Model Behavior

I have entered an entirely new realm of douchbaggery this past month that has rendered me speechless. Well, not too speechless considering I feel the need to exploit my experience…but you know what I mean. Folks, I was dating a model. I know, I know, insert a quartet of the world’s smallest violins here. How can I expect to receive cries of outrage and empathy when I start out with a statement like that! I assure you; this was no stroll down the catwalk.

He is phenomenal looking. There is no denying that he is a fantastically gorgeous specimen. Sometimes I would find myself gawking with absolutely no self awareness at all until I realized he was talking to me and I would have to pretend like I understood what he had been discussing for the last 10 minutes. “Uh huh, yes…go Giants…I mean…look at those biceps…I mean.... SHIT!”

Yah, that’s fun and all but when it comes down to it, I’ve realized that with looks that tremendous comes serious setbacks. There is something to be said about having experienced some rejection in life. It develops character, builds strength and depth and allows individuals to gain perspective on what really matters. Don’t get me wrong, it completely sucks but I definitely wouldn’t be where I am today without a little adversity. I am led to believe that this man has experienced very little in this department.

Ken (witholding real name) has a unique sense of humor. When I say unique I really just mean bad. He would say things that to most would be considered blatantly rude but to him it was just that nobody “got” him. Which I suppose could be the case. However, statements about threesomes with my hot friends and the call for extermination of cats across the world are not funny in any circumstance. The absurdity does not stop here.

The other day we were hanging out at my place; he had a spoon in my Chubby Hubby ice cream, complaining about how much fat and calories were in every bite. “This is SO bad for you. I have to stop eating this. You eat a lot of junk food don’t you?” To which I responded with, “Stop being a fucking girl and eat the god damn ice cream!” He was not amused and I was ready to snap; I had visions of me snatching the ice cream out of his hands and punting it out the window to put him out of his misery.

A few minutes later he asked me if I wanted to watch a movie. I suggested my favorite TV show, Two and a Half Men, which was going to be on in a few minutes. “I DO NOT watch TV,” he responded. “Umm, okay…it’s only for a half hour and it’s one of my favorites, can you manage to get through it? We can put the movie on afterwards,” I said, slightly exasperated. “No, I don’t watch TV and I never will. Do you want to do this another night?” At this point I’m making stabbing motions at his back while gritting my teeth, “FINE! A. Movie. It. Is.”

We pick out Good Will Hunting, which he seems to be satisfied with and plops down on the couch while I get the movie going. As I’m doing this a completely rancid smell wafts from the couch, over the coffee table, to inhabit my nostrils. It was as if a decaying wildebeest covered in dead skunks had found its way in to my living room and set up camp. Farting and letting the person know ahead of time is one thing, we girls can get over it, even laugh at it if you will. But to let something of that magnitude fly out of your ass with absolutely no warning or regard to the individual it is inflicting is flat out negligent. I got up and left the room, opened a few windows and pretended that my gag reflex was from a swallowed piece of chewing gum. You could have cut that fart with a butter knife the smell was so thick.

How does one carry on normally after they’ve encountered something so appalling? The fart incident aside, after everything he had said and done, I wanted him on a high speed train to the moon. How can somebody so beautiful be so fucking ugly?? Unfortunately I did not have the gumption to ask him to leave so I endured my final evening with him in silence; a gas mask not far out of reach.

Happy Place

For a time in college I suffered from depression; I want to say a good year to year and a half. I remember it to be one of the more uncomfortable and heart wrenching periods of my life that involved a lot of sleeping, crying and phone calls to my mother about how unfair life was. It’s particularly interesting that now, 5-6 years later, I look back at that time with a fondness that can’t be explained. I was so young and vulnerable (even though I didn’t feel it at the time…I was old damnit!); my older, more mature and slightly wiser self wishes to reach back and hug that person that was so desperately in need of counsel.

I eventually got over it through perseverance, a new positive outlook on life and copious amounts of mood enhancing drugs. Ah yes…with one daily pop of a pill my entire paradigm on life morphed in to a slightly disturbing enthusiastic one. I went from a, “fuck this shit, leave me alone you assholes,” attitude to a, “let’s skip rope and pick sunflowers,” mindset in about 2 days flat. I’d like to think that it was all that hard work I put in to myself; all that power of positive thinking and self love. However, I do wonder what would have happened had I not chosen to go down the slippery anti-depressant slope. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with taking drugs if you need them. They changed my life and for the better. I am of the mindset, though, that they should be used sparingly.

I admire people who can fend this demon off on their own. It takes a lot of strength and sorting out of issues. You’re forced to be completely honest with yourself about why you’re feeling the way you’re feeling and then must go forth and FACE IT; head butt those bastard issues in to submission. There’s nothing more uncomfortable.

Somebody who is very dear to my heart has recently confided in me that they are feeling depressed, which got me thinking about strategies and options. I wonder which the better route is. Clearly there are benefits to both: drugs, equals speedy recovery, equals happy person; no drugs equals self exploration, long term healing and eventual happy person. I suppose it depends on how depressed the individual is and of course, how comfortable they are with being in a Prozac induced haze.

I’d like to think that if I could go back and do it all over again that I would opt out of the drug route and really focus on getting to the root of the problem. I probably wouldn’t be the worrying mess that I am today! Then again, all my experiences and issues have made me who I am in this moment and regardless of what road this dear friend decides to take, all signs will point to the future.