A Life More Ordinary

It's only maybe a week since I've allowed myself to put my guard down.

Really, I should say since I resigned myself to having my guard down. I don't have a choice in the matter. I'm so exhausted and fragile right now that really, the only choice is whether to leave the house or never leave the house. Since I enjoy earning a paycheck, I've opted for leaving the house defenseless and weak. But I thought at least it might help me figure out what happens in ordinary life--life without aliases and disguises and alter egos, without SuperPowers and nemeses and getaway cars.

So far, I've only discovered one major thing that happens when a girl walks around with her guard down: guys hit on her like there's no tomorrow. Seriously, dudes are crawling out of the woodwork to sling some mack on me. And we're not talking your expected alcohol-fueled party flirting, or the closing time move-in-for-the-kill. I'm talking about, like, on the street, you know? At the Quality Dairy. When I'm walking to class. It's like one of the scenes from Dawn of the Dead where you see all the zombies outside the mall trying to get in to murder the living, only replace "zombies" with "strange dudes looking to get laid". It's frickin' ridiculous.

And here's the thing: I don't object to getting picked up. I love a good flirt (and a good make-out) just as much as the next girl. Well, okay, probably a little bit more than the next girl, but the point is that I'm not all, "Grrr, grrr, grrr, don't objectify me!" Because in the correct context, a little objectification is just right. What I don't get is why all this happens the second I'm helpless. I mean, I'm lost, you know? I'm in a daze half the time and a panic the other half. I'm hardly sleeping, and when I manage to doze off, I'm having strange nightmares about losing my hands or getting lost in the wilderness. The bags under my eyes are so big I could carry my dirty laundry in them. I'm just...weak. And that ain' attractive. So why is it causing a frickin' stampede of man-cattle in my direction?

Oh, yeah, and just so you don't think I'm being one of those jackasses who is all, "How can I possibly choose between all the brilliant artists, millionaires, and Nobel Peace Prize winners who keep asking me out? O, it is such a curse to be so desirable!", I need to state for the record: the dudes who try to pick you up on the street are not the dudes you want trying to pick you up. You know, they're not nice, funny, good-natured dudes who have interesting and easy conversation. I mean, they're dudes who see a girl on the street and try to seal the deal.

And yeah, yeah, I know adult city dating is different--in a place that's so populated, your chances of running into a person again are pretty slim, so you have to take the risk. Yes, yes, fine. And this isn't me saying that I don't think I could inspire someone to take the risk because yeah, I think I'm pretty awesome and sexy in my goofy, bumbling way, and I've gone through my own alterna-feminist revolution, la, la, la. But the onslaught of guys this last week, you know, they're the guys who would think, "Look at that ass!" and make their move. They are not the guys who look at me and get my aesthetic, or why I'm awesome or sexy--and really, it takes a pretty awesome guy himself to really get what I have going on. But since all this business has been happening like gangbusters just this past week, you know, when I've been so, so, so lost...I really have to conclude that it's guys who have looked at me, saw the weakness, and thought, "prey".

And that is not cool.

That is so, so, not cool.

But the big problem with walking around with your guard down is that...well, you don't have any guard. And me--having been a bit of a late bloomer--without a guard? There are five year-olds savvier than me.

So I ended up letting one of these dudes take me out. Because he was talking to me, and I kept trying to figure out what was going on--do I know him from somewhere? Do I work with him? Is he asking for help with something?--because obviously if he's this committed to talking to me while I'm on my way to the dance studio, there must be a reason. But I couldn't figure it out. And then suddenly he's booking me to take me out, as if I had agreed to go out with him. But I didn't. I didn't agree. But there he was scheduling it, and I was so confused that I couldn't actually think of the words, "Dude, I don't want to go out with you. You're a total stranger." My head was so cloudy I couldn't articulate the thought. It was almost like it wasn't really happening.

Ya see? Completely defenseless.

So it's Saturday, and I meet him at a coffee shop. Because for some reason I couldn't just stand him up, because that would be rude. And I called Trudie (just like Trudy-with-a-"y", only you use and "ie" instead) and flipped out a little bit because I really didn't want to go. At all. "Oh my god, Trudie, how could I not think of the words 'I don't want to go out with you'?! What is wrong with me right now?!?!" And since he was a stranger, we made a deal that I would text Trudie no later than two hours after the meeting time with The Stranger. If I didn't, she'd call the police. And as a backup--since Trudie doesn't get the greatest phone reception--I also left some messages with my friend Beatrice: "Hi, it's Lulu. Just to let you know, I'm going out with a total stranger, and I thought I should let you know. If I don't check back in with you in two hours, my decapitated head is in his freezer." A girl's gotta be safe, right?

