An Open Letter To Nice Guys
Dear (Too) Nice of Guys:
Please wait for us. You’re not “too” nice. That is a myth. A lie. A spin on what some might call a gentleman. We will come to our senses as quickly as we’ll stop going to the Hangge Uppe. Unfortunately, some of us still enjoy stumbling out at 5 a.m…and falling asleep on our rooftops because we thought it would be “nice to watch the sun rise.”
But please wait for us. You guys seem to have it together, most of the time. The bouncer doesn’t recognize you at Benchmark and the bartender doesn’t know your favorite drink. You usually make it to work on time. You eat at other places than Chipotle, Boston Market, and Portillo’s (but I’m not opposed to those…). You don’t know the difference between fancy wines and neither do I — which makes me comfortable. Could a girl ask for anything else? Of course. My point is, you have the basics. The outline. You might not notice our new reverse ombre lowlights or Jack Rogers sandals — but you know when we’re upset and could use a glass or two of wine. The best part? You know when to just hand us the bottle.
Don’t give up on us just yet. We know these guys don’t want to date us; we’re not even lying to ourselves anymore! Eventually, we will learn to hate unreturned texts and exhausting games of cat-and-mouse. We’ll learn to say no when a guy asks us to “come over and watch a movie,” and yes to the guy who asks us to dinner (Topo Gigio, anyone?).
Give it a little more time. I prommmmise (for real this time), we’re growing really sick of the “game.” Or as a friend affectionately calls it, “the hunt.”
My mom’s token advice is to “make sure you can have fun digging a ditch with the person you’re with.”
I’m not so much of an outdoorsy girl, but I would rather go digging than hunting.
A | A | A
Will it feel the same when you tell me you love me over the phone? Will the peacefulness of those words still floor me from thousands of miles away?
I was conflicted. It felt like one eye was trying to look away while the other soaked it up. I felt the heat rise in my face. This was wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong.
Any nervous flyer knows the progression of descending panic: bile, sweaty palms, social awkwardness and self-induced sedation.
I know how it feels when the weight of darkness crashes down onto your chest in the middle of the night, and how you wish things would stop spinning because the axis seems tilted now. I know, love, I know.