I remember my grandmother said something about pretending to be a helpless woman to keep men interested when I was in my formative teen years. Even then I thought that was poppycock. Around the same time, I read the autobiography of Ginger Rogers and remember her saying that being a helpless female was ‘for the birds’ so I’ve always been in her camp. I’ve never been one to play a victim, though I’ve certainly felt victimized at times and have needed legitimate rescuing upon occasion.
Typically, I kill my own spiders, whack trespassing rodents, replace lightbulbs when they burn out, fix toilets and leaky faucets and I even take out the garbage. All by myself. Housekeeping aside, when big things go wrong in my life and I know that I am responsible for the downturn, I have no problem taking responsibility for it. I find that it’s easier to make a plan and implement change when I own up to my faults.
Take this challenge, for example. I
make made poor relationship decisions. According to Rob Base, who had a real funky concept, it takes two to make a thing go right, but the same two can make it go awry. The word awry has likely never appeared in hip hop and being honest about relationships in song doesn’t make for a tune with a nice beat that you can dance to. Honest misery is for the wrist-slitting crooners of the emo world.
Anyway, I owned my part in failed relationships. Poor choices, ridiculous behavior, more poor choices and a little immaturity. So, I decided to redirect my path. As far as I know, it has worked wonders but I won’t really be putting it to the test for a few more months now.
Which brings me to the villain in this story. Doc is getting a divorce. I swear, this guy is like gum on my shoe. No, he is gum in my hair. No, he is a raging case of herpes.*
I never mentioned before that Doc and I are pals on Facebook. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to be judged and I also didn’t mention it because I didn’t want someone telling me to unfriend him because I like keeping tabs on him. I’m like a military operative with a trace on an international perp who’s committed crimes against humanity.
A few weeks ago, I was out to a movie with my bestie when I received this text from Doc:
Doc: Do you have a webcam? Want to skype? I need to cum.
Gross. Seriously? Followed mere minutes later by…
In typical fashion, I never responded. And in his typical fashion, I am sure that was a mass text and some poor helpless gal out there disrobed and headed for her computer to be used and consumed by his never-ending pit of need, unaware of the potentially long-term emotional damage she was inflicting upon herself. What a dumbass. I mean, bless her heart.
He has been all over the place on Facebook since his wife filed for divorce. (I’ve said it before, but smart girl.) Posting old (as in last year) pictures of the two of them with sappy comments, lame status updates about appreciating your family and pleading any married man out there to remember to tell his wife he loves her. All while he’s texting me ridiculous sexual requests and emailing me that I’m the one that got away.
It’s a good thing I’m a smart woman and know how to steer clear of the villain, the rope and the railroad tracks. But it’s still incredibly annoying. Lately the missing his wife posts and photos have taken a turn for the ‘woe is me’ of over sharing including gripes about his finances, lack of a job, lack of life direction and on and on ad nauseam. The good thing is that every time I see one of his ridiculous attention-seeking whines, I give myself another little pat on the back for recognizing a first-rate blackguard (that word’s for you, AM) and moving in the opposite direction.
Late last night I was shopping at Target when I received another unwanted text message from you-know-who:
Doc: Are you on your way over?
Is he kidding? I laughed out loud. I don’t know who he was trying to text, but I was damn sure it was a misfire seeing as I am a thousand miles away from his sorry ass. Now, I have been ignoring every last text message from him and have not responded to a single email since the great white buffalo night, but I was crawling with curiosity. Mr. I miss my wife and my life is a bottomless pit of despair from whence I shall never escape is in typical form with a mother-fucking booty call. To whom was the gnawing question.
I could not help myself. I waited a few minutes, thought through whether or not I really wanted to dive into this one and decided that of course I did, how else would I find out?
Me: To Texas?
Doc: Yep. It isn’t that far.
Me: You’re crazy.
Doc: LOL. I’ve heard that a lot lately.
Me: Maybe they’re on to something.
Then it hit me. He is the helpless female that my grandmother always talked about. If I was a guy and I was around a girl behaving this way, I would not be remotely interested. As a woman, I am disgusted by his lazy scoundrelly ways. If I had a top hat, a twirly moustache, a length of rope and ragtime player piano background music, I wouldn’t hesitate to tie him to the railroad tracks. The little weasel always did love the old west. I am so glad I am beyond his grasp that there was an extra spring in my step today. I would rather be free from someone like him and happily alone than in his crazy web. In the end, I decided that I just don’t give a rip about the intended recipient of the errant text.