I love the story of how my parents met because it says so much about them as people. It also explains a lot about why their children are all academic nerds.
My parents met in college. My mom was an undergrad violin performance major and my dad was getting his masters in electrical engineering. My mom’s roommate had decided to throw a party at their apartment. My mom, who was not much of a party person, decided to spend the night doing physics homework in her bedroom instead. Physics was not a required class for her major, but she was taking it because she, “thought it sounded fun.” That is my mom for you. My dad, who was also not a party person, had been pressured to come to the party with one of his friends.
At some point during the night, my mom got to a problem she couldn’t figure out. Desperate for answers and unwilling to turn in an incomplete homework assignment, she tracked down the engineering grad student and asked for help with her homework. They went to her bedroom and worked on this physics problem for hours, while a party raged just outside the door.
My dad, brilliant as he was, couldn’t figure out how to solve the problem before the party ended, so they said goodbye and my dad went home with his friend.
The next day, he worked on the physics problem all day and finally solved it so he could call her with the answer and ask her out.
They have now been married for 26 years.
I hope and pray I could have a love story even a fraction as cute as theirs!
slut · noun \’slət\ · a promiscuous woman
Slutty girls used to make me really mad. They were hot, they knew it, and all they had to do was flash a little cleavage and they got whatever they wanted. They made me look ugly and prudish by comparison, and I feared that no man would want to “settle” for me when they were constantly seeing their scantily clad fantasies walk by. I was jealous and wished I could look like them, yet I loathed their unfair superficial ways on principle.
All of this changed when I became friends with a few of these girls and saw what being a slut really entailed. I realized that my jealousy and resentment were stupidly pointless and unfounded. Maybe they got whatever they wanted in an immediate sense, but it came with a huge price – human respect. Sluts might get what they want in a short-term, physical sense, but in the process, they are dehumanized and hardly anyone truly respects them.
- Women don’t respect sluts because they are jealous and/or fear that they will steal their boyfriends away. They also fear that the presence of slutty women gives men impossible high expectations for how women should look and perform sexually. Don’t be jealous that most women (including other sluts) hate sluts.
- Men don’t respect sluts because they don’t have to respect them in order to get what they want. They see them more as toys instead of people. They have no idea that the girl they slept with one night and then never called again is now crying over a tub of ice cream, wondering why she wasn’t good enough; it doesn’t enter their mind because toys don’t have feelings. Don’t be jealous that emotionally immature and selfish men use and abuse sluts.
- Sluts don’t respect themselves. They give themselves away because they don’t realize that they’re worth so much more. And with women hating them and men using them, why would think highly of themselves? They stake so much of their value on how they look that a pimple or cowlick can crush their self-esteem into a million tiny pieces. Don’t be jealous of fragile self-esteem and self-loathing.
I know, I know, this isn’t always the case. Before you accuse me of generalizing, let me confess that one of my friends is a self-proclaimed “slut” who can sleep around without falling apart. She is incredibly self-assured, independent, and able to be emotionally detached in her sexual relationships. Not all sluts are suffer equally, some girls can successfully pull off the slut lifestyle. If that’s you, congratulations –slut away! Based on a rudimentary survey of my social circle, however, self-respecting sluts are incredibly rare. In fact, my aforementioned friend is the only woman I’ve met who can live like that. All my other slutty friends are insecure wrecks.
I always wonder why they choose to do this to themselves. I watch my friends cry and vent about how stupid boys are and wonder why they don’t just say “no” when boys ask them to go home with them. A lot of times, they believe this is just how relationships are supposed to be, especially when they see the same thing happening all around them to their fellow sluts and all the magazines talk about it as if it’s totally normal. For many of them, it’s repeated naïveté: they genuinely mistake male lust for love, so when they get dumped, their response is to try to make themselves hotter in hopes that it will prevent it from happening again. Their self-worth and value hinge on their ability to constantly attract men.
But, you might ask, isn’t it their fault that they are slutty? Aren’t they responsible for forfeiting their own right to respect? Yes, in some ways they are. But in other ways, they’re victims of their culture, and they’re paying a hefty price for it. The idea that looks are of utmost importance is such an obvious lie to me because I grew up being told I was ugly and had to get my self-worth from other sources, but it’s not necessarily obvious to girls who grew up constantly being told how pretty they are, with that as their main value. Hollywood tells us that women are worthless if they’re not hot, and the hotness barometer is popular male opinion. These girls desire to be affirmed by male opinion more than they desire respect. It’s no wonder that these girls can’t see a way out. This certainly doesn’t warrant jealousy.
