Why my birthday smells like feet...
this was kind of hard for me to write, I guess, and I thought I would post it here in front of my friends before posting it on the blog site I post to. Any advice is welcome.
So, I was going to write this thing on how awesome this one book on style is that I just read, but I have some other things on my mind. My birthday is coming up. Birthdays are usually a time of either excitement and joy, or pure dread. I feel neither at this point, rather I’m just sad. To me I often feel rushed on my birthday, like I’m expected to do something grand. Also, as a serial organizer, it’s the one time where I don’t want to organize things. I don’t want to plan something extravagant, I would prefer to have someone else do it for me or just relax.
Okay, so I don’t really want to bore you with Dana’s dilemma of what to do on her birthday (how sad for me, right?), but talk about a problem I have and don’t know how to approach it.
On the day after my 22nd birthday, heretofore known as Halloween, I went through a terrible experience that leaves a stench around my birthday. It’s not a really bad unlivable stench; it’s kind of like stinky shoes, where you go around saying, man those shoes staaaannnnkkkk, but forget about them as soon as they’re out of nose range. That’s how this is to me.
My good friend Dawn wanted to take me out for my birthday. Dawn is the type of friend who you can always rely on to have a good time. Nothing is too small or stupid or too big and complicated for her to try. That’s something that has always appealed to me about her. Anyway, on Halloween she asked me if I wanted to go out with her, her boyfriend, Gus, and his roommates. She told me the beer was cheap where we were going and we most likely wouldn’t be paying, which is a typical situation for Dawn. The special was quarter drafts and since the night began with Dawn being called a man, we were determined to get the night started off right. Well, better. I had met Gus’s one roommate many times before. Pumba, as we called him, was really cool, very reliable, and I had a little crush on him. I was seeing someone who lived 2 hours away, and was probably sleeping with someone else on my birthday, but that’s not part of this story. The other roommate we called Bum, because that’s what he was.
So, the guys proceeded to get us drunk. This kind of drunk is the good, cheap, fast, drunk that you get because you’re excited to be out, you’re young, and the drinks are cheap. Also, you haven’t any yet discovered that getting drunk isn’t always the best goal of the night. Per essempia, tonight. To fill in any people not familiar with Pennsylvania state law, when you get drunk and you live in south eastern PA, it is required that you walk to the closest Wawa and get the most insane sandwich you can create on their little electronic sandwich making machine. I couldn’t not do it. It was the law. Puma, Gus and myself did this while Dawn and Bum stayed behind. I thought to myself, this is great, I get to chat it up with my little crush and it’s harmless because we’re just walking to Wawa. And then we’ll eat it together and I’ll pass out on the sofa. Well, that last thing happened.
When I got back, Dawn was passed out in Gus’s and her room. Bum was MIA and Puma and Gus went to their rooms. I ate my sandwich and tried to go to sleep. That’s when Bum showed back up. He was talking, I was laughing, and the show we were watching was funny. I wanted to sleep, though. He turns to me and says, “Hey, can I do something?” I say yes and he proceeds to kiss me. While I guess that’s a logical course of action, in my drunk mind I felt more logic would be to say “Hey can I do something?” and turn the TV off, or “Can I do something?” and take only the pants off to be more comfy. To me that kiss was a surprise. And what do I do when I am drunk and surprised? Giggle. A lot. Like I’m a stupid school girl. And apparently that’s code for let’s take this further, which he tried.
Now, I have often questioned why I let this happen, and the answer is simple. I didn’t let it happen. He made it happen. I wasn’t in the right state of mind, and if there were signals out there, I certainly didn’t want them to be there because frankly he was an unattractive manboy. I remember coming to my senses with him trying to take my pants off and me telling him that I have a boyfriend. When that didn’t stop him I took to a tried and true method- I played dead… aka too drunk to move. That worked.
Now I know some of you must be thinking that this poor girl is dealing with the ghosts of her past with whom she didn’t come to terms with. I did. I called up my friend and told her what’s what as soon as I came out of the initial shock and after talking it over with a very close friend. I did not press charges because it’s not my style, but he was asked to leave the house.
Why is this bothering me now? Because I have been dating this wonderful man for about 6 months now and I haven’t been able to tell him yet.
There are two reasons for this. One is because I know how he reacts any time I talk about a past boyfriend or intimate details of my past. He’s all “oh I don’t want to know that stuff. Bleh, bleh, bleeeeehhhhhhhh.”
The second is because I don’t want to be treated like a fragile girl. I know that will happen because that’s how he responded when I told him a boat fell on my head. I was fine. And come on, a BOAT FELL ON MY HEAD and I took that like a champ, other things are small peanuts compared to that. I get treated like a china doll all the time, and I don’t know why. Oh, wait, it’s because I’m 5’1” and look like I got detoured from a Limited TOO into a bar. I just forgot my glitter over there, by that beer.
Honestly, I’m afraid that it’s going to change the way he sees me. That’s it’s going to taint me for him. That even though I stood up for myself, maybe not in so many words, it’s going to show him that I’m not capable of doing so. I’m afraid it’s going to make me look like a little girl who can’t take care of herself.
