The Rons and the Harrys

Maddie and I had this discussion on Wednesday after the dinner party with Mikey, Tyler and Trav. The burning question: Why did Hermione end up with Ron…the Weasliest of all Weasleys?

The girl was at a school for wizards, and she a lowly Muggle. But the girl was whipcrack smart and on her shit. Surely she would have selected a more valiant partner with all those hottie totties hanging around? I think the answer is easy. You can’t get any more wizardly than the Weasleys, and if you’re a Muggle, maybe that’s your jam. Like me having a thing for Jews. I run from Mexicans, but throw a chosen man in the arena and I’ll choose ’em every day of the week and twice on Friday nights.

But to get to the heart of the matter, why go beta when you’re an alfa? I’ve done my research, and by that I mean, I Googled the question. Way before Wednesday. I’ve been searching for answers for a while now. You see, I’m an alfa and finding the man that can stand up to me is a Herculean feat. Betas support the alpha. And some women want the support.

And I’m reclaiming this blog. I have to come to terms with the fact that every man who will ever be interested in me will come snooping around here eventually. If I censor myself for their sakes, I’m doing myself a major disservice. Writing isn’t a hobby. It’s bloodletting. I’ll explode if I don’t. But there are consequences to being so transparent. Did Joni Mitchell have to deal with this? Or was she able to keep mum about the important things?

I’m still mulling over the whole V thing. I could tell myself it’s a done deal, which it probably is. But, as with all matters of the heart, I won’t be happy until I’ve analyzed it to dust. I’ve come to the conclusion that it has to do with who I appear to be, even in the written word.

I have this aura. I don’t mean to project it. Part of it is a coping mechanism cobbled together over decades of being painfully shy and self-aware.

Be bombastic. B-E bombastic.

Seventh grade, dressed in my mother’s pom outfit for Halloween

But part of it really is that I’m a force of nature. I have that ephemeral charisma and star quality that draws moths to my flame. It disarms guys and charms women.

So who does that attract? A lot of beta males who just want me as a trophy. Conquering me is validation. Only I can read someone so fast I know within five minutes whether I’d ever sleep with them. The ones I like…I’ll make allowances for. Everyone else either mildly amuses me or bores me half to death.

And it’s stuff like that that scares men away and makes writing this stuff precarious business.

When I met V, I read the situation very quickly. It was at the end of a long month of victories and I knew where I stood in the world of men. So I threw all the energy at him, not really caring who he was. And wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, he had zero problems giving as good as he got. It was impressive enough that I Googled him the next morning, remembering the salient details, and friended him on FB. I might have been going home the next day, but I’d be coming back to NYC at some point. And this one I wanted to know.

Why was the sex awkward? I still don’t know. That’s never a problem on my end. But that time, of all times, it was. I don’t try to decode boy language because boys usually say what they mean. There isn’t subtext. But the fact is that there could be in this case because there are always levels and hidden doors to secret passageways when it comes to the two of us. It’s possible, therefore, that it really did come down to what he said. You fuck the people you like, you make love to the people you’re in love with, and the rest who fall into the Uncanny Valley…you just admire…fondly.

Being fondly admired is for the birds. Nora Ephron put it best: “In my sex fantasy, nobody ever loves me for my mind.” Mitch Pileggi worshipped that woman. Even after she wrote My Blue Heaven. God love him.

But also, I still have a thing for him. He probably knows it, and if he doesn’t, well then he isn’t as perceptive as he claims to be.

What do I like about V? He’s decisive. He knows what he wants and how to get it. He doesn’t crumble or get all mushy around me. And he stands up to me. Basically, I like him because he doesn’t like me. Tale as old as time. Unrequited blah blah blah. The girl who’d complain if she were hanged with new rope. But I’m not going to do anything about it or make it weird. I mean…I’m gonna make it weird. Weird is my brand. I am never not weird. But I mean I’m not going to push it. Ever. I can live for years doing the anti-Salt ‘n Peppa. I don’t push it.

It’s a sticky wicket. Don’t stand up to me and I will lose respect immediately. But be kind of a dirtbaggy boss with a genius mind who tells me what to do, and I’ll eat out of your hand. Beta males be damned. And that’s really a shame because there are so many nice guys out there. But they’re scared of me. They never actually go on dates with me. They become pen pals. And I pity them more than I ever admire them. They linger for years, hitting me up on national holidays to wish me well, and they hold torches for someone who doesn’t even exist anymore.

So I go on…solo…admired to the admirers, confidant to the confidentless, undersexed, and in desperate need of falling in love profoundly…for selfish reasons, but there is no such thing as pure altruism. I just want to be my best self, and I can only do that in a team of two. But this particular twosome, I know, has to be mutually supportive and my creative pursuits can’t take a backseat to his ego. Whoever he is has to be strong in knowing that I shine and the bushel has yet to be made that could hide my light.

My chances for long term bliss are whittled down to close to nothing. A needle in a haystack wrapped in a bunch of other needle sorta looking stuff. So here lies Vene, done to death by slow languishing.

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