I'm not the ideal, but I'll do? WTF?

One of the questions I’ve been asked by guys more times than was probably necessary is, “what’s your ideal guy?”

Does anyone really answer this question honestly? 

Yes, guys actually do! Turns out, I’ve never matched the description of anyone’s ideal chick. I’m going to stop giving the PC answer of, “Well, he would be smart, funny and reasonably good-looking,” and just start making things up, like “tall, lean, blonde hair and blue eyes or Gerard Butler, however I will accept Jared Leto.” Actually, there’s, like 10 percent truth in that statement.

The answer I get has always been preferential physical attributes that I would never be able to fake, like, “tall, blonde, and tan,” or “Asian.”

Shut the front door. Really? Asian?

Okay, so in heels, I could possibly stretch out to about 5’5” tall. But I’m never going to morph into an Asian woman. Ever. That little bit of info did, however, explain one particular dude’s fascination with my Korean stepmom. Weird.

I can’t figure out what’s worse, though, someone wanting specific vagina or someone who just likes it all, because I’ve gotten the, “I don’t have a type, I’m a 31-Flavors type of guy,” wink reply a few times, too. Because if the former told me that I’m shooting myself in the foot to even try, the latter had some definite cheater potential. Do I need to watch out for a bunch of hot chicks or specific hot chicks? Guys, if you think chicks are interpreting this as you being open to all girls regardless of race, religion or level of physical attraction, we're not. We hear, "I just like p****. All kinds of p****. Right now, I ain't got none, so you'll do." Romantic.

My type is a guy who says his type is me, which is true for all girls. Even if it isn’t, lie, asshole. If you’re going to play the game, play it right, you will get further. This works with every girl. Yes, we say we want an honest answer, but you have to understand there are times when it’s okay to give our kind of honest – the flattering kind. For example, if you’re an ass-man and the chick isn’t stacked that way, very smoothly (or even awkwardly, we will appreciate the effort) pick a physical attribute she does have that you can live with and use that. One day you guys will be so in love that the truth will be funny and not questionably hurtful. But just in case you’re not her last stop before the altar or domesticated partnership, you don’t want to send her off with issues – just in case. Issues can turn into Lifetime TV movies.  

Besides, you seriously don’t think she’s with you because you were her first choice do you? By the time you came around, she was ready to look past the exterior and see if a real boy was better than her teen idol and Hollywood leading man fantasy – and the one or few douchebags that left her self-esteem damaged. If you’re “reasonably goodlooking,”  then that’s a plus.

I’ve never been the goodlooking chick. I grew on boys with my personality, but the minute a hot chick walked by, it was like I didn’t exist. My exterior may have improved a little bit since those days, but the interior is still the same. So, if your ideal is a girl who cleans up nice and is smart enough to hold a conversation about all things interesting, some things random, then I would be it. But most don’t get past the exterior. I just look like a good time. And I suppose posting my “best” pics on Facebook don’t really help, but even smart chicks like to indulge in a little bit of Internet narcissism. I know I don’t get to look like that everyday because Photoshop only works on the computer.

Luckily, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Not really sure what my ex-boyfriend saw in me, but apparently, I’m just enough fantasy girl, just enough crazy bitch and just enough fun to stick around. Yes, we played the question game, too. His answer:

“You.” 

But, then, he's my ex now, so ... 

1 Girl, some CrossFit

“I’m going to attempt a CrossFit event this weekend, Fight Gone Bad, with my friends Rachel and Master Phil.” ~ Me

“Hehe. Hehehehe. Hahe. Hahahahahahaha! Hahahahahahehehe!” ~ the Daughter

“Really. What’s so funny?” ~ Me

“Nothing, mom, I just didn’t think you were that athletic, but it’s cool,” ~ the Daughter

She’s right. I’m not athletic. And CrossFit is no joke.  Everything about it is intimidating from the intense WODS (acronym: workout of the day) to the close-knit community. But the results are real and motivate me to keep it up. After just one week, I decided to take part in Fight Gone Bad, a charity CrossFit event, at the urging of my trainer, Master Phil. I drafted his fiancé Rachel as my suicide buddy. Because I was definitely not ready to take on CrossFit newbie death – at least not by myself.

The WOD was not that difficult on paper:  (3 rounds)

·  Wall-ball, 20 pound ball, 10 ft target (Reps)

·  Sumo deadlift high-pull, 75 pounds (Reps)

·  Box Jump, 20" box (Reps)

·  Push-press, 75 pounds (Reps)

·  Row (Calories)

I was concerned about the wall-ball, dead lifts and push-presses because of the weight, but during the set-up, they made a lane especially for counter-CrossFitters like me: the weaksauce lane. That meant the wall-ball medicine ball would only be 10 pounds and there would just be a bar for the DLs and PPs. Once I sampled each station and was convinced I’d be able to do the WOD without dropping dead, quitting or puking, I relaxed. Until the event started.

