Let me tell you that there is no experience that makes me more uncomfortable than seeing (or hearing, on that specific occasion) a grown man forced to tears. By this, I don’t mean the single dignified teardrop that slowly rolls down a gentleman’s cheek in the movies, I mean uncontrollable weeping, sobbing and wailing. Men being hysterical, emotional and hypersensitive give me a headache. But what was I supposed to do in that situation–listening to my boyfriend completely transform into this helpless, pitiable person? I couldn’t hang up again, nor could I say, "Sorry, babe. I love you, but I just can’t be bothered with this."
After doing my absolute best to resolve the argument we had, I hung up the phone wondering why I felt so revolted by the conversation. I tried to come up with some intricate explanation as to why I was so disturbed by a petty squabble, until I finally realized that the answer was simple: It was because he cried. I tried to tell myself that this is what I asked for, that I had always imagined the great love of my life to be an artist as such–someone who was very open about his emotions and completely unafraid to express them. It was much too late when I realized that this whole time, I had been digging myself a hole, wishing for a pansy!
Upon this realization, I began to reevaluate my past relationships. All the men I had dated before were precisely my failed attempts to fulfill my yearning for the stereotypical "sensitive" man, the results of which were nothing more than bad poetry and junk food binges that were fueled by memories of excessively dramatic experiences. What on earth had I been thinking? All this time I had been so certain of what exactly "my type" was, and all the men who fit the profile had turned out to be great disappointments. I began to wonder, when did sensitive men become everyone’s darlings, anyway?
I remember how dating a man with a tortured soul became very much in fashion in the early ’90s, much like listening to Nirvana and watching films like Singles and The Dead Poets Society. It seems to me that this occurrence encouraged many men to abandon their semi-intellectual but amazingly successful Yuppie personalities in favor of the struggling poetic genius battling all the inner demons that plagued every Gen-X kid during this time. In retrospect, I have no idea what women were thinking back then. We ended up creating oversensitive monsters. The roots of this phenomenon can be traced back much further. I guess men got lazy after feminism took off and women started putting on power suits and making obscene amounts of money. It gave all those guys an excuse to sit on their asses and think about their feelings, the results of which have been of no advantage to us. Women look for men who are in touch with their emotions and, in the process, completely forget that emotional maturity may come as a package deal. Then they end up stuck with men who bawl their eyes out at the drop of a hat and need their hand to be held through all the scary parts of the real world. What ever happened to "being a man"? Did they all just succumb willingly to the hypothetical castration that they assumed equal rights would entail? The unshaven feminist singer Paula Cole wails in her melancholy chorus, "Where have all the cowboys gone"? The real question to ask, however, is how on earth did this new generation of grade-A fairies, dandies and prima donnas replace them so quickly? Do women seriously still find these effeminate character attributes sexy? I personally believe that the phenomenon of the sensitive male is way past its expiration date.
The weepy boyfriend eventually became my ex-boyfriend, and to celebrate my newfound freedom, I immediately resolved to find myself someone who would be his total antithesis and thus finally engage in a relationship with someone man enough to be with a woman like myself. I needed someone whose emotional stability would not crumble beneath my strong personality, someone who didn’t take himself too seriously, someone who didn’t cry so darn easily! I went through a list of criteria in my head, determined not to end up with another pansy like the last one. Foreign. Intelligent. Ridiculously good looking and coveted by many other females. No interest in a serious commitment. No artistic ability whatsoever. Preferably a jock. Not long after this decision did I begin my affair with the Argentinean.
We went to the same school. He was majoring in international management and was an all-star on the men’s soccer team. He spoke three languages: Spanish, English and Portuguese (his mother was Brazilian). He was of medium height, golden-skinned and lean-bodied, with chiseled features, wavy brown hair and dark green eyes that had already broken so many hearts with just one stare–the one that made you feel like you were the only girl in the room. He reminded me of James Bond–if Sean Connery had been Latin–because of his ability to charm anyone with such great ease, his undeniable good looks, his sociability and his taste in designer suits. He often sought me out at parties and would ask me to dance as he grabbed me by the waist, trying to possess me with la mirada fuerte, a Hispanic idiom referring to a man’s ability to completely possess a woman just by looking at her. I always refused. He always told me how beautiful I was, at which point the butterflies in my stomach would start to frantically do the samba. It took all the will power I had to dispassionately push him aside. All the girls wanted him and he knew it. I never would have guessed that all it took to win him over was a long conversation with me. He said it was because I challenged him. We became fierce lovers, and for a while, I felt that I had finally met my match.
