So for the past few months, I have been trying to figure out if Robot Boy was my boyfriend. I am neurotic (you don't say) and although I know it's very seventh-grade of me, I kinda need to label a relationship after a while. I assume that unless we say "OK, I am dating only you," then we are free to date other people. In fact, unless told otherwise, I assume the other person is dating other people. And that makes me think, "Uh oh, I should be dating other people, too! Cannot put all dating eggs in one basket!"
(I told you I was neurotic.)
So when Robot Boy introduced me to someone as his friend back in August, I quietly slipped into the Tomlin Freakout — the inevitable panic that stops emotional attachment before it gets too deep. Being a former English major, I overanalyze vocabulary choices with the best of them. Naturally, I assumed that he must think of me as just a platonic friend and I should really diversify my dating portfolio and boy was I dumb to think he liked me in the same way, I bet he's dating that redhead too, and I had better retreat, RETREAT! I managed to regain enough sanity to talk myself down from the freakout, and we talked about my unnecessary parsing, but still, I spent the next couple of months wondering why he wouldn't just say he was my boyfriend. It's junior-high, I know. I am not proud of it. It's just that in my experience, people who say "Aw, let's not label ourselves" wind up being the ones who are shtupping some 22-year-old girl while you're at home naively baking them romantic cupcakes or whatever. So you see why I like a little reassurance, don't you?
Long story short, I recently explained that I needed more definition, which is the adult way of saying, "I just want to be called your girlfriend, even though I am embarrassed to admit that." Robot Boy said, duh, of course you're my girl, silly. And then we broke up! It was a Bizarro World breakup, one of those "Hey, we're in love with each other, so let's call the whole thing off!" events that, in a movie, would have Jennifer Garner doing madcap cute-crazy things to get her ex back. I thought about doing something sweepingly romantic, except I'm heavier on the crazy than the cute. So instead I allowed myself a week to wallow, and now, in an effort to stop pining, I am writing lists of things that weren't great about Robot Boy. The problem is that he is a good man who is proving difficult to vilify. I have a hard time coming up with real flaws, so the list is filled with trivialities like "doesn't like my shoes" and "does not discourage redhead from blatantly sexual flirting" and "has facial hair." (In my defense, my shoes are stylish, and he does seem to enjoy the attention, and, well, longtime readers know how I feel about facial hair.)
Betty was saddened to hear about these recent developments; I think she had visions of tiny Robot Boys and Robot Girls running around someday. "That was not great timing on his part," she said. "Of course, maybe he'd been wanting to break up with you for a while, but he didn't want to dump you while you were worried about Dad dying." Leave it to my mother to introduce more conspiracy theories into my head. I have spent the hours since lying in bed, amplifying coincidences into evidence to support this idea. The cycle of neuroses has been recharged!
(I told you I was neurotic.)
So when Robot Boy introduced me to someone as his friend back in August, I quietly slipped into the Tomlin Freakout — the inevitable panic that stops emotional attachment before it gets too deep. Being a former English major, I overanalyze vocabulary choices with the best of them. Naturally, I assumed that he must think of me as just a platonic friend and I should really diversify my dating portfolio and boy was I dumb to think he liked me in the same way, I bet he's dating that redhead too, and I had better retreat, RETREAT! I managed to regain enough sanity to talk myself down from the freakout, and we talked about my unnecessary parsing, but still, I spent the next couple of months wondering why he wouldn't just say he was my boyfriend. It's junior-high, I know. I am not proud of it. It's just that in my experience, people who say "Aw, let's not label ourselves" wind up being the ones who are shtupping some 22-year-old girl while you're at home naively baking them romantic cupcakes or whatever. So you see why I like a little reassurance, don't you?
Long story short, I recently explained that I needed more definition, which is the adult way of saying, "I just want to be called your girlfriend, even though I am embarrassed to admit that." Robot Boy said, duh, of course you're my girl, silly. And then we broke up! It was a Bizarro World breakup, one of those "Hey, we're in love with each other, so let's call the whole thing off!" events that, in a movie, would have Jennifer Garner doing madcap cute-crazy things to get her ex back. I thought about doing something sweepingly romantic, except I'm heavier on the crazy than the cute. So instead I allowed myself a week to wallow, and now, in an effort to stop pining, I am writing lists of things that weren't great about Robot Boy. The problem is that he is a good man who is proving difficult to vilify. I have a hard time coming up with real flaws, so the list is filled with trivialities like "doesn't like my shoes" and "does not discourage redhead from blatantly sexual flirting" and "has facial hair." (In my defense, my shoes are stylish, and he does seem to enjoy the attention, and, well, longtime readers know how I feel about facial hair.)
Betty was saddened to hear about these recent developments; I think she had visions of tiny Robot Boys and Robot Girls running around someday. "That was not great timing on his part," she said. "Of course, maybe he'd been wanting to break up with you for a while, but he didn't want to dump you while you were worried about Dad dying." Leave it to my mother to introduce more conspiracy theories into my head. I have spent the hours since lying in bed, amplifying coincidences into evidence to support this idea. The cycle of neuroses has been recharged!
Labels: betty, neuroses, regression to adolescence
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