I know what you must be thinking: here she comes with
another one of those bitter diatribes about how rotten men are and how the
majority of women don’t deserve the vile treatment. How men are animals and
woman are angels, how men behave like frat boys at Hell Week and women are left
battered in their wake. How men cheat and lie while their women are left home
to wallow in their own self-pity, how men think with their instruments rather
than with their brains and women are the ones who get punished for it.
Okay listen, I know what you’re thinking about as much as I
hate to admit it, you would be right. Guilty. And it’s not because I’m a man
hater because believe me, I’m not. In fact, I love men and I honestly believe
that most of them have something worthwhile to offer.
But I also know that men are a very different species than
women. Where men are harsh, women are gentle. Where men are closed off, women
are emotional. Where men are strong and silent, women are fragile and talkative
(except you know, for J. Woww…). I recognize these vast differences and I’m
okay with them. But what I’m still trying to figure out, after years of dating
men, cooking for them, cleaning up after them, satisfying them and trying not
to commit murder when they have irrationally screamed in my face is: Why do
women love dreadful, offensive idiots so goddamn much? What could possibly
perpetuate such a romantic interest? What on earth could develop such a
connection with someone unable to reason? It’s so deceptively complex. I do not
understand.
In books, often the
bad guys have a story too, and sometimes, it’s just as tragic as the hero’s. –Jennifer
Varnadore
When I was considerably younger, I was in a bit of a
tumultuous relationship with an outwardly overbearing brute. The relationship
was chaotic, disordered, and dysfunctional and there were some moments where he
didn’t care who we fought in front of. If you want my opinion, he had a
superiority complex. He liked being the center of attention, the star of the
show. When he would clench his teeth and loudly murmur to me, “Don’t make a
scene, Kate,” I would laugh inwardly. Don’t make a scene? Are you kidding me?!
That’s exactly what that man wanted.
I remember once, we were at this seedy club that I really
didn’t want to go to. (Not that it was EVER up to me.) He got drunk kind of
quickly (which always kind of shocked me, given how big he was) and was literally
flirting with any girl who came within arm’s length of him. It bothered me but
I was young and his friends were there. It probably would have been worse for
me if I had embarrassed him so I kept quiet for a long time. Because that’s
what I did back then. It was just easier.
Finally, after getting tired of him acting like a behemoth
tool and as always, being the only sober one, I decided I would do something. I
would put my cute face on and ask if he wanted to dance. I guess I should have
known better but I was nineteen and living with him. I had given up my entire
life for this piece of West Patterson garbage.
He may not have heard me because it was really loud in
there. He may not have cared because he was white girl wasted. He may have thought
I was being an insecure guinea brat (one of his favorite pet names for me). But
for whatever reason, he put one hand on my hipbone, pushed me backward, and
continued to sip his girly goddamn drink.
He was such a piece of wasted, broken debris. And I stayed
with him for years after that. I defended him to everyone, took all the blame
in our fights, and just did what he said. I dressed like he wanted, I lost
weight like he wanted, and I drove all his drunken firefighter friends home
like he wanted. I was the perfect little City girlfriend because that was what
he wanted.
But why?
Honestly, I don’t know. I couldn’t tell you. I could get my
PhD and probably still never know. That all seems like a lifetime ago but I do
know that I was like an abused dog: he kept kicking me and I just kept on
coming back. As pathetic as that might sound, it is the unpretentious truth.
What is perhaps a little funny about all this (and maybe,
perhaps a little sad) is that one year around Christmas time, he got in this
huge, absolutely ridiculous fight with his mother (who was WONDERFUL to him). I
remember I sort of just watched them argue, watched the blame shift to someone
else for a change. This might sound selfish but I was relieved to see him
screaming at someone else for once. He eventually stormed out and left her
crying on the couch.
I’m sure she was embarrassed but hey, I lived there. I was
in a relationship with this tormenting person. (Can you imagine the emotional
state of a person who actually CHOOSES to be with someone like that?) I knew
what he was like. I asked her if she was alright, even though the answer was
visible.
She said that when he was little, my idiot ex-boyfriend was
hit by a car and since then, had never been the same. I shifted uncomfortably
because mother or not, I despised the way she always defended and made excuses
for him. She wiped her tears and said to me, “You better get out while you can.
If this is how he treats his mother, just imagine how he will treat you.” They
were pretty prophetic words and ones I will never, ever forget. To be brutally
honest, I worry for his future endeavors. Hopefully he’ll end up with some lady
boxer. Or Tonya Harding…
Bad men are full of
repentance. –Aristotle
I have this friend who is in a fairly similar situation at
present. It’s true that I don’t know what sort of relationship exists between
them behind closed doors. When they’re alone, she claims that he is a good guy
and he takes care of her, blah, blah, blah. But then sometimes, he isn’t so
great, she says. In fact, sometimes he is downright terrible.
