Hot People Never Experience This

My life is a disaster, I've decided.

I was out of town this weekend for a conference (truthfully, I was away this weekend for a debating tournament, but I was trying to deflect my nerdiness...and upregulate my togetherness). There are several reasons I found myself at this tournament.

a. I suggested, months ago, in a drunken stupor, that I would go, despite never having seen that particular style of debate and not having a place to stay.
b. I went to a local friend's party, and not knowing anybody, played wallflower for much of the night. Therefore, I missed my friends.
c. My friends reminded me, again in a drunken stupor, that I had said I would go. Therefore, I felt guilty.
d. I thought there might be dancing, which none of my friends in Ottawa seem to like to do.

Although the weekend was a success from a "winning stuff" standpoint, it certainly was also riddled with DISASTER on the hotness front. Here's what went down:

I was staying with a very good friend in the city while my friends from Halifax were staying in a hotel. We all (the whole tournament) planned to go to a bar on Friday night, but when I got there my friends from Halifax were nowhere to be found and were not answering text messages (as it turned out, the phone had died...forgiveable...I suppose...). Luckily, my friend with the spare futon happened to be there and I enjoy his company very much. He had previously been speaking to a friend of his, and we were introduced upon my arrival.

As we know, I'm TERRIBLE at making conversation with strangers, so this was a significantly high stress situation for me. However, the conversation flowed easily with only a moderate amount of SoCo and Coke (don't judge me! the bar didn't have Strongbow and I panicked and blurted out the first drink I saw) to grease the wheels. Huzzah, I thought! I'm getting better at social situations!

Fast forward to the following night, after a hard day of watching debate rounds, eating banquet hall chicken and cake, and making my friends feel bad for bailing on me the night before. We're headed to a bar that is so effing crowded that I actually can't walk without stepping on people's feet. In the shuffle I lose my friends, but the friend-of-a-friend from the night before happens to find himself at the bar next to me. We took up our conversation where we left off. I couldn't believe how developed my skill was at talking to semi-strangers..."I'm winning this hotness thing!" I thought to myself (since hot people aren't aloof and awkward in a corner, right?).

I should state at this point that I really hadn't any agenda for the weekend aside from hanging out with my friends and possibly shaking it a little in my swank dress after kicking off my heels (since you know I can't hack'em).

But THIS is when things get weird. Midway through a reasonably good conversation, all of a sudden he stops and there's this pregnant pause. And when I say pregnant, I really mean laboured. This was clearly a pause he wanted me to ask about. So I did. When I asked what was up, he responded that he was wondering if he should "prioritize his relationships".

Ok...W.T.F? Obviously, that pause was having twins it was so pregnant. And obviously I was meant to ask what THAT meant too. Then he went on at length about how he flirts with everyone (truth...) and doesn't really know why and perhaps he should just focus on hanging out with friends and having a good time with them. Being a supportive co-conversationalist, I responded by saying that we all think with our cocks (pardon me) sometimes (admit it, truth). Then he started asking me about why I was single, and what exactly caused me to be single and what kind of thing I was looking for now. So I told him my stock-answer about what went wrong, and then I told him I wasn't looking for anything too serious these days - although I certainly wouldn't turn down a few dates if they were offered by someone interesting.

His response to this is that I'm "girlfriend material" and lists a bunch of qualities I have, including "dignified" and "professional" (?!?). At first I'm thinking "Wow, great compliments, stranger-dude!" but as the list goes on, I realize that something's not right. Who tells a girl that she's dignified? I suddenly realize the horrible truth. I am being let down easy. The worst of it is that I am being let down easy from an expectation I did not have. He's turning down a proposition I did not make. I'm being pre-dumped!

Quel horreur! I don't even think I have to tell you how depressing it is that I can get dumped without even trying to hook up. It's pretty sad. I neither know what I was doing to give the impression that I was interested in something more than a stimulating conversation (because mixing up libido and conversationalism could get awkward FAST), nor do I know WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH ME THAT MY TOTAL LACK OF A CHANCE WITH SOMEONE MUST BE MADE CLEAR BEFORE I'VE EVEN THOUGHT ABOUT MAKING A MOVE???

Gah...so now a guy who wasn't even my type and I wasn't really that interested in has made me into this totally depressing bitter person who shoots dagger eyes at strangers if they seem to be in a relationship (because obviously people in love are the enemy [seriously, I think this old man who was kissing his wife goodbye in the mall yesterday thought I was going to mug him or something]). This will obviously increase my social capital immensely. My furor is compounded by the following "compliments" I got from my real live friends (truth):

"Wow, you actually look good tonight...and what I mean by that is that you look better than you did yesterday"

"Your hair looked nicer yesterday"

"How much do you weigh? I want to feel better about myself."

Also, there was no dancing to be had all weekend. Balls.

Hot People Aren't Hot (Messes)

Do you know someone that has an innate tendency to draw awkwardness from far and wide?

For most of my friends, I'm that person. I don't understand how I can possibly do it so regularly, but I certainly manage.

Here's a little background on my current living situation: I'm boarding with an uncle and his family (including my thirteen-year-old cousin) on the outskirts of town while I intern at a hospital on the other side of town. As you know, it's a long bike ride. So, sometimes, I take the bus.

This means that I occasionally (or frequently) need bus tickets. Anyway, it was a Saturday, and I just happened to need bus tickets for non-work-related reasons - I had a social engagement that evening and since I could send a cab driver's child to a reasonably priced technical college for the fare value to take me from downtown home, I opted to take the bus. Unfortunately, I was out of bus tickets. My cousin also needed bus tickets, so I told him I'd drive him (in his mother's car) to the drugstore to pick some up. On the way there, I also remembered I was fresh out of a few other things...you know...deodorant, conditioner, prophylactics...

