Normally I try to keep my more opinionated posts on topics such as 'people who don't understand basic grammar,' so I apologize in advance for offending nearly everyone that I know as I break my own rule by stepping into actual controversy. Boy Scouts of America.
"Mission Statement: The mission of the Boy Scouts of America is to
prepare young people to make ethical and moral
choices over their lifetimes by instilling in them the
values of the Scout Oath and Scout Law."
(Sounds good so far.)
"Scout Oath: On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God
and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help
other people at all times; to keep myself physically
strong, mentally awake, and morally straight."
("Did we say morally straight? We meant sexually straight. Our bad.")
"Scout Law: A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful,
friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful,
thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent."
("And also heterosexual. Gosh, did we forget to mention that one again? How silly.")
"Vision Statement: The Boy Scouts of America will prepare every
eligible youth in America to become a responsible,
participating citizen and leader who is guided by
the Scout Oath and Scout Law."
("Unless, of course, you want to be an actual Scout Leader, which will be largely dictated by your sexual orientation. But have fun being a responsible citizen.")
For those of you who aren't yet aware, the BSA finally took a stance regarding homosexuality within its program. I'm certain that you ARE aware of the recent controversy on whether or not homosexual leaders should be permitted. In all of the discussions I have had with people, the main issue is the concern that inappropriate relationships will be formed between the leaders and the scouts, to which I say: there is a HUGE difference between being attracted to a man and being attracted to CHILDREN. No matter your gender preference, being gay is not in any way related to being a child molester. You could say that a younger Scout Leader may develop feelings for an older Scout, but aren't you taking the same chances when your teenage daughter is taught by a male gym teacher, or french tutor, or religious leader, which, as loathsome as we all find it, is far more common than boy scout leaders?
One issue that has never come up in any of these discussions is whether or not homosexual boy scouts should be allowed to participate (and let's be honest, if anyone is going to be fooling around, it's teenage boys). Obviously, it would be unfair to outlaw young homosexual boys from participating, especially since they're probably simply confused, and with righteous examples and influences, they'll eventually grow out of it, right? (
And now for BSA's decision. The new rule states that homosexual scouts (be they in the closet or out) will not be excluded from the program, but no openly gay men will be allowed to become a Scout Leader. The wording they used is:
"While the BSA does not proactively inquire about sexual
orientation of employees, volunteers, or members, we
do not grant membership to individuals who are open
or avowed homosexuals or who engage in behavior that
would become a distraction to the mission of the BSA."
Does this ring a bell for anyone? Ever heard of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell'? Remember how that policy was so dumb that it has now been repealed?
So essentially, the message that the BSA is now teaching it's young, homosexual scouts is, "You are welcome and safe here. We don't judge you by your sexual orientation and we do not discriminate. Until you turn eighteen, and then you better stay the heck away from our program." With the exception of those who are willing to stay in the closet for the rest of their days.
Now, I'm no boy scout (or boy), and I know the Scout Law and the Scout Oath don't specifically use the word 'Honesty,' but isn't it somewhat implied in all of the traits that it does mention? And wouldn't pretending to be something that you aren't so that you can be a part of, participate in, and contribute to a beloved program that you grew up in, that helped you learn to be a good person and a strong man... wouldn't that be, I don't know, NOT honest?
So I guess what I'm really trying to say is that overall, I really am glad that this decision was made. It's a tiny, rather contradictory and ineffectual step in the right direction, but it's a step nonetheless.
I also want to clarify that I AM STILL VERY MUCH MORMON. This particular statement and opinion will have many of my good friends and loved ones wondering if I am perhaps beginning to "stray" from the gospel, but I want to assure you that I have spent many an hour discussing topics such as this one with my wonderful bishop, and it turns out that believing that our homosexual brethren should have equal treatment and opportunities in no way disqualifies me from holding a calling, going to the temple or getting into the celestial kingdom (though there is still plenty of time for me to disqualify myself in other ways, haha).
