Title comes from here. I was wondering about that title.

I went back to writer's group tonight after having been on hiatus since September for acting class and then the show. Melanie was thrilled to see me and annoyed I did not mention I was in Gumbo, because she takes classes at ARC and works in the costume shop and now we know some of the same people. It did not occur to me that she'd actually go, to be honest--I didn't outright ask a whole lot of people TO go and since most who volunteered on their own flaked and bailed, I didn't want to do that shit again. (Melinda was all, "This is a chosen family, Jennifer" to me about it, and I pointed out I have Issues with how to deal with that word.) Anyway, Melanie and I had a lovely chat about things and Melinda and I are going to get together on Sunday to discuss Where Do I Go From Here (another song title for ya) with regards to acting.

And now I'm gonna whine and rant some more about guess what again. If anyone still reads this, feel free to skip it.

I was reading some links off Metafilter when I got home and felt the ol' lady rage boiling up again.

"I would make myself uninterested like Anne with Gilbert, or Jo with Laurie, so that my affection would be a better prize; hold fast to my virtue like Jane Eyre, so that my eventual acquiescence was more deserved."

"To desire effort from a man, we are taught, is to transgress in several ways. (This is true even if you’ve never had or wanted a romantic relationship with a man.) First, it means acknowledging that there are things you want beyond what he’s already provided—a blow to his self-concept. This is called “expecting him to read your mind,” and we’re often scolded for it; better, we learn, to pretend that whatever he’s willing to give us is what we were after anyway.

Second, and greater, it means acknowledging that there are things you want. For a woman who has learned to make herself physically and emotionally small, to live literally and figuratively on scraps, admitting that you have an appetite is a source of cavernous fear. Women are often on a diet of the body, but we are always on a diet of the heart.

The low-maintenance woman, the ideal woman, has no appetite. This is not to say that she refuses food, sex, romance, emotional effort; to refuse is petulant, which is ironically more demanding. The woman without appetite politely finishes what’s on her plate, and declines seconds. She is satisfied and satisfiable.

Women talk ourselves into needing less, because we’re not supposed to want more—or because we know we won’t get more, and we don’t want to feel unsatisfied. We reduce our needs for food, for space, for respect, for help, for love and affection, for being noticed, according to what we think we’re allowed to have. Sometimes we tell ourselves that we can live without it, even that we don’t want it. But it’s not that we don’t want more. It’s that we don’t want to be seen asking for it."

The problem with desire is that it predicts nothing, guarantees nothing, and it is necessary."

Reading all of this made me mad.

We learn not to be hungry, we learn not to want, because we're not going to get what we want any way and the only way to be "happy" is to be satisfied with whatever crumbs we get. I have (mostly) stopped wanting a lot of things because I could never get anyone to give them to me. I still want them, in a sense, I just don't feel it as bad because I've gotten used to the idea of nothing and hunger and empty. And it makes me mad that I've had to do that as a survival technique.

Women learn that if you have to ask, the answer is no. If you're lucky, it's just a no. If you're unlucky you get yelled at or dumped. Every woman who ever dates lives in fear of The Snap, in which the guy magically just gets over her. We never know when it's going to happen and everything could have been just fine five minutes ago and he was buying weeks' worth of groceries at your house and now, he's done.

Last night at the CC one of my fellow volunteers was freaking out because her long distance boyfriend has only contacted her once or twice per day the last couple of days. I found it hard to sympathize since that's a lot more than most guys will ever goddamned do even if it's little for him, but of course now she's freaked that he's going to break up with her, and for all we know it could happen. Dating is living in fear, after all. Can you ever trust them not to snap and leave?

My shrink (in between having freak accidents of surgery, tongue biting and a kidney stone, I swear to god it's getting ridiculous this winter for her) has told me to play it "cool and casual" regarding you know who and his intermittent communications. Because god forbid you can't say anything about when a dude is flaky or being Mr Flinchy or whatever. Meanwhile, I keep trying to figure out if he's mad at me or hates me or is just incredibly forgetful or what, and I can't ask (because that would make me a crazy person) and I'll probably never know. I already played my one attempt at contacting him card, I can't do it again.

Am I even romantically interested in him any more? I don't think I am and even if I was it wouldn't matter anyway, but seriously, I feel kinda hurt and insulted at the flakitude. And I hate that I have to be all "cool and casual" and pretend to not be bothered. I get snitty when this shit happens with ladies flaking on contacting me back too, mind you, but somehow it riles me more when it's a dude because you feel more unable to do anything about because God Forbid You Scare Them. Well, that and I haven't had that shit triggering me for years and hoo boy, does it ever roar back. I remember all the times where I felt like I was Too Much and Drove Him Away With My Needy.

What is the point of being cool and casual? Because if I yelled, or if I politely was all, "dude, what is the deal? plz write back FFS and stop being a flaky pants" or whatever is more polite than that, or if I say nothing at all, I know I will get the same result of NOTHING. The only thing that changes is his last impression of me is either "psycho," "psycho," or "Cool Girl."

My shrink wanted me to read "Gone Girl" once upon a time and I refused to read that one because from what I hear it sounds like everyone in it is an asshole and lord knows I've never been "cool" in my life, but...what is the payoff for being a Cool Girl anyway?

It's time to read some Ask Polly, I think:
"If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: You can’t resolve not to be clingy. You have to feel understood and supported, and then you’ll — quite naturally — be less emotionally needy, because you’ll trust that the guy you’re with is there for you, and can accept every part of you, come hell or high water."

Which is a good point.

In the meantime, even though I am trying to keep busy (y'know, knitting group, Ravellenic Games planning, Craft Center, writing group, reading, socializing, taking lessons, debating whether or not to try to go to Pantheacon at the last minute to thwart life's jinxes of the last few years), this dude shit keeps creeping into my brain in idle moments AND I WANT IT TO STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP.

I am very angry. At him, myself, life, work, sulking coworkers in the office, figuring shit out, whatever. Is this what the woman's midlife crisis is like? Instead of dating a 20 year old and getting a penis car, I just get mad?

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