On the Subject of Prissy Princesses

Sometimes I feel a bit angry or defeated. Even though I went to a wonderful school and had phenomenally amazing classmates, from time to time, there are a small handful of classmates who stick out in my mind. At times, I find I compare myself to that small handful of wide-eyed, pretty-faced, flimsy framed, high pitched, little flibbity girls that ended up with the career I wanted. Those same Prissy Princess Girls also ended up with gorgeous boyfriends and husbands. They have what I thought I wanted: the perfect career and the perfect man. So while I now strive to get my career where I want it to be, a Schmooie wanna-be called Shy Boy has been pursuing me. He’s cute, but not gorgeous on the outside, (not what I grew up picturing “gorgeous” to be). He is a good guy, a great guy actually, on the inside. Still, there have been times where after all these years, I feel I’m comparing myself to those Prissy Princess Girls I once knew. What’s the point in that? I have no idea. Shy Boy will coo and say the sweetest things to me, which only makes me giggle, blush, and look away. He wants to know what guy in the past hurt my self-esteem so badly. Truth is, it was no guy who did that to me. I’d never let an idiot guy hurt my opinion of myself. It was the same sex, those Prissy Princess females, which made (and make) me wonder if I’m doing something wrong.

The thing to remember is that a pretty package may have a nasty surprise. Those so called handsome guys the Prissy Princesses ended up with probably have a lot wrong with them to end up with such catty little women. But still, it infuriates me to no end that the Prissy Princesses always appear to win. Those Prissy Princesses got the career I wanted. Why shouldn’t they get the perfect Prince for their perfect Stepford lives? I guess I should keep in mind that the greatest talent of a Prissy Princess is in keeping up appearances. Those so called handsome guys might be real duds when not being told what to do by their Prissy Princesses. Shy Boy knows how to be romantic without being told. He goes out of his way to do something for me before I even ask. He knows how to touch my skin in a way that makes me happy. He’s thoughtful, considerate, and protective. He’s never demanding and he’s always sincere. He can say gooey things and mean it without wanting any “special favors” in return. On top of that, he’s a great kisser and he’s intelligent. He truly loves me and it shows in his kisses and in his actions. That should outweigh the negative things. Things such as: he’s starting to bald; he’s a bit cross eyed; he’s overly apologetic at times; he’s overly gentle to the point of infuriating; he’s very quiet unless the subject is music or movies; sometimes he acts like he’s not quite aware of the things around him when he’s walking down a street; he act and looks far more mature than his age; he has no music or artistic ability; he’s fun loving but sometimes I have to come up with the ideas first.

He’s not someone you’ll instantly look at and need to sit down. He’s not someone you’ll talk to for a few minutes and need to sit down. He’s not instantly charming physically or socially is what I mean to say. Indeed, he’s not the type of guy I ever pictured myself with.

Meanwhile, is it possible the the Stepford boyfriends and husbands of those Prissy Princesses look perfect on the outside and act perfect socially, but have no abilities at home to do the same? Shy Boy needs no coaxing or training on how to be a man towards me. I bet most of those good looking Stepford boyfriends and husbands don’t offer a foot rub or back rub out of the blue. They don’t come over and wrap their arms around their Prissy Princess while she’s doing her hair just because they treasure her. They don’t stop whatever it is that they’re doing just to gaze at their Prissy Princess. They don’t bother to call despite being exhausted from a long work day just to say hello. For all I know, they probably take their Prissy Princess for granted. And who could blame them? They were the ones idiotic enough to fall for the Prissy Princess. Perhaps, while those particular girls are busy sniveling along, seemingly getting their way in almost everything they do, it’s all an act. And you know what? Maybe I am the true Queen Bee.  