But anyway, I met him there, and he clearly wasn't going to kill me, so that took a bit of the edge off. Then I just had to deal with the fact that I did not want to be there. And The Stranger was super nervous. Apparently, it's not so nerve-wracking to manipulate a lost girl into going out with you, but once you get her there, it's a different story. Like, he led us to a table outside. And it's November. In the Midwest. And freezing. And he forgot to order us coffee. But he did apologize for wearing flip-flops because I might think they were "too casual". Just so amazingly awkward. So just to get through the damn date without dying of awkwardness myself, I went into Make Everything Better Mode. Asking non-threatening questions about his job (rehab counseling) and hobbies (ping-pong), telling light, funny stories, la, la, la--you know the drill. I mean, hey, I used to be a receptionist. 50% of my job description was doing the Non-Threatening Flirt with the delivery guys and salesmen. So I slipped my Pink Collar on and pretended he was a client waiting at the embroidery factory. That would get me through the awkward.

But every time it seemed like I got us on an almost-normal, conversational track, The Stranger found a way to awkward it back up again. Like I found out his father had been a tribal chief--for real--so how could he not have something interesting to say about that, right? But he just said, "Yes, he had horses."

Me: Ooh, were they riding horses or work horses?

Him: I don't know what they were for. Tribal chiefs just have horses.

Me: Really? How come? Is it a tradition?

Him: I don't know. They just have them.

But on the other hand, he kept trying to make these personal assessments of me. You know, like that I was a bookish girl who studied all the time as a student...when really, I was just so clever that I never really needed to study until graduate school, so I instead went out a lot and made art and trouble and stayed up all night laughing. He insisted "you look like a nice, quiet girl". and since I am indeed a nice girl, I didn't laugh in his face at that, but I let him know that no, no, not quiet in the least. He guessed that I took after my mother, which I don't. But what I really wanted to say is, "You've known me for, like, 30 minutes, and you are clearly not a psychic--why are you trying to pretend that you know who I am?"

And The Stranger would say these really serious things with a completely straight face, but then add--with an equally straight face--"I'm joking". Like when we talked about his rehab counseling gig, he was like, "Have you taken drugs? Which ones? Ecstasy?" And in my head, I'm thinking, "Is he really going here? Okay, it looks like he's going here, so you may as well answer." And I say, "Ummmmmmmm......", and he jumps in with "I'm joking." And none of it was a joke. But of course, my slow response makes him say, "What? Were you kind of wild?" So I say, "What do you mean by 'were'?"

But generally, I put him at ease as if it were my job because I couldn't think of what else to do. And because if I were that nervous, I'd like someone to put me at ease. But I guess it just upped my appeal or something, since within the first half-hour, he tried to score not one, but two other dates with me. (And he kept trying to pin me down over the whole time we were there.) He wanted me to take him to the show at the theatre this weekend, and he wanted to take me to Chili's for veggie burgers. He was talking about how he likes to eat healthy, like the veggie burgers at Chili's, and I say, "Oh, I've never had them, since I don't really go there," when what I want to say is "I can't go there because crazy shit goes down at Chili's". Apparently, though, this was an invitation to take me there. And apparently, my being at the coffee shop with you means I will take you to shows at my work. Even though I don't know you at all, and even though you can't get through a half-hour of conversation with me without me spoon-feeding it to you. But we're total strangers; this conversation has proved that we have nothing in common, and you can barely talk to me without peeing your pants. So even though "you can tell I'm a nice girl", why, why, why would you want to secure two more dates with me when this first one is just a big, boring Awkward Explosion, even with me pulling out my bag of tricks?

And then the clouds in my brain parted: Oh...it's because you still think you have a chance to have sex with me.

And then I got pissed. Pissed that The Stranger couldn't figure out how to talk to me, but still wanted to try to fuck me. Pissed that he'd think there would be even one iota of a chance of him getting to fuck me without engaging me in good conversation. Pissed that he thought if he manipulated me into a date, got me a frickin' veggie burger a frickin' Chili's, and went to an open stage show at my work, I'd let him fuck me because I'm a nice, quiet, bookish girl who, you know, doesn't have her own unique criteria by which she determines who she will and will not fuck. Because just him wanting me would be enough for me. And I looked at him, and I thought, "Dude, you could not handle me with a bullwhip and a roofie."

So I said I had to get back to grading papers and made a beeline for the exit after that. He told me to e-mail him about Chili's and the show, and I said something like "I'd let him know"--which isn't a lie. When he hears nothing from me, he'll know. And I messaged Trudie and Beatrice to let them know that I left with my head on my shoulders--physically at least. Because I don't know how I'll be able to make it through the world like this, with no defenses and no ability to articulate what I want and don't want. With no ability to comprehend what people are trying to get from me until I'm on a date I don't want and don't know how I got into in the first place.

Is this what ordinary life is? Life without SuperHero identities and special powers and sidekicks that get you out of danger just in the nick of time? Is it drifting from what one person wants from you to what another person wants from you? Is it sitting across from The Stranger in a coffee shop, with the overwhelming awkwardness as the only thing keeping you from being bored to death? Is it letting The Stranger's choice be the only thing that matters?

That's not for me. That's not for me at all. But I still don't know where all my fight has gone. It's gotta be around here somewhere...