After a month into the affair, I became bored with the Argentinean. As attractive as he was, I found myself becoming more revolted as my image of this "real man" I was dating began to rapidly crumble before my eyes. He wasn’t hypersensitive at all–he seemed pretty stable. But there were a few nuances. The first thing that really bothered me was his vanity. He was one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever laid my eyes on, but learning how high-maintenance he was soon became a serious turn-off. The man could not enter or leave a room without looking at himself in the mirror! What I mistook for arrogance turned out to be total narcissism. I began to wonder if he secretly wore makeup. I knew for a fact he used my scented body lotion. I entertained the idea that he wasn’t yet aware of his true sexual orientation, before dismissing it immediately and chastising myself for thinking such mean thoughts. My repulsion to my lover, however, did not cease. Another thing that bothered me was his mood swings. If I have ever in my life seen a man undergoing PMS, it was most certainly him. There were times when I believed he was suffering from mild schizophrenia, the other (and evil) personality in his psyche being that of a deranged 13-year-old girl without her chocolate fix. What was I supposed to do with him? After careful analysis, I realized once again to my horror that I had once again involved myself with another fairy!
I quickly ended my affair with the Argentinean. We had used each other, for reasons of sheer vanity. He moved on to a younger, more subservient flavor of the week, and I to mine: vodka. It then dawned on me that maybe the problem was me. Was I truly such an unbearable woman that every one of my partners would not be able to sustain any semblance of a healthy relationship with me? I began to question myself.
Bear in mind that my extreme confusion did not by any means become an excuse to surrender myself to defeat. I was not going to let something like existential anguish degrade me into an emotional sack of nerves! I was determined and would not indulge myself in mood swings, vanity, or hysteria. I decided that I was through searching for the right man, so I tried searching for the right cocktail.
I know, drunken debauchery is hardly the answer to any problem, but it was a moment of weakness. What I didn’t see coming, however, was that it would involve me with someone I had never considered before.
Blue and I had been friends since his freshman year at school. We weren’t close, but we always spent time with each other. Oftentimes, just the two of us would skip class to watch movies at my apartment. He was my on-campus "cigarette buddy," the one you have a smoke with in-between classes and make small talk with. I had an algebra class with him, which we usually spent checking out the art website of which we were both members (he submitted graphic art and I turned in my short fiction) and doodling in our notebooks. He had soft, black hair that looked like it was always wet and fell in thick curls around his face. He reminded me of a young Dermot Mulroney, but much more beautiful with his rounded features. We used to joke around all the time… he would ask me to leave my boyfriend (The Weeper) for him, and I would poke fun at his age (being two years my junior) and say I would never consider it. The events that followed took us both by surprise.
One night, for no particular reason, we agreed to meet at the local Irish pub for a few drinks. We talked over cheap draft beer of our recently failed love affairs, our wanderlust and our desire to be something bigger than what we were.
I woke up the next morning and felt myself plummeting back to reality. What on earth had I started? Panic began to seep in. I thought I was through with all this and I once again found myself crippled by immense emotional hysteria. I ran out of my room and retreated to my living room. Was I insane, setting myself up for another ill-fated affair or was I acting like a deranged femme-Nazi cursed to be a spinster? Here I was, sitting on my sofa, about to surrender myself to the same ridiculous emotional instability that turned me off to The Weeper.
The sound of Blue’s bare feet padding into the living room silenced me immediately. I held my breath, anticipating the worst. Instead, he smiled, sat next to me and lit up a cigarette.
"Good morning," he said, "You want some breakfast? I’ll cook."
I let out a sigh of relief and nodded my head. He kissed me on the forehead and ambled over to the kitchen. I smiled to myself as I heard him put on the coffee. Perhaps it was time to get off my rant and come back down to earth. Perhaps not everything was as complicated as I made it out to be. Perhaps the right amount of sensitivity is, in fact, a lovely quality for men to have, in which case, I need not behave like such a difficult woman after all.
For your wisdom and wisecracks, email the author at whippersnappergirl@hotmail.com