Maybe, unless you're expecting company, you use paper plates instead of the ones in your cabinet because you hate doing dishes. Maybe you wear socks with holes in them unless you're going to an interview, a doctor's office, or a new love interest's home. Maybe you own clip-on bowties because you don't know how to tie a tie. Perhaps you never leave the house without a toothpick in your pocket because you'd sooner be caught dead than have someone see a bit of lettuce lodged between your teeth. Maybe you still sleep with a teddy bear.
We all have quirks. Some of them make us charming. Some of them make us nerdy. For the most part, we like to keep our quirks under wraps, especially in the company of those we'd like to get it on with. But what if we got it all out of the way before getting it on? What if we came clean about our quirks?
I'll go first.
Bras
Though I've been wearing bras half my life, I still don't know how to properly put one on or take one off. It's the clasp that gets me. I know what I'm supposed to do--I think. I'm supposed to unclasp the thing without cutting myself on the metal hooks, gracefully slip my arms through the dainty shoulder loops, and then reach behind my back with, I imagine, just one hand, and in a single deft motion, scoop up the loose ends and blithely hook them together. Slipping out of the bra at the end of the day requires reversing this process, and should be an equally, if not more so, sexy maneuver.
I suppose using just one hand might be a pro move, but the thought of using even two hands is daunting. First of all, how the hell does one keep the shoulder straps from slipping off their shoulders when they reach backwards to clasp their bra? Furthermore, how does one go about this process without dislocating an arm? Maybe there's a secret yoga class the boob gods forgot to invite me to.
Some of you who have known how to put a bra on since the doctors wiped the goop from your newborn eyes are probably wondering how the hell I put a bra on. I'll tell you: I don't need a yoga class or Inspector Gadget arms to do it. First, I clasp the bra. Then I pull it over my head and tug it downwards over my boobs, which is easy and not unlike pulling on a t-shirt. Cons: sometimes I mistake how much space there is between the underwire and my skin, resulting in nipple chafing; the elastic tends to take a beating; occasionally I get caught in the shoulder straps like one of those poor sea birds on the Discovery Channel that can't fly because its wing is jammed inside one of the plastic rings of a soda six-pack carrier. Therefore, if I've had the good fortune to share my bed, I have to put my bra on when my bed-mate is asleep or while I'm in the bathroom so they don't suddenly realize they've just slept with that sad seagull from the Discovery Channel.
What's worse than taking off my own bra is trying to take off someone else's. I have never been able to take off a woman's bra with just one hand. And occasionally, while using two hands, I've cut myself on the clasp. I have workarounds, of course. I've used my teeth in place of a hand, which can be sexy, if done right. If it takes too long, though, I just wind up looking and sounding like a dog digging for a bone. My least provocative workaround is being so damned slow to get to the clasp that she winds up undoing it herself. It's not sexy, but it's blood and dog-free.
As if it's not pathetic enough I don't know how to put on or take off a bra the way man intended, until writing this blog, I didn't know bras have more classifications than "sports" and "all other bras." Sure, I knew about "push up" bras, but I never realized they aren't the only subdivision of the clasp class. Did you know they make bras specifically for t-shirts? The "t-shirt bra" is an actual thing--no shit.
There's a bra for everyone and everything. There are even bras for folks who have no mammaries (the "mastectomy" bra). The bras have names fit to transport you: they evoke the sterile rooms of hospitals ("adhesive," "nursing"), the opulence of elite hotel rooms ("balconette"), the comfort of coffee shops ("full cup," "demi cup"), the action of rec centers ("sports," "deep plunge"), the flashiness of automotive trade shows ("convertible"), the anything goes of BDSM clubs ("strapless," "minimizing"), the pinkies up of aristocratic and risque tea parties alike ("bralette"), the stark practicality of IKEA catalogs ("shelf"), and the warm spice of exotic places ("bandeau").
The point is, there are a bunch of bras out there for different occasions, and I have been recklessly wearing whatever bra I want with whatever shirt I want wherever I want my whole life. I've worn t-shirt bras under ball gowns, paired lacy balconettes with simple cotton tank tops; I've sported push-up bras while jogging and sports bras beneath blouses, and all the while I've clasped no bras behind my back and have passed them all over my head (or up over my hips on my more eccentric days). I've been brassiering wrong my whole life, and there's little chance I'll start doing it right.
