The Anti-Austen: The Foreigner

Showing posts with label The Foreigner. Show all posts

Instead of reading one-hundred-and-sixty-five pages of awfulness for one of my classes tomorrow, both Adele and Boyz II Men have successfully convinced me to revise their wonderful lyrics while doodling craptastic sketches just… for… you. Thank them later by listening to some of their wonderful hits (I Swear is a great place to start).

Unfortunately I don’t really have a specific direction for you today (maybe get used to this). SO, you’ll have to make do with an awkward incident from my week.

Picture me at my favourite table in the HBLL, poring through the excellent, excellent Jane Eyre. It was an especially exciting afternoon because I was getting to all of the good parts (let’s face it: there are some very skip-able pages), and consequently I was getting a little “Kristen Wiig” about my personal reading experience. Before I knew it, I had arrived at one of the best, most peculiar passages that just gets my heart racing. And, before I knew it, I had reached out my hand to clutch at the arm of my neighbor (as if for support), as I read Rochester’s struggle to explain how he felt about Jane:

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

If you can believe it, I managed to make it to the end of this paragraph without realizing that the arm I was still clasping at did not belong to anyone I actually knew or had ever spoken to in my entire life. Reality set in as I found myself staring into the most incredulous facial expression I had ever seen on a non-cartoon.

Did I let go immediately; gather my things and slip away with the appropriate amount of shame on my shoulders?

OF COURSE NOT.

I had to make things more awkward for the both of us, thinking I had a chance at recovering myself.

“I gotta read this to you!” I whisper desperately. His facial expression didn’t change a fraction as I proceeded to read a passage about ribs and string and internal bleeding. The couple sitting across from us adopted his look of stupor, and for every second their eyes bore into me, I grew a shade more red. It was one of those moments when your mouth is doing its own thing, meanwhile alarm bells are ringing in your head and you just know somewhere in that brain of yours a minute army of proud cells and neurons (not even going to pretend I know anything about science) are battling to find an “OFF” switch.

For some reason, in the moment, you convince yourself that things are “cool” and you still don’t leave. You sit there, sometimes actually counting the seconds, wondering when would be the appropriate amount of time to wait before you can leave, dignity in tact (you forget that that moment was way before you opened your mouth to begin with).

So there you have it: I effectively killed any interest that man might have had in beautiful literature, while undoubtedly pushing him into a girl-coma. SHAME too, because he was very handsome, in a Patrick Dempsey sort of way.

BALANCING OUT THE BAD: Awesome things that happened to me this week include:

1. Coming to the conclusion that I am sort of okay with FBD’s: Facebook Dates. My main arguments include a) at least he asked me out, b) he could be painfully shy, and c) no one wants to be rejected/ do the rejecting in the flesh (cowards are lovers too).

2. Turning down a NCMO with [almost] no deliberation over how fun said NCMO might be. Take that, natural man! I don’t even care how conceited I sound when I say that I am still super proud of myself.

3. Elder Uchtdorf (fellow foreigner) and forget-me-not’s.

4. Hearing that ex has let himself go- silly, petty pleasure, yes. But when you have had to cancel a wedding date because you found out that four other girls were also planning weddings, you secretly hope to one day hear these tidings. It finally happened.

5. Re-discovering the joys of the game MASH. Also winning Ryan Gosling as my probable future-husband. Sorry ladies.

Your Awkward Bronte- whispering,

Foreigner

Thanks Foxy McFoxerson for a little look into the male psyche. And what a splendid insight it was. Here’s an insight into your Foreigner: she’s a splendid snobby blunt-mouth. As such, my splendid snobby blunt-mouth response:

CRY ME A RIVER (credit to Justin Timberlake for such a splendid line). Here’s the fact: if you’re set on abiding in splendid Provo as a young and single adult, prepare for the inevitable:
1. Your Provo life should include dating- and lots of it, especially if you are a dude. I don’t care how equal the male and the female are/ become: if you are a male provite, you are automatically in the dating driving seat. Quit sitting in the driveway.
2. You will have to compete with the pressures of dating
3. Most of your dating experiences will not be the best experiences of your life.
Stop giving your friend kudos and instead consider his splendid swim-coaching single-dom in 25 years:

Here’s the FACT, dear readers: the dating game is a game of chance. Most of the time, you come away with a really awkward story (the beauty of this blog) and you realize you have the luxury of sharing said stories. It’s the silver lining to a really strange life game. The following dating surprises in the magic date ball have all happened to me in the past 6 months:

Sometimes all I want to do is to throw in the towel and go on a dating sabbatical for a couple of months. I’d love to pick up a splendid “book of philosophy” rather than watch my date pick his nose through a pixar dollar movie. But as tempting as that might sound to me, I straighten myself up and realize, “You know what Foreigner? This is the name of the game. You signed up for it, now suck it the hell up and deal with it.”