For those of you who want to see the official BSA Resolution, please follow the following link:
http://www.scouting.org/filestore/MembershipStandards/310-561_WB.pdf
And for those of you who want additional information on the effects of this decision please go to:
https://www.google.com/search?q=italicize+in+facebook+status&aq=1&oq=italicize+in+fac&aqs=chrome.2.57j0l3.8964j0&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#sclient=psy-ab&q=bsa+gay+policy&oq=BSA&gs_l=serp.3.3.0l4.5400.5883.0.9132.3.3.0.0.0.0.179.418.0j3.3.0...0.0...1c.1.14.psy-ab.DbEgljuEWoM&pbx=1&bav=on.2,or.r_cp.r_qf.&bvm=bv.47008514,d.cGE&fp=5f2a042325b2882d&biw=1280&bih=728
and read any article that strikes your fancy.
Because I don't want this post to turn into a "Who Can Disagree the Loudest" contest, I will be deleting ALL comments, positive or negative. This is not meant to be a debate, and I will not allow it to become one. However, if you have a thought on this that you want me exclusively to know, you can comment, and I will read it before deleting it, or you can send me a message. Or egg my car, or whatever.
Many thanks to those of you who actually read this whole thing (if there are any).
God bless everyone, no exceptions.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
Sunday, September 18, 2011
I want everyone to share in my moment of terror.
First off, let me just say that I enjoy horror movies and novels, I don't scream on roller coasters or when friends jump out of the darkness with a shout and fingers bared like claws, and I'm less likely to kill a spider than to pick it up and put it outside. That being said, when in the shower tonight, I picked up a wash rag only to see it give birth to a GIANT BLACK CENTIPEDE, and I heard myself screaming like a victim in a zombie film.
Previous to tonight, I'd thought that the only non-deadly insect that I had an aversion to was the earwig. Centipedes are like earwigs x 100.
C > E.
Before I could find something that I disliked enough to smash it with, it crawled into a crack in the wall. I spent the next ten minutes cowering in the far corner, trying to wash myself from a small distance while also checking the inside of my shower bottles for danger without taking my eyes off the spot where it had disappeared. When it reappeared, the sight did not illicit a lessor reaction. After the next few banshee-like shrieks and a minute of total paralysis in which the creature did not crawl back into it's lair, I threw the aforementioned rag over it and bludgeoned it into oblivion with a bottle of hair product. Bludgeon, pause, repeat.
Since the centipede's near-certain death was not enough to release me from the grip of terror (and since I was born with the unfortunate lack of a lazy eye and thus without the ability to watch both the crack in the wall and the rag simultaneously had I decided to simply put it aside to wash later), I grabbed the rag with a trash bag, threw on a towel, and rushed it to the trash bin in the front yard.
I felt the inappropriacy of my state of undress as I made my way back to the house, but as I rinsed my hair, I knew that had another centipede crawled Lazarus-style from that wall, I would be down the block in seconds, and likely in a lack of apparel that would have put Lady Godiva to shame. That is, assuming my heart was still beating after three such I'm-bleeding-in-shark-infested-waters sized adrenalin shots.
So the point is, I'm writing this to resist the compulsion to search all my clothes for any sign of my shower-demon's spawn, and to distract myself from the question of how I can check the insides of the seams without staying up all night and destroying my entire wardrobe. I hate spring.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Not to be vulgar but...
What the hell.
Okay, so lately I'm going out with three or four guys a week and loving it, and so, SO not looking for a relationship. I'm dating for the free food and friendships. This morning I had my first breakfast date with a guy that I really liked being around. I went out once with him before and had a blast. Honestly he's probably the guy I have most interest in of all of them; nevertheless, nothing was going to happen because I'm not looking for a relationship, he's twenty seven, not a member of the church, and I don't even like him THAT much. If he were a member it might be different, maybe, but I have always known better than to start a relationship that will, inevitably, have to end, and will probably go who knows where in the meantime.
Firstly, you have to understand that this happened about ten minutes ago, and secondly you have to understand that I, full grown dating fiend that I am, had only kissed two guys in my life. Kissing is a really big deal for me, so I've been trying to keep the tally low.
So he's leaving, and then he stops and says leadingly, "So... you're really beautiful, right?"
To which I respond, "Right."
"And I really like you..."
I barely restrained myself from asking, "Like, LIKE like?" before he begins explaining that despite his feelings, he is still planning on going to Taiwan in may for two years to teach English to orphans or something and so doesn't want to get involved or lead me on.
