Trials and Tribulations of the Atypical Woman Written Nov. 10, 2003
by Kat LaiPlease read the disclaimer before continuing.
The most important thing my mother ever taught me was "You can't count on anyone but yourself." It was a lesson she learned early on in life as well, though she learned it the hard way. When she was 7 years old, her father left, leaving her mother to care for her and her two younger siblings alone. Being a single mother in the 50's was not easy, particularly since a woman's job options were somewhat limited, but she managed somehow.
When Mother made it to university, she met my father. They were happily married for several years until I was about 6 years old. My father was flying his twin engine plane back to our northern BC town when he became disoriented in a storm and crashed into the mountains. Despite the overwhelming support from our small community, Mother packed us up and moved to Vancouver where job prospects for her were better. She went back to school, got a Masters and managed to eke out a comfortable living for the two of us. All this while raising a kid.
So, as I grew, that was the one lesson that she reiterated over and over. You can't count on anyone but yourself, she said, because something could always happen to leave you alone, and if you couldn't look after yourself, you were screwed. I took that lesson to heart and grew up learning to rely on myself.
It wasn't until I was older that I realized that I was one of a minority, and an unfavoured minority at that. At least, that's what it felt like. Each relationship that sprung to life with hopes of becoming something permanent turned up its toes soon enough. By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I had compiled a list of winners that ... well, I guess I'll look back on it and laugh someday. Is it me? My bad taste in men? Or is it men who suck and can't accept me for who I am: A self-reliant, non-girly, atypical woman?
'You Need Me'
The first serious boyfriend I had was Brad. I won't count the ones I had back in high school, because frankly, those were more like friends plus 10% more fruit juice than actual relationships. Anyway, Brad. Brad was my knight in shining armour. Or at least he thought he was.
I mean, I'm from the Rockies. I grew up skiing at Whitefish, and hiked pretty much all of the Southern part of the mountains. Every summer, Mom and I went down to California to visit her sister and I did summer jobs on the beach as a lifeguard. At 5'5" and 120 lbs, I'm pretty sure I couldn't take on a guy in a fair fight, but any of my friends needs a hand moving, I'm in there hefting the sofa and the wall unit. In other words, I'm not what you would call helpless.
But to Brad, I was a delicate flower.
At first, it was kind of flattering to have a guy want to do everything for you. He would carry my heavy bags when I was tired, put himself between me and any threatening situation, held my coat for me to get into. He was chivalry personified. But after 3 months of this, I began cottoning on to why many women consider chivalry to be akin to misogyny.
"No, Helen, I'll carry that vase. It's much too heavy for you." "Helen, what would you do without me?" "You're not very good at this, are you?" "You sure you should be going in there? I can't protect you if I can't see you." (punctuated with laughter)"Here, don't do that. Let me." "Helen, you need me."
Of course, because Brad was so bent on being helpful, he almost always got in my way, which only made matters worse. I remember one time when we were out hiking near Fernie. It was a 2-day hike and a pretty difficult trail. Brad was leading, but I was having no difficulty keeping up. Suddenly, as we reached a sharp decline, Brad turned to me, grabbed my hand and said, "Okay, now. This is pretty steep, and the footing's kind of tricky. Let me help you."
I looked down. It didn't look that bad. Mother and I had done a trail similar to this in the Kananaskis only the previous year. "That's okay, Brad. I'll just follow you down. Go on."
"No, no, Helen," said Brad, "You could really use my help here. Now look, I'll just get down here... Okay, now step over there. Can you do that?"
"Step over... What? There? That's not sturdy. And please let go of my hand, I need it to balance!"
And so it went. He insisted on trying to help me down despite my many arguments that I could do it myself, that I had been hiking since I could walk. To make matters worse, he always stood in the one spot where it would have been easiest for me to go, forcing me to find more difficult footing. And he never. Let. Go. Of. My hand! Finally, he stepped down a little too far, completely upsetting my balance. As I tried to pull my hand out of his and upright myself, my foot slipped off its precarious ledge. I landed on my rear and began to slide. He caught me as I careened past him, barely keeping his foothold. As he helped me regain my footing, he remarked, "See? You need me."
