Hello again, blogosphere! I’ve been on an unplanned hiatus since September due to an overwhelming amount of work. During my break, I did design work on a webseries, two films, and an infomercial.! I stayed really busy and got to work with old friends, as well as meet a ton of new people. And yes, some of those people are eligible bachelors 😉
Some people wonder why I’m not more depressed about my single status, especially around this overly-commercialized/nauseatingly sentimental holiday known as Valentines Day. Trust me, I do have my occasional wallow-in-self-pity cry fests, especially during hormone insanity week, but for the most part, I am secure with my singleness because I have a life! Yesterday, for my exciting Valentines Day, I started my latest job at a design studio and then watched The Daily Show while working out. And it was great! Would I have liked to have gone on a romantic date with a nice guy? Of course! But since that wasn’t an option, I did the next best thing and stayed busy doing what I love.
I was also encouraged this past weekend when my pastor mentioned that singleness can be a blessing from God because there are things that you can do and ways that you can serve Him when you’re single that you can’t once you’re married. When I was younger, I used to freak out whenever anyone talked about “God’s gift of singleness” because it was terrifying to me that I could be cursed with such a horrible “gift” and there would be nothing I could do about it. It was especially scary for me because so many people were convinced that no man could ever be attracted to me (due to my disfiguring medical condition), and warned me of this eternal loneliness, thinking that they were “protecting” me from wanting something I could never have. Fortunately, I’ve learned that 1) my nay-sayers were idiots, and 2) singleness is not a curse, nor is it always permanent.
I’ll probably address discovery #1 in a future rage-filled post (yay!), but let’s talk about #2. We shouldn’t think of the “gifts” of singleness or coupledness (is that a word?) as permanent labels. Sure, there are some people who are single for their entire lives, but most people will experience both before they die. If God’s put a desire in our hearts to get married someday, there’s a good chance that we will one day say “I do.” That doesn’t mean He’ll drop a significant other out of the sky right now though. If we’re still single, it’s probably because He’s got things for us to do before a relationship takes over our lives. For example, we can have crazy work schedules and pursue our careers with reckless abandon. We can freely socialize/flirt/do whatever with other single people without worrying about upsetting jealous or suspicious partners. We can spontaneously go places and do random things without anyone’s permission. Being single is not some terrible curse of loneliness, it’s a blessing of independence while you wait for the blessing of companionship. Jesus was single at a time when people found their whole identity in marriage and family. People surely thought he was crazy because it was a radical concept that someone could find their identity outside of that. However, this is something that our current culture has been accepting and we should too!
So, long story short, there are many reasons to enjoy our singleness while we have it, and one of them is the freedom to be busy and productive with our passions. I still hope that one day I will meet the right guy, but until then, I have plenty to keep me busy and thankful for my independence!
I hope everyone had a wonderful Valentine’s Day yesterday! 🙂
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.
“If you want to feel sexy, wear sexy underwear!” It’s one of those fun, sexy, and kinda-naughty-but-not-enough-to-be-shameful pieces of advice that gets passed around in female circles. I’ve had conversations with friends on this subject, I’ve read about it in Cosmo and equally-classy women’s magazines, and I’m pretty sure Oprah has said something to this effect.
Up until I got to college, my underwear came exclusively in economically thrifty packages from Target. They are awesome for several reasons:
- Sooo cheap!!! $5 for a week’s supply of 7? Um, yes please!
- Soft and cottony… mmm
- Fun and colorful! Yay!
Then I spent my freshman year of college living in a co-ed dorm. I know that there is controversy about allowing young men and women to live so physically close together, but for a girl who was raised to fear boys, living with 22 of them all at once was a very educational experience. I’ll probably write more on that experience later, but back to underwear: we talked about underwear a lot. Actually, we talked about sex a lot, but underwear was a frequent tangent.
It was through these deep conversations with my floor mates that I learned that the clear winners in women’s underwear were these things called thongs. The term “thong” was not foreign to me because I grew up wearing thongs all the time. Of course, by “thongs,” I mean what the rest of the world calls, “flip flops” (my parents still talk about how much they love wearing thongs in the summertime. It’s embarrassing.). I had no idea what an underwear thong was until middle school, when I had a conversation with my friend who was talking about sexy underwear, while I was talking about summer footwear. Thanks to that horribly awkward experience, I at least knew what my college floor mates where talking about, though I had yet to wear one.