So I'm thinking, 'Great. We'll just be friends. This is what I was planning on anyways,' when he moves in for what I assumed was a goodbye hug when I realised just how close his face was to mine.
I must have looked confused because he paused, backed up a bit and said, "I'm going to kiss you."
The situation, at this moment, was so ridiculous to me that I simply laughed. But then I heard someone say "Okay," and realised it was me.
...
It was weird.
It was like those movies where the hero and heroine finally kiss and it's all filled with tension and they just almost kiss for, like, five minutes before anything really happens and you know it's supposed to be really intense but it's just awkward. Building up to it took long enough for me to wonder if he hadn't in fact been lying when he declared his intentions, and then decide that maybe I didn't want to go through with it. No, I definitely didn't. But by then it was too late. So I thought hey, might as well see if I like it, so I didn't slap him. I thought violence, in this instance, might be particularly rude considering he technically had permission.
He pulled away, and said, "Hmm..."
And I thought, 'What does that even mean?'
So I asked, "What does that even mean?"
And he said, "It means I liked it." I knew enough now to guess just what kind of 'Like' he meant. I also noted that he looked quite giddy as he walked out the door, leaving me standing in the kitchen wondering if what had just happened was a good thing or a bad thing.
It was a bad thing guys.
I do not know how I let this happen. It's so unlike me that I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I had experienced some kind of stroke right around the time he wanted to make sure we were on the same page on whether or not I'm beautiful. Really though, what just happened?
What.
The.
Hell.
Firstly, you have to understand that this happened about ten minutes ago, and secondly you have to understand that I, full grown dating fiend that I am, had only kissed two guys in my life. Kissing is a really big deal for me, so I've been trying to keep the tally low.
So he's leaving, and then he stops and says leadingly, "So... you're really beautiful, right?"
To which I respond, "Right."
"And I really like you..."
I barely restrained myself from asking, "Like, LIKE like?" before he begins explaining that despite his feelings, he is still planning on going to Taiwan in may for two years to teach English to orphans or something and so doesn't want to get involved or lead me on.
So I'm thinking, 'Great. We'll just be friends. This is what I was planning on anyways,' when he moves in for what I assumed was a goodbye hug when I realised just how close his face was to mine.
I must have looked confused because he paused, backed up a bit and said, "I'm going to kiss you."
The situation, at this moment, was so ridiculous to me that I simply laughed. But then I heard someone say "Okay," and realised it was me.
...
It was weird.
It was like those movies where the hero and heroine finally kiss and it's all filled with tension and they just almost kiss for, like, five minutes before anything really happens and you know it's supposed to be really intense but it's just awkward. Building up to it took long enough for me to wonder if he hadn't in fact been lying when he declared his intentions, and then decide that maybe I didn't want to go through with it. No, I definitely didn't. But by then it was too late. So I thought hey, might as well see if I like it, so I didn't slap him. I thought violence, in this instance, might be particularly rude considering he technically had permission.
He pulled away, and said, "Hmm..."
And I thought, 'What does that even mean?'
So I asked, "What does that even mean?"
And he said, "It means I liked it." I knew enough now to guess just what kind of 'Like' he meant. I also noted that he looked quite giddy as he walked out the door, leaving me standing in the kitchen wondering if what had just happened was a good thing or a bad thing.
It was a bad thing guys.
I do not know how I let this happen. It's so unlike me that I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I had experienced some kind of stroke right around the time he wanted to make sure we were on the same page on whether or not I'm beautiful. Really though, what just happened?
What.
The.
Hell.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
I'm Not Ready to Let You Go
It would have been a pathetic sight, had anyone been watching. Or perhaps it would have been heart wrenching; I don't know.
My black heels slid repeatedly on the ice as I struggled to drag my heavy suitcase through the snow, watching it become more and more entrenched the harder I tried to pull it through what has got the be the worlds least convenient form of precipitation, next to hurricanes.
Through my tears, I misjudged the step ahead of me and fell to my knees, the words my mom had yelled as I packed my bags still repeating in my mind. It was sheer determination that got my heavy luggage in the trunk without slipping again off my feet, or perhaps my pure desire to get away as soon as possible. It was past midnight on a Saturday night, two weeks before Christmas. I cleared the driveway just as the first, fragile snowflakes began to fall.
