Anyone know any Greek Gods?
About a week ago, my friend Darlene managed to catch me on a break. There was a lot that she didn't know about in my life since we hadn't spoken to each other in forever. She didn't know about my new childish infatuation--how silly and girly I got whenever I thought about him, or how I couldn't concentrate on anything because he wouldn't stop invading my every waking thought. She wasn't there to go through it with me this time because she's in L.A. and I'm in Philly--because she has her own life that's totally different from mine. She wasn't there to see how head-over-heels I was, and how abysmally idiotic I looked as my eyes glazed over at the mere mention of his name.
By the time we finally got back in contact, I was halfway over it, true to my ever fickle heart. All she got was a recounting of how much I'd lost my head over this one guy, a brief description of him that didn't really dwell on his physical attributes, and then a little flashforward to the present where I was all but completely over my obsession. She laughed and laughed, until I asked her what was so funny. There I was, having retold an account of one of the most emotionally tumultuous experiences of my life, worried to death that my fickle nature would render me incapable of caring for anyone in a more permanent sense, and there she was choking over her own laughter. When she managed to compose herself, she finally told me. She was laughing because, as she saw it, I have never been more wrong about myself. I wasn't fickle at all--I just had ridiculously high standards when it comes to my men.
"High standards, you say?" I asked, not quite comprehending. I couldn't really see where she got this idea. Sure, I've never dated anyone, but that's because I'm fat and ugly--not because I have such high standards. Girls like me, we have to go after the guys because they sure as hell aren't coming for us--and I, will never have the balls to go up to a guy, tell him about my girly feelings, and ask him to be my forever and ever, my one and only. In fact, even thinking about it makes me want to throw up a little bit. So I asked her what gave her the idea that I had such standards that no mere mortal has ever been able to measure up.
As I recall, she wasn't able to give me any specific instance of my high-and-mightiness, but she was able to provide me with a description of "my" perfect man. As paraphrased, this mythical man would have to possess the body of some idealized Greek God (i.e. Hephaestus is so out), a face that would put any Hollywood actor to shame, a brain that would make A. Einstein crawl into a corner to suckle his thumb, and such eloquence that Cicero himself would bow before him. He would also have to be the perfect companion, aware of my needs/feelings/blah blah blahs.
I'm just grateful that she, as well as she knows me, couldn't have been more wrong this time around. I'm grateful because if these really were my standards, then I should just lock myself away in a convent because it's never going to happen, and if it ever does, he'll probably be gay.
By the time we finally got back in contact, I was halfway over it, true to my ever fickle heart. All she got was a recounting of how much I'd lost my head over this one guy, a brief description of him that didn't really dwell on his physical attributes, and then a little flashforward to the present where I was all but completely over my obsession. She laughed and laughed, until I asked her what was so funny. There I was, having retold an account of one of the most emotionally tumultuous experiences of my life, worried to death that my fickle nature would render me incapable of caring for anyone in a more permanent sense, and there she was choking over her own laughter. When she managed to compose herself, she finally told me. She was laughing because, as she saw it, I have never been more wrong about myself. I wasn't fickle at all--I just had ridiculously high standards when it comes to my men.
"High standards, you say?" I asked, not quite comprehending. I couldn't really see where she got this idea. Sure, I've never dated anyone, but that's because I'm fat and ugly--not because I have such high standards. Girls like me, we have to go after the guys because they sure as hell aren't coming for us--and I, will never have the balls to go up to a guy, tell him about my girly feelings, and ask him to be my forever and ever, my one and only. In fact, even thinking about it makes me want to throw up a little bit. So I asked her what gave her the idea that I had such standards that no mere mortal has ever been able to measure up.
As I recall, she wasn't able to give me any specific instance of my high-and-mightiness, but she was able to provide me with a description of "my" perfect man. As paraphrased, this mythical man would have to possess the body of some idealized Greek God (i.e. Hephaestus is so out), a face that would put any Hollywood actor to shame, a brain that would make A. Einstein crawl into a corner to suckle his thumb, and such eloquence that Cicero himself would bow before him. He would also have to be the perfect companion, aware of my needs/feelings/blah blah blahs.
I'm just grateful that she, as well as she knows me, couldn't have been more wrong this time around. I'm grateful because if these really were my standards, then I should just lock myself away in a convent because it's never going to happen, and if it ever does, he'll probably be gay.