I probably should have ended it after that trip, but for some reason I kept him. I put up with his need to help, to be needed, because... well, really, I'm not sure why. Chalk it up to inexperience, I guess.
The last straw came finally, when we went on a trip to Hawai'i together with a bunch of friends during Spring Break. We were spending the day on the beach, when my friend Gina and I decided to go swimming. We'd been swim-pals in California and loved to body surf. As the others tanned or splashed around in the shallows, we struck out for deeper water, enjoying the fresh air and revelling in the power of our bodies fighting against the waves. Finally, we decided to turn towards shore again, riding the waves as they washed by us. At that moment, I noticed Brad stroking out towards us as fast as he could. Gina and I looked behind us and saw a large wave riding towards us. Well, I doubt it was more than 3 feet high, but it looked big from where we were. Excited, we nodded at each other. We would attempt to ride it as far as we could. We started swimming away from it, trying to catch it just at the right moment. I looked back in anticipation as the wave neared us and began to grow.
At that moment, Brad reached me. He grabbed me under the chin and started dragging me towards shore like I was a drowning swimmer. Taken completely by surprise, I flailed and kicked, but his grip was too strong. The wave crested. Held as I was, all I could do was watch as it bore down on us and slammed us under the water. I felt like I was being thrown in several different directions at once. Fortunately, Brad's grip on me was loosened as we tumbled, and I broke free, trying to reorient myself and find the surface. When I finally succeeded and took a much-needed gasp of air, an arm grabbed me around the neck again and Brad began towing me to shore again. This time, I struggled so hard that he was forced to let go.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"What am I doing? What are YOU doing?" I retorted, "You almost killed me!"
"What are you talking about? Did you see the size of that wave? You never would've gotten away from it in time. If I hadn't come to rescue you..."
I lost it. "If you hadn't come to 'rescue' me, as you call it, I would've ridden out the wave or dived into it, and I would not have swallowed half the ocean! What the hell were you thinking? Why the hell did you feel you had to 'rescue' me? I've been swimming in oceans since I was five years old, for crying out loud!"
"But I was only looking out for you! I care about what happens to you, Helen. When are you finally going to figure out that you need..."
"Look over there. See Gina? No one 'rescued' her. And she's not drowning. She's not dead. And you know why? Because she didn't have some moron with seaweed for brains coming out to incapacitate her while she was trying to body surf, that's why. Now if you're done being Mr. Baywatch, I think I'd like to get to shore in one piece, thanks."
That pretty much ended it with Brad. By the time we were on the flight home, we weren't even on speaking terms anymore. I'm sure that to this day, he maintains that if I hadn't struggled against him as much as I did, he could've gotten me to "safety" somehow. Yeah, I needed him about as much as I needed a vasectomy. Yes, I know women don't get vasectomies. Exactly.
'You'd be so pretty if...'
About 6 months later, I met Scott. I was a little wary at first of the little gestures, the holding my coat or the door or whatever, but finally warmed up when I found he was nothing like Brad. He liked strong women, he assured me. I was so different from any of the other girls he'd dated, and it was such a relief not to have to deal with the "female head games", the "do I look fat in this" shtick, and all that. It was refreshing, he said, to be with a girl who didn't obsess about her looks, who didn't need to spend 3 hours in the bathroom just to look presentable.
Things went well for about a month, but then, he started on what I began to refer to as "The Improve Helen Campaign": "Helen, you'd be so pretty if you didn't wear your hair in a ponytail." "I'd love it if you wore this perfume instead of that one." "You shouldn't wear green, Helen. It really makes you look pale." "You'd be so pretty if you didn't wear turtle necks." "It'd be nice if you wore make-up more often. You're so beautiful when you do."