Minutes later, I pulled into the Del Taco parking lot where Bobby and I had agreed to meet. Keeping my balance through the quick sprint from my car to his, I climbed into the passenger seat and tried to thaw out, hoping that he couldn't see the tears still spilling down my cheeks and knowing that he could. He asked a few questions concerning my general well-being, which I assured him was well on it's way to being perfectly adequate. He ignored my obvious lie and reminded me instead that he loved me, that he was there for me and that everything would be alright.
"I think we should just be friends."
I forced the words through my lips before I could find a reason to change my mind. I knew the phrase was cliche and overused, but I had simply wanted to get it out as quickly as possible and so skipped over the part where I would think of a more creative replacement for 'I'm breaking up with you.'
"Okay, whatever you want," he answered with an expression and tone of voice that implied that he would promptly carve out his own heart if he thought it would make me happy. Or maybe I'm being melodramatic.
The thing is, I really, really didn't want to break up with Bobby. We had only been together for a few months and he had a way of making me happy pretty much all the time, not just those few months but the better part of a year leading up to them. He had played the role of my best friend, while ever so patiently waiting for any shot I would give him at being my 'The One.' I knew that I could trust him with my whole heart, should I decide to give it to him. The problem was, my heart was in no condition to be given away, even to this sweet boy.
Still, his quick answer broke through my cloud of self pity long enough to surprise me. I didn't know what I had been expecting exactly, but I was fairly certain that an immediate "Okay" was not on the list.
We sat in comparative silence for a few minutes as I willed my pain to quit leaking out of my eyes in droplets. He occasionally expressed concern for my welfare, and I continued to pretend that I was okay. I wondered briefly if perhaps he hadn't in fact noticed that I had just requested the immediate termination of our relationship. I couldn't really see how he could have missed it. I had been pretty straightforward.
"I'm sorry," I said, minutes later.
"Sorry for what?"
"That we can't be together."
This time a quick reply was not forthcoming. I risked a glance at him and saw that his gaze was fixed ahead at the building snowstorm, his face an emotionless mask.
So he had noticed. While this was more in keeping with my subconscious expectations, I did not enjoy the fact that I had indeed hurt him.
"We should probably be going," he said, with part concern and part feigned nonchalance.
He was right. The storm was getting fiercer by the minute, and the freeway was going to be a nightmare. I followed behind him in my car as we slowly navigated the I15, sliding out only a few times on Bangerter but fortunately missing obstacles such as other cars. It was a full hour before I was safely perched on his couch, cocooned in the blankets that he had fetched and wrapped around me the moment we arrived, as was our tradition. Bobby's family had taken me in on several occasions that year, when disagreements with my parents had resulted in one or the other of us suggesting I find somewhere else to stay. Tonight was hardly new to Bobby's family. It held a marked difference for me however.
If you leave now you better not plan on coming back...
Knowing I wouldn't be able to sleep for a while, Bobby started the season finale of Glee while I acted vaguely comatose. I both yearned for and dreaded any sort of physical contact, reacting with equal amounts of relief and pain when he finally placed his arm around my shoulders. It didn't last long, however. He soon removed his arm and a minuted later we had both shifted so that we were no longer touching each other at all. We didn't make eye contact.
I silently congratulated myself that I had gone so long without crying. Ah, the miracle of television. I vaguely recall watching more TV, and then discussing the events of the night, but honestly this is where it all gets hazy. In any other company I might suspect having been drugged. I suppose it must have been the stress. In any case, I don't remember what we watched or what was said. I do remember when we decided that it was time we tried to sleep. We walked together down the stairs to his basement bedroom and he busied himself with straightening the bed and covering all glowing surfaces. I can't sleep if there's any light in the room; this includes clocks, computers and the various lights that much of our modern technology seems to come with these days. He had always been the one to see to every detail of my comfort. The only part that I wasn't used to was the way he quietly moved around the room as if in a great hurry, and the way that he wouldn't look at me.
"Okay then, goodnight."
And he was gone. Just like that. Without another word or glance to suggest that he could ever forgive me. I stood there, shocked in the wake of his abrupt dismissal. He had never, in the ten months that I had known him, left me like that before. Things were bad.
