Nice Guys, part 1

They. are. the. worst.

Well, first, let me make a distinction. There are, out there, some guys that we can deem as nice, genuinely nice. They are kind, respectful, considerate fellas. But, then we have the trope of the "nice guy": he's sweet, he's there for you, he's respectful, thoughtful, etc, etc etc. EXCEPT... IT IS ALL AN ACT. It's not genuine. It's a way to get what he wants. It's a way to guilt people into doing things for him or to cover up his dirty laundry, so to speak. The landmark trait of these so-called "nice guys" is that they are insincere. They lie. To get what they want. And act all nice about it. F*ckers.

"Wow, Cris, you seem to be very very angry with the world? Where is this all coming from? Just a few months ago you were writing about assholes and now you're out to get the nice ones too?"

"Shut up, skeptical reader who enjoys books about positivity. I am just denouncing the injustices of this world."

How to spot a "nice guy"?

1.  He tells you to consider dating "a nice guy who will treat you right". A.K.A. him, supposedly.
2. After showing his true colors he justifies himself with "I'm a nice guy," as if that was some form of apology.
3. Does nice things for people (girls) expecting something in return.
4. Says things like "if you were my girl, I would treat you so much better."
5. If he is in a relationship, he is "too nice" to tell you.
6. He hides his insecurities and lack of BALLS with niceties.
7. Shows the claws via passive-aggressiveness.

What makes me an authority on this, says you? Oh, if only I wasn't.

Besides the fact that I dated one (it was the absolute worst but if I stopped to tell you about it, I'd end up with an entire book the size of the last Harry Potter one), I have encountered many of these fine specimens in my 20's. But allow me to illustrate my point.

Sometime before my now botched relationship, a coworker caught my eye. He seemed kind, calm, NICE. Like a giant, sluggish panda bear. I didn't make much of it, but as the school year progressed, I found myself being around this guy quite a bit, and finding out that we had quite a bit in common.

After a few months, I was hoping that something would come out of it. He seemed invested, but I thought he was too shy to ask me out. Typical nice guy. So I figured I'd give him a bit of help, and kept dropping hints. The hints didn't work, so I started to shamelessly invite him out to hang out--first with our colleagues, then I just straight up asked if he wanted to go get a drink with me. Bravo, Cris. You strong, independent, hot woman.

"You asked him out!"
"Yes, after about four months of back and forth"
"What did he say?"

 "Oh, I can't. I want to go home and... sleep."


Nice guys: can't be straight with you. Why? Are they legitimately concerned about your emotional welfare? Or is it that in their insecurity they want to keep you at bay, but not too far, just in case?

Guess what, dudes? This jerkface had a girlfriend. The entire time.

In other words,  for six months, we spoke on a regular basis without him ever mentioning his girlfriend. I am sorry, but in my book, one actually has to TRY not to bring a significant other in conversation. Like, you have to make an effort not to talk about her? And why? Why would you not want to bring her up, eh, NICE GUY?

And don't think he actually told me. No. I found out through a very elaborate network of female coworkers interested in my well-being. So, the moment I realized he was taken, I ceased contact and only maintained a professional relationship. You know, because I try not to be an asshole and stuff.

BUT THAT IS NOT ALL, READER. PREPARE YOURSELF.

A few weeks ago, one of my work friends invited a bunch of us to his wife's birthday at a local club. Sure enough, I could not resist an opportunity to publicly humiliate myself with my signature move, "The Sprinkler", so I accepted the invitation. Because it's me we're talking about, of course this man, Mr. Nice-guy-sluggish-panda, was there. With zee gurl.

Don't think for a second that I was worried. The moment I realized this man had hid his girlfriend from me, any admiration that I felt for him dissipated. So I came into the party, nodded politely, and moved on to talk to my friends. Suddenly, I felt a strange presence approaching me.

She is making direct eye-contact with me. She stands in front of me. She gets close to my ear and whispers, "help me make a conga line".