So when we left the car, I mosied on over to the requisite aisles - Hair Care, Personal Care, Family Planning, assuming my young companion had gone straight to the cash to pick up his tickets. It wasn't until I was holding the box of condoms that I noticed he'd been following me the whole time. He had a deer-in-the-headlights look. I'm quite sure that even my THOUGHTS were in slow motion..."Noooooooooo-o-o-o-o!!!!" We headed to the cash in silence, purchased our tickets and my sundries and went back to the car. Once there, I felt I needed to make this a teachable moment, so I turned to my cousin and explained to him that I didn't have a particular purpose for the condoms (except that at some point they would be used for that which they are meant), I just wanted to be safe, because you never know what's going to happen, and you don't want to find yourself without them when you need them and...

"Please, just stop talking!!!" he pleaded.

"I don't know how!!!" I exclaimed.

It was terrible. And I was sober. I can't count the number of times I've gotten the awkward turtle at alcohol-type parties. I'm pretty sure I had an argument a week ago with a friend about how he met his girlfriend, despite having only met her myself a few hours previous. At Thanksgiving this weekend, some of my family members wished fervently for personal eject buttons after just about every sentence I uttered (although, I think to a certain extent they'd made their beds and I just jumped on them and threw the pillows around, figuratively speaking...they know who they are...).

The point is, I can't stop myself. It's like crack or pizza or Glee. If there's a dime-sized opportunity to be awkward, you can be sure I'll wriggle my fat limbs through like a wharf rat in grocery storage. How do I stop this madness??!?!?!

Hot People Don't Have Bad Hair

I often find myself torn between what is hot NOW and what will make me hot IN THE LONG RUN. My hair seems to have found itself in this sort of epic battle royale at the moment.

My entire life, hair-related angst has sent me into near catatonic states on an extremely regular basis. When it is curly (as it is naturally), I imagine that it kind of resembles an impressionist painting - you know...it looks nice from about ten feet away, but when you get up close to it, it's basically a mess (or at least, that's how Cher Horowitz would describe it). This "mess" problem was mitigated somewhat by the discovery of a $3 curling creme I found at the grocery store that works a ZILLION times better than anything I've ever purchased at a salon (for 5x the price), but when it rains (as it seems to be doing ALL THE TIME these days), it still definitely looks more Claude Monet than John Frieda. The advent of the ceramic straightener was a terrific boon to me. All of a sudden, if nothing else, at least my hair could be hot. Except of course, again, when it rains. Then it just looks like I rolled out of bed and forgot to brush it. At that point, there's really nothing for it except to resort to an "I-give-up" hat or pony-tail holder, lest I be forced to walk around in public looking like Eraserhead.

Much of the art and science of my hair has to do with the cut, and getting a good one isn't easy. My stylist in Halifax was fantastic, but since I don't live there anymore (and neither does he), obviously I can't get cuts from him. Instead, I was referred to the stylist of a friend. This woman works out of her basement. This was obviously my first red flag. The last time I got a haircut in somebody's house it was free and it was done my friend who cut my hair with her kitchen scissors and decided to give me baby bangs without taking into account that they might curl up when my hair dried. The previous time before that, it was for my prom, and the woman curled my hair, then decided one side was longer than the other, so she CUT IT AFTER IT HAD BEEN CURLED to even it out. My experience of home haircuts has been fabulous, you can tell.

Anyway, this woman had a sort of salon in her basement. Her dog kept us company, and she spoke like a sailor. I can see why a spa setting was not a good fit for her. However, the cut she gave me was fabulous, despite my concern about the venue. Truly now, if left to its own devices, or straightened, my hair can certainly add to my hotness (or at least, it is hot on its own).

Unfortunately, there are a number of things that get in the way (yes, that battle royale I referred to in the opening paragraph!).

First of all, I'm pretty sure most hot people are gainfully employed. I'm interning with the food service management of a local hospital. This means I work in a kitchen and consequently wear a hairnet all day. All day. As a result, I seldom bother with my hair because even if it did look fabulous nobody would see it all day. Also, the hairnet has a tendency, by the end of the day, to flatten residual fabulousness so that even seeing people sans 'net after work means my hair won't be amazing. It's a difficult choice to make: continue with an internship that will lead to future employment, or have fabulous hair EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Secondly, hot people are fit (or are, at least, trying to be). I'm still cycling, only now I've parlayed my leisure activity into a handy way to get to work (I say handy...it actually takes me upwards of an hour and a half to commute each way). Unfortunately, I've moved to a city FULL of cyclists, which means that on an almost daily basis I am reminded of how very BAD (read: painfully slow) a cyclist I am. I don't mind it when twenty-somethings zip by me because I assume a. that they have schmancy bikes that I don't have and b. they've been cycling for YEARS and I've only been doing it for a few months after YEARS of neglect, but when OLD MEN are zooming past me I start to feel a little demoralised. However, I press on in the hopes that it will contribute to my goal. But, I find that the combination of bicycle helmet and sweat-inducing cardiovascular activity ALSO results in a coiff that resembles the helmet for hours after its removal. Très chic!

So this is obviously a conundrum that has taken up a significant portion of my thinking time. I think I'll probably stick with being "hot in the long run," but this WILL mean endless complaining about the state of my hair in the meantime. Fair warning.