Gone were the tears that stole silently across my face. Replacing them were sobs that wracked my whole body; I held my breath to keep the sounds from escaping my throat, shaking violently with repressed pain. I fell onto his bed, taking only as much breath as was absolutely needed.It was perhaps a minute later that I heard a sudden knock on the door. I hurriedly dried my eyes and sat up.
"Come in."
I swear on my life, it was just like the movies.
The door swung open and Bobby strode determinedly into the room, eyes locked on mine. Not stopping until he was directly in front of me, he leaned down to eye level.
"I'm not ready to let you go," he said gently, and he kissed me.
He held me until I felt calm again, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay after all.
My black heels slid repeatedly on the ice as I struggled to drag my heavy suitcase through the snow, watching it become more and more entrenched the harder I tried to pull it through what has got the be the worlds least convenient form of precipitation, next to hurricanes.
Through my tears, I misjudged the step ahead of me and fell to my knees, the words my mom had yelled as I packed my bags still repeating in my mind. It was sheer determination that got my heavy luggage in the trunk without slipping again off my feet, or perhaps my pure desire to get away as soon as possible. It was past midnight on a Saturday night, two weeks before Christmas. I cleared the driveway just as the first, fragile snowflakes began to fall.
Minutes later, I pulled into the Del Taco parking lot where Bobby and I had agreed to meet. Keeping my balance through the quick sprint from my car to his, I climbed into the passenger seat and tried to thaw out, hoping that he couldn't see the tears still spilling down my cheeks and knowing that he could. He asked a few questions concerning my general well-being, which I assured him was well on it's way to being perfectly adequate. He ignored my obvious lie and reminded me instead that he loved me, that he was there for me and that everything would be alright.
"I think we should just be friends."
I forced the words through my lips before I could find a reason to change my mind. I knew the phrase was cliche and overused, but I had simply wanted to get it out as quickly as possible and so skipped over the part where I would think of a more creative replacement for 'I'm breaking up with you.'
"Okay, whatever you want," he answered with an expression and tone of voice that implied that he would promptly carve out his own heart if he thought it would make me happy. Or maybe I'm being melodramatic.
The thing is, I really, really didn't want to break up with Bobby. We had only been together for a few months and he had a way of making me happy pretty much all the time, not just those few months but the better part of a year leading up to them. He had played the role of my best friend, while ever so patiently waiting for any shot I would give him at being my 'The One.' I knew that I could trust him with my whole heart, should I decide to give it to him. The problem was, my heart was in no condition to be given away, even to this sweet boy.
Still, his quick answer broke through my cloud of self pity long enough to surprise me. I didn't know what I had been expecting exactly, but I was fairly certain that an immediate "Okay" was not on the list.
We sat in comparative silence for a few minutes as I willed my pain to quit leaking out of my eyes in droplets. He occasionally expressed concern for my welfare, and I continued to pretend that I was okay. I wondered briefly if perhaps he hadn't in fact noticed that I had just requested the immediate termination of our relationship. I couldn't really see how he could have missed it. I had been pretty straightforward.
"I'm sorry," I said, minutes later.
"Sorry for what?"
"That we can't be together."
This time a quick reply was not forthcoming. I risked a glance at him and saw that his gaze was fixed ahead at the building snowstorm, his face an emotionless mask.
So he had noticed. While this was more in keeping with my subconscious expectations, I did not enjoy the fact that I had indeed hurt him.
"We should probably be going," he said, with part concern and part feigned nonchalance.
He was right. The storm was getting fiercer by the minute, and the freeway was going to be a nightmare. I followed behind him in my car as we slowly navigated the I15, sliding out only a few times on Bangerter but fortunately missing obstacles such as other cars. It was a full hour before I was safely perched on his couch, cocooned in the blankets that he had fetched and wrapped around me the moment we arrived, as was our tradition. Bobby's family had taken me in on several occasions that year, when disagreements with my parents had resulted in one or the other of us suggesting I find somewhere else to stay. Tonight was hardly new to Bobby's family. It held a marked difference for me however.
If you leave now you better not plan on coming back...