So, no matter how much you want to strangle the next hot blonde with giant boobs who snags your crush (girls) or tap that thang with no strings attached (boys), remember that sluts are people too and should be treated accordingly.
My parents really wanted their daughters to succeed in life, so therefore, they wanted to make sure we stayed away from boys until we got into good colleges. Their method? FEAR. And it was incredibly effective. So effective, in fact, that my sisters and I are all still single! Of course, my parents’ hope for future grandchildren decreases by the day, but that’s a small price to pay for protecting their princesses from the world’s douchebags. Continue reading to learn their parenting techniques…
1) Isolate your girls from any and all male peers. My parents successfully had 0 sons and 3 daughters, and they raised us in an all-girl neighborhood. Our neighborhood had over a dozen girls of all ages and races, but impressively no boys. There must have been something in the water. The only boys who were ever present were two guys who occasionally visited their grandmother, who lived across the street. They vegetated inside playing video games all day while we played outside. They didn’t care about us, so we didn’t care about them. Since we had such little interaction with boys, my parents had total control when it came to forming our opinions about boys. That absolutely must be your goal – total control. This leads to step 2:
2) Explain that S-E-X is the grossest thing ever. I still remember when my mom told me about sex. I think I was around seven or eight, and we went into my parent’s little walk-in closet (which was the scariest place in our house, so it was fitting). She explained that sex was when a man put his penis into a woman’s vagina and then a baby comes out 9 months later. I think there was an accompanying book with drawings of naked people or something, because I didn’t understand how the man could get that big dangly thing up there. When I asked my mom about this issue, she explained that when a man gets turned on, like by looking at a woman’s boobs, his thing magically gets really hard and it rises so he can put it in. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever heard! Fortunately, my mom added, only married people had sex, and they only had to do it when they wanted to have a baby. Oh thank God, there was a way out! I didn’t need to get married or have babies! I never wanted to participate in (or even talk about) sex ever again.
3) Emphasize that boys think about sex 24/7! SEX! SEX! SEX! Yes, sex, that gross nasty thing we just talked about in step #3. This will convince your daughters that boys are the absolute epitome of grossness. EWWW!!!!!
4) Openly frown upon girls who like boys. My dad hated the Disney Channel show, Lizzie McGuire, because Lizzie constantly wanted a boyfriend, instead of focusing on her schoolwork. He would point this out repeatedly to us until we finally realized that Lizzie was a little slut. We went back to doing our homework like good girls because we weren’t needy like Lizzie and didn’t want stupid boyfriends holding us back. Whenever we did get infected with crushes on boys, we kept those shameful secrets to ourselves.
5) Condemn all forms of PDA. When your daughter gets older, biology and hormones will start to take over, so she might start to forget some of these things you taught her and start talking to boys. You have to accept that she will be talking to boys, as its difficult to function in society without verbally interacting with males, but you mustn’t let this progress to touching. Remind her of point #3 and that allowing boys to touch her could potentially launch that nasty rising process. This will immediately remind her of the nausea experienced in your walk in closet years earlier and discourage all forms of inappropriate physical contact, such as hand-holding, hugs, and even taps on the shoulder. She’ll avoid coming into contact with male skin as if it were infected with a fatal fungus.
So that’s it! It’s pretty simple. In no time, your daughters will be the academically overachieving single man-hating women you’ve always wanted!
Did you ever play that popular middle school slumber party game called “Never Have I Ever”? In case you were deprived in junior high, here’s how my friends and I played: everyone started with all ten fingers up, then we took turns saying “never have I ever [insert interesting experience]” and anyone who had done that thing puts a finger down. Usually the experiences had something to do with *eek* boys! Once someone had all ten fingers down, they were out. We played until there was only one person left, who would then be declared the winner!
Well, kind of.
The “winner” was almost always me. But though normally winning is the goal (just ask Charlie Sheen), this wasn’t really a game anyone wanted to win. The real winner was whoever put down all their fingers first, because it meant that they had done a lot of stuff with boys, and in the eyes of a group of tween girls, that made them really really cool. But then there was me, the tiny shy girl with all ten fingers still up, all accusing me of being really reallyuncool.
Now, a decade later, I find myself in my early twenties and not much has changed:
- Never have I ever had sex.
- Never have I ever been in a serious relationship.
- Never have I ever kissed a boy on the lips.