When eloquence fails, all we can say is "what the actual f*ck is happening right now?" I had never met this woman, had never seen her, and she had no reason to speak to me, as her boyfriend did not introduce us. Why was she singling me out and why was she trying to form a conga line with me?

Wait a minute... no... it couldn't be...no, no, it can't be. Moving on.

Reader, it didn't stop there. Later on that night, after eyeing me for a while, she came back to tell me that she was going to take me out to the dance floor. I was politely declining, but guess what? Her boyfriend, a couple yards behind her, was beckoning me animatedly to go dance with her.

I managed to escape by going to the restroom, only to come back and run to the dance floor with my friends before she found me. But then... she found me. And she started dancing with us. And then my friends left me with her... great friends of mine, eh? Yeah, wonderful people.

So I was left alone dancing with this woman who, as luck would have it, danced worse than me, if that's possible. It was like a twig breaking before me.

Suddenly, a drunkard came to the rescue. A big, beautiful, brown man who was heavily intoxicated came to dance with the two of us, and she didn't seem pleased, so she drew back. Perfect. Suddenly, I was dancing with the drunk alone and having the time of my life. BUT THEN, she came back. She grabbed me by the hand and pull me away from my lovely drunk.

Look ya'll, I am not a mean-spirited person, for the most part. And when I'm being ugly, I try to control myself. But man, this lady was pushing it. First of all, we are not friends,  I don't know your name, and you're making me hella uncomfortable. So I was in the highest level of terror alert.

Train of thought:

1. I do not like you.
2. You give me the creeps.
3. Why are you touching me?
4. No, stop.
5. BITCH BYE.

I pulled away. Rudely. I took my own hand back, turned around, and walked away from her and back to my borrachito.

By now, it was all too clear:

Scenario A: This woman is mentally unstable and has found me enticing for some reason. Perhaps I remind her of her grandmother, or the person she murdered.

Scenario B: This woman was enraptured by my beauty and decided to leave her boyfriend and ask me for my hand in marriage.

Scenario C: Nice guy might not have said anything about having a girlfriend, but he certainly told her all about me. Her familiarity, the fact that she expected and almost demanded to spend time with me indicated that he had probably said something along the lines of "oh, you'll love Cristina, she's wonderful! You guys should try to be friends!"

What kind of crap is that? I asked you out, you refused with a lame excuse, and then you told your girlfriend about me? Why? In hopes of what? Ugh and gross and you are just the worst, nice guy.

A man, a real man, would have discreetly brought his girl up in conversation. A real man would have stayed with his woman that night. A real man would have introduced his girl to me, without committing any indiscretions. Whatever this dude did was shitty.

Anyway, more on this later. For now, all I can say is "STOP BEING LIKE THIS".

Magenta Sneakers

Every year for my birthday, I buy myself a nice present. This has been a tradition since I first started working, a long ten years ago. A karaoke machine. A football jersey. A fancy perfume. Last year was no exception. A few days before my birthday, I went to the best place on earth (JC Penney, obviously), and browsed around for hours until finally finding the perfect gift. When I got home, the first thing I did was to take a photo of my spanking-new, beautiful magenta Nike sneakers to send to him.  

It’s a strange thing, falling in love. Suddenly, all you ever want to do is talk to that person, even about the most mundane, silly things. You want to share your every move with him because—well, you wish you could be with him at all times. All the feelings you didn’t know you had suddenly burst out from your little stony heart, like a supernova exploding into stardust, and you become the most beautiful, iridescent, delightful cliché. It’s true, you know it, and you still don’t care. Because suddenly all things feel like they make sense and all the waiting and the loneliness and the THIRD WHEELING are a distant memory.