So Foxy- and readers- embrace the bad dates! Come to love them and learn from them (that’s what we’re promoting here). These are the experiences that will groom you to be a better, more interesting human being as well as an excellent spouse one day.

AND eventually, statistically, your magic date ball will read more like this:

Splendidly,

The Foreigner

PS Fox: you say "splendid" a lot

The Foreigner:

So named for both ancestral and contextual reasons. The first is simple enough: lucky for you, The Anti-Austen is now coming to you with a multi-cultural voice. This foreigner is lucky enough to never need tips on becoming charming: instead, her dates are usually the result of some red blooded American’s ears pricking up to the sound of an intriguing accent.

Contextually, however, you should all know that almost 70% of the time, your newest blogger feels indefinitely foreign to the inner workings of most boys. The solution is simple: purge Brigham square of this:

And start producing more of this:

Here are a few tid-bits about me that might make you feel better about having my ramblings (and crappy sketches) pop up on your google reader:

1. I once broke up with a BOY, citing Elizabeth Bennett’s cutting remark to Mr. Darcy, “… had you behaved in a more gentle-like manner.” Three years later, and I still can’t quite decide if it was the most triumphant or most cringe-worthy moment of my so-far twenty-three years. Regardless of that little conclusion, you can at least rest assured that I am quite well versed in the inner most romantic tendencies of both literature and the female intuition.

2. I remind myself continually, as I sprint too and from classes and work, that I am probably having a better day than most of you, thanks to the SPICE GIRLS who frequent the waves of my iPod. Take me very seriously when I assure you that slapping a few SG hits on YOUR iPod will improve your existence immensely.

3. I once heard of a guy who, after holding open the door to the Harold Bee Lee Library for many girls, abruptly gave up his service as a couple of young women in sweat pants and messy hair walked up to him. They made a point of tutting and throwing him looks of disdain, to which he shrugged and bluntly stated “Hey- If you’re not gonna try, neither am I!” – If I had been there and watched this scene with my very own eyes, with Cecil Samuelson as my witness, I would have grabbed this man and kissed him on the mouth, fist in the air.

4. The BYU bookstore Chocolate-covered Cinnamon Bears MAKE NO SENSE TO ME.

5. The worst possible date I think a guy could ask me on would involve hiking. Hiking is NOT FUN. You sweat, it’s hard, and you look silly if you try to dress nicely. A close second would be “playing games” with his roommates and their dates. When I find myself in these situations I start to feel like any minute now Mom is going to walk through the door and pay me for babysitting. Take me on a grown up date.

Now that the formalities are taken care of, let me tell you about The Climber.

I had been set up on a blind date. Blind dates are a terrible business if you ask me. You put all of your soul in the hands of someone you believe to be an excellent friend, and in turn they produce someone they think could be your soul mate. For some people it works out. For me, it’s always a moment in which I realize my friends can’t know me even as little as I thought they did.

It started out well. I answered the door to a sharply dressed chap whose hair was brushed, shirt was tucked in. How refreshing, I thought, while quietly applauding myself for my standard “Date Pumps” and skinny jeans.

Let me take a moment to explain the Date Pump:

I’ll just fast forward to a scene in which your Date-Pump heroine finds herself paired with The Climber, who has since changed out of his outfit that complimented my own, and now stands in basketball shorts and a holey t-shirt. Awkwardly, I stand facing a man-made rockery; all around me are gym-clothed climbers harnessing themselves with the ease and comfort of non-skinny-jeaned attire.

The Climber’s solution was NOT to mention the nights agenda when he picked me up and complimented my expensive shoes. Instead, as an after-thought, he supposes that it would be “OK” if I borrowed his [used] gym clothes that are stuffed in the trunk of his car.

In the words of Shania Twain (yeah, I went with Shania) “that don’t impress me much.”

I’m not one for evangelically re-iterating a very apparent conclusion: so I’ll let you find the moral of this story (I’m looking at YOU, boys).

Yours,

The Foreigner