Beating men at their own game
I’ve decided that from now on, I’m going to act more like a man.That basically means I’m going to sever the body/mind connection when it comes to basic human needs like sex, food, and beer. There will be no more over-analyzing, no more drama, no more tears. This could be the best quick-fix remedy since four Advil and a greasy breakfast at the Hickory House to get rid of those morning-after headaches.You have no idea how much time us girls spend analyzing, deliberating and collaborating on how to better understand these men in our lives who, when it comes down to it, are not really all that complex. We see them as these things of great value – diamonds – when really they’re no more unique than a chunk of glass, totally transparent.Yes, I know there are some sensitive guys out there who do have a scintilla of emotion in their testosterone-flooded bodies. I know men who are considerate and aware and neurotic. I know there are also women who can be remarkably detached and unemotional. I worship women like that. These are the women who are going places, calling the shots.Take my friend Becky. She was my first friend in Aspen. I stayed at her house when I first moved to the valley and got kicked out of the condo I’d subleased in Basalt. (Long story short, the people I subleased from came home early. Had I known they were coming, I would have at least taken the keg out of their bathtub and put it on the back porch).Anyhoo, Becky was the quintessential Aspen girl: a tall, statuesque blonde who was an entrepreneur by day, waitress by night. Wherever we went, the spirits would flow like a swollen river after a storm, and everything was always on the house. She walked around like she owned the place, her head high, shoulders back, pace a little faster than I would like. I always used to tell her I should wear roller skates and just hold on to the back of her shirt and let her pull me behind. No matter what we were doing, I found her impossible to keep up with.Becky could go through dudes like no woman I have ever seen. She would chew them up and spit them out, but in a graceful way, like someone might eat cherries and drink champagne outside the music tent on a sunny summer afternoon.”He said he wanted a relationship,” she’d say. “And I was like, I am so out of here.”Maybe that’s why almost every man she meets falls madly in love with her. She thinks like them, and beats them at their own game. Sex doesn’t have to be emotional for her, and more often than not, it isn’t. She has her needs, she fulfills them, and she moves on. The guy is always left standing there with his pants down around his ankles going, “Huh? What just happened?” and then calling her every five minutes to see if she wants to be in a relationship.On the male side, I have this friend Tom who was always the Nice Guy. He was the Yes Man. The sweet, considerate, warm, quiet type who would do almost anything I’d asked of him.”Hey Tom, do you want to go to the Little Nell pool with me and sit in the sun and read magazines all day?” I’d ask. Or, “Hey Tom, I forgot my wallet. Do you mind paying for my meal, drinks, and whatever I might decide to buy on the way to the restaurant at Boogies? I’ll pay you back.””Sure,” he’d say with a little shrug.Then one day, Tom sort of hooked up with two different girls. I remember watching these women at his house during a party, on opposite sides of the room, vying for his attention. They both stayed longer than the rest of the guests, lingering around hoping the other would leave first. Somehow, Tom managed to pull it off – the more he treated each girl like crap, and the more he played them off each other by doting on one and making the other jealous, the more they liked him. You would think these girls might be put off or annoyed by such blatant disrespect, but nooo. It just made them want him even more.This made Tom kind of arrogant. His default answer went from “Sure,” to “We’ll see what happens.” The warm look in his eyes froze over. He became despondent and detached. He started to say things like, “Football is more important” when I’d asked him to come over on a Sunday afternoon to hang out with me while I baked cookies.”What the hell happened to you?” I asked one day when he denied me on some relatively small favor I’d asked of him. “You’re like, so bad now. Where’s Sweet Tom? I really miss him.””Sweet Tom didn’t have a girlfriend for four years,” he replied. “Girls like bad boys.”I didn’t even bother to argue. Girls do fall for bad boys. They like the challenge of trying to get inside their heads. Then once they do, they’re all upset to discover these guys aren’t thinking lovely thoughts. They’re thinking, “I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I need sex.”What an easy way to live! No more wasting time e-mailing my ten best friends to try to figure out why God doesn’t exist. No more feeling disappointed when the guy who held so much promise turns out to be a fantasy I’d invented in my head.Reality doesn’t have to suck, as long as you take it for what it is and nothing more. No one wants to swallow a pit, silly. Just spit it out and move on.The Princess is feeling like a very, very bad girl. Send your e-mail to firstname.lastname@example.org, but keep it short, please.The Aspen Times, Aspen, Colo.
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