Wallflower Posts - The Other Side
"You? A wallflower? I don't believe it!"
A friend's shocked comments one coffee date ago had me explaining the weird phenomenon of Quiquay ending up as a wallflower. The poor guy couldn't believe loud, gregarious, passably cute me would ever end up as a wallflower. Oh, you better believe it, pal. I was a true-blue, certified bluestocking wallflower.
For a loud girl who loved to dance to end up as a wallflower seems impossible but I was. During prom, I remember watching in desperation as my crush danced with other girls and I had to dance with every other drooling minion my nemesis could command. It was also sweet torture to talk and smile at him in an after-prom party and pretend everything was fine. And like some weird plot that could only happen in TV-landia or my life, I also had to frustratingly wait in the sidelines and watch him court other girls while simultaneously acting as a gatekeeper between me and some suitors. In their world of bro-code, he couldn't even express interest in me - if he was ever interested.
College saw me with a little more guts to flirt but under the guise of friendship. I figured, as much as I was for the feminist movement (to an extent), guys still had to make the first move. So there was I, a bit aloof, sometimes friendly, still pining away for the crushes that never went beyond a smile and small talk.
Valentine's Day was especially torturous in the dorm as the resident assistants paged the pretty girls one by one to claim their flowers, cards, chocolates and dates at the lobby. After a freshman year of enduring that painful occasion, I resolved to stay out of my room every February 14. Unfortunately, in the following year, the images of balloons, roses, chocolates and hearts nearly had me snapping at everybody so I wished I was back in my room. Thankfully, some rather sadistic (?) professors scheduled their mid-term exams during the auspicious day so I was spared the maudlin effects of feeling sorry for myself and worried about my grades instead.
I was also supposed to be more able to interpret behavior because I was studying human behavior, right? Not. I was actually clueless about men. I figured, if he was interested, he'll find a way to be with me. But as I found out, the guys I met wanted easy and prettier pickings - girls they didn't have to court for a year and those who looked like models and dolls. Loud, opinionated, obstinate and just passably attractive little old me was just to prickly to be considered.
Incidentally, I just wanted a guy who could tell right in front of me how he felt and what he wanted. Weird enough, the boylets I eventually met did ask and told me exactly how they felt. Yeah, yeah, I know it's just that, but it was progress. Eventually, one did go beyond the prickly thorns and found his rose. It was the others' loss and his gain.
A friend's shocked comments one coffee date ago had me explaining the weird phenomenon of Quiquay ending up as a wallflower. The poor guy couldn't believe loud, gregarious, passably cute me would ever end up as a wallflower. Oh, you better believe it, pal. I was a true-blue, certified bluestocking wallflower.
For a loud girl who loved to dance to end up as a wallflower seems impossible but I was. During prom, I remember watching in desperation as my crush danced with other girls and I had to dance with every other drooling minion my nemesis could command. It was also sweet torture to talk and smile at him in an after-prom party and pretend everything was fine. And like some weird plot that could only happen in TV-landia or my life, I also had to frustratingly wait in the sidelines and watch him court other girls while simultaneously acting as a gatekeeper between me and some suitors. In their world of bro-code, he couldn't even express interest in me - if he was ever interested.
College saw me with a little more guts to flirt but under the guise of friendship. I figured, as much as I was for the feminist movement (to an extent), guys still had to make the first move. So there was I, a bit aloof, sometimes friendly, still pining away for the crushes that never went beyond a smile and small talk.
Valentine's Day was especially torturous in the dorm as the resident assistants paged the pretty girls one by one to claim their flowers, cards, chocolates and dates at the lobby. After a freshman year of enduring that painful occasion, I resolved to stay out of my room every February 14. Unfortunately, in the following year, the images of balloons, roses, chocolates and hearts nearly had me snapping at everybody so I wished I was back in my room. Thankfully, some rather sadistic (?) professors scheduled their mid-term exams during the auspicious day so I was spared the maudlin effects of feeling sorry for myself and worried about my grades instead.
I was also supposed to be more able to interpret behavior because I was studying human behavior, right? Not. I was actually clueless about men. I figured, if he was interested, he'll find a way to be with me. But as I found out, the guys I met wanted easy and prettier pickings - girls they didn't have to court for a year and those who looked like models and dolls. Loud, opinionated, obstinate and just passably attractive little old me was just to prickly to be considered.
Incidentally, I just wanted a guy who could tell right in front of me how he felt and what he wanted. Weird enough, the boylets I eventually met did ask and told me exactly how they felt. Yeah, yeah, I know it's just that, but it was progress. Eventually, one did go beyond the prickly thorns and found his rose. It was the others' loss and his gain.
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