Do Good Guys Finish Last?

I posted this on my Facebook page tonight: What a woman needs, is a man who will protect her like she’s his daughter, love her like she’s his wife, and respect her like she’s his mother. Be that man. 


I really didn't think anyone could object to or bitch about it. Turns out, I was wrong.


A couple of guys left comments and I have to say, I'm a bit irritated. 


The first guy: Wow! That's hard, even for the best of us.
He followed up with: The first and third, no sweat! The second? I've tried that and it didn't work...TWICE! SO maybe love her like she's Venus!


The second guy: I am that man and what has it gotten me...not a damn thing! Good guys do finish last.


The first guy agrees with the second guy.

And then I banged my head on the wall.

Here's what I think: Nice guys don't really finish last. I think the problem is in the term "nice guy." 

What I'm about to say isn't going to be PC and it certainly won't be nice. I know you're shocked, but here goes. A lot of "nice guys" are actually just pussies who are so wrapped up with the idea of being in a relationship that they stink of desperation and trying too hard. And when they finally get to a second date with a woman, they start talking about long-term shit. Gee, wonder why it didn't work out. 

These guys try to be what they think a woman will want in her Prince Charming. All the women reading this know what the problem is, but because there may be a few of the less intelligent sex reading this, I'll be clear. IT IS RARE THAT MEN HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT A WOMAN REALLY WANTS. They try to be it, the woman doesn't respond super well, so they try something else, and she doesn't respond well, so they try something else, and she walk away. The men don't stop to think how FAKE all of this looks. 

Allow me to educate: We know you're guys and therefore victims of testicular drag. More than likely, you don't really enjoy getting all dressed up for shit. You fart and burp and scratch yourself. You'd rather watch sports than go to the ballet with us. You need time to hang out with your male friends. We know all of that. Don't try to bullshit us about it. Be honest. Obviously relationships require compromise, but don't totally lose yourself just to get the girl. We can see it happening and we won't stay.

I have one more thing to say about the quote. No one is perfect, and every day won't be perfect, all women ever ask is that men try. And really, how hard is that?

A Life Sentence of Lyndsy

Continuing with my friend recognition theme, I'd like you to meet someone else...

How I Met J...
It's 1999. (And yes, I just got that song stuck in my head too.) It's the week before I begin classes my freshman year at the University of Florida. At this point, having only lived with each other for 2 days, my roommates and I are all getting along. One night we get bored and decide to cruise the campus, like the badasses we are.

After unsuccessfully cruising, we end up back in our dorm area, and my roommates decide to see how crazy I actually am. Clearly they have only known me for two days, or they would have known better. They dare me to knock on a random window. "Psh," I say, "That's nothing!" I knock on the window. We wait. Nothing happens. We move on.

As we're walking away, the window opens. We turn back and all cock our heads to the side, like dogs puzzled by human speech. A guy is hanging out the window, "Wait there!!" We look at each other, confused. Wait for what?

Our befuddlement does not last long, for out the double doors of Weaver and East halls come running three menfolk. One tall and gangly, running as though he were an injured 12-year old girl. The others shorter than the giraffe, but easily distinguishable. One blond, one brown hair.

They run up to us, and since we are young and naive (and they appear harmless), we invite them to our room. They accept and follow us. We spend the evening quite companionably, though I remain... concerned... by the dark-haired, non-giraffe one. He sits quietly, but intensely, seeming to absorb everything going on in the room. I'm worried that he's trying to steal my soul, but as I appraise him, I see that he's cute, so I think I'll let him have it.

Why he's obviously insane...
After our fateful introduction, I spent a bunch of time with J, Injured Girl Giraffe, and the blond who I call Georgia Peach. Until I scared the giraffe with a lengthy printout on penis length. (I was just giving him the facts!) J and I kept in touch for a while, but it was our sophomore year that he really got a full Dose of Lyndsy.

See, his roommate, K, must have hated him, at least a little, because I would con someone into letting me onto the floor, and then I'd swing by J and K's room and K would let me in. I would promptly fall asleep on J's bed, at which point K would depart for class. J came home after a full day of actually challenging classes (unlike my political science classes - when I actually went, that is) and there I was, asleep in his bed. A little like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, except I came back, day after day.

It's not just that I was there when he got back from class. I stayed until late in the evening. I stayed until after he took his shower in the communal shower. He'd come back to his room, wearing only a towel around his waist and I just sat there, on his bed. Any woman in my position would have done the same thing. He's AWESOME to look it. I did the best I could not to drool all over his bed. But bless his heart, he just managed to get dressed under the towel and hop into his bed. Sometime after that I'd leave. Unless I'd invited friends over to sleep in his bed. Then we were all there for a while.

Even after I graduated, we stayed in touch. I'd call him a few nights a week and I'd walk around my block and talk to him. For an hour or more. Many nights. He rode with me to Michigan when I started law school. He came to visit me in Seattle and didn't get creeped out when I sniffed him after he showered (he does boy smell VERY well).

He pays attention to me even when I'm not paying attention to me. Enough attention to know to send me a particular Dave Matthews CD (since I had the others) and to send a Toby Keith CD for Christmas. He always remembers my birthday and he sends the greatest, funniest cards.

He doesn't care that I constantly sexually harass him. He reads this blog and laughs when I'm funny, and probably when I'm not. He thinks I should keep it up. He's listened to me whine about more guys than I remember. He thinks I don't live up to my full potential and he tells me that. He's always supportive, even when I'm not being the greatest friend. He lets me sleep in his super comfy bed with him, even when I molest him in my sleep.

