Going through life as the person I am has taught me a variety of things. I’ve learned what desperation sounds like, and how exactly people will backwardly compliment you, and I’ve learned that girls like me don’t get nice guys, because I am not a nice girl.
When my mother remarked on my lack of tact, it was something we both thought I would grow out of. We also thought I’d grow out of running with the boys, and swearing too much and too loudly. I’d hoped my awkward demeanor would slip away and I would transform into something socially pleasing, or at least socially forgivable. I hoped I would eventually stop saying the wrong things, and that maybe I’d someday be worth more than comic relief.
I suppose my wish came true in some regards. The quality of my humor became worth less as the sight of my butt in a pair of skinny jeans became worth more. The cut of my shirt was far more interesting than any commentary I could offer.
It’s quite simple, really. Once nice guys figure out you have no interest in their hearts and flowers, that you don’t want to sit on their arm and smile, that you have more to say than how particularly blue their eyes look that day, they check out. Once the not-so-nice guys figure out that you hold yourself in higher esteem than just shiny hair and a big butt, they’re next out the door.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a nice girl. I have a brain, even though some would tell you otherwise. I say whatever I’m thinking whether I should or not. I’m awkward and entirely too loud. I get too excited about things that don’t matter, and I say too many bad words, and if we’re taking shots of tequila, I’m going to try to keep up until I can’t even hold a glass.
I don’t always say “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me.” I’m more likely to utter a four letter word beginning with “f” and ending in shared glances from passersby and mothers clapping their hands over their four-year-old’s ears.
I’m not someone you would associate with hearts and flowers. The thought of sickly sweet romance brings uneasy knots to my stomach and any declaration of affection will find me quickly running in the opposite direction.
I don’t want to talk about my feelings, not at all. I don’t even want to admit that I have them. So I can’t be that girl who will walk down moonlit streets with you and coyly giggle across a plate of Italian food. Don’t bring me flowers and tell me you love me because I’ll run.
I’m not the girl you bring home to meet Mom and Dad. I say all the wrong things and I hate small talk. I don’t want to talk about the weather, and your mother will probably tell you that she’s sure I’m a “nice girl” but I’m “not the girl for you.”
Men describe me as “snarky” and “scary” more than they describe my kind heart and caring personality, because those aren’t the things you find when you talk to me, although you might catch a glimpse if you really tried. I’m loud, and I’m aggressive, and more often than not I say things I regret the minute they exit my lips. But then I remember that everyone expects only that from me and it almost becomes okay.
I’m more likely to challenge every statement you make then to smile and agree with them. I relish a good debate and I definitely yell more than is necessary in almost every instance.
I don’t do well with boundaries and lines and possession. I don’t want you by my side every hour of every day. I don’t need your permission to live my life, and I’ll more than likely be very uncomfortable if you choose to revolve your social life around me.
If you want to talk about your feelings, I’ll be there until three in the morning with you. If you want to talk about mine, that’s a different story entirely. If you’re sick, I’ll toss you a box of tissues through an open door because I love you, but I don’t want what you have. I’ll craft for your birthday and give you a homemade card, but you’re not getting much more than that because I’m not made of money. If you call me drunk and lost, I’ll walk miles to hunt you down, but I’ll probably make jokes at your expense for the next three weeks for wandering off like an idiot in the first place.
I’m not a total jerk. I’m not really an awful person. I don’t try to be mean or awful or harsh. I’m just not a nice girl.