There's always a possibility these quirks could be hot. Maybe getting tangled up in one's own bra is sexy in a damsel-in-distress kind of way. Maybe wearing a lacy demi cup bra beneath a moisture-wicking running shirt is titillating. I sure hope so.
Hair
I have hair. I comb and brush it every morning so I won't be fired from my job and so my friends will agree to be seen with me in public. When it's short, I just have to make sure I wash it every day so I don't go up in flames near heat sources. When it's long, I have to brush it every ten minutes lest I look like Harry Potter. Somehow, my hair has the power to tangle in a windless environment, even when I'm standing still. At the beginning of the day, it is thin and of an indeterminate color approximating muddy water. By the end of the day, it is stringy and the color of an oil spill.
What you need to know is I try. I try to make it presentable. You need to know the most I can do with it is put it up in a lumpy pony tail. Though I own clips and bobby pins, I don't know how to use them. And when I have access to tools like hair dryers and curlers, I somehow manage to burn my ears and tangle my hair into a puffy mass of knots that would make a mighty fine nest for some woodland creature down on its luck.
It's been suggested that I at least try to move the part from the middle to the side. To this I can only say: YOU try to move the part. If you can find a way to make it stay on the side for longer than 15 minutes, I'll buy you a coffee. I'll even let you use the can of hairspray I don't know how to use.
My Cat, Misophonia, & Boundaries
I built a loft bed mainly to get away from my overly-adoring cat.
I love my cat, but you will doubt it, at least initially. You will wonder why I don't let him sit in my lap, why I tell him to get away when he paws my arm while I'm at my computer. You will let him on your lap. You will fawn over him when he gently places his tiny, adorable mitten of a paw on your cheek, and you will think me a cold-hearted monster when I toss him summarily out of the room in the midst of one of his agonizingly long and loud preening sessions.
If you stick around long enough, you'll begin to understand that my cat is a black hole. You could cuddle him all day, and he'd only want more. And finally, you will understand the necessity of the loft bed if you ever fall asleep within his reach and wake up to him purring while massaging your bra-less chest, a sweet little grin on his face.
Poop
I poop, like everyone else on the planet, but you will never know about it. Yes, I will make poop jokes whenever the occasion arises (and also when it does not, e.g., at the dinner table, at holiday gatherings with your extended family, and with strangers at the grocery store). But you will never hear me talk seriously about my own shit.
Even when it seems I am coming clean about my fecal machinations, I will completely disorient you. "Well, that's a load off," I'll triumphantly announce while exiting the bathroom, leading you to believe, of course, that I just took a dump. At first, you'll scoff or laugh at my brazenness. But gradually, over the course of time, after listening to many of my unabashed poop proclamations, you'll realize that there is no telltale stink wafting from the bathroom despite the fact that you never hear the distinct whoosh of the deodorizing spray can, that I don't spend longer than two minutes in the can and I don't eat enough fiber for that level of expediency, and that, in general, I tend to hold my cards close to my chest even (especially) when it seems like I'm laying them all out on the table.
You will go to the grave never knowing for sure if I ever took a shit while you were near, and if I'm good enough, you will in your heart of hearts believe that I might be a robot, incapable of producing a bowel movement and so ashamed about my inability to produce the stuff that I constantly talk about it to compensate.
Packaging
I can't open packages like a normal person. As a result, I have nearly choked on the soy-less rice of many a grocery store sushi roll, have been unable to prepare basic microwave noodle dishes without the helping hands of a coworker, and have left frozen pizza boxes in tatters that would shame a pack of hungry hyenas. I have cut myself on the perforated tabs of cardboard packages, have lost circulation in my fingers while twisting packing tape off of boxes, and have swallowed enough plastic bits of ketchup packets to form a bezoar. In the absence of scissors and knives, I have found paperclips, ballpoint pens, and car keys to be acceptable substitutes.
What I'm trying to say is if it were the end of the world and you and I had the amazing fortune of being fortified in a bunker full of canned and packaged foods, but you had lost the use of your hands and we depended on my abilities alone to open the packages in order to survive, we would starve in about three weeks, give or take a few days, according to science, unless I accidentally hurt myself in an attempt to open the food. That would likely shorten our time together.