Sometimes I find these confessions kind of embarrassing. I mean, it’s rare (but not completely unheard of) to be a 20-something technical virgin of the done-everything-except-had-a-penis-in-my-vagina variety, but I was terrified of what would people think if they knew I was a super virgin – a virgin of the never-even-been-kissed variety.
The obvious question, then, is how and why did I let this happen? Oh trust me, this wasn’t on purpose. I always wanted a boyfriend to take off the last two bullet points, but a disfiguring medical condition effectively kept the boys at bay all the way through high school. Having been in and out of the hospital and called everything from “monster” to “freak” my entire life, it wasn’t any surprise that no one wanted me. Don’t worry, my story isn’t a tragic case of social isolation; I was super blessed to have many friends, including boys, but even if they liked hanging out with me and felt sorry for me, they certainly weren’t about to ask me out. In fact, I was told I shouldn’t expect to date until I was in my 30s, when men would be mature enough to see my “inner beauty” and/or desperate enough to settle for an ugly girl (ironically, this was meant to encourage me with hope that I could ever have anybody at all).
However, as I got older and came towards the end of my treatment, I miraculously also started to look more and more normal. It surprised everyone, including my doctors, who had expected that becoming healthy would make me look more normalish, but it’s rare that people with my condition ever get to successfully blend into a crowd without at least getting double-takes. I know that I don’t deserve to look normal, but I am so so so grateful for this blessing.
I graduated from my small town high school, where everyone knew my story, and moved to Los Angeles for college, where no one had a clue what had happened. Moving to LA – a notoriously superficial metropolis – would be the ultimate test of whether or not I really looked normal. I thought that people would definitely notice something and judge me for it. But when I arrived, people didn’t whisper insults or stare when I walked by, children didn’t run away screaming, and creepy old men were even hitting on me – I really was being treated like a normal person! And it was awesome.
Being normal brought many perks, just one of them being that guys finally took an interest in me. I was nervous about the fact that I was so far behind everyone else, but I figured that since I had mastered calculus and far more difficult subjects in high school, catching up wouldn’t be too hard. For the record – I’m not “hot,” just “normal.” However, my lack of hotness didn’t seem to be a problem. I was literally surrounded by hundreds of horny college boys just waiting to pounce on anything, hot or not, with a vagina that would consent to sex with them!
Yes, it didn’t take long for me to realize that a willing vagina was all that most horny college boys were after. I was suddenly struck with the epiphany that maybe these particular boys – eager as they were for my now-healthy body – would not necessarily romance me like a Disney prince. They spoke of hot women as if they were trophies and not-so-hot women as if they were animals (specifically, as female dogs…). The more I learned, the more the idea of doing anything physical with one of these pigs – er, I’m sorry, men – started to disgust me. My fairytale dreams of romance were shattered. I felt like I had traded one form of objectification (really really mean) for another (um, flattering-but-gross).
So this is how I finally came to realize that my unintentional “super virginity” was actually a good thing. I started to see it as something to protect, rather than something to throw away at my first chance. My body was worth too much to just give away to a horny drunk frat boy in exchange for momentary ecstasy. I decided I was going to continue to protect my heart and my virginity until I met someone who legitimately earned it by marrying me. You might wonder if this wasn’t a crazy decision, given that worthy men are so hard to come by. Didn’t the possibility of never finding my prince and dying alone with 70 cats scare me? Absolutely, I was terrified. However, the idea of being used and dumped cyclically (as so many of my female friends were) terrified me even more.
While nightmarish visions of becoming a cat lady occasionally still haunt me, I’ve been incredibly blessed to have had some awesome men in my life who have proved to me that not every guy is a pig. There are amazing men with real character out there and there is hope for finding a Mr. Right. Or if all else fails, there is always eHarmony!
So that is my explanation of why I could still win every game of “Never have I ever,” if played against middle-schoolers. The only difference now is that it’s not nearly as mortifying.
I’m not 100% sure what this blog will end up being, but my current plan is to fill it with random virginal stories and thoughts from my life that (I’m told, at least) are interesting. Or it could slowly evolve into a collection of my favorite youtube cat videos, I don’t know yet. If you’re here because you’re a super virgin looking for reassurance that you’re not the only one, I hope I prove that, yes, there are at least 2 of us in the world. Or if you’re here because you think my empty sexual resume is hilariously outdated, I hope to provide you with many more laughs. Whoever you are, thanks so much for reading my first post! xoxo