He's brilliant. He's funny. He has a good sense of humor. He's got a good sense of himself. He's beyond patient, especially with me.

And most importantly, he loves me for me. With all of my weirdness, loudness, annoyingness, and wonderfulness.

I couldn't ask for a better friend. I love him with all my heart, and fully intend to carry out the life sentence of Lyndsy I imposed on him in college. And you know, I think he's okay with that.

Is all hope lost?

I don't have traditional faith in my life. Without really knowing what I was doing, I left the Catholic church before I could be confirmed. Something in me just told me it wasn't right for me. As I've gotten older, I've realized how right I was.

That doesn't mean I don't have my own brand of spirituality. That I believe in some kind of higher power comforts my religious grandparents and father. They overlook the fact that I don't believe Jesus was the son of God, and focus instead on the way I live my life. At the end of the day, I think how we behave is more important than what we say we believe.

I do believe in some kind of higher power and I believe that higher power has some kind of plan for me. Nothing super specific, just that I'll accomplish personal growth in certain areas. For me, this translates to the idea that everything happens for a reason. I may not like what happens, but I appreciate that I can learn from it, whatever it is.

I try to remember this during times of my life where I feel like I'm struggling and drowning. I had planned to say something else, but I just looked at the words I chose: struggling and drowning. And now I'm wondering if it's my struggling that's making me feel like I'm drowning. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to stop the obsessive struggle and just float along.

Which actually leads quite well into what I WAS going to say. I have all these ideas about what my life is supposed to be like, and it's just not like that. It also doesn't look like it's going to be that way anytime soon. I keep feeling like *I* am doing something wrong to keep my life from being the way I expected it would be. I feel like I'm trapped in a net, and the more I see that and struggle, the more caught I become.

In a warped way it's kind of funny. I am now living the life I said I never wanted to live. Living back in Florida, working a job I tried to avoid. Did I doom myself to this life by declaring over and over that it isn't what I wanted? And in reality, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. I keep having feelings of deja vu, which is an indicator to me that I'm where I'm supposed to be. Somehow it's still just not that comforting.

I don't know how to let go of all the expectations I have for my life, things I really want. What if I never meet Mr. Lyndsy? What if I never have kids? What if...? What if...? I ask myself these questions all the time. I try to accept that it may not happen, because it IS a possibility that I won't have kids or that I won't meet Mr. Lyndsy.

But I feel like letting go of the expectation,s accepting that they won't happen, just floating along is tantamount to giving up, losing hope. And is there anything worse than losing hope?

My Hetero Life Mate

After yesterday's post about Bullshit Friends, I feel like taking some time to chat about my Good Friends...

Many moons ago, when I was still a law student, I took a job as a student assistant for the HR department at my school. I worked with some pretty nice people, one of whom was too nice for her own good. And here's why...

I was at Target one Friday evening, bored out of my mind. I planned on taking myself on a hot date (let's face it, any time I go out with myself, it's pretty f'in hot), but I wasn't as enthralled about it as I wanted to be. I was meandering through the store when I bumped into my co-worker. Her Friday evening was obviously as exciting as mine.

We chatted for a few times, and then I began reeking of desperation. I mentioned my plan to go to Chili's for dinner and a movie so many times that she finally asked me if I wanted some company. I was pleased as punch. (I can't believe I just wrote that.) And since she didn't have a car at the time, she was totally at my mercy.

I think we had fun, but you'd have to ask her for the truth. It couldn't have been that bad, because we continued to hang out. For years.

We're both extremely stubborn. And stupidly so. We were out to dinner one night in a January and we were talking about going camping. I hadn't really been. She thought I was too much of a wuss to go. I'm pretty sure she was the one to suggest President's Day weekend, and without thinking much about it, I agreed. Not brilliant. In Washington, February isn't a particularly warm month. But, I had to go through with it after she said I was too much of a wuss to do it. I replied that SHE was the wuss. So neither of us backed down. And we froze our asses off. Do you know what it's like to try to put together a tent in the dark when the elastic in the poles has broken? It's NOT FUN.

Neither of us has traveled much and we thought it would be fun to take off on a trip for a couple weeks. Oddly enough, the only place we could agree on was Ireland. I'm a pretty easygoing traveler. She wanted to plan everything out, I didn't want to plan anything out. At the end of the day, all I had to do was follow her. Which got more and more challenging as the trip went on since I kept acquiring crap. She laughed as I lugged one giant suitcase, a rolling rugby bag, my backpack and a messenger bag all around Ireland. Bless her heart.

We survived that trip, though there were a few close calls. Me almost going over the edge of a cliff in the Aran Islands. Or falling off the back edge of a formation on the Giants Causeway. Joanne, angel that she is, photographed all of the near death experiences. She wouldn't dream of killing me on that trip. One, the authorities would come after her since we were obviously traveling together (see, there is a reason I blog what I do). But, the bigger factor is MY MOTHER. No one wants to deal with her when something happens to me.

Joanne left Seattle in 2010 to pursue a life in Texas. In the months leading  up to her leaving, I refused to call her by her name, calling her The Bitch Who's Leaving Me. She took it well, though I bet she secretly wanted to stab me every time I said it. After she left, for a few months, all I called her was The Bitch Who Left Me. I didn't really hold it against her though. I was the one who found a car that met her specifications.

Not living near her has been a huge bummer. I lost a good movie and dinner buddy. Someone who doesn't judge me for being, well, ME. Snarky people watching isn't quite the same when I do it by myself. It has given us opportunities to have different fun though. We spent this past weekend at Disney World. And while I'm sick as shit now (thanks Joanne) it was totally worth it.

HLM, I'm glad we're friends.