to the Nice Girls:
the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able
to keep alive that hope that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up
and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and
explicit invitations that they'd rather not have experienced.
This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of
a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a
vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call
just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but
is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left
sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone
understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again
dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase
after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been
told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given
compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told
they are only wanted as a friend.
This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's
easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls
who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either
only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls
who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that
he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied
down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to
believe that it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want
anyone. This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes
dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for
the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his
speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone, for the nights when
you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a
little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a
random hookup. This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his
presence, finally having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a
relationship: it was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog
died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held
him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right
words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it
was that he already had.
This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise
you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.
This is for the "I really like you, so let's still be friends"
comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for
never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which
make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've received from your
female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful and
intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for
the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing
that that night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your
teddy bear. This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have
endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is
for the stupidity of the nights we've believed that something was better than
nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for
the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have learned never
to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more,
because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to
them by guys.
This is what I don't understand. Men sit and question and whine that girls are
only attracted to the mean guys, the guys who berate them and belittle them and
don'tappreciate them and don't want them; who use them for sex and think of
little else than where their next conquest will be made. Men complain that they
never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interested and compelling, who
are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men despair that no good
women want to share in their lives, that girls play mindgames, that girls love
to keep them hanging. Yet, men, I ask you: were you to meet one of these
genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling, interesting and intelligent and
sweet and beautiful and smart girls, were you to give her your number and wait
for her to call... and if you were to receive a call from her the next day and
she, in her truthful, loyal, intelligent and straightforward nice girl fashion,
were to tell you that she finds you intriguing and attractive and interesting
and worth her time and perhaps material from which she could fashion a
boyfriend, would you or would you not immediately call your friends to tell
them of the "stalker chick" you'd met the night prior, who called you
and wore her heart on her sleeve and told the truth? And would you, or would
you not, refuse to make plans with her, speak with her, see her again, and once
again return to the bar or club or party scene and search once more for this
"nice girl" who you just cannot seem to find? Because therein lies
the truth, guys: we nice girls are everywhere. But you're not looking for a
nice girl. You're not looking for someone genuinely interested in your
intermural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade, or that argument you
keep having with your father; you're looking for a quick fix, a night when you
can pretend to have a connection with another human being which is just as disposable
as the condom you were using during it.
So don't say you're on the lookout for nice girls, guys, when you pass us up on
every step you take. Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise:
sometimes when that girl in the low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt won't
answer your catcalls, sometimes you're looking at a nice girl in whore's
clothing - - we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and
turn back to our friends, but we're all thinking the same thing: "This isn't
me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a teeshirt and flannel shorts, I'll have
slept alone and I'll be making my hungover best friend breakfast. See through
the disguise. See me." You never do. Why?
Because you only see the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes
those advances. You don't want the nice girl.. so don't say you're looking for
a relationship: relationships take time and energy and intent, three things
we're willing to extend - - but in return, we're looking for compassion and
loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express. Maybe nice
guys finish last, but in the race they're running they're chasing after the
whores and the sluts and the easy-targets... the nice girls are waiting at the
finish line with water and towels and a congradulatory hug (and yes, if she's a
nice girl and she likes you, the sweatiness probably won't matter), hoping
against hope that maybe you'll realize that they're the ones that you want at
the end of that silly race.
So maybe it won't last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race will turn
in their running shoes and make their way to the concession stand where we're
waiting; however, until that happens, we still have each other, that silly race
to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because what's a concession stand
at a race without some chocolate?)
