Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Nigel's Tell-all: The Breast Ways to Cope with Rejection

Hi Folks.  It's been awhile since I've written.  Don't shart with me and just keep reading.

*Please note: all names of people (including TV hosts), animals (namely Glen S's dog), Reality show name and network featuring said reality show have been changed because I'm trying to be considerate of all parties involved.  Yay me.  Let's get sharted:

Apart from my desperate attempt at accumulating a staggering number of "likes" by uploading a heavily filtered photo from 2 years ago onto instagram, it had been an otherwise uneventful Tuesday night.  I was tired from a long day of  facebooking and gchatting work and was lying on the sofa sifting through my split ends, watching the Simpsons and absentmindedly scrolling through Tinder (I'm such a multitasker) hoping to stumble upon my next victims I needed to complete my Toe Pick VS Tinder trilogy when there he was.  The one and only Glen S.*  My heart sank and my knees twitched.  A jolt of adrenalin shot through my system and I sprung upward in high alert, nearly knocking my plate of General Tso's over in the process. I immediately clicked "like" and just when I thought I couldn't be anymore elated I  was notified of the match:



Finally - something. There'd been a lull in my love-life for 30 years quite a bit of time. It had been months since the demise of my relationship with Hot Muni Boy and I needed a break from living vicariously through Lifetime movie characters.  I was bored, and starving for egg rolls some romantic excitement of my own.  It was as if Jesus knew this too and had beckoned the Tinder Gods to send me someone with potential. The majority of the boys I'd encountered on tinder appeared to be pushing 18 and each one had enough gel on his head to drown the entire cast of the Jersey Shore.  

Long story shart, Glen S. and I agreed to meet for a beer.  Clearly, he didn't realize he'd met me a couple years ago when my g-friend and I practically accosted him and his friends at the Lion's Den in an attempt to garner some Toe Pick material.  This was after Glen S's appearance on PBS's* popular reality show called The Scratcherette* but prior to his debut on its brother show THE SCRATCHER.*  

Needless to write, I was nervous as hell before our date. I may or may not have watched some old YouTube episodes of the Scratcher in an effort to refresh my memory of Glen's dating style. I tried on like 17 different outfits, got my hair blown out and even brainstormed conversation topics with my friends.  Like, I actually wrote out a mini-script (and included standard conversational pauses, 'um's', and 'like's') to rehearse just in case my brain shut down and my words escaped me.  I'd resolved to avoid bringing up anything having to do with his stint on The Scratcher - especially given that it is my favorite show and I'd watched each episode religiously, so basically I knew everything about Glen S. including the names of his mom and 5-year-old Jack Russell terrier.  But fuck if I was going to let him know that.  I had to appear aloof and unfazed by his Q-list celebrity status, even though on the inside I was bursting at the seams with excitement.  
*what I would have said had I not rehearsed: 

Me: So, do you have any pets!? Oh wait yeah you have a jack russell terrier named Crotch*! Did you get him in Sonoma where you were born and raised!? Did Crotch and Bourtney get along when y'all were dating? Oh and tell me what The Scratcher's host, Piss Garrison* was like! 

What really happened (after hours of preparing):

Me: So, do you have any pets?
Glen: Yes - I have one dog.
Me: Oh yeah? What's his name?
Glen: Crotch. He's a jack russel.
Me: Oh cool! I had no idea. My family has a Jack Russell too. I'm so mellow. 
Fast forward to the end of the date:

I thanked Glen S. for a fun time and hugged him as I clumsily zigzagged  sauntered up the street toward my apartment.  I took a deep breath and smiled as I thought to myself: "That went really well.  It wasn't so bad."  I immediately regretted drinking nearly an entire bottle of wine prior to said date and scolded myself for not being able to calm my nerves the good old fashioned way by popping a Valium taking deep breaths and/or doing some form of exercise.  Unfortunately, I needed something immediate to combat my supremely fickle nervous system as there wasn't enough time for me to hit up a yoga class or whatever.  And clearly I desperately needed to calm down before my date with Glen S.  Going on dates in general are not my will forte, so you can imagine how stressed I was about cavorting with the former star of my favorite reality TV show.  "Remember, it's only awkward if you make it awkward," my friend told me prior to my date.  Clearly, she had forgotten who she was dealing with.

So by the end of my self-proclaimed decidedly successful date I was tipsy - not drunk, but tipsy.  So my judgment might have been slightly impaired but I still felt as though I had a good read on how the night went.  We laughed (I told him a few of my go-to, offensive OJ Simpson jokes), had things in common (we both like dogs and pizza! YAY!) and I even told my embarrassing COSTCO story.  I felt good and thankfully my freshly coiffed  afro mane had weathered the stagnant San Francisco haze on my walk to the bar.  Aside from committing the cliche dating blunder of going in for a handshake as he went in for a hug upon our initial meeting things seemed to have gone swimmingly.  He even recognized me when he first saw me and commented on my blog. "Oh, you're the girl who wrote the Toe Jam blog about me awhile ago," he noted. I may or may not have mistaken the disdain in his voice for understated enthusiasm.

