The "B" Word
Rewind to a few nights ago on Thanksgiving Part II (I had two Thanksgivings) when my aunt asked if she could give my number to her friend's friend's son's friend or whoever who I had previously agreed was tall enough, musically inclined enough, athletic enough and wealthy enough to date me. Exhausted from black Friday and consequently unconsciously on auto pilot I said, "Yes." But then I paused, and my face twisted. My forehead wrinkled. I need a bit of Botox, I thought. "Well..." I stammered while I tried to sort through my thoughts so I could pull out one that actually made sense. "Um, actually..." 
"I think Emma has a boyfriend," said my mom.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" asked my aunt in a voice that made me feel like I was the nerd in high school who no one ever wanted to kiss.
"You have a boyfriend?" yelled my grandma from across the room. I thought she couldn't hear.
Rapid rushes cognitive dissonance made my brain start to ache and I rubbed my temples. I took a deep breath.
The "b" word was borderline giving me an anxiety attack.
My dad always told me not to put all of my eggs in one basket. Plus, I'm liberal. See also: pro- diversification. There are many pros to dating several dudes: I don't have to rely on just one person to meet every requirement. I go on lots of dates, which I love. And I'm bit princessy in that I like being courted and fussed over. Diversifying my dates means that I'm not the go to for every ounce the emotionally repressed garbage that surfaces when you begin to feel particularly close with someone.
The answer "no" teetered on the edge of my tongue just begging to jump out but I couldn't let it because the answer, with-a-little-wiggle-room-so-I-don't-feel-like-I'm-going-to-pass-out, is not "no."
"Emma, did I just hear you have a boyfriend?" yelled my uncle from the kitchen. My face burned, but still no words came out. I felt like my seventh grade algebra teacher who never failed to call on me when I was lustfully daydreaming about Justin Hayward walking through the halls of the middle school, his pants all low and skateresque. He was my Jordan Catalano. Although I was much cooler than Angela Chase, I recreated their hallway exchanges verbatim. He would walk up to and say, "Emma?" I would bat my eyelashes to encourage him to sing my name again. "Emma?" he repeated. "HELLO TO EMMA! What is the the probability of choosing a green M&M?"
"Huh?"
"Well, what does he do?" asked my grandpa for the second time.
"I...um, I don't know..."
"You don't know what he does? Then he's not your boyfriend," declared my grandpa.
"No, I know what he does, Grandpa." I insisted.
"Well, I won't give him your number if you have a boyfriend," my aunt concluded.
"Can we stop saying the 'b' word? Give him my number...or don't. Maybe don't. I mean, do whatever you want," I said dismissively. Sensing my hesitation, my family moved topics.
What just happened? I wondered as I walked back downstairs so my two-year old cousin could fix me another pretend cat food milkshake, this time with banana. Why was I so caught off guard? Why did I need to over-dramatize a simple question? Most of the heterosexual female population are thrilled to say someone is their boyfriend. Aren't I? The "b" word felt so not a part of my world. It would be like if Charlie Sheen suddenly stopped having sex. Bad analogy actually; but imagine you are this very confident, very strong-willed woman who bounces around from city to city exuding a half essential/half fabricated persona revolving around being single. Everyone loves you this way. You love you this way.
Then one day, you wake up and realize that you haven't been out in several weeks because you spend every night staring into the dark blue eyes of some dude you can't seem to pry yourself away from long enough to have your hair properly colored. It's confusing. Add in your readers and that sorority you consider a place of employment and before your pretty little self can even entertain the "b" word people are sending a barrage of emails and texts begging, "Inquiring minds want to know!"
I would love to say "It's none of your business. And while you're at it get a life," but I've made it their business to know my business because it's actually my business.
That is irony.
Emma Dinzebach
"I think Emma has a boyfriend," said my mom.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" asked my aunt in a voice that made me feel like I was the nerd in high school who no one ever wanted to kiss.
"You have a boyfriend?" yelled my grandma from across the room. I thought she couldn't hear.
Rapid rushes cognitive dissonance made my brain start to ache and I rubbed my temples. I took a deep breath.
The "b" word was borderline giving me an anxiety attack.
My dad always told me not to put all of my eggs in one basket. Plus, I'm liberal. See also: pro- diversification. There are many pros to dating several dudes: I don't have to rely on just one person to meet every requirement. I go on lots of dates, which I love. And I'm bit princessy in that I like being courted and fussed over. Diversifying my dates means that I'm not the go to for every ounce the emotionally repressed garbage that surfaces when you begin to feel particularly close with someone.
The answer "no" teetered on the edge of my tongue just begging to jump out but I couldn't let it because the answer, with-a-little-wiggle-room-so-I-don't-feel-like-I'm-going-to-pass-out, is not "no."
"Emma, did I just hear you have a boyfriend?" yelled my uncle from the kitchen. My face burned, but still no words came out. I felt like my seventh grade algebra teacher who never failed to call on me when I was lustfully daydreaming about Justin Hayward walking through the halls of the middle school, his pants all low and skateresque. He was my Jordan Catalano. Although I was much cooler than Angela Chase, I recreated their hallway exchanges verbatim. He would walk up to and say, "Emma?" I would bat my eyelashes to encourage him to sing my name again. "Emma?" he repeated. "HELLO TO EMMA! What is the the probability of choosing a green M&M?"
"Huh?"
"Well, what does he do?" asked my grandpa for the second time.
"I...um, I don't know..."
"You don't know what he does? Then he's not your boyfriend," declared my grandpa.
"No, I know what he does, Grandpa." I insisted.
"Well, I won't give him your number if you have a boyfriend," my aunt concluded.
"Can we stop saying the 'b' word? Give him my number...or don't. Maybe don't. I mean, do whatever you want," I said dismissively. Sensing my hesitation, my family moved topics.
What just happened? I wondered as I walked back downstairs so my two-year old cousin could fix me another pretend cat food milkshake, this time with banana. Why was I so caught off guard? Why did I need to over-dramatize a simple question? Most of the heterosexual female population are thrilled to say someone is their boyfriend. Aren't I? The "b" word felt so not a part of my world. It would be like if Charlie Sheen suddenly stopped having sex. Bad analogy actually; but imagine you are this very confident, very strong-willed woman who bounces around from city to city exuding a half essential/half fabricated persona revolving around being single. Everyone loves you this way. You love you this way.
Then one day, you wake up and realize that you haven't been out in several weeks because you spend every night staring into the dark blue eyes of some dude you can't seem to pry yourself away from long enough to have your hair properly colored. It's confusing. Add in your readers and that sorority you consider a place of employment and before your pretty little self can even entertain the "b" word people are sending a barrage of emails and texts begging, "Inquiring minds want to know!"
I would love to say "It's none of your business. And while you're at it get a life," but I've made it their business to know my business because it's actually my business.
That is irony.
Emma Dinzebach
Justin Hayward...haven't thought of that name in at least 13 years! That makes me want to go watch Izzy's video that I "borrowed" from her years ago. I'll send it back, Izzy, PROMISE!
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I can't believe mine eyes nor can I can't picture someone good enough for you, but if you say so darling. Did you tell he's a placeholder? You may want to mention it.
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