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Showing posts with label Guys Who Don't Want To Date Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guys Who Don't Want To Date Me. Show all posts

August 2, 2009

Guys Who Don't Want To Date Me ['90s Edition]: Ravers

Granted, I only dipped my toe in the rave scene for one summer in 1997 and it wasn't even my idea. I came home to Chicago the summer after my freshman year at college and, much to my chagrin, I found that a large portion of my punk friends had turned into pacifier-sucking, huge pants-wearing, glow stick-waving ravers while I was away at school. I resisted it at first, scoffing at their all-night parties. But, after a week of sitting around my parents house, I realized two things:
1. I missed my friends.
2. Staying out til the wee hours stomping around the city sounded like fun.
So, I relented and went to my first rave. I was blown away because everyone was so nice! People would just come up to me and give me hugs. (I would later find out that this might have been *ahem* a chemically enhanced sense of euphoria on their part, but since I was straightedge and naive, that never occurred to me.)

Unfortunately, I never dated a raver. The closest thing I had was when I cuddled with a random blond kid on a bean bag chair in a "chill out lounge." Big whoop (that's sarcastic.) I'd see dudes scurry around the dance floor, bobbing their heads to the beat but I'd never turn those heads. I could've swung glow sticks from my ta-tas, but I don't think that would've made a difference.

I even watched Hackers and enjoyed it. Apparently, laptop-wielding, rollerblading ravers did not turn me off. Alas, having a wide-legged pantsed Romeo was not in the subbaculture cards for me. Boo hoo, right?

Did any of you guys date a raver? They always seemed up for a good time, all the time. Did I miss out?

July 17, 2009

Guys Who Don't Want To Date Me ['90s edition]: Skateboarders

For being such a puny lot, skateboarders really intimidated me growing up. It's not even that I think that they'd be fun to date. All the skaters I knew where obsessed with boring things: their deck, landing tricks, wearing baggy clothing, etc. They weren't even particularly funny. They had terrible handwriting. They had the attention span of a housefly. What's the appeal?

You know what it was? It was their attitude. Or rather, their terrible attitude. They did not give a fuck. And, I liked that. Unfortunately, they didn't seem to give a fuck about me, which I clearly didn't like. In the summer, I'd walk by Astor Place, a notorious '90s skater hang out in NYC, and I wouldn't even turn a head. Walking anywhere wearing a tank top in NYC is pretty much an open invitation for sexual harassment, so in a weird twist not receiving any attention from the skaters bummed me out. What? No takers? C'mon! Apparently, I'm skateboarder kryptonite. I even wrote for Thrasher for a spell in college, hoping to impress a skater down the line. I never even got the chance to namedrop that factoid to a guy on wheels! *shakes fist at sky*

I've never dated a skater which is a minor regret in my life. I dated an ex-skater once which was a bit of a thrill even though I never got to hear his wheels on the pavement rolling towards me. Whatever. I've learned to accept my fate. Skaters are like these mythical creatures that I will never get to observe up close, like a unicorn or a minotaur. So, skaters, I choose to reject you. I'm not interested in hearing about how you landed a front-nose-ollie-bagel-grab 960. Oh, who am I kidding? I totally want to hear about that. That actually sounds pretty awesome.