I got my ass handed to me. Turns out, there is no such thing as a ‘weaksauce’ lane in CrossFit.You would think someone would have told me that at some point.

Maybe I should have started with something further from the wall-balls so that would have been last on my set-list. Because someone switched out the 10 lb. ball for a 20 lb. one and it nearly destroyed my arms.

Destroyed.

Going from that to the sumo dead lifts on the first round only served to punish my arms some more for not embarrassing me on the wall-balls. See, I pushed through the entire WOD on pride alone. Pride is a powerful force in someone like me, much like a Jedi, I was not about to quit and I was not about to puke. But I fantasized about both. I could only imagine how my buddy Rachel was doing.

Apparently, better than me by a whole 20 points. I’m glad I’m not competitive, which is another reason I powered through this WOD with my pride intact. My goal was to finish without dying, and I did that. Kudos to Master Phil for a good call in getting me involved in this event because not only did I have a good time, I learned valuable points:

·  I know better than to say, “that looks easy.” As a matter of fact, those are famous last

words

• Pain is a relative term

• Puking, dying and crying are honorable ends to all workouts

• Wounds are like badges of honor: If you’re not sporting callouses, cuts and bruises,you didn’t work out hard enough

• Most events are for charity, so you almost HAVE to complete it or you feel as if you’ve failed more than just yourself. Good tactic.

• All WODS seem to be named for chicks, Mr. Glassman must have had some seriousfemale issues.

The gym is called a box and the workouts typically involve a timer and a large group. So, if you share my phobia of working out in front of people … recruit a best buddy who is also at your level so there are at least two of you who look clueless and awkward. I like the workouts because routine bores me. Pretty sure plowing through CrossFit without my muscles imploding or exploding will never get boring.

However, I don’t have a hive mentality and just because I like something, doesn’t mean I will immediately become all about it, own all the gear and speak the language. Not sure if that’s cause I’m just too old to get it or if my independence is rebelling against what I see as conformity – the exact reason I was not popular in school growing up.

(Well, that and some of my hobbies which included being a half-elven, warrior mage in Dungeons & Dragons, dressing up for the Heroes Convention every year, art, reading, being smart and euro-pop music - just enough to hit nerd status. Which would all still be happening except that I quite like having a boyfriend and a moderately popular existence playing it all down. But I digress … )

CrossFit is an intimidating community. It’s all about the WODs, the gear, the physique and the lifestyle – and proving that you live, breathe and sleep it. It really is a lifestyle choice and it’s about making choices – the right ones – although it can seem a little extreme to outsiders looking in:

Diet: Paleo – the caveman diet. Eating like our ancestors to be healthy. I am neither for nor against any kind of diet, but have you seen a Paleo muffin? As my friend Rachel pointed out, the key ingredient in one of those is sadness (note: never tried one, so if they are yummier than they look, apologies). I’d rather eat guaranteed happiness in the form of a yummy, calorie-laden, cellulite-fertilizing brownie – then work it off with a good work out. (Actually, in research, those on the Paleo diet were found to have more energy and better recovery time during and after workouts.) And you can modify to include important stuff like dairy so you don’t cut out certain nutrients. Eating is important when doing CrossFit, so if you’re a fad dieter and into cutting food completely from your daily ritual to try and lose weight – don’t do this, you will die. 

Fashion: CrossFit is like the special operations of the fitness world. As such, there’s gear sponsored accordingly. If you’re a dude, you probably own board shorts and shirts with bad-ass logos and sayings. Shoes are optional, barefoot is preferred, and if you don’t want to go barefoot, you can invest two whole paychecks and get a pair of Vibram 5 fingers. Contradictory to the name, these are like gloves for your feet. Get the feel of going shoeless but with the security of knowing your piggies are covered and hugged … ? They are unattractive, make you look like you have frog feet and I will never own a pair (another set of famous last words) unless they come with heels.

CrossFit-ography:  Because if there are no photos to prove it, that awesome, torturous WOD never actually happened. At every CrossFit event I’ve been to, there have been at least 10 cameras, that do both still and video, recording at all times and all of it ends up on Facebook. I guess it’s a sign of pride in accomplishment, but currently, I’m not into posting photos of each near death experience I have with CrossFit. One day, when I look and can perform like a bad-ass, I will partake in some social network, CrossFit narcissism – My muscles in their own album.

Acronyms: Because after a hellacious workout, you don’t have the breath to speak in entire sentences – or at least that’s been my experience so far. It’s like another language. I had to Google WOD, AMRAP, CFT, DL, FS and BS, among others, so that I could read and understand the workouts – it was like reading a military brief. There should be required reading as a pre-req; Google-to-go has been an amazing fingertip cheat sheet.

