It’s been a minute since I’ve been this emotional or felt so rejected. No… rejectable.
I’ve been on a path since I was a junior in high school taking advanced placement chemistry and biology. Anaptitude for sciencethey called it. By senior year I was taking courses at the local college for my science credits. I wasn’t great at systems, or connecting the dots, outside of science, that is.
My brain just gets it. There’s no explanation aside from that. I was unrelatable to my classmates. Undatable by boys who thought intelligence was intimidating.
In my university years, I had similar problems. Socially awkward, physically too if you consider my clumsy nature, and I was the geek that professors loved and lab students wanted to partner with but not necessarily befriend.
Enter my female empowerment years where I said screw all this and dove headlong into owning who I am, how my brain functions, and cutting out anyone who thinks to tear me down. My sister is a decade older. Therefore, my music tastes have more range than most expect.
And Madonna is timeless. Her music is at least.
But those teenage insecurities, the ones that say I’m not desirable—not enough, or the opposite, too much—those live rent-free in my head. I’m too smart, too awkward, too know-it-all, all the while not pretty enough, not alluring, and in no way sexy.
The sob that rends from me is louder than I expected and I reach to close the window. The last freaking thing I need is a grumpy neighbor, who uses sustainable napkins and does inexplicably kind things, hearing me cry. Whether he thinks I’m cracked in the head or that he should try to fix it, he’s wrong on both counts.
It’s not him. It’s just what he represents… the men of the world who want beautiful women who have just enough smarts, but not enough to overpower their own intelligence, who are vixens in bed while looking like a lady in heels the rest of the time.
And it’s exhausting. Twisting myself into knots to appear to be something I’m not.
Look more helpless, I’ve been told.
Dumb it down, I’ve been advised.
Maybe a little more lipstick, I’ve heard.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I swipe the tears from my cheeks, get my too-full butt off the floor, and pad to the bathroom. A long hot bath, slathering down in some silky lotion, and a good night’s sleep will do the trick. They won’t fix my brain, or my bum, or the fact that I don’t ooze sex. But maybe the self-care trifecta will remind me my intelligence isn’t the problem. Nor is my booty. I have what I need. I am enough and not too much. I’ll be just fine.
And my trusty vibrator is more than enough to get me off.
I’ve had a couple days to think after the night where dinner was great, the beer was delicious, and my heart was smashed by his in-your-face not-a-pleasant-anything comment. And I’ve come to a conclusion.
Screw Liam Murphy.
Screw his glorious beard and his flopping dick and his reusable napkins.
Screw his rules about music and living according to his expectations.
It’s an Alanis kind of morning and if he hears it, so be it.
This isn’t the new-and-improved version of me. It’s the I-don’t-give-a-rip version. And I’m coming in hot.
Cranking up the speaker on “Right Through You,” I set about to clean. My house isn’t dirty. I haven’t lived here long enough to make a mess of it, and I’m gone for long periods on most days. It’s dusty more than anything with a lone dead fly on the kitchen windowsill.
But a good mopping and something to make the house smell good goes hand-in-hand with my new-ish attitude.
The aggressive knock on the back door surprises me and I jump and throw my hand over my chest.
Fudge nuggets.
There’s no peephole on this one, but the window over the kitchen sink shows the offender is none other than the grumpy guy next door.
Throwing open the door, I launch in, “Don’t start. You said no Madonna, and this is obviously”—I whisk my hand through the air—“Not Madge. Not to mention, you, sir, do not make the music rules in my house.”
I slam the door without further ado, only to have it bounce off something in the way. Much to my chagrin, his shoe is in the door jamb. My eyes rise from it to his face. “Your foot is in the way.” I keep my voice cheery and no nonsense.
It falls flat.
