The UnFairer Sex

Lest you think, after giving the last blog a perusal, that I am some militant man-hater, or that all blame in all boy-girl relationships rests solely at the feet of the penis-haver, rest assured I do not; it's just my silly personal experience that it does.

Kidding! God, sometime I'll pull open the zipper on my forehead that holds back all the crazy (hence the bangs) and let you in on how I behaved around the first boy I ever noticed as a boy-a boy I was very very into being a boy, mind- and how crazy-awkward I got around the poor kid. Let's just say I'm certain he was glad his occupation kept him in close contact with cleavers and knives, and less so that I was as well.

But that's for another time- Lord knows I do precious little dating, what with it needing to take place outside of my apartment and all, and away from the apartment means away from Netflix, WoW, and usually involves bathing. I am serious on this point, muchachos- just earlier this evening, I came home exceptionally sore from the gym (one of the few reasons I willingly leave my little troll-cave; I suppose a home gym would curtail the need, but I move a lot, and it's bad enough without having to carry boxes of things whose sole purpose in life is to be heavy.)  A friend texted to ask if I would like to accompany him to Costco, being one of my favorite stores of all time, as any place I can buy jeans, sunglasses, and lambchops ought to be, and I begged off, admitting to a preoccupation of packing my sore self into my refrigerator for the evening. And then I realized, holy smokes! There's baking soda in there! BONUS NOT HAVING TO SHOWER TO NOT BE A STINK! And then I texted that to him, and I applaud that it only took him aback for a good ten minutes before he non-sequitered away from that pleasant mental image/smell.

Good friends, man. They's hard to find.

So dating stories will have to be largely hoarded, like the reverse of tangents on this blog, as they are some of my only good, filling content. Instead, tonight's dinner is pretty much opinion filler. With a comic amuse bouche!

All this to say, man. I wish I could like Adele.

You know, Adele, right? The singer? The one whose album of post-breakup songs is like, requisite vagina purchase? Oh, surely you know of her. She's British? Long hair? Big green eyes? Monstrous big voice?...

... okay, fine. The fat one.

Aha, NOW you get it. Sizists.

But see, that's part of my two-pronged problem with her. No, not that she's a big girl. Goodness knows, it'd be a Rick Astley situation if that powerhouse set of pipes was housed in a tiny little size-double-aught body, like that flaky Canadian chick who sang the song about it being the poor's lot in life to love the rich, aspire to their ranks and their women, and ultimately die, not so they live- both could live, really- but so they can await rescue in the comfort to which they are accustomed.

 Kill the poor, indeed.

 But here's the thing, poppet. Crumpet? I don't know any Londonite slang terms of endearment. Anywho. You get yourself out there, singing your huge eff-you song to the man what done you wrong. And it's a smash hit, and nets you a Rolling Stone interview, wherein you spout off the following:

And I'm like, good for you, honey! Why, the focus on actual musical merit as opposed to looks is admirable in this day and age! Just think of ladies like Mama Cass and Janis Joplin- they didn't give a sugar-honey-iced-tea about what they looked like, and yet they and their musical legacies live on, right?

 Wait. Just... wait.

So imagine my utter surprise when I turn to the cover of said Rolling Stone magazine, and wheretofore is our delightful little, doesn't-give-a-care-how-she-looks, siren?

Oh. Under fifteen pounds of pancake makeup and Aquanet.

Well, maybe that's just one pushy cover-photographer-

  Okay. Look, I know she just made a big deal about not caring how she looks, y'all, and that's a lotta lotta eye and lip and cheek and forehead makeup and contouring/shading under the jaw and a lot of styling product and fancy bling. But listen, it's not like she, I don't know, showed up on the actual cover of something like Vogue with a lot of Photo-shame-shoppery and fat girl angle to make her look like someone she's not, and would protest being compared to, right?

Oh, oh man. Wait.

 

 Bitch it is G-D girl code that I like you, WORK WITH ME HERE.