Intrigued, and feeling behind-the-times, underwear-wise, I decided that maybe I should try one of these things for myself. I went to my old trusted friend, Target, and bought a pair (probably for under $5! Go me!). I saved it for a special day when I knew I would be seeing this guy I had a huge crush on at the time, to see if Oprah was right.
At first, it wasn’t that bad, it was just different. I felt kind of sexy just knowing that I was wearing something scandalous under my jeans. But as the day went on and I realized that the string in my butt wasn’t going anywhere, it got increasingly annoying and uncomfortable. By the end of the day, it was all I could think about! Instead of feeling sexy, my mind was plagued with thoughts of my own discomfort, worry over whether or not this boy I loved could see this discomfort, and how I wished I had just gone commando instead. I was not confident, funny, smart, interesting, smiling, or any of the other qualities that I would normally associate with being sexy. I was just fervently annoyed at a stupid piece of string.
Since then, I have occasionally tried wearing them again, in hopes that I could get used to it and just feel sexy, dangit! I even somehow ended up with a few more pairs, but I always come to the same conclusion: it’s not worth it! They are currently stuffed in the back of my underwear drawer, along with all my ugly old worn out underwear that is reserved strictly for days when I run out of clean laundry. Maybe one day the thongs will come back out, but for now, I’m just going to wear what makes me happy and comfortable. I don’t care what Cosmo or Oprah says; being happy and comfortable makes me feel infinitely sexier than being distracted by a relentless wedgie.
Have you ever had one of those days where you just feel so gross and awful that you can barely function? I had one of those days this week. I felt and looked like death and had no intention of interacting with anyone that night. I hadn’t been able to sleep well in days, I had sweated off all my makeup earlier in the day and was too tired to reapply, and my allergies were killing me and making my eyes a bloodshot drippy mess. To top it all off, I had spent most of the day taking headshots of one of my best friends, who is a model, which had only served to remind me that I was not (and never would be) hot enough to be a model. So I felt hideously gross, super depressed, and physically sick. I was a wreck. I never would have left my apartment, except that I ran out of food and I wasn’t sure when I’d have another chance to go to the grocery store. So I mustered up what little energy I had left and made the trek to gather sustenance.
My goal was to get in and out as quickly as possible without talking to anyone, and I almost succeeded. Almost. I pushed my cart into the elevator, but was in such a daze that I took it up instead of down to the parking garage. My food and I rode up to the balcony of the shopping plaza as I cursed my stupidity. Then the doors opened, and in walked this cute guy. He paused to let me out and I awkwardly explained that I wasn’t getting out.
Now, everyone knows that the normal protocol for riding elevators is to ignore everyone else and stare at the wall or phone, as if deep in thought. I guess this guy doesn’t ride many elevators though, because he kept talking to me. He was very friendly and had a nice smile, which he couldn’t seem to turn off. About halfway down, I finally realized that he was hitting on me!
You have to understand that I rarely get hit on outside of Home Depot and Walmart parking lots. On the rare occasions that guys do take notice of me, it’s usually with that creepy “heyyy” kind of flirting. But this guy was different; he was nice, and he treated me like a human. I was in shock, this doesn’t even happen on days I look relatively good. This guy was special. When we got to my floor, he said, “You know, you’re pretty cute.” He must have some serious vision problems, but I was genuinely touched.
Unfortunately, this story has a very sad and anti-climactic ending, thanks to my sleep-deprived, allergy-ridden brain’s inability to function that night. I never ever give my number out to strange men because I’m always terrified that they could be serial killers, even seemingly nice ones. So when the guy asked if I had a boyfriend, I stupidly replied, “kind of.” What does that mean??? Funny you should ask me that, because he did too. I didn’t know the answer. The conversation came to an awkward end as I pushed my little cart out of the elevator and mentally kicked myself for not being a more eloquent liar.
I realized very quickly that he probably thought I was rejecting him because I didn’t think he was attractive or thought he was creepy or something. I felt horrible! I desperately wished that I could go back in time and explain that my brain wasn’t working very well, and that I thought he was cute too, and that I so appreciated his kind words, and that he made my crappy night a whole lot better.
So if by some far off chance you are reading this, sweet-guy-I-probably-should-have-married, thank you for making my night. I’m sorry for accidentally rejecting you. Here’s to hoping we meet in another elevator someday!
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