I have a lot of besetting sins, and like many members of the fairer sex, the art of attempting to casually seduce guys is one of them. I’m not good at it, but I can slip into it as easily as an otter into the Pacific. It’s like a drug. And like drugs, I know it’ll leave me hard, sour, and generally less pretty if I keep on dosing.
So there I was, fourteen or fifteen, and I’d just finished giggling madly over the middling comedic powers of a sixteen-year-old guy who shall remain nameless. I talked too much, mostly about me. I became frighteningly perky. I listened with the attentiveness of a slobbering terrier, then ran barking after the smallest segue. Did I mention I stink at this? Good. Okay, so fast-forward to a few hours later when the bemused young man has left the scene and I am standing in the adrenaline backlash. What just happened? By the time I’ve hunted down the explanation, a queasy feeling has taken over. By the time I’ve got said explanation pinned to the wall and labeled, I know I never want to have that feeling again. Flirting. Yuk.
And you thought besetting sins were generally more enjoyable than this, didn’t you? I sure did. Hey, I get a lot entertainment out of pride and condescension — why does this one smart so bad? Without a firmer grasp on the answer to that question, the cure remained elusive.
At first my method of attack was simple: I avoided guys like clichés. Except for the fact that I probably missed out on getting to know some decent fellows, it worked well — right up until the day of unavoidable contact. Through theater, through camp, through church, I suddenly found myself unable to avoid the male species without appearing rude. What’s more, I was losing my desire to duck and run.
Since I hadn’t killed it the first time, only bottled it, my little flirting bug reasserted itself with a vengeance. It was more sophisticated, wore better clothes — but it had the same spine. Here comes the queasiness!
I sat myself down, looked me firmly in the eye (this trick requires a bathroom mirror, by the way) and demanded, “What’s the deal here?!” Ah, glad you asked me. It’s time for my revelation — are you ready? Pay attention. If you blink, you’ll miss it.
I don’t want to sell perpetual motion machines.
That is: my style of flirting is 90% misrepresentation. There are few things more depressing than walking away from a guy you like (please don’t read too much into that word) and feeling like you just sold him something that isn’t real. This is not, of course, the only problem at hand, but it was the missing piece for me, and the key to my cure: Honesty. Good, old-fashioned plain speaking.
It can be a bummer to admit out loud that you stink at sports, or you’re afraid of traveling, or that you don‘t get the joke. At that moment you want nothing more than for him to look at you and see only perfection. You want him to like you. But at the end the day, when the moment is gone and you’re pondering your actions and how things stand, the reward comes.
He saw you.
Ultimately I want what I believe most girls want: to meet Prince Nice Guy, get married and live happily ever after. What makes flirting so insidious is that, on the surface, it seems to be our best tool. Then what? He flirts back? Great. You’re head-over-heels before you realize you have nothing in common.
Honestly, I think our only hope is to give it up for good.
Oh, and for the record: I want ten kids, I cry over stupid things, and I’ve never gone skiing.
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