Yesterday, I chatted with a guy on Facebook. He was someone I didn’t know, but he seemed to know me. He noticed that we had befriended many of the same bloggers.
“A lot of married women, right?!” he joked.
“Yeah,” I said, not sure where his thought process was heading.
“Which of them do you think is the hottest?”
“The hottest? I don’t know. They’re all pretty nice.”
He gave me his opinion of someone’s “hotness.” I wasn’t quite sure what this guy was comparing — the hotness of the profile photos, the writing, or their status updates? I assumed he was talking about the photos, but hasn’t this guy ever heard of PHOTOSHOP? I look better than George Clooney on my profile pic thanks to the fine folks at Adobe!
Is this how most normal guys talk to each other in private? I didn’t even know this guy and we’re already rating women on their curves?
“Whooa… nice babe in the red!” he wrote to me. He was looking at my blog.
I clicked onto my url because I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
He was looking at the “poster” from the Blogger Arts and Crafts show.
“That’s Erin!” I scolded him. “She’s a blogger I know.”
This annoyed the hell out of me, as if he was checking out the ass of my sister.
“Hey, she’s married and I don’t think she would appreciate us talking about her like a sex object.”
“OK, OK… whoa. You call her a “hot babe” in your own post.”
“That’s different.” I replied.
Oooh, that was a good question. The only thought that popped into my head was that if I am going to be sexist or inappropriate, I should do it to the person’s face, or at least read her blog first.
I remember once seeing a photo of a blogger friend in a tight t-shirt. A few days later, we were chatting on IM.
“Susan, I have to tell you that you have great breasts!” I said. “Your husband is so lucky!”
“Really? Thanks! LOL”
Was I wrong for saying that? Of course I was. Was I being honest in expressing myself to a friend? Absolutely. And notice how I mentioned HER HUSBAND, as if I was congratulating him as well. My comment was not wrong or hateful. In fact, it was all about beauty, family values and a celebration of their marriage!
But mark my words — if some guy took me aside at BlogHer and whispered, “Check out Susan’s tits!” I would punch him in the nose. That is just rude.
A relative died this weekend and my mother is going to Massachusetts on Monday to attend the funeral. We had already bought tickets to a revival of “Pal Joey” tomorrow night at Studio 54, so now I had an extra ticket.
“Who should I ask?” I wondered.
A couple of weeks ago, I met a friend of a friend, a single woman. I thought she might enjoy going to the show instead of my mother. But just as I was about to contact her (I chose email rather than the phone, of course), the same fears and insecurities that have been plaguing me since junior high, when I had a secret love for Jane Goldfarb, came to surface. This was a disappointment. I was confident that years of marriage would have given me the inner strength to combat that age-old fear of the opposite sex, but it was exactly the same feeling that I remember — that fear of rejection, now mixed in with a new more-adult anxiety — the equally debilitating fear of success. What if it goes WELL?! What then?!
My intention is NOT to date this woman. I just have an extra ticket. But won’t she assume that I am asking her out on a date? And what’s so wrong about that? Should I remind her in the email that I am still married, and that I know she knows that I am still married? Will she think I am a two-timing cheat? What if she says no? Will she feel uncomfortable with me if I meet her again at some party? Should I just write in the email “Oh, I just happen to have an extra ticket…” to make it seem less than a date? Or does that sound rude, like I really don’t give a crap and just asked her because she’s available? How can I make this sound like it isn’t a date, but still give her the hint that I am asking her for a nice reason, and that I think she is smart and funny, yet I still looked at her ass that night, even though I shouldn’t have done that? And you know what — I’m not even sure she’s doesn’t have a boyfriend. Should that matter? If we aren’t dating, what’s the big deal? If some guy you just met called you up and asked you if you wanted to go to the theater, would you think it was a date?
I am now at McDonald’s writing this post. I was going to title it something like “Wimping Out,” because I am deciding to call a male friend to go with me instead of driving myself crazy.
But you know what, I’m tired of portraying myself as wimpy in this blog. I am not that wimpy. I just have trouble making decisions sometimes because there are too many different scenarios playing out in my mind at once. Maybe that is why I am good at Hollywood pitch meetings. If a producer doesn’t like the guys driving a Corvette, — hey, they can drive a tractor instead! But this type of creative thinking is BAD in real life. It makes me too passive. And what is the worst that can happen if I ask her? She can say no. I can French kiss her in the taxi cab on the way home? She can fall madly in love with me and I tell her that I am still married and break her heart? I can find her BORING and can’t wait to get home and go on Twitter?
F*ck you all. Why am I always presenting myself as more fearful of life than I really am on this blog? Am I doing it for your amusement? Am I afraid that I would have a boring blog post if I actually enjoyed myself and only had positive stuff to write about. And what do I care what you think? This blog is not making me one cent, you social-climbing, self-absorbed…
OK, OK, calm down. Don’t transfer your anger and frustration onto your readers. They mean you no harm. They like you. Or at least they like “you” on the page — the one they think they know. In reality, they are as weak as you, despite their bravado and their shiny happy blog headers.
And what about Sophia? Is she going to mind if I invite this woman to the theater? Why would she care? F*ck it. What’s it to her? I’m doing anything wrong. I’m asking one woman to go to one musical with me on a Monday night because my mother is going to a funeral in Massachusetts! What’s the f*cking big deal?!
OK, I’m leaving McDonald’s and going upstairs to email her.
I don’t want to ever hear anyone ever call me a wimp again.
Update: She can’t make it tomorrow, so I am going with a gay male friend.