So I just impulse bought a guitar, corn dogs, and these black tights that are supposed to change a woman’s life. (Because apparently, tights can do that.)
Except so far, the corn dogs are doing most of the life changing. I feel some sorta way about this.
Mostly GREAT. But also wondering if I should call my parents to check on my missing sanity. (What are parents for, right?)
My mom would probably ask how many cups of coffee I’ve had today. And I’d be inclined to say 2+2=not enough coffee! Because MATH. We’re winning today, really.
I should confess that this week has been a rollercoaster of sorts–full of ups, downs, and the HOLY SH*T moment that comes right before the inevitably huuuuuuge drop. Believe me when I say that the real-life re-enactment of this rollercoaster ride is as funny as it sounds.
This post comes from a place of accidentally awesome conversations (which are incidentally the best kind.) These are the sort of talks that leave you wanting to jump up and down, saying ,”YES, YOU GET ME!!!” In a caps-lock-intentional sort of way, of course.
Same mind, same kind. Life gets messy. We’re rolling with the punches like it’s NBD.
The past few weeks have been filled with long walks where time ain’t no thang. With misfit life talks and pumpkin bread. With crazy concerts like dance party what? With Shakespeare term papers. And of course, with more pizza eaten standing in front of an open fridge than should be admitted to.
You can ask if I’m “that kind of girl.” (The cold pizza kind). But I think you know the answer to that.
Ask me if I’m mad about it. Spoiler alert: I’m not.
Okay okay, before you roll your eyes at me, let’s rewind.
It’s a clutch sort of curiosity when you realize how often someone says, “I’m not, ‘that kind of girl’ or ‘that kind of guy.’ It’s a quirky phrase loaded with a charged ‘uh huh’ somewhere in there.
A stealthy Google search (amen!) will quickly reveal that Lena Dunham beat me to the punch line on this one. But seeing as she’s charging $28.99 on Amazon for the answer, I’m offering my completely unqualified and unscientific opinion for *free! (shipping & handling not included*) It’s a steal, on the DL.
“I’m not that kind of girl” or “I’m not that kind of guy” slips its way into conversation with a sort of nonchalant subtlety. It’s rarely the main topic of conversation, but it appears most often as a way to imply what or who we are or are not.
How do I know? I’ve done it myself. And in the past 7 days, I’ve heard someone utter this phrase at least once each day. This isn’t a philosophical study or a scientific hypothesis so much as it is a simple observation. As eager as we are to define ourselves in a certain way, we’re also equally eager to enumerate what we are not.
Because heaven forbid that someone in the world define us as that sort of person. With all sorts of identifying tags from which to pick and choose, we begin to find ourselves straddling some imaginary line.
We don’t want to be too mainstream. But heaven forbid that we’re too hipster either. We don’t want to be the girl/guy who doesn’t care. But we don’t want to be the one who cares too much either. We don’t want to be basic bitches/bros. But whoa whoa don’t get too ratchet on me either.
This isn’t unnatural; the grey area is our safety net. It protects us from what may otherwise seem to be an unsavory title. And truth be told, it may be as instinctual as a defense mechanism.
Knee jerk response, like hello. That’s a tricky bugger.
I get it. After who knows how many years of living, we–and those we know–have a very specific idea of who and what is allowed within the confines of “cool.”
But in hastily declaring that we’re “not that kind of girl/guy,” I wonder what we lose out on. In doing so, we’re never the person who is awkward or embarrassing or sick or irrational or annoyed for no reason. We’re not the person who let the dance floor get the best of us or who Facebook-stalked a person of interest. We’re not the one who double texted or who mispronounced that obvious word. We’re not the one who made something out of nothing.
And we’re definitely not the one standing in front of the fridge, eating more pizza than should be admitted to.
Because that would make us that kind of person. And really, is there so much harm in that?