Step One: Resolve to Die Alone. Step Two: Get Married.
Now, it’s literally impossible for me to take anything Mandy says at face value because every moment of every day she’s trying to spin her dismal life choices into something heroic or romantic. Case in point: her quickie marriage. She’s been married all of three months and of course Mandy, like all her other Sisters of Perpetual Oversharing, just can’t wait to deliver a sermon to the single gals about how she did it.
My case of fuck-it-itis was at pathological proportions. There were the New York Post covers (one with a gigolo, another with a rapist I accidentally dated). There was the New York Observer front-page profile that called me “gross” in the headline. There was the Dr. Drew segment in which the chyron screamed, “LIFE RULED BY SEX?”
Within hours of meeting Pat Dixon in February 2015 at a coffeehouse near my Chelsea apartment, I had already baited him with a ridiculous stream of inappropriate sexual anecdotes — including the always-impressive, lazily revealed, “So I was fucking this married guy the other night …” (In my defense, the married guy said he was getting divorced and had only gotten hitched in the first place to try to get over me when I broke his heart years ago. Related: I’m an idiot.)
Instead of doing what most other dudes would do, instead of responding to the blaring signals of “DTF! This chick is DTF!” Pat just laughed and said, “That’s great.”
He was unfazeable. Unfazeable, meet unwifeable.
Amongst the crazy deal-breaker-worthy things that I will admit to: I estimated that I had “probably sucked 100 dicks” in my time as a single woman, I texted him that I was touching myself while thinking about him after we had gone on one date, I told him that I deleted his contact in my phone because he didn’t follow me back on Instagram, I rehashed to him his past Facebook posts for the prior year, and I broke down crying on our second date because I liked him too much.
Not just unwifeable. I was undateable. I was no-one-should-have-to-put-up-with-that-kind-of-psycho-behavior-able.
But something interesting unfolded. Something soothing, reliable, and steady occurred amid the chaos. He saw that I laid it all out there. There was no stealth crazy. The warning came pretty clearly on the package, in the anecdotes, in the way that I instantly got naked on our very first date.
The other day I came across an email I sent to one of Pat’s friends years ago. It was innocuous — but also not, in that way that any email from a single girl to a single guy is never really truly about the “maybe we could, you know, talk sometime.”
When he read the email, Pat looked at me and — as if calculating my compatibility with this friend — concluded, “I can see why so many men didn’t know what to do with you. You have so much kind of excitable and intense sexual energy already, that it’s easy to dismiss it or be intimidated.”
The Cut article reminds me of something similar I just read on Elite Daily.
I Laid Out All My Red Flags On A First Date And This Is What Happened
“Speaking of the Prozac, do you mind if we switch sides of the table? I’m on Prozac because I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, not the organizational kind you see in movies in which someone takes 20 minutes to perfectly place a snow globe in the exact right spot — I WISH I had that kind. I have this weird, creepy kind. I fixate on textures and the texture of the art on that wall I’m facing is REALLY BUGGING ME OUT. I’m so sorry. Do you care? Is that weird? I know it’s weird, but I swear I will stare at it the entire dinner. Ugh, it’s giving me full-body CHILLS, right now.”
She asked me why I left London after living there only a year. I told her it was because I had a severe trauma that resulted in a nervous breakdown, which is when the OCD really kicked into high gear (also, of course, I mentioned I had stopped taking Xanax cold turkey, which didn’t help matters either).
She asked me what the hardest part of growing up for me was; I told her it was the combo of having a gorgeous family and growing up in the entertainment industry, which gave me a warped body image and full-blast eating disorder that I’ve struggled with since the ripe ol’ age of 14.
So let me get this straight: two women paid to over-share about their fucked up lives also over-share in romantic situations? Huh. I did not see that coming.
F*ck. I looked at myself in the mirror as I shame-spiraled, hard. Why would I tell a stranger all those things?
But you know what? By the time I got my sh*t together and got to work, she had sent me a text message: “Had a great time last night. You’re super interesting and really funny, sweet and pretty. Free this Friday?”
So there it was. Evidence. I threw caution to the wind and showed Dylan my crazy on the first date and she dug me. In fact I would later come to find, she found it super attractive.
Weirdly, this woman so taken with the author’s insanity never appears in any of her articles ever again. How shocking.
I’m sure these two are actually advocating for women to let it all hang out because they believe it worked for them. What neither of them seem to be considering is that their dates weren’t smitten with them in spite of their crazy but because of it. Some people like dating broken people. It makes them feel powerful and superior. Fractured people are easier to manipulate and control and, usually, they’re more grateful because their self-esteem is so non-existent they’re just thrilled they found someone to love them.
In the real world, most people would back away slowly from women who behaved like this. Some before taking advantage of them, some after. These women are romanticizing their total lack of boundaries and rampant over-sharing, choosing to believe that their dates/mates were moved by their vulnerability.
Nope. More than likely, they just like crazy chicks. As for Mandy’s husband assessment that men were just intimidated to her muchwow so sexy sexiness, bitch please. I don’t think intimidated is the right word. Thrown? Uncomfortable? Suspicious? Those sound more accurate, especially base don my first hand experience with this kind of “intimidation.” Women, like men, who present themselves as DTF right off the bat are almost always considered suspect. Mandy once wrote about asking a guy she was dating if she could come over and he said no because he had plans. She then offered to stop by just to blow him and said she’d leave right after. Do you think the guy was intimidated by that…or just really turned off by her desperation?
What irks me about stories like this is that it glamorizes the idea that being a total trainwreck is attractive. It’s not. We all struggle with things or possess quirks that make us difficult or hard to manage, but that’s not the kind of thing you reveal upfront. Not because of a stigma but because that sort of full frontal disclosure tends to make one look as though they lack self-awareness and boundaries.
Oh, you Facebook stalked your Ex? Okay. That’s pretty common. I can deal with that. Wait. Why are you telling me you were arrested once? Is that a warning? What else do I need to know?
There’s crazy and then there’s crazy. The former is manageable. The latter is unpredictable. When someone doesn’t have a point of reference or established baseline, they can’t tell the difference. That’s when this kind of word vomiting to virtual strangers works against us.