Knowing I wouldn't be able to sleep for a while, Bobby started the season finale of Glee while I acted vaguely comatose. I both yearned for and dreaded any sort of physical contact, reacting with equal amounts of relief and pain when he finally placed his arm around my shoulders. It didn't last long, however. He soon removed his arm and a minuted later we had both shifted so that we were no longer touching each other at all. We didn't make eye contact.
I silently congratulated myself that I had gone so long without crying. Ah, the miracle of television. I vaguely recall watching more TV, and then discussing the events of the night, but honestly this is where it all gets hazy. In any other company I might suspect having been drugged. I suppose it must have been the stress. In any case, I don't remember what we watched or what was said. I do remember when we decided that it was time we tried to sleep. We walked together down the stairs to his basement bedroom and he busied himself with straightening the bed and covering all glowing surfaces. I can't sleep if there's any light in the room; this includes clocks, computers and the various lights that much of our modern technology seems to come with these days. He had always been the one to see to every detail of my comfort. The only part that I wasn't used to was the way he quietly moved around the room as if in a great hurry, and the way that he wouldn't look at me.
"Okay then, goodnight."
And he was gone. Just like that. Without another word or glance to suggest that he could ever forgive me. I stood there, shocked in the wake of his abrupt dismissal. He had never, in the ten months that I had known him, left me like that before. Things were bad.
Gone were the tears that stole silently across my face. Replacing them were sobs that wracked my whole body; I held my breath to keep the sounds from escaping my throat, shaking violently with repressed pain. I fell onto his bed, taking only as much breath as was absolutely needed.It was perhaps a minute later that I heard a sudden knock on the door. I hurriedly dried my eyes and sat up.
"Come in."
I swear on my life, it was just like the movies.
The door swung open and Bobby strode determinedly into the room, eyes locked on mine. Not stopping until he was directly in front of me, he leaned down to eye level.
"I'm not ready to let you go," he said gently, and he kissed me.
He held me until I felt calm again, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay after all.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
It's a Vicious Cycle
Girls are mean. Girls lead on guys. Girls break hearts for fun. We’ve all heard this before, but where in the world did this idea come from?
The 2004 production of the movie “Mean Girls” accurately portrays the popular stereotype of the modern day beautiful yet heartless woman. As far as I know, however, this woman is basically mythical. Never once, in all my eighteen and three quarters years, have I heard any girl say to another anything along the lines of, “I just found out that so-and-so likes me; I think I’ll string him along for a little while before chewing him up and spitting him out,” or seen one sitting back and relaxing with some book maliciously titled, “Manipulating Males for Fun and Profit.”
In fact, if they were to learn that a guy they knew was interested in them and after a while they found they didn’t return that interest, they would do absolutely everything in their power not to hurt his feelings. Why, then, do these girls have such disagreeable reputations? I found the answer in my freshman year of high school.
One of my best friends had found herself head over heels in love with a boy in our class. Little did I know that soon enough I would find myself up to my eyeballs in drama. Sure enough, the moment she began Operation ‘I Like You,’ I was strapped into an emotional rollercoaster that would last the rest of the year. She started with friendly conversation, then flirting, then hanging out, then Friday nights at the movies, then Prom, all to no avail. He still seemed to be blind to her advances. After months of desperation, she tossed subtlety to the winds and sent him a text informing him that she was in love with him and begging him to react. When this final act failed to force him into action, we decided that the only plausible conclusion was that he was simply a mean-hearted jerk who had been knowingly leading her on all year.
It still wasn’t until the next time that I heard the familiar dilemma, “I keep trying to let him know that I’m not interested, I’m giving him all the signs, but he just won’t get it! Boys are so dumb!” that it finally clicked. Our freshman heartbreaker hadn’t been leading her on at all; he had been doing everything he could to let her know that yes, he noticed her feelings and no, he didn’t feel that way at all. The only problem was that he had taken a leaf out of the official “How to be a Girl Handbook” and chosen subtlety as the best means to let her down easy. He had been giving her all the signs (avoiding eye contact, never beginning conversations, keeping other friends around at all times, etc), but she wasn’t getting it because they were so irrationally subtle!
Girls are so dumb.
The revelation that we nice girls created the mean girl stereotype through our efforts to avoid it was mind-boggling for me. People think we’re mean because we treat guys so indifferently for so long, which we do to try to let them down as easily as possible, which we do so people don’t think we’re mean girls. Life is cruel.