All for my own benefit, I suppose. I conceded on a few small issues, like the green clothing and the perfume. Those weren't big deals. The make-up remark was really rich though. When he made that remark to me, I retorted jokingly, "What, you don't think I'm beautiful without it?"
He answered quite seriously, "That's not true. You are beautiful. I'm just saying that the make-up really improves on what you already have. It makes you look even better. All women should wear make-up."
Uh huh.
I also noticed that for a guy who loved that I was so different from every other girl, Scott really tried to turn me into every other girl. While walking home from the movies, for instance, he would sometimes point out a girl and say, "You should wear something like that. It would really emphasize your legs," or "Why don't you do your hair like that?" or "See? She doesn't mind when her boyfriend does that," or my personal favourite, "You should try to care more about your appearance, Helen. I mean, see that girl there? You'd be way prettier than her if you just..."
I began to get really sick of hearing it all. It's one thing when a guy you're with ogles another girl. It's quite another when he starts trying to make you into that girl. Not to mention the back-handed compliments that were coming with it. I told him flatly that I liked the way I was now, and liked my low-maintenance look. If he didn't, I'd be happy to let him find someone else. He assured me that wasn't the case. He loved the way I looked, and he loved being with me. It's just that... blah blahblah blaaah blaaaah blaaaaaaaah.
The last time I saw Scott, we were at his place, watching TV. He put his arm around me, squeezed my waist and said, "You know, you'd have such a nice figure if you just lost a little bit of the fat around your middle." I didn't even respond. I extricated his arm from around my waist, got up and walked out without looking back. My only regret is that I hadn't done that sooner.
'Who's The Man?'
After Scott came Dave. I met him at an Ultimate Frisbee league. Dave loved the active stuff, and he loved that I could go along with him. Finally, I thought, maybe here would be someone who would appreciate me for who I was and not for what he thought I should be. What I didn't count on, though, was that Dave was also very protective of his masculinity.
We dated for four months, and every date turned into some sort of competition of who could do this better. We went to the major entertainment complex downtown together for our first date and spent most of the night in the arcade. Every game we played, started out well enough, but as soon as I pulled into the lead or started getting more points than me, a grim look would set on his face and he would really hunker down at the console. On a racing game, when I was a few seconds from the finish line, he suddenly came out of nowhere, sideswiped me and won. He turned to me with a smile, muscles relaxing for the first time since I'd pulled ahead of him, and said, "Yeah! Who's the man?"
I raised my eyebrows slightly, but didn't reply.
The same went for our biking trips, all the times we went to the 'Y' to work out. Heck, even when we went to the bar, he had to drink more than me. On a canoing trip with friends in the fall, even though it was apparent that I was the better sternsman, he felt it an affront to his dignity to sit in the front of the canoe. So, to keep the peace, I let him steer and kept my mouth shut when we failed to eddy in several times at the campsite the first night and were forced to walk the canoe a kilometre back upstream.
It's not to say it was terribly annoying all of the time. Nor was he horrible at anything. On the contrary, he was really good at almost all areas related to sport, and he was a really good cook too. But it just killed him when I seemed to be even the tiniest bit better than him at anything.
Finally, during the Christmas holiday, we rented a cabin with some friends out near Kicking Horse Pass for a pleasant ski weekend. It started out as a great trip. Then, Dave challenged me to a race. There was a slalom course set up in one area, apparently left there after a ski team practice, and he wanted to see who had the faster time going down. His friend timed, and Dave went first. I beat him by 0.2 seconds. He sulked for the rest of the trip, and broke it off with me a couple of weeks later.
Who's the man, indeed?
'My Mom Can...'
After that, I vowed that I wouldn't stay involved with a man who would treat me like any of the others. I wouldn't try to make it work, I wouldn't put up with it any longer; I would simply walk away. So when I met Tony, I was doubly on my guard. First sign of chipping away at my self-confidence, and I was outta there. But Tony? Tony genuinely loved strong, self-reliant women. In fact, his mom was a strong, self-reliant woman. I mean, she was still married, but she had her own income, and she ran that household. When Tony took me home to meet her, I really got along with her well. Before I left, she told me that if her son should ever do anything to hurt me, I was to let her know. She'd wipe the floor with him for me if I wanted. I laughed and thanked her for her support.