 

All right, here's the thing. We're all vain, like Carly Simon said, and no matter who you are, you have at some moment in your life been concerned with how you look. Anyone who says otherwise? Go throw away your hairbrush or comb, soap, shampoo, any jewelry and any clothes that are not a muumuu, as that's all you need to be practical in the "all my pink parts are covered" sense. And then stay the hell away from me, because we both smell abysmal, though myself in a temporary sense. Why? Because we do care. I scan every picture of myself uploaded to Facebook for any flaw, and if I get to five, I am untagging myself in that unflattering shit.

But here's the thing- I also don't go around giving interviews about how vain I'm not, and by extrapolation, how vain everyone else is for caring how they look. If I did, I'd be a blatant hypocrite, and I like to be more subtle when I'm doing so.

So that's Thing A. Thing B is where it gets less "OMG hater!! SHE'S BEUTIFUL!!11!!eleventy!" and more, well, lock your doors.

I'll admit I rocked the hell out of "Rolling in the Deep" when it came out- thundery drum, scant, seething verses, bombastic chorus, and how straightforward- I'm done, you're done, eff you and the horse you rode in on. Then along comes the next US single, "Someone like You." Dreary, thoughtful, and seemingly full of regret, but moving on.

Until you read the lyrics.

I heard that you're settled down  

That you found a girl and you're married now 

I heard that your dreams came true  

Guess she gave you things I didn't give to you
 
So, two kids in a relationship that didn't work out. I'm ex-military, so believe you me, I've seen a lot of this happen. But looks like the guy recovered, got himself a wife, started achieving his goals- a family, a home? There's regret that she couldn't be the one to give him those things, but hey, that's the way the cookie crumbles. Maybe now she can move on too.
 

Old friend, why are you so shy? Ain't like you to hold back or hide from the light.

Not so much. All right, so, a chance encounter, and the guy gives her the cold shoulder in what- the grocery store? Well, sometimes breakups are bad, and while the dude moved on ultimately, maybe the way it went down was painful or bad, and he doesn't want to revisit the past, so he just scoots on down the toilet paper aisle and prays the girl isn't doing one of those cleanses or something, so he can wait her out.
  
I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited  

Wait, so. Not a grocery store... Adele. Adele, you didn't, haha, do something silly, did you? Did you... did you track him down to his home? With his wife there?

But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it 

Uh oh.
 

I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded  

That for me, it isn't over

 it isn't over

it isn't over

DUDE! DUDE RUN!!!

Okay, that shit? That shit right there? That is unacceptable. And yet you would not believe the number of girls who have told me that they felt the same way, that Adele is double-damn entitled to her rage, and her apparent stalking.

To which I say, picture it reversed: a couple breaks up. The girl goes on, finds a man, marries him, has a home and a kid and man, life is looking up. That last relationship was bad, bad for both participants, but now, she muses as she dusts the top of the ceiling fan (how do they get so dusty when they're constantly moving?) she realizes that the bitter helps her appreciate the sweet, and now life is going just-

knock knock

Oh, the door- perhaps a neighbor wanting a cup of sugar? Old Marge, always wagging her tongue as they hang up sheets in the backyard-

Oh. Oh no. It's her ex. He stands there in the rain (how did he find me? This address is unlisted!) and locks eyes with her. Crazy eyes, fevered and bloodshot from being up too many nights rethinking every little fragment of their time together.

"Charles! Oh, well, um-"

"Why so shy? It's not like you to be shy with me. Not after all we've been through, eh?"

She slowly reaches for the umbrella stand, hoping for a weapon, her smile like rigor mortis.


"I tried to stay away from you, I did, but I couldn't fight... these feelings. And I knew if you saw me, you'd feel the same!"

The lady prays to any God who happens to be near the answering machine as he leans ever closer, whispering now, 

"That you'd know that it isn't over."

Mmmhmm. Probably doesn't help that the chorus of this song is just a sort-of-surrender wherein Adele says fine, she'll just find someone else. Someone like him. Someone exactly like him. 

And then? Probably wear his skin like a coat. 

And y'all wonder why I don't date often.