Ah, you know I’m pulling your leg, right? Last May was one of the most difficult times in my life. Suddenly all the promises that he had made laid broken before me, and my hope and joy had fled far away. I was trying with all my might to hold together my sandcastle as it was being viciously attacked by an imminent rise of tide, but it was only me holding onto it. I kept telling myself that he couldn’t possibly help me, because he was preoccupied with holding himself together, sorting himself out, finding himself, making sense of the convolution in his soul. I kept telling myself that if I truly loved him I needed to stay put, wait in patience, keep my thundering heart in check, prevent my blood from boiling over, scold my sense of justice for feeling offended about his actions. It wasn’t really him. It was all the ghosts, the skeletons in the closet, the monsters under the bed.

So I took the picture of the sneakers and sent it to him, like a child showing off her new toy on Christmas morning. And just like a child who finds out Santa Claus isn’t real, I sat there in disbelief as I read his response, sat there feeling the blood in my veins turn cold and the shutters of my heart closing up for winter, sat there realizing that it wasn’t about patience, or kindness, or the sheer will to keep us together. I sat there as the fact slapped me across the face:

“Why would you buy those? It’s not like you’re going to use them. Maybe you could treat yourself to some free-weights that you’ll never lift, or perhaps a bicycle you’ll never ride while you’re at it--”
“Sometimes I might go on a walk or a jog--”

“So you’re planning to? You do realize that your legs won’t spontaneously start jogging by themselves one day, right?”

Skepticism. Sarcasm. Ridicule. About a damn pair of shoes. I sat there as I realized that he didn’t love me. That whatever he thought he felt for me was not love. Because how, just how could the man that claimed to want to love me for the rest of my life, to want to make me smile every day, to want to protect me from the universe, to want to make me feel cherished, how could he go out of his way to wound me, about something so simple, when I hadn’t done anything to him, had never tried to humiliate him, embarrass him, or belittle him?

Writing this, a year after it happened, makes me rage. How could I have allowed it? Where was I—the real me—as this man was tearing me apart?  We all like to boast about being strong, independent, resilient. But in what moment should the advice “if you truly love him, accept him as he is and forgive him” not be valid anymore? When is it no longer “no one is perfect” and becomes “he’s no good for you”? For me, it was this. This was the last straw. Suddenly I wasn’t the most beautiful woman on earth. I was just a lazy couch potato, a fatass, a woman with no willpower. That was it. I might be a lazy couch potato. I’m definitely a fatass. But I am definitely not a woman with no willpower. The love I felt for him was fighting to survive, but he made sure to crush it. He drove it to the brink and then pushed it down into the void. And when it was gone, all I had was me and a pair of magenta sneakers.

A year has gone by. My magenta sneakers have walked—even jogged—hundreds of miles. The signs of wear are there: tear, upper left side, right shoe; significant scrap, tip of left shoe; dark mud stains all throughout both shoes. At first, these shoes fit too tight and they gave me the most atrocious heel blister that made me unable to wear closed-toe shoes for two weeks. But that didn't stop me from using them again. Remember what I said about my willpower, reader? He underestimated me because I let him. But, more importantly, I had underestimated myself.

 Loving him, I had borne a false cloak of holiness over my shoulders that said I needed to be patient with him and love him despite himself, and that I was going to love him into sanity, confidence, joy, healing. He knew this, and he used it as an excuse to treat me like shit. Jealousy. Insecurity. Inconsistency. Lies. Manipulation. I was supposed to love him out of all that. No, reader. A pair of magenta sneakers made me realize that I needed to love myself enough to walk away from the man I had seemingly dreamed of my entire life (he did have some good qualities, after all). But what if it meant I was going to be alone? What if it meant that no one else would come along?  

Then I will go into my closet, pull out my tennis shoes, pop them on my feet (without even having to undo the laces), and run, run until the soles are gone and my soul soars up and my heartbeat is so high that my heart bursts because I rather die the most horrific death (working out) than stay with a shell of a man who cannot love and cannot accept love. So every day, I put on my sneakers and get going, chasing after the woman I hope I’ll be once again.