My roommate loves to remind me that I’m high maintenance. I think she enjoys the contrast between our personalities in that way. While I take at least thirty minutes to get ready in the morning, she doesn’t mind rolling out of bed and throwing her hair in a ponytail from time to time. She borrows my lipstick for fun – it’s not a part of her daily routine.
Appearance isn’t the only way that I’m high maintenance, though. I’m somewhat particular about my car. My bedroom has to be just so – it takes a great deal of restraint for me to go to bed without perfecting everything. I kill myself to make articles perfect, and if they fail to meet my standards, I don’t want to share them with you. I’ve been called the music snob for my particular taste in tunes.
Oh – and I am extremely picky about men. We couldn’t forget that, now could we?
Those of you who know me or who read me often are familiar with my numerous complaints about the opposite sex. Part of my motivation for whining about them all the time is pure entertainment value – y’all comment, I laugh at myself and we all win in the end. My rants are also partially rooted in truth.
But don’t let the chip on my shoulder fool you – I’m aware that the problem is just as much my own (if not entirely so).
I made a profound statement to my friend Jesse many months ago. We were searching the aisles of Albertson’s for a specific brand of chips during a late-night grocery run. I couldn’t settle for the almost-right brand – I wanted the correct product. It was then that a certain truth hit me.
“I’ll probably be the last of my friends to get married,” I claimed as I plucked items from the shelf.
Jesse looked at me quizically.
“I’m so picky that I’ve not only got to find a guy who fulfills my specifications – I’ve also got to find one that will put up with me!”
He laughed my statement off as we paid for our items, but that truth has stuck with me over time. As I’ve toyed with the thought of various flirtations in the past couple of weeks, it’s wormed its way back to the front of my mind.
When I moved to Alabama, I joked that I might finally find myself the Southern boy that I’d been searching for. I didn’t want a Floridian man for fear that it would mean staying in the state I was finally breaking free from.
So I’m in Alabama. I’ve been here for – what? – 12 and a half months. And after going on my first date with a “Bama boy,” I’ve been thinking about how much that kind of guy is not what I’m after.
If you’re not yelling, “Make up your mind, woman!” by now… you’re entirely too sympathetic to my side.
I do have issues with men. My friend Natalie sort of asked me that a few weeks ago, and now I’m ready to admit it. I joke about wanting one, but I’m not sure that I do. Whenever they show the slightest bit of interest, I run.
If a cute boy sits next to me at church, I rush out at the end of the service without making eye contact. When a classmate wants to set me up with his friend, I’m quick to find all the reasons it won’t work out. (And let’s face it, sometimes those reasons are genuine.) It takes a lot to get me warmed up to a guy, and so when I do, that’s something pretty special.
Maybe I need to go back to junior high and learn how to be friends with guys again. I’m realizing how much they freak me out. As much as I love to play up the role of neurotic CJ… this is an issue that I probably need to let go.