Since this lesson, I have adopted “Honesty is the best policy” as my motto. When an uninteresting guy seems interested, I avoid subtlety as much as is reasonable, and while there is still the occasional boy for whom “I want you to stop talking to me and following me around” still doesn’t quite get the message across, I’ve found a great deal more success with this route. I may very well have still developed a reputation for rudeness, but at least it’s because I have actually been rude on occasion and not because I’ve just been way too nice.
The 2004 production of the movie “Mean Girls” accurately portrays the popular stereotype of the modern day beautiful yet heartless woman. As far as I know, however, this woman is basically mythical. Never once, in all my eighteen and three quarters years, have I heard any girl say to another anything along the lines of, “I just found out that so-and-so likes me; I think I’ll string him along for a little while before chewing him up and spitting him out,” or seen one sitting back and relaxing with some book maliciously titled, “Manipulating Males for Fun and Profit.”
In fact, if they were to learn that a guy they knew was interested in them and after a while they found they didn’t return that interest, they would do absolutely everything in their power not to hurt his feelings. Why, then, do these girls have such disagreeable reputations? I found the answer in my freshman year of high school.
One of my best friends had found herself head over heels in love with a boy in our class. Little did I know that soon enough I would find myself up to my eyeballs in drama. Sure enough, the moment she began Operation ‘I Like You,’ I was strapped into an emotional rollercoaster that would last the rest of the year. She started with friendly conversation, then flirting, then hanging out, then Friday nights at the movies, then Prom, all to no avail. He still seemed to be blind to her advances. After months of desperation, she tossed subtlety to the winds and sent him a text informing him that she was in love with him and begging him to react. When this final act failed to force him into action, we decided that the only plausible conclusion was that he was simply a mean-hearted jerk who had been knowingly leading her on all year.
It still wasn’t until the next time that I heard the familiar dilemma, “I keep trying to let him know that I’m not interested, I’m giving him all the signs, but he just won’t get it! Boys are so dumb!” that it finally clicked. Our freshman heartbreaker hadn’t been leading her on at all; he had been doing everything he could to let her know that yes, he noticed her feelings and no, he didn’t feel that way at all. The only problem was that he had taken a leaf out of the official “How to be a Girl Handbook” and chosen subtlety as the best means to let her down easy. He had been giving her all the signs (avoiding eye contact, never beginning conversations, keeping other friends around at all times, etc), but she wasn’t getting it because they were so irrationally subtle!
Girls are so dumb.
The revelation that we nice girls created the mean girl stereotype through our efforts to avoid it was mind-boggling for me. People think we’re mean because we treat guys so indifferently for so long, which we do to try to let them down as easily as possible, which we do so people don’t think we’re mean girls. Life is cruel.
Since this lesson, I have adopted “Honesty is the best policy” as my motto. When an uninteresting guy seems interested, I avoid subtlety as much as is reasonable, and while there is still the occasional boy for whom “I want you to stop talking to me and following me around” still doesn’t quite get the message across, I’ve found a great deal more success with this route. I may very well have still developed a reputation for rudeness, but at least it’s because I have actually been rude on occasion and not because I’ve just been way too nice.
The Eye of the Beholder
Beauty is one of the world’s most fluid concepts; I would say it’s right up there with “Right” and “Wrong.” Countless dollars and years of efforts have gone into discovering what beauty is and where the idea came from. I once read an article that was supposed to explain this very thing. As the author explained that the reason that men are statistically more attracted to blond women is because naturally blonde hair is generally exclusive to healthy young girls who are more fit for child bearing, I could see where he was coming from, but when he began explaining that blue eyed women are more attractive because lighter eyes make it easier to tell when the pupil dilates if she is beholding a loved one – that was about the point that the author lost all credibility with me.
