That's it! I’ve had it with the Crazy Girls.
I just had yet another date with a guy who spent my time (MY time) and yet more, still-awful Starbucks coffee telling me about the girl before me who dumped him who he still loves. Of course he loves her. She was crazy. What is more erotic than marginal?Now, I am not talking drama queen crazy or beatnik dominatrix. I am talking bi-polar, off her meds, house torching, drive in-the-oncoming-lane, maybe even borderline narcissist personality. I am talking abjectly, plain crazy. Maybe a little pretty. I don’t know. He was too busy checking her into asylums (when the false pregnancy and feigned abortion backfired into a full blown multi personality state) and administering syringe Librium Prozac cocktails to notice.
I can stand the blond gym bunnies with the butterfly tattoos strategically placed. No, it is the crazy girls – the Ophelias, that I can’t abide. If I was a therapist, I could manage compassion but this is something else. It is the charisma of crazy that has a magnetic hold no perfume nor phonemes can rival. it is the very meaning of fighting dirty.Why? Because – and this is only my theory based on a touch of Meow Mix and Starbucks Klondike brew is that is basically: the crazy girls bring out the rescue gene in the man who is unhappy, maybe feels a touch undeserving of womanly…investment, and feels best, doing the urban guy thing: rescuing the nutcase in a skirt.Now, I ask you, how can I compete with that? Who would ever think that years of self-help (thank you Chapters, Barnes and Noble and O Lists), reading, journaling, and being my own best friend would lead me to incredible emotional health, vats of self-esteem and charm only to discover the mad hatter-ettes trump we Grounded Girls, hands down, every time?
It’s not enough that I am talented, sweet, beautiful, caring, educated. Now I have to feign Insane to pass as interesting? It is a whole new level in hard-to-get. It’s the next level (and definition) of femme fatale.
Does anyone yet see you can be charming and intriguing without being on-a-ledge dangerous? Am I less desirable because instead of crying to be saved, I simply want to be smitten and connect with someone? Are my tiffs boring because I actually can talk things through without throwing crockery, or locking you out of the house, throwing your car keys down a sewer, dumping a can of Red Bull into your computer hard drive, and burning all your legal briefs. Am I dull because I don't manage to get (or arrive) obscenely drunk at the wine and cheese at your new boss’s new house? Is it my fault I don’t cry at the drop of rejection nor post the ins and outs of our relationship online or red spray paint graffiti your front door if I am in a pique? Is it my fault I shrug my shoulders when things don't go well and read yet more Rumi poetry instead of text messaging another Dire Suicide Note, launching a website or plastering things on Facebook that has you once again, running over only to find the impulse has passed and a great deal on Ebay for a vintage slip has upstaged the Mood du Jour? Can I help it if I am reasonable and yet, still anatomically feminine? What is a (normal) girl to do?
Oh how I dislike those crazy girls. Not only do they upstage ‘happy’ and 'adjusted' but once they do, they leave those sensitive, wonderful men who just don’t know from-what-it-is-like-when-it-works with a female civilian strewn about from Ikea to Borders self-help book section. In their way, the Crazy Girls leave broken, scared guys who are (now) generically suspicious of ALL women lest the Next One turn out to be a Crazy Girl. So, not only don’t only I get the guy, I pick up the pieces. All I have to do is ask for ice in my water and he thinks – ah ha. Possibly crazy. They scrutinize your every mood and move to see when you will morph into a Crazy Girl. I can't even tell if they are perversely hopeful (nothing beats familiar) or terrified. Clearly, these men need to be detoxed if not have a full out intervention.
I just had yet another date with a guy who spent my time (MY time) and yet more, still-awful Starbucks coffee telling me about the girl before me who dumped him who he still loves. Of course he loves her. She was crazy. What is more erotic than marginal?Now, I am not talking drama queen crazy or beatnik dominatrix. I am talking bi-polar, off her meds, house torching, drive in-the-oncoming-lane, maybe even borderline narcissist personality. I am talking abjectly, plain crazy. Maybe a little pretty. I don’t know. He was too busy checking her into asylums (when the false pregnancy and feigned abortion backfired into a full blown multi personality state) and administering syringe Librium Prozac cocktails to notice.