So, I was going to write this thing on how awesome this one book on style is that I just read, but I have some other things on my mind. My birthday is coming up. Birthdays are usually a time of either excitement and joy, or pure dread. I feel neither at this point, rather I’m just sad. To me I often feel rushed on my birthday, like I’m expected to do something grand. Also, as a serial organizer, it’s the one time where I don’t want to organize things. I don’t want to plan something extravagant, I would prefer to have someone else do it for me or just relax.
Okay, so I don’t really want to bore you with Dana’s dilemma of what to do on her birthday (how sad for me, right?), but talk about a problem I have and don’t know how to approach it.
On the day after my 22nd birthday, heretofore known as Halloween, I went through a terrible experience that leaves a stench around my birthday. It’s not a really bad unlivable stench; it’s kind of like stinky shoes, where you go around saying, man those shoes staaaannnnkkkk, but forget about them as soon as they’re out of nose range. That’s how this is to me.
My good friend Dawn wanted to take me out for my birthday. Dawn is the type of friend who you can always rely on to have a good time. Nothing is too small or stupid or too big and complicated for her to try. That’s something that has always appealed to me about her. Anyway, on Halloween she asked me if I wanted to go out with her, her boyfriend, Gus, and his roommates. She told me the beer was cheap where we were going and we most likely wouldn’t be paying, which is a typical situation for Dawn. The special was quarter drafts and since the night began with Dawn being called a man, we were determined to get the night started off right. Well, better. I had met Gus’s one roommate many times before. Pumba, as we called him, was really cool, very reliable, and I had a little crush on him. I was seeing someone who lived 2 hours away, and was probably sleeping with someone else on my birthday, but that’s not part of this story. The other roommate we called Bum, because that’s what he was.
So, the guys proceeded to get us drunk. This kind of drunk is the good, cheap, fast, drunk that you get because you’re excited to be out, you’re young, and the drinks are cheap. Also, you haven’t any yet discovered that getting drunk isn’t always the best goal of the night. Per essempia, tonight. To fill in any people not familiar with Pennsylvania state law, when you get drunk and you live in south eastern PA, it is required that you walk to the closest Wawa and get the most insane sandwich you can create on their little electronic sandwich making machine. I couldn’t not do it. It was the law. Puma, Gus and myself did this while Dawn and Bum stayed behind. I thought to myself, this is great, I get to chat it up with my little crush and it’s harmless because we’re just walking to Wawa. And then we’ll eat it together and I’ll pass out on the sofa. Well, that last thing happened.
When I got back, Dawn was passed out in Gus’s and her room. Bum was MIA and Puma and Gus went to their rooms. I ate my sandwich and tried to go to sleep. That’s when Bum showed back up. He was talking, I was laughing, and the show we were watching was funny. I wanted to sleep, though. He turns to me and says, “Hey, can I do something?” I say yes and he proceeds to kiss me. While I guess that’s a logical course of action, in my drunk mind I felt more logic would be to say “Hey can I do something?” and turn the TV off, or “Can I do something?” and take only the pants off to be more comfy. To me that kiss was a surprise. And what do I do when I am drunk and surprised? Giggle. A lot. Like I’m a stupid school girl. And apparently that’s code for let’s take this further, which he tried.
Now, I have often questioned why I let this happen, and the answer is simple. I didn’t let it happen. He made it happen. I wasn’t in the right state of mind, and if there were signals out there, I certainly didn’t want them to be there because frankly he was an unattractive manboy. I remember coming to my senses with him trying to take my pants off and me telling him that I have a boyfriend. When that didn’t stop him I took to a tried and true method- I played dead… aka too drunk to move. That worked.
Now I know some of you must be thinking that this poor girl is dealing with the ghosts of her past with whom she didn’t come to terms with. I did. I called up my friend and told her what’s what as soon as I came out of the initial shock and after talking it over with a very close friend. I did not press charges because it’s not my style, but he was asked to leave the house.
Why is this bothering me now? Because I have been dating this wonderful man for about 6 months now and I haven’t been able to tell him yet.
There are two reasons for this. One is because I know how he reacts any time I talk about a past boyfriend or intimate details of my past. He’s all “oh I don’t want to know that stuff. Bleh, bleh, bleeeeehhhhhhhh.”
The second is because I don’t want to be treated like a fragile girl. I know that will happen because that’s how he responded when I told him a boat fell on my head. I was fine. And come on, a BOAT FELL ON MY HEAD and I took that like a champ, other things are small peanuts compared to that. I get treated like a china doll all the time, and I don’t know why. Oh, wait, it’s because I’m 5’1” and look like I got detoured from a Limited TOO into a bar. I just forgot my glitter over there, by that beer.
Honestly, I’m afraid that it’s going to change the way he sees me. That’s it’s going to taint me for him. That even though I stood up for myself, maybe not in so many words, it’s going to show him that I’m not capable of doing so. I’m afraid it’s going to make me look like a little girl who can’t take care of herself.