Of course, I realized much later that I probably should have paid attention to his father as well. Or at least to the relationship between Tony and his mother. When we moved in together a year into our idyllic relationship, I discovered exactly why Tony loved strong, self-reliant women. Because Tony was a dependent man.
I did the laundry. I cooked all the meals. I was the one who cleaned the apartment. I was the one who bought groceries. Tony's idea of helping out was gallantly offering to take me out for dinner once or twice a week. To his mother's house. On top of that, although nothing could induce Tony to actually help out around the house, he felt it in his rights to complain about how I did things.
"Yeah, this sauce is okay, but my mother's is tons better." "Mom doesn't fold the sheets that way." "You know if you stacked the dishes like this, it fits better. That's how my mom does it." "You know, Mom vaccuums twice a week. Helps with my dust mite allergies."
I would respond by handing him the spatula, the dishes, the vaccuum, the mop, whatever it was I was doing that made him complain, but he would shrug and say, "Oh, but you do it much better than I would. I'm just saying, is all."
The end with Tony came one day in July, about two months after we moved in together. I had been working overtime for about a week and was completely exhausted. Because of my duties at work, I hadn't had time to get to a lot of the chores that needed doing, and because Momma's Boy wouldn't lift a finger to help, the apartment was starting to look a little ratty. I got home that day, changed out of my work clothes and went into the living room. Tony was sitting in front of the TV, flipping channels with expert dexterity. As I flopped down beside him, he said, "So, what's for dinner tonight?"
I lay my head back and replied, "You know, I really exhausted. Could you call for a pizza instead?"
"Pizza again? Man, I was hoping that..."
"Fine, if not pizza, how about KFC? I'll call."
After that was done, he finally thought to ask how my day went. I launched into a long frustrated monologue about my boss and the project not going well and all the deadlines coming up, you know the refrain. I ended with mentioning how stressed I was feeling with everything going on. He nodded in sympathy.
"Yeah, I'm pretty stressed these days too. I know how you feel."
Then, he turned to me with a smile. "You know what really helps for stress? There's this really awesome recipe for blueberry pie that my mom makes whenever we need a bit of comfort food. I told her about your rough schedule when we talked yesterday, and she gave me the recipe and a bunch of blueberries that she'd picked just the other day. What do you think?"
I smiled back. "That sounds wonderful."
"Great! We could have it for dessert if you get started on it now."
I had him and all his things on his mother's front lawn by the following evening.
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera...
A lot of this is my own fault, I suppose. I was young, naive, and not very good at reading people, picking up on the signs that said, "herein lieth an asshole". I chose them, and I accept responsibility for that. In some cases, I stayed much longer than I should have with the mistaken idea that True Love would somehow win through, and my asshole would turn into a prince.
In a lot of ways, I can see why it had to happen this way. You learn through your bad choices. You learn what signs indicate that something might be lacking in your relationship. You learn when you need to get out.
Another big bonus, is that I learned that despite the difficulties in my relationships due to my not being "just another girly girl", I really like the way I am. The number of really true friendships I have prove that the way I am can't be that far wrong, and frankly, my personality has become a gauge. If a guy cannot accept me as is with all the caveats that come wrapped up in this little package, then he's not worth keeping or getting. To some girls who've pitied me over the years, being atypical, self-sufficient and strong is what prevents me from getting hitched for life. To me, it's what filters out the bullshit from the gold. Given, there's a lot more bullshit than gold, it seems, but I haven't given up hope.
After all, a guy who is able to truly accept a self-sufficient, strong woman without feeling threatened or redundant is a man worth keeping.
Meanwhile, I'll just keep on relying on myself, enjoying my friendships and I'll see what life throws my way.
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© Kat Lai, 2003.
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