The Inherent Possibility of the Good Christian Boy

I recently decided to take a break from the dating world. It being summer, I wasn’t likely to meet any new prospects anyway and I wanted to continue my detox from my latest endeavors. My mom knows that I have trouble finding prospects in better circumstances (Working 99% of weekends and generally being a recluse will do that) so she asked her coworkers if they could think of anyone to set me up with. Only one came back with her daughter’s ex. The only description my mom and I got was that he was a Good Christian Boy.

            Of course, she was trying to cast him in the best light possible. God knows how she described me to him or my mom to her, for that matter. However unbeknownst to her, I’m a closet agnostic with bad past experiences with Christianity. So I’m probably one of the only people in Arkansas who would react to that with slight trepidation.

            My mom’s aware of both these things and initially we reacted skeptically at her coworker’s suggestion and basically shrugged it off.  Then, I receive word that GCB is actually interested and some Facebook finagling is going to be attempted to bring us into contact.

            I reacted with another dose of the aforementioned trepidation and my usual disbelief when confronted with a boy who might Like me. Then, I kinda warmed up to the idea. I wondered what he was told about me and assured myself that Christian probably wasn’t his defining trait. Plus, I try to be open-minded and give people a chance. (Up to a point, no chance for you, hobo)  

          As I have sat on this blog post refining it, at least a week has gone by since those conversations and I have no new updates. The entire issue has the possibility of fading into the background. Indeed, I had barely thought about it except for the time it took to write this. Sometimes, I don’t know if these flashes in the pan keep me sane or contribute to my madness. Whether they taunt me or provide hope.

It's My Party And I'll Blog If I Want To

I’m finding myself looking forward to my upcoming birthday more than usual. Growing up, I almost dreaded my birthdays. Getting older didn’t bother me. The celebrations were the trouble. I was so settled in my own little bubble, I didn’t know what to do with my meager supply of friends and lack of interest in group activities. My parents usually just took me to the movies sans friends.

For my seventeenth birthday, I got that happy, fuzzy feeling when I had enough acquaintances to have a normal party (I got 11 attendees!). Which was nice and all, but I found myself mainly hanging back and soaking in my perceived popularity instead of joining in very much.

My last birthday consisted of a low key affair that I’m more suited for and I’m planning on repeating with my nineteenth. So I’m not anticipating being the center of attention at a big shindig.  

Personally, I believe eighteen is starting to feel like a naïve age that I want to outgrow. I started it out feeling all mature and like I actually had my shit together. Then, I finally entered the dating scene and realized that I’m probably not as mature as I thought I was. For one, I went fairly far with any guy who provided an opportunity (there were only three, I only had sex with two and not a single one was very good). I put up with far too much shit in my first relationship with a guy I wasn’t that attracted to, all because he had a British accent and momentum, I guess. Then, I had my first encounter with a fascinating creature known as The Player™. I managed to (temporarily, thank God) fuck up my interactions with dad due to the aforementioned British Asshole. Word to the wise; make sure your minority boyfriend is worth it before you mention him to your racist Southern father. And I went my entire freshman year of college without finding That Place Where I Belong. I didn’t find any clubs or groups where I fit in, Craft Club notwithstanding. I’m the secretary and I don’t even fucking craft. I made a trapezoid pretending to be a scarf two years ago and that’s about it. I made a total of one friend (who I happen to love, btw) and that’s just because the stress of dealing with British Asshole has the same bonding experience as war.

Maybe I think being nineteen help my character judgment and prevent fuckups in my personal life, not likely. That I’ll be transformed into this cool, mature possibly sophisticated person with her shit actually together. Someone who goes forth into the world and interacts with people and is Part of Something Larger than Herself, without joining some creepy religious cult.

Logically, I know that day is going to come and go without magically making me the person I want to become. But it can mark the passage of another year closer to me finally meeting that person.