So, dating and I don’t really get along too well. It’s something I do occasionally, but not very often, and when I do do it, it is with rather a large degree of awkwardness (followed by an even larger degree of making my friends listen to me blather on IM all day about how I will probably die alone with seventeen cats and be found by the smell in the hallway). This is for two reasons. Well, more than two, I’m sure. Two main reasons, shall we say.
The first is that I am what you would call a late bloomer. And while this is totally fine, and I don’t regret a minute of X-Files watching while the rest of my age group was engaging in ‘social interaction’, it’s given me a peculiar insecurity – I call it the ‘Badminton Anxiety’.
Put simply, the ‘Badminton Anxiety’ is the fear that dating is something equivalent to, say, Badminton, and that everyone in the world, by, oh, interacting with the opposite sex and going out to drive-ins (or whatever the kiddies do these days) instead of reading ‘The Odyssey’, had the equivalent to a Badminton class in high school that I missed. Thus, whether they learned awesome tricks to smack that birdie around or that they just sucked at the game in general, everybody knows what Badminton is, and has a basic understanding of how it works. I, however, going to an all-girls school for a full 13 years, never had this class, so I spend my dating life assuming that I am learning as I go something that everyone else already knows.
The second thing about dating is that it happens to trigger my twin issues – control freakdom, and general insecurity. Thus, the insecurity rears it’s ugly head and I start wondering how anyone could love me, and become a quivering mass of vulnerability. The control freak freaks out that I have become so vulnerable, which in turn makes me even more insecure. It’s like those two muppets who sit in the balcony and mock people, except for instead of mocking other people, imagine them just ruthlessly exploiting the other’s weak parts, and ending by punching each other in the face. It’s not pretty.
Anyhoo, after a day of getting trapped in my own personal hotbox of crazy, I came across this article:
(there’s probably a fancier way to do that than the link, but I’m ignorant. (Blognorant?)
And I have to say, I totally get it. I get where she’s coming from – I have my moments, when faced with this crazy world of dating, where I think that fuck it, I’m going to take my vinyl record and my pretty jewelry and just move to a cave somewhere. Then at least I could be a crazy old bat lady instead of a crazy old cat lady.
P.S. On a side note (because it just wouldn’t be a blog post by me without a tangent, now would it?), I love that the lady is called ‘Australia’s Miss Havisham’, as though every country has one. Is there a pageant? Are they judged on activities like berating Estella and Mouldering? Can I enter?