the snow. If a button falls off my shirt, I consider that God's way of telling me the shirt is broken and should be replaced. I don't know what a whisk is or what you would use it for. I haven't turned my oven on in eight months. And let's be clear. I have no clue about men, women, and dating.
Have I mentioned the voices in my head? Probably not, since voices in your head are a sure sign of severe mental illness and although there are many things wrong with me, I don't think I'm ready for the padded room yet. The voice inside my head talks to me all day long. She never shuts up. I'm not going to lie to you. I wish she would stifle it. She has a terrible potty mouth and she is super-critical. She loves it when I screw up because she can go on for hours in her special way, telling me how fat, lazy, dumb, and ugly I am. (Side note: Yes, I have been discussing this with the Elf-Therapist. He loves this shit. More on that later.)
Let's recap. We have a tall, smart, successful career woman who hasn't dated since the 1990's with really lousy self-esteem on our hands. What on earth does this have to do with frogs?
A lot, as it turns out. I frequently forget that other people don't know what a disaster I am under the surface. To be fair, it's not that I forget - it's that I have been so self-absorbed that I needed the Elf-Therapist to point that out. So we may need to rethink that whole smart label, too. Other people don't see inside my head, they see what I let them see, which is the exterior version of me and which is apparently, some version of normal. (You might take notes, voice in my head.)
So, here I am, a recently single woman with few friends. I want to be social and do things and I'm interested in other people. Since Mr. Wrong left, I've been pushing myself to try new things and to be more extroverted. I have reconnected with lots of nice and interesting people I've met over the years, and I've met new people. And I have been on more unintentional dates than anyone I know.
Faux frogs don't realize that they are wolves in frog's clothing. They are innocently asking me out for lunch, dinner, breakfast, brunch or drinks. I'm food motivated and friendly, so I show up. We talk, we laugh, we eat . . . and then something awkward happens. I catch the frog looking down my shirt. The frog comments on my appearance. The frog invites me to be his date to a wedding for people I've never met. When the check comes and I try to split the bill, the frog smoothly responds, "I'll get it this time. You can get the next one." (All true stories, by the way)
And then I realize. Shit. This isn't a friendly snack. This is a wolf in frog's clothing and I'm on an unintentional date. I dig into the vault for one of the rejection phrases that the Elf-Therapist taught me for situations just like this. I utter the cheesy stupid words and I see steely determination appear in the faux frog's eyes. He is more than a faux frog. He's a used car salesman. And he is not giving up. Why? Why didn't I see this coming? How did I allow myself to get into this mess? Oh, mean voice inside my head - did you have something to say about this? Please - feel free to verbally kick me while I'm down. I'm sure you're just trying to help.
These faux frogs are nice guys, really. They're typically older men, and they either struggle with their weight or used to. (I've been on a diet since 1986, so we have a lot in common there). They know me from work, so they don't know that I'm a basket case. They are best known for their tenaciousness, and no amount of rejection short of totally ignoring them will cause them to give up hope. They call, they text, they email - and I think they would send snail mail if any of them knew where I lived. And they cause me a lot of angst.
Take note, faux frogs. I didn't understand that you had an ulterior motive. I thought you were just hungry when you asked me out for lunch. You're nice guys and I'd like to be your friend. That's it. I'm sorry I don't want to kiss you to see if you'll become a prince. I wish I did. I don't know why you think I'm all that. I'm not. Really. But, Faux Frog, when I tell you that I'm getting out of a long-term serious relationship and I'm not ready to date yet, that's not a sign for you to dig your heels in and wait until I am ready to date. It's my way of telling you that I'm not ready to date you. Not now. Not ever. Show me the courtesy and respect I deserve. Stop staring at my breasts and move on!
© 2010 Princess D
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