I’ve had this Beastie Boys song stuck in my head ALL day. Unfortunately I don’t know enough of the song to get through much of it. I know the background music to the first part and some other parts somewhere in the middle…so my head is very confused. Anyway, the song isn’t the real thing I’m posting about.
Sometimes I’m not sure why my boyfriend chooses to stay with me. [This is the part where I explain why he is] I’d say about 90 percent of the time I’m super awesome Lindsey. I’m funny, intelligent, relatively independent (I can be a little needy, but the cute kind that lets him know how important he is to me) and fun to be around. I find little ways to show I care and show that I want to make his life easier, like by picking up a jug of his favorite trail mix snack or washing whatever left-behind laundry is in my place. However, there is this tiny, 10 percent of me that I find slightly neurotic, but in a totally normal sort of way.
I’m moody: One day I’m super awesome Lindsey and then the next I’m “Debbie Downer” Lindsey. I’m not talkative, I don’t make jokes and I very rarely laugh. I act as if something really big has happened to me since the last time he talked to me and things have completely changed.
“Did you have a bad meeting at work, Linds?”
“Um, no, work is not the problem.” This is usually said in a snarky tone.
“Oh, um, OK. Well I just thought I’d call to check in to see how your morning’s going…maybe I’ll give you a call later today…like at lun-…maybe you should just give me a call when you get home.”
“Yeah. Awesome. Talk to you then.” This is usually said in a tone that sounds borderline like I’m being put out by having to talk to him. Or like I’m pissed that he isn’t going to check in with me throughout the day and apparently isn’t going to make any effort in trying to cheer me up. Which is how he’d rather deal with himself when he’s in a bad mood — everyone leave him alone. But I’m slightly needy, so that little effort would be OK right now, even though he probably thinks effort would mean his head would be chomped off and spit out. So I guess I understand his hesitation.
I’m nit-picky: If he says just one thing that doesn’t quite sit well with me, I won’t let it go and then, to add on to the fun that is nit-picky Lindsey, I start finding other things that he says or does to dwell on and to start filling me with doubt.
Did he just say this shirt looks fine? Couldn’t he tell I needed a sincere and more detailed answer to my question? Maybe we just don’t connect. How could I be with someone I can’t connect with? This is so wrong. I need someone who really hears me and understands my needs. Someone who could tell me, “Lindsey, that plain, cotton t-shirt looks fantastic on you — it’s like the designer at Fruit of the Loom made it specifically for you. I wish there were cotton shirts that flattered my upper body as well as that one does for you.”
I expect him to read minds, namely mine: Let’s stick with the t-shirt example. Before I ask him what he thinks of the shirt, let’s say 6 or 7 hours before I ask him, I’m trying to sit in all the poses I can think of that will not only make me look cute, but that will also show how this shirt makes me look especially cute. I don’t think any of these poses actually showcase the shirt any differently than any of my ugly shirts, but for some reason, I feel like he should know that I find this shirt special. In fact, it might just be my favorite shirt right now. I’ll twirl my hair around my finger and my finger will sometimes brush one of my shoulders, which is covered [by my shirt]. If we’re eating, I might look down to see if I spilled any food [on my shirt]. If I want to look innocent or playful, I might pretend to fidget with my fingers, but folding them [around my shirt]. How much more obvious can I get? Look at my shirt! It’s cute! Look how adorable it is when my hand brushes up against it, or how I didn’t spill any food on it, or how my fingers wrap around the hem. Who wouldn’t love this shirt and be compelled to tell his super awesome girlfriend how much he loves it?
Really, this is probably just the tip of the “my girlfriend’s crazy” iceberg. Yes, I’m slightly crazy. But I think it’s in a totally normal, acceptable, I’m-a-girl-so-this-is-what-happens kind of way.