I'll hear from him, I thought.  I had this in the bag.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.  14 days later and no word.  I'm left to analyze and make up ridiculous stories as to why I haven't heard from him.  Sometimes I am thankful for my overly active imagination and sometimes I want to kick it in the nuts (assuming my imagination is a man) and tell it to go fuck itself.  This is one of those times.  Here are some reasons I've concocted as to why I haven't heard from him:

- I name-dropped too much  (yes. sometimes I do this when I'm nervous.  It's painfully obnoxious and I'm well aware of that.  Admittance is the first step; at least that's what Marisa Tomei told me when I met her a few years ago.  *see what I did there? :( )
- He realized he didn't want to have a second date with a girl who does THIS
- My pointy eye brows conjured up terrorizing mental images of Jack Nicholson a la the Shining
                                          
                                        
- He read Toe Pick (actually I know this to be true)
- He had a mean urinary tract infection and OD'd on cranberry juice
- He went lobstering in Maine and his hands were pinched so badly that they got infected and had to be amputated resulting in an inability to text or dial my number  
- He had to have an emergency appendectomy and has been under anesthesia for the past 2 weeks 
- I talked too much and used the word "awkward" more than I should have 
- I called him Nigel by accident.  10 times.
- He is who he is and chances are he has a plethora of younger, less awkward, bigger breasted, marina babes waiting in the wings, ready to pounce on his jounce.  (After over-thinking the shit out of it, I've come to the conclusion that this is indeed the reason I've yet to hear from him)

I'll admit, I'm a little confused and pissed.

Because, let's face it.  Rejection of any kind blows.  It forces you to look inwardly and wonder about what it is about yourself that's so bad to make someone want to not have a relationship with you, whether it be a work one or a romantic one.  It makes you feel like that dingleberried, mangy yet hopeful mutt at the pound that no family wants to take home.  As someone who has been fired and dumped a fuckload couple of times I have been forced to undergo a number of self-evaluations and now, at age 30, I feel like I know myself pretty well as a result of them. I've accepted the fact that I'm an acquired taste; I'm definitely not for everyone and I'm not okay with that. I've also developed some coping mechanisms when it comes to handling rejection gracefully.  Here they are.

1. Reinvent yourself.  Get a cool new haircut.  Or dye your hair/get highlights.  I went to the salon last week and tried out the bayalage highlights because that's what I discovered Gisele Bundchen has.  I will share with you the before picture but not the after, because well, my attempt at mimicking Giz went a bit awry and now I resemble Carrot Top with streaks.  *I will be heading back into the salon this afternoon in an attempt to rectify the situation.  Side note: Steer clear of Cinta Salon on Post and Grant.

BEFORE.

*what I'd hoped for:


*what I got:
      (we even have the same brows!)

2.  Recognize all of your positive qualities.  Jot them down into a list form so you can reaffirm your attributes any time you begin to feel unworthy of the Scratcher Season 14's attention.                          
                        

3.  Realize that things could be worse.*
*At least I'm not a pigeon.

4. Try and become to breast version of yourself.
Not only has my dating life been on hiatus but so has my work-out routine.  So I joined the gross to quite gross 24-hour Fitness near my building.  At 28 bucks a month I am definitely getting what I am paying for.  I went in this morning and braved the sea of exposed areolae in the ladies locker room and hopped in the shower only to be confronted by random curly black hairs scattered about.  The only time I want to see any kind of variation of a bush on the ground is when I'm walking home from work and crossing bush and franklin.  In addition to suspect hairs, the shower also boasted a 4-in-one shampoo, conditioner, face and body wash mixture that has left my mane looking like one giant jheri curl.  But at least I feel awkward and traumatized refreshed!
                                          
5.  Surround yourself with people/things who accept you and don't reject you.  I love my family (and our animals), my friends and my over sized gummy bear nightlight.   Who/what else do I need?
                                              

6.  Consider your worth.
Now that I'm 30 I'm pretty much fresh out of fucks to give.  I don't want anyone who doesn't want me.

6.  Recognize that at least you're not dating this Nitro from the Bachelorette.
I've seen some pretty horrendous shart shirt choices during the tenure of this show ranging from deeper than deep V-Nex, heinous short-sleeved button downs, and trashy wife beaters but this dude's tank trumps 'em all in the What the Fuck Were you Thinking Hall o' Fame.  My advice to Dez - rip this guys tank top off and beat him with it.
COULD. YOU. NOT.
                                            

And. That's it. I hope I was helpful.

xo, Nige