Enthusiasts of any kind bring me great joy in pointing out the hilarity in extreme behaviors – this includes me. I make fun of myself a lot because I don’t understand a lot of what I get myself into and boredom, curiosity and dislike of repetition/routine has motivated me to try a lot of things – most of them not as productive as working out. I like CrossFit for the workouts, but I don’t see myself immersing into the lifestyle. If that makes me an outsider – as long as I can still workout, I’ll be okay with that. Besides, I own a camera and I’m pretty darn good with it: will trade WOD for pics.

Yes, Master Phil and Rachel, I will be there 5am Monday.

Box in a box

So, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend with something to help him ‘relieve stress’ on his all-male retreat. We are both fans of the show Blue Mountain State and last season, they featured the ‘pocket pussy.’ This sexual aid does for men what a dildo/vibrator does for a woman. They are made out of super soft, almost velvety feeling material shaped into a sleeve just for a penis. It was a hilarious BMS episode and never in a million years did I think I’d find myself in an adult store buying one.

But there I was, standing inside the Dirty Toy store, looking at pussy - a lot of it. Apparently, every major porn star has a mold of her girly-bits; there were all kinds of colors and sizes, and the biggest decision was deciding which vagina I wanted to hand over to the boyfriend. I didn’t want it to look prettier or feel better than mine, however I knew if I was going to do this, I had to be all in – that meant getting the best one. I didn’t want to get some second-rate cheap piece of silicone that would eventually make his junk feel like he was rubbing one out with a box of plastic. It was going to take more than one trip and several Google re-searches before I could make this purchase.

On the next few trips to the Dirty Store, I stood in front of all my choices as Google reviews and recommendations flashed through my brain. I tried to remember the tips and tricks to choosing the perfect vagina (a decision I never thought I’d have to make, by the way).

 I didn’t want Jenna’s because it was too loose, Sasha Grey’s was made for a ‘creampie’which didn’t sound too hygienic in the long term, I shouldn’t get any of the newer actresses because they weren’t reliable to last and the off brand, no-name ones came in unattractive colors and didn’t boast being made from material that was compared to ‘NASA invented, cyberskin technology.’ There was even a Fleshlight which was basically a flashlight that turns into a pocket masturbator. It didn’t even make the cut: at $60 I could have made one cheaper. It was also big and bulky and I could see all kinds of ways that could go wrong.

Then I saw it.

‘It’ was a pussy molding kit. I could send my boyfriend a mold of my own girly bits! Yay! Instead of buying someone else’s vagina, I get to send him mine. Win.

 I bought it and got right to work on molding my hooha. How surprised would the boyfriend be to find my box in his box?! But just like most of my bright ideas, they work better in theory. There were a few points that were in small print and missed, the most important being I would need an accomplice to make a successful mold of my vagina.

Seriously? Do chicks really do that? Who was I going to call that would be okay with being all up in my business?  However, this was a detail that shouldn’t have been ignored.

My mold looked like a crime scene replica of a serial-mangled vagina. Fail.

It was not sexy at all. I went back to the Dirty Store and bought the Belladonna – a cyberskin vagi-mold of the kinkiest girl in porn. I also had to buy a particular cleaning solution and special lube called “Gun Oil” –aptly named.

Once that adventure was done, I put together the box I would be shipping out. I removed ‘Belladonna’ from the packaging and wrapped it in a pair of under armor shorts, stuffed the box super tight (no pun intended) with other goodies and headed to the post office – where I was promptly notified that I needed to repackage my box (pun intended …?).

In my excited rush to mail out the package that day, I had squeezed too many things in the box and, in the process, some of the items slipped, causing a bulge (again, no pun intended) and starting a small tear, which I taped up poorly.

Damn. It was busy day at the post office, too.

I didn’t want to wait to mail it, so I pulled another box and carefully started removing all the items from it, loading them into the new one. While trying to be fast, careful and covert about the pocket pussy, the most horrific thing that could happen, did. I dropped the shorts it was wrapped in and it rolled out towards two little boys. As I tried to grab for it, the old box tipped and the Gun Oil and cleaner rolled out, too.

No one said a word, they just stood there - I can imagine with their mouths open, even though I was too embarrassed to look - when they saw what I was trying to smuggle in a pair of shorts. Because everyone did see it happen and if they didn't see it at first, what happened next made sure they did. One of the little boys, who was only trying to help, grabbed the Belladonna and squished it in his hands for a second before handing it to me – genital area first.

“What is that thing? It’s squishy.”

As the other boy handed me the Gun Oil and cleaner, I said the only thing that seemed to make sense.

“It’s a gun cleaner ...” The mom laughed out loud.

I’m glad he didn’t ask me any particulars, like how to use it. He just asked if my ‘husband’ was a Soldier like his daddy and wanted to know if that would make a good Christmas present since his dad shoots guns, too.

The horror.

It was like a really public nip-slip event, one from which I should have departed with a quickness.  Yet, I stayed and endured a painfully long wait for a good cause – my boyfriend’s sexual well-being before even the chugly girls start looking good over there.

Who knew this would turn into such an ordeal? Guess I’ll pack my box the right way next time. No pun intended.