Most of us have had the experience where we are confronted with some ancient, historical work of art that features an obscenely obese woman, only to be informed that extra weight in those days was an attractive trait as it was a sign of good health (and good child bearing chances). I, personally, find these figures to be butt ugly, but I do know many overweight women that I could call beautiful. For one example, the winner of last year’s season of “America’s Next Top Model” was the first plus-sized girl to ever win that competition. Another example would be my aunt Barbara. Barb is no model, but if asked, I would tell you that she is the more beautiful of these two examples. Upon first impression, the model will be the one to catch your eye, but after five minutes of conversation you’ll begin to notice the way that my aunt’s eyes sparkle, the way that her smile never leaves her face, the way she makes you feel intelligent and appreciated, and I’m willing to bet that after five whole minutes with the model you’d find that you’d rather have spent it with a photograph than face to face with the person.
Beauty cannot be restricted to merely that which is aesthetically pleasing; Beauty is everything that we find to be admirable, desirable, or pleasant. In other words, all good things are beautiful.
In any social group, you will sooner or later (most likely sooner) come across a knot of girls who are spending their time gossiping about that one girl that all the guys think is “Soo Hot” but is seriously lacking in the personality department, and you will probably hear one girl say something along the lines of, “And she’s not even that cute!” And then there’s the girl in everyone’s life who appears plain upon first acquaintance, but who you soon find is much more attractive than you originally gave her credit for. This same principle applies to men, and that principle is that people who treat others beautifully will appear beautiful to others.
Along these same lines, beautiful music does not necessarily have to be harmonic, melodic, or even well-written; it becomes beautiful when it means something to the listener. Some things that I could never bring myself to listen to will make someone else feel something deeply. I know this is true because otherwise Rap music would never have made it onto the radio.
In the art world, you may be moved by the elaborate painting of the beautiful woman in a flowering garden with her children, or you may find yourself drawn to the modern art. When I see a giant canvas with nothing on it but a red square on a blue background I think, ‘If people really buy this rubbish, why am I not a billionaire?” But someone else looking at the exact same thing will think, ‘That’s how I feel, an isolated speck of feeling in a cold, lonely world.’
Of all the places in the world that you can find beauty, the most beautiful to me will always be the people that become beautiful to you over time. That, and red squares on blue canvas.
Most of us have had the experience where we are confronted with some ancient, historical work of art that features an obscenely obese woman, only to be informed that extra weight in those days was an attractive trait as it was a sign of good health (and good child bearing chances). I, personally, find these figures to be butt ugly, but I do know many overweight women that I could call beautiful. For one example, the winner of last year’s season of “America’s Next Top Model” was the first plus-sized girl to ever win that competition. Another example would be my aunt Barbara. Barb is no model, but if asked, I would tell you that she is the more beautiful of these two examples. Upon first impression, the model will be the one to catch your eye, but after five minutes of conversation you’ll begin to notice the way that my aunt’s eyes sparkle, the way that her smile never leaves her face, the way she makes you feel intelligent and appreciated, and I’m willing to bet that after five whole minutes with the model you’d find that you’d rather have spent it with a photograph than face to face with the person.
Beauty cannot be restricted to merely that which is aesthetically pleasing; Beauty is everything that we find to be admirable, desirable, or pleasant. In other words, all good things are beautiful.
In any social group, you will sooner or later (most likely sooner) come across a knot of girls who are spending their time gossiping about that one girl that all the guys think is “Soo Hot” but is seriously lacking in the personality department, and you will probably hear one girl say something along the lines of, “And she’s not even that cute!” And then there’s the girl in everyone’s life who appears plain upon first acquaintance, but who you soon find is much more attractive than you originally gave her credit for. This same principle applies to men, and that principle is that people who treat others beautifully will appear beautiful to others.
Along these same lines, beautiful music does not necessarily have to be harmonic, melodic, or even well-written; it becomes beautiful when it means something to the listener. Some things that I could never bring myself to listen to will make someone else feel something deeply. I know this is true because otherwise Rap music would never have made it onto the radio.
In the art world, you may be moved by the elaborate painting of the beautiful woman in a flowering garden with her children, or you may find yourself drawn to the modern art. When I see a giant canvas with nothing on it but a red square on a blue background I think, ‘If people really buy this rubbish, why am I not a billionaire?” But someone else looking at the exact same thing will think, ‘That’s how I feel, an isolated speck of feeling in a cold, lonely world.’
Of all the places in the world that you can find beauty, the most beautiful to me will always be the people that become beautiful to you over time. That, and red squares on blue canvas.
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