Sometimes (and it’s more often than not) he is greedy,
selfish and arrogant. He is quick to remind her what a favor he is doing her
just being with her and taking her in. He incessantly belittles her whenever
they have a fight and makes a habit of pointing out not only her flaws, but
those of her family as well. He calls her lazy, uneducated and a glorified gold
digger.
To his credit, he financially supports her but what he
provides monetarily, he lacks in emotional support and loving stability. When
she would tell me the things he would say and do to her, I seriously wanted to
kick him like the disgusting bait bucket he is. (Seriously, I would just love
to go Carla Tortelli on his six foot, egotistical, computer nerd ass.)
But throughout all of this, throughout all of the downs and
alleged ups that are the precursor to their sense of “norm” in the relationship,
throughout the novellas she has sent me, chronicling their arguments and
damages, she hasn’t left. He continuously criticizes her despite her own self-deprecation.
He thrives off of her sordid history, her dark secrets, and her weaknesses and
uses them against her. They’re like tools in his pocket that he uses at random
to cut her down.
And despite all of this, despite the times that she has literally
cried to me about him, she keeps going back. He rips out her heart and does a
tap dance on it and yet, there she is: making his dinner and picking up his dry
cleaning. No matter how awful he treats her, she stays on the Asshole Train. It’s
like she can’t get enough of how great he can sometimes be. And I’ll be honest: It’s not as if he’s especially
exciting, honorable or caring. I mean, seriously. Not at all.
Maybe it’s because she thinks she can’t do better. Maybe it’s
because she thinks she’ll regret leaving him. Maybe it’s because she thinks
that she’s just got to pick her battles. Or maybe it’s because she believes
that he is worth the fight. But regardless, no matter how miserable he
sometimes makes her, she stays. Maybe he’s all she’s got. Or maybe it’s the
other way around.
Moral of the Crazy: Not everybody is Donnie Wahlberg, rather
unfortunately. Not all men wear dapper pea coats while adorably nuzzling their
girlfriends in the streets of New York City on live television. (Seriously, did
you guys see that? I could just eat that man up. I die of cuteness.)I realize
that not every man is cushy and cozy, calming and caring, pensive and
appreciative. We can’t all possess the blood type that attracts the likes of
Eric Northman (le swoon…), and for whatever reason, we haven’t figured out how
to weed out the ignorant brutes. It doesn’t matter how awful they treat us. We
just keep coming back.
Maybe it’s something about women. We are really resilient
and good at moving forward. We are a species that has perfected starting over,
having children, and wearing winged eyeliner. We are too hard working, too
unwilling to give up on things that may or may not be important to us. When men
act like idiots over and over again,
we go back to them because we want to fix things; we don’t want to give up on
them.
I suppose it’s natural to be drawn to men who are badly
behaved. I mean, men like Don Draper, Christian Troy and James Dean are
dreamboats because they are so naughty that it’s delicious. Their meltdowns are
attractive and they cry out to be mended. Their brokenness can only be repaired
by the sweet, warm touch of a woman.
But then again, on the rarity that they are kind and soft
spoken, these men are all the more attractive. Their good behavior is like a
unicorn: extraordinary, mystical and beautiful. In a warped way, the few and
far between moments of sweetness make the guy seem all the more appealing.
Maybe it’s because he’s trying. He wants
to be good; it’s just unassailably difficult for him. Those few moments of kindness are suddenly craved. So when men are
awful 92% of the time, women stick around for the measly 8% because it can be
so enticing. You know they can be that person when they want to be. Why not
stick around for it, right?
I see it all the time. Girl gets fed up, swears she’s done,
and pretends like she’s not jumping in anticipation every time her phone goes
off. She shares dreadful debacles with her trusted girlfriends, cries over
expensive salads as she pushes the lettuce around on her plate, and pretends to
listen to their well-developed advice. But it won’t be long before she goes
back to the idiot she’s been complaining about. She’ll jump right into his douche,
accusatory arms.
But sometimes, there are some women who have endured the
last straw. There are some women who soon begin to detest repetitive behavior
and looking like a pathetic doormat. Sure, they may have gone back twenty times
before but this morning, they woke up to find they had stopped fucking caring.
Listen, I try to live by these very simple words: You get back what you put out. I have
given more of my blood, sweat, love and tears to more terrible men than I would
care to admit. But then, I woke up one day and realized I couldn’t be bothered
any more.
Nowadays, I like my men like my whiskey: Tan, dizzying, and
smelling of amber and vanilla.
A bad man is the sort
who weeps every time he speaks of a good woman. –H. L. Mencken
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