Tuesday, August 08, 2006
bad hair for blue eyes
Blue Eyes wants to meet me for lunch. He wants to meet me for breakfast - but I don't do breakfast. Blue Eyes is the truck driver, with a sexy voice who reads Shakespeare and Poe and calls me "hot pants" and claims to have the deepest blue eyes I've ever seen. Why any man would want to meet a woman he talks to a few times on the phone will forever confuse me. Why he wants to meet me I don't know either. But he wants to and it annoys me. Why does it annoy me? Probably because I'm not in the habit of meeting strange men for no apparent reason. Strange married men who drive truck and chat up a lady dispatcher on the phone. It also annoys me because the first time Blue Eyes wanted to meet me he told me to call him on my way out of work to see if we'd be in the same vicinity for breakfast. When I did, I called from my cell phone and he has since kept the number. If you're going to talk to me throughout the week - I see no reason in keeping my cell phone number. I surely didn't keep his. Another reason his desire to meet me annoys me is because Co Worker has described me to him as beautiful. Co Worker is a 43 year old petite woman with enough Native American in her to keep her skin toasty brown, her eyes brilliant green and her overall appearance drop...dead...gorgeous. Co Worker has absolutely zero inhibitions when it comes to men. Case and point - the 37 year old iron worker I pimped her out to who she put out of commission after eight times in one night. Co Worker is, yet, a very grounded soul. She sees beauty the way other grounded souls do. She celebrates solstice. Not really relevant but you get my drift on her. When she says I'm beautiful - she means speaks in terms of skin tone and naturally curly hair and deep brown eyes. Not overall appearance - which means ladies and gentlemen - body shape, dress, posture etc. I'm not going to go into weight because I don't like to. Because it's uncomfortable and icky. I wouldn't call myself the F word but I'm certainly not what a horny man is going to think when he's told some gal is beautiful with long curly hair and dark eyes and great skin. Let's face it - it's going to be a disappointment and make for an awkward moment and explanation and a "you really do have a great personality" or some such comment to end the meeting. I shouldn't care what Blue Eyes thinks. But I do because it's just one of those things. If anything - I can sum up the wealth of my neurosis and self-criticism with this simple statement: I have a deep fear of falling short of expectation. It was enough to keep me in my brother's clothes until I turned 21 and my aunt Darya forced me to buy jeans that actually fit. Then I had more confidence. I worked out regularly and dropped pounds and tanned and felt good. This past year has been rough. I'm no longer all that great at the working out - which I do hope to change soon - and have less and less time to tan. So I am pale. Real pale. I'm not stupid. I don't think I am a horrible, ugly troll. I have my good days and my bad days. But I don't like my looks to be judged and in this society - well they're judged, aren't they? That's the only reason I don't want to meet Blue Eyes. It's not like I attach any kind of future to the meeting. The meeting itself would be so out of character for me, though, that it is tempting. And I've been of the opinion lately, that I need tempting. At 26, I've done nothing very scandalous. It's sad. And surprisingly enough it was Blue Eyes who told me last week I work too much and that is the precise reason I don't have a boyfriend. Let's all congratulate him on the most obvious statement of the century. Rounds of applause all around. I should just ignore the creep factor. That he still has my cell number, that he still wants to meet in person when he could very well just wait until he has a run through town and can stop by headquarters. At least then when my daughter asks what her mother did when she was wild and crazy and young - I can add the meeting a total, married, older strange man to that one time I drank milk two days past the expiration date. But I probably won't. Won't meet him and won't have a daughter at this rate, come to think of it. No, I'll pretend to oversleep or have an interview or be on the phone with a friend in need or too busy or blah...blah...blah...and instead Blue Eyes will make a different list. The list with the cowboy I wish I had let walk me up to my room after I'd had a shot of Goldschlager and he'd slurped down half a bar. Or the drunken kiss I could have kept going with The Crush instead of doing the responsible, "you're with someone" jig shortly before he threw up and I made sure he had a safe ride home. Or the countless cities I haven't moved to because the responsible thing is to get more experience, more schooling and more whatever I think is prepared enough to move. This kind of fear/personality is really like bad hair. You can straighten it, perm it, color it or treat it and it's still bad hair. And so we have it. I'm horrible with men on an intimate level because they seem to suddenly want you to be someone else. And while I realize it would be a lot more fun to just play with the notion for the sake of having a love life at all - it's that inevitable mess of reality that just keeps me wanting to keep things at bay. Sad. True. Like putting bad hair in a pony tail. Which I also often do.