I can stand the blond gym bunnies with the butterfly tattoos strategically placed. No, it is the crazy girls – the Ophelias, that I can’t abide. If I was a therapist, I could manage compassion but this is something else. It is the charisma of crazy that has a magnetic hold no perfume nor phonemes can rival. it is the very meaning of fighting dirty.Why? Because – and this is only my theory based on a touch of Meow Mix and Starbucks Klondike brew is that is basically: the crazy girls bring out the rescue gene in the man who is unhappy, maybe feels a touch undeserving of womanly…investment, and feels best, doing the urban guy thing: rescuing the nutcase in a skirt.Now, I ask you, how can I compete with that? Who would ever think that years of self-help (thank you Chapters, Barnes and Noble and O Lists), reading, journaling, and being my own best friend would lead me to incredible emotional health, vats of self-esteem and charm only to discover the mad hatter-ettes trump we Grounded Girls, hands down, every time?
It’s not enough that I am talented, sweet, beautiful, caring, educated. Now I have to feign Insane to pass as interesting? It is a whole new level in hard-to-get. It’s the next level (and definition) of femme fatale.
Does anyone yet see you can be charming and intriguing without being on-a-ledge dangerous? Am I less desirable because instead of crying to be saved, I simply want to be smitten and connect with someone? Are my tiffs boring because I actually can talk things through without throwing crockery, or locking you out of the house, throwing your car keys down a sewer, dumping a can of Red Bull into your computer hard drive, and burning all your legal briefs. Am I dull because I don't manage to get (or arrive) obscenely drunk at the wine and cheese at your new boss’s new house? Is it my fault I don’t cry at the drop of rejection nor post the ins and outs of our relationship online or red spray paint graffiti your front door if I am in a pique? Is it my fault I shrug my shoulders when things don't go well and read yet more Rumi poetry instead of text messaging another Dire Suicide Note, launching a website or plastering things on Facebook that has you once again, running over only to find the impulse has passed and a great deal on Ebay for a vintage slip has upstaged the Mood du Jour? Can I help it if I am reasonable and yet, still anatomically feminine? What is a (normal) girl to do?
Oh how I dislike those crazy girls. Not only do they upstage ‘happy’ and 'adjusted' but once they do, they leave those sensitive, wonderful men who just don’t know from-what-it-is-like-when-it-works with a female civilian strewn about from Ikea to Borders self-help book section. In their way, the Crazy Girls leave broken, scared guys who are (now) generically suspicious of ALL women lest the Next One turn out to be a Crazy Girl. So, not only don’t only I get the guy, I pick up the pieces. All I have to do is ask for ice in my water and he thinks – ah ha. Possibly crazy. They scrutinize your every mood and move to see when you will morph into a Crazy Girl. I can't even tell if they are perversely hopeful (nothing beats familiar) or terrified. Clearly, these men need to be detoxed if not have a full out intervention.
These men, in turn, make you (somewhat) crazy as you prepare for a date with one of them. You are supposed to be the 'That's who you should be dating' girl. But instead, you begin to double check yourself and become extraordinarily nice and sensible until you almost feel like The Guy, lest a bit of emotion leach out of your black Capri pants with matching ballet flats and he even suspects you have Crazy Girl potential. You can't talk about incense, your Tarot deck, or mention any heartbreak whatsoever (discounting invented scenarios of men who were fine while you were stellar but they turned out to be gay so go figure, no one's real fault all things considered, stuff happens). You cannot mention anything possibly episodic. In psychic terms, you almost....ah...neutered. A flat canvas...on which these men upchuck a few chapters of what the Crazy Girl did to him last. He swears its over. He swears she was nuts. You swear you hear.......heartbreak.
Truth is, the Crazy Girls, by default, designate you (the Adjusted, Quasi Girl) as the Dull but Normal one and that has little curb appeal for men raised on drama and nourished by a succession of fruity break ups.If anything, I have had moments of Katherine the Shrew and so naturally, I blame the Ophelias on Ophelia. Nudged a bit, I could blame it on Shakespeare but men will somehow feel that much more guilty by proxy if I even glare Will's way. I blame it on crazy mothers who raise nervous sons who become the men who only know sexy and cuckoo as one and the same.
Damn.
Crazy girls.
I get busted for being classified as Quirky. Quirky, for goodness sakes. I mean, that is sweet! But those Crazy Girls, they are an industry unto themselves. They don't even leave us their castoffs. They are strictly a take no prisoners school of dames.
Damn Crazy Girls
It's enough to drive you.....Hmm. It can make you.....quite....irritated.
Damn Crazy Girls
It's enough to drive you.....Hmm. It can make you.....quite....irritated.
* With apologies to any guy who thinks this is about his crazy girl. It is a composite profile of many crazy girls. And if you are with a Crazy Girl, I am sure she is very special. When you're over her, give me a call.
