A Post-Feminist Response to Big Heart

I know, I know… Some of us… many of us, have a very hard tome asking for help, or even accepting it if it’s offered. Most of us (usually the same ones) are skittish and flee if a guy shows that he cares too soon (give us a break, we’re the ones who can’t tell someone’s a psycho until it’s too late). All that means many of you end up pretending to be uncaring assholes when, really, you’re not. And we all suffer, too, because deep down, we want you to care, and worry, and be there.

The problem is, our generation was raised by feminists. Whether they were vocal about it or not, whether they took on the cause or not, whether they burned their bras or wore them, our mothers lived in the era when it finally became all right to work, study, be yourself, be an individual, and not just a wife. And so, we all grew up being told that we could do it alone, that we were independent, that we did not need a man to make us complete, or help us in any way. We are the first generation to be enjoying the first fruits of equality, but we are also acutely aware that we aren’t there yet.

And so, can you blame us if we haven’t quite found the balance as individuals yet? If we’re so intent on being strong and independent and complete, able to do it all, that we don’t feel comfortable accepting help, or freak when a guy seems to want to take some of the burden (oh, no, my independence might be next!). I’d add the fact that, while we were being told to be independent, the same mothers were raising all of you to be kind, caring and helpful.

What can I say. We all need to find he balance. And Scott, we really do want guys like you. We just suck at showing it, and we’re incredibly ungrateful. And remember, this admission comes from someone who will not allow guys to open her door (don’t you think I know how to operate the knob.

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The Difference of a Day

You may find this hard to believe, fair reader, but today I am content with my singularity.

I know, I know, after reading this blog you may think I’m at best a huge whiner, at worst a crazed schizo with split personalities, but the simple fact is that I’m a little bit of both and a lot more. (Just like you, I like to imagine.) What comes out depends on my mood, my intent with the blog, and, of course, my current state of sobriety. Often, I’m not exactly sure what’s lurking in the depths of my consciousness, and am just as surprised at what is produced  when I put finger to keyboard as I’m sure you are.

So, for the moment, I am content, maybe even happy, to be free from the worry of relating, questioning, or considering the rest of existence. This morning it was all about me, my, and I! A fresh cup of coffee next to the river, a good book (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) on the Kindle, and the freedom to enjoy the cloudless, 50 degree day blooming before me.

So, yeah, today I am content. The lingering effects of last night’s beers, my want and worry, my overwhelming desire to be attached, all gone. Today I am Single, not single.

That, my friends, is the difference of a day.

Still happily unattached and daydreaming of ways to mess that all up,

Scott

A Big Heart Gets No Love

I think there’s something sincerely wrong with me.

I’m nice. Too nice.

And I care too much.

And it freaks girls out.

That’s right. It freaks the ladies out. So instead of doing what I want to do, which is help, I keep my help to myself. And it eats at me and eats at me.

Why do I worry about people I don’t even really know?

I don’t worry about myself? So why did I drive around tonight looking for a worry stone for someone I barely know? For a worry that she wouldn’t even tell me the cause of? For help that I won’t end up giving because I don’t want to freak her out?

Why do I worry about my friends? Will she get pregnant? Will she find happiness with the new guy? Has he finally found the one?

What the hell’s wrong with me? And how do I change it?

And don’t you dare tell me that women really want a guy like me. That’s bullshit! And you know it!

Still single, and steadily drinking myself into a Friday-night-oblivion,

Scott