‘You know you’re happy about it.’
– was what a friend jokingly told me when I was spilling my latest tea regarding a colleague who had asked me out at work.
Instantly, my face soured. I was almost offended that my venting could’ve even been remotely interpreted that way. I was quick to go on the defense and my friend quickly conceded.
Still, it got me thinking: Should I have been that upset about it? At the end of the day, it’s still better than being hated, right? So why is it that every time anyone shows me even a hint of interest – let alone ask me out – my first instinct is to shoot them down?
It’s been drilled into my head, the same way it’s been drilled into a child’s head to never get in a car with a stranger. It’s to be avoided at all costs.
In hindsight, my pattern’s easy to decipher. Each time, I’ll share friendly conversation with a guy when, at one point, I’ll detect his slightest bit of interest and I immediately feel… icky. Disgusted. They don’t even have to ask me out or anything. I’ll instantly feel grossed out and paranoid.
I’m self-aware enough to admit that a lot of it has to do with me and my own active imagination. Are they paying more attention to my face? Zoning in on my lips, my eyes? Are they picturing themselves holding my hand – kissing me? What else are they picturing? Anticipating? It spirals out of control, venturing into R-rated territory and eventually, I feel like puking.
It doesn’t take Freud to conclude that the fictional scene itself is not what disgusts me, but it’s the person I (intrusively) imagine being in it with me. Why? Because I’m not interested. Because I don’t find that person attractive. It’s like picturing all that with a person your great-grandparent’s age, or with a little child. Though ultimately incomparable, it’s the best way I can begin to explain the disgust.
Truly, one might think this habit of imagination borders on self-sabotage, because as a person who fantasizes about being in a relationship and finding the one, I sure seem to reject any semblance of it that comes my way.
I’ve been told that I’m like this because my standards are too high. Because I’m too nitpicky and particular. I have this clear vision in my head that ‘no one’ can hold a candle to. And though it’s easy to chalk it up to my standards, I think there’s another layer to it.
There’s a part of me, deep down, that always believed that that person didn’t deserve to like me. I don’t know how else to put it without making me sound narcissistic, so I’ll call it like it is: the diva bitch in me is always screaming in indignation: ‘What makes you think you’re at a position to be approaching me?’
I’ve heard that it’s a common reason why some people may feel the same disgust that I feel. You’re essentially insulted that this person – who you don’t think is in your league – is trying to get with you. It’s a blow to your ego.
Personally, that’s a shallow mindset to have. But given what my inner diva bitch has always been rudely proclaiming, that just makes me a hypocrite. More so, what a terrible person that makes me! Who am I to decide that I am above someone else, in any aspects, for that matter?
Thinking back to the times I’ve felt physically repulsed by experiences of this nature, it only reaffirms the one common denominator: that I found none of them attractive. But then I think of the rare occasions where I didn’t feel physically repulsed. In these cases, I also found none of them attractive.
So why don’t I feel disgusted with all of them if I found none of them attractive? How do some of them bypass that visceral disgust?
I reflect on a good friend of mine who confessed feelings for me in high school. How upset I was that people around us goaded him into confessing, that it was going to change the friendship I valued so much. But at the same time, not once did that raging diva bitch in my head ever add her two cents. She never made an appearance like all the other times, spewing proclamations that he didn’t deserve to like me, or that he didn’t have the right to. All I knew was that we were good friends and had a good connection. I trusted him and respected his values – admired him as a human being. He knew me, as I did him.
And I think that’s just it.
I contrast it to that coworker who recently asked me out – brazenly in front of other coworkers, offering me a ‘free roller coaster ride’, a.k.a. a ride on his motorcycle. Aside from the careless manner of his asking, I’m baffled. Like, why are you even asking me, really?
‘Because he thinks you’re attractive!’ Yay, me? Well, what else? What do we have in common? What about me do you like? Or am I just a shiny toy to keep you occupied before you find another shinier toy? For all I know, you’re asking me because I’m the only girl in the office who’s your age.
‘That’s why he’s asking you out, silly: to get to know you better!’
Aaaand therein lies my problem. We can get to know each other better as friends, you know? Hell, you can’t even be sure you’ll like me as a friend, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Call me uptight, but at the end of the day, It’s important that I believe you know me well enough. I need to believe I know you well enough. It’s a two-way street. There needs to be a foundation of mutual connection that warrants your interest. That helps me understand what you see in ‘us’… Otherwise, your pursuit comes across as misplaced and disingenuous. And that just gives me the ick.
Oh, and by the way, this is just my convoluted way of saying that I’m going to die an old maid.