Meeting of the Mothers

This weekend, Shy Boy’s mother came to town. You see, in case that sentence didn’t make sense, Shy Boy’s mother lives several states away. Of course, I had already met her at the wedding, but I didn’t have much time to talk to her at that point because she was so busy helping her other son get married. I was pleasantly surprised by the events of this past weekend. The way Shy Boy presented it to me, I was ready for a long weekend of interrogations about my intentions with her son. I was ready for a meeting of the mothers where each sizes the other one up and draws up a dowry, in spite of the fact that he and I have only known each other for a little over three months. (The anticipation and apprehension for something being taken far too seriously than it should be would explain my anger toward Shy Boy and Jewish mothers in general in my last blog post.) In reality, Shy Boy’s mother felt bad that she hadn’t spent much time with him during the wedding weekend, and since he had some availability in his work schedule, she wanted to come see him. She had also heard great things about my family, particularly my mother, and wanted to meet her. We got together with her three times during the weekend, each day spent full of eating and shopping. The mothers instantly hit it off. I am a bit jealous of his mom. She worries about her son like any mother, but she seems to be so encouraging and just wants her son to be happy, even if his vision of happiness differs from her own. My mother is a great mother, but she’s more pessimistic and wants things her way when it comes to raising her children and how her children should live their lives. Shy Boy’s mother didn’t care that I want to go back to my beloved state out West. She wasn’t pushy. I was worried one Jewish mother might try to dominate the other, but they actually got along quite well. Both had a lot to talk about, and most of their conversations had nothing to do with Shy Boy or myself. I’m a bit odd about being too physical with Shy Boy when my mom is around. Even something as innocent as hand holding makes me nervous in front of my mother. He respected that, as he always does. This weekend, I felt more comfortable with touching him and having him kiss me goodbye in front of my mother. I still haven’t fallen for him. But I do feel more attached to him. I’m not in love with him and I’m not sure what it’s going to take to actually “fall in love.” (Besides, why should it be him out of anyone that I “fall in love with” anyway?) But I do love him. I feel much freer now that the mothers know each other and no one’s forcing us to do anything. I just enjoy Shy Boy’s company. I’m glad and hopeful that that’s good enough for now.  

The Great-on-Paper Guy

So I spent quite some time writing up a blog entry about how the wedding went, how much fun we had, that we got closer physically (nothing sexual of course because Shy Boy’s a gentleman). But I’m not gonna lie. I’ve decided not to post it. There’s a good reason behind it that has nothing to do with privacy. Since the wedding occurred two weeks ago, I’ve been to his apartment for the first time. I’ve seen him happy and I’ve seen him bored. I’ve been to NYC with him. All the while, love has grown deeper for him and kept lukewarm for me. Every time I think love might start to simmer in me, it fizzles away again. When I read a string of e-mails between one of my friends and me during the past two to three weeks, there is an interesting rise and fall in emotions. Immediately after the wedding, I was still giddy and almost felt myself falling for Shy Boy. Last week, I could go either way but I was still leaning more toward liking him. Over the past few days, I’ve gone completely neutral.  I’ve even wrote a follow-up blog post to the wedding discussing my disdain for him, but it's not worth posting. Instead, I'm writing this post now. Some days I think he’s a great guy, other days I’m perfectly happy without him. Shy Boy is The Great-on-Paper Guy. Why is he great-on-paper but not in real life? I still can’t quite figure it out myself. He’s chivalrous, a gentleman, kind, thoughtful, worships me. But he’s old fashioned, like everything is to me on the East Coast. He’s willing to come to my beloved city in the West, but I don’t think he’d like it. He looks and acts much older than his age. He’s shy, sensitive, and somewhat timid. He’s so gentle it’s irritating. I don’t want to be the one in the relationship with the balls or testosterone! How is it possible that he treats me like a lady and can protect me on the streets of New York while all the while being so shy and sensitive?  There’s something, something I can’t describe and can’t pinpoint that’s missing. And that thing that’s missing is the great wall that keeps me from falling in love with him. He tells me he’ll do whatever makes me happy. He says all he wants is to be loved and have someone love him. But deep down I know he wants a serious relationship. At the same time, I can't bring myself to tell him, to break his heart, that I don't think I'm ever going to love him. Then again, I should keep in mind we haven’t even known each other for that long. In all actuality, it’s only been three months.

In true parent-child fashion, I want to blame our pushy Jewish mothers who think we belong together just because we’re of “a certain age” and have not found someone yet, as the reason why I can’t love him. For crying out loud, we’re not that old and even if we were, we have to find our own way to be happy. Maybe I just don’t want to get married and have children. Maybe the more society forces it on me and the deeper in love he tells me he is; the more I want to run away from him. Then I get to thinking of those lonely nights in my beloved state back West. The nights I cried because I didn’t have a boyfriend. The nights I prayed for a boyfriend to no avail. Now, I find myself thinking that I can do better than him. I don’t know how, it’s probably an immature naïve thing to even be thinking of. My expectations are probably far too high. I’m looking for bigger, better, best. Maybe I love a state out West more than I could ever love him, even if he did come out there to be with me. All I know is, I like him as a boyfriend and I wish people would leave it at that, including him.