It just takes me right smack back to junior high when the "popular" girl gathered her admirers into an exclusive circle and held court viciously running down all the "outsiders"...especially any other girl that her highness deemed "competition".
I don't see JMPP as someone "unafraid" to state her wants, I see her as a 7th grade bully.
I realized, then, that I did not see her this way at all. Where Darleen was seeing a 7th grade bully, I was seeing an overcompensating misfit.
I also realized I have probably been defending J-Pimp, however tepidly, because I have seen myself as an overcompensating misfit for most of my life.
When I was about 29 I joined Great Expectations (yes, that is how I met the boyfriend, eventually) in Dallas. I did something I would not ever, ever, EVER advise any other woman to do:
I put down very lenient to nonexistent criteria for "my type" in the profile. I asked only two things:
And, to cap this stunning display of doormattery off, I gave a thiiiiiiiis wiiiiiide range of ages I'd consider dating. Basically it amounted to writing down, "Please do not be dead."
(We can blame my Differential Equations professor for the generous age range. The man was 50 if he was a day, but he moved with three times the speed and agility of any slouch-ass twentysomething--it is a cliche but it always seemed as though he had been launched into the classroom, just flew into it--and my, oh my, was he sexy. So when I went to Great Expectations, the thought that my being "too picky" on acceptable ages could conceivably cost me a date with someone as molten-hot as Dr. Korzeniowski was simply too horrifying to consider.)
The chief thing I forgot when I filled out my profile at Great Expectations was that I lived in Dallas. Dallas is a city I can recommend wholeheartedly to the Nice Guys and men's rights activists of the world. "Go ye forth and bask in thy entitlement," is what I would urge them, because I am helpful that way. And because Dallas is kind of a sea of prickitude.
You go to a restaurant in Dallas and you're waiting--because Dallas has this herd mentality that says, if you wait at least 45 minutes for a table in a restaurant, it must therefore be a very good restaurant, and everyone in Dallas believes this even when it is categorically untrue--and you see couples who look more or less like this:
Woman: Hair like she just stepped out of salon. Fabulous, but not too gaudy, jewelry. Silk blouse. Skirt or well-fitting slacks. Stockings. HEELS (it is the law there). Full makeup. Elegant handbag.
Man: Dirty t-shirt or wrinkled polo. SHORTS (also, the law). Ball cap. Paunch. Sweat.
I am not exaggerating, I am not making this up. Men go out dressed like ass. Women go out dressed to the nines. In any white middle-to-upper-middle class neighborhood, it is so.
So you can just imagine my surprise, she said with dark irony, when hordes of 50-year-old guys of EXACTLY the type described above wanted to meet my dumb ass.
And that surprise, I am only half-sorry to say, quickly turned to resentment and anger. I had put a truckload of money and time and energy into this and I had not-coincidentally ALSO put a truckload of money and time and energy into making sure I put my best face forward.
You can say I'm a shallow, mercenary bitch (go on, you know you want to), but I defy you to put yourself in my shoes and feel any differently, especially if you are a heterosexual woman because, ladies, you KNOW what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the diet and the exercise and the professionally-done highlights and the makeup and the clothes (men always say clothes are unimportant to them, but funny thing: Now that I scoot around town in gigantic t-shirts and men's sleep pants, I don't get nearly the attention I used to) and--look, I know the feminists hate him, but when Chris Rock said that 75% of a woman's fineness comes from money, Chris Rock was not wrong. It's not cheap to look fabulous. It's not quick and easy to look fabulous. It's not a breeze to look fabulous. AND THESE MEN COULDN'T TAKE OFF THEIR DAMN BALL CAPS BEFORE POSING FOR THEIR PROFILE PHOTOS. OR EVEN PUT ON A CLEAN SHIRT. THAT IS NOT RIGHT, PEOPLE.
So that is the experience that lurked in the back of my mind when I read J-Pimp's "Quality Dates Quality" post. And I still say, by all means, Jacqueline, spare yourself that. By all means.
Incidentally, or maybe not, the boyfriend posed for his photos in a well-pressed dress shirt and a snappy tie. And that is why we are today two happy, shallow people who mutter under our breaths in Jacqueline's general direction, "Well, she's not entirely wrong."