Not only can I not open packages, I can't wrap them either. Holidays and birthdays are a terrible time for someone with my lack of talents. I thank God for the folks who invented decorative gift bags and tissue paper. It's like they were thinking of me. Maybe they were tired of receiving gifts wrapped in pillowcases ("I'll be needing that back..."). Maybe the blood on the newspaper wrapping and the excessive paper on some parts of the gift and complete absence of it on others unnerved them. I don't know. I do know that if perfectly wrapped gifts, coifed in legitimate bows and topped with gift tags to match the paper, are important to you, this is the end for us.
Food
In case you missed some of the details in the Packaging section, I can't cook. It's taken me a long time to fully realize this. I used to think that combining ingredients from the refrigerator and pantry meant that I could, in fact, cook. But I have made some truly disgusting dishes that not even I could stomach (e.g., bean noodles with pesto sauce and chopped clams), and I have eaten many foods that people I respect object to (e.g., chocolate hummus).
I am not someone who knows the difference between "mince," "dice," and "chop." I don't know why it's important to "whisk" something instead of simply taking a fork to it briskly. I don't know the difference between a sauce pan and any other pan (or is it pot?). How is a marinade different from a sauce? I can't even use a crockpot without looking up a recipe.
I subsist on eggs and coffee. Sometimes I eat cheese. (I should never eat cheese.) At times, my body cries out for salad. Because eating salad requires having ingredients for salad and dressing, I often wind up simply eating radishes out of the vegetable drawer. It's not that I'm against salad; it just has a tendency to disappoint. It takes a while to chew it, it sticks in my teeth, and it lacks the satisfying heft of protein. Some people put chicken or steak on their salads, but I always think, why ruin the meat?
I know someday when a doctor tells me I am at risk of diabetes, I will have to change my lazy ways. Until then, I'll have you know I will eat just about anything, and I am an excellent dishwasher.
Sports, Religion, and other forms of Fundamentalism
I find no enjoyment in sportsball. I have tried to like it, but the closest I've ever come is shouting, "Do it!" at random ice hockey players while stuffing nachos in my face. The lack of storyline really kills it for me. Do people who don't drink find sports entertaining? I wonder.
I think abject loyalty to a team, religion, political party, or ideology is not only foolish but potentially dangerous. I do not understand cheering for a team (though I understand the deep respect one might have for the craft of a sport), kneeling in a church (though honoring a belief in a higher power is certainly understandable), or voting for a party instead of a platform.
It bothers me when people try to live at one end of any spectrum, paint the world in two colors only, ignore the gray. For instance, how can anyone who espouses to be an environmentalist, who turns on a light, wears clothing, uses medication, and flushes their own crap down a toilet--judge someone else for driving to work or eating non-organic food? That's madness. Try to change the world for the better, yes, but don't pretend you're not part of the problem or that the solution is so easy.
Anyway, in short, I'd rather watch a good movie featuring complex characters and an interesting plot than watch a bunch of people move a ball across a court or field, and I'd rather discuss problems and solutions than defend tired party lines and dogma. This might be one of my less charming quirks. The next few are probably party-pooper quirks as well.
Family
The truth: I don't want to spend time with your family any more than I want to spend time with my own. I love my family. And I also feel good about seeing them one to three times a year and talking to them every few weeks on the phone. I am certain that if they didn't live across the country, we would not have weekly dinners together because we would like to continue caring about each other and living as stress-free existences as we can. Maybe we'd hang out together once a month. We'd certainly gather for birthdays and holidays. But that would be about all we could handle.
If this revelation isn't damning enough, keep reading...
Talk Radio, Podcasts, & Audio Books
This could be a deal breaker, so it's good to get it out of the way: I hate NPR. I want to want to like it, the way my fellow liberal friends like it, but I don't. I don't like listening to people talking on the radio unless they're prank calling someone or telling a tragically comedic first date story. I don't want to listen to the news, hear an interview with some ivy league genius, or be subjected to the latest global warming statistics. I don't even want to listen to that "Serial" podcast that seduced the nation in 2015.
I hate the carefully measured voices, the musical interludes, the oral citations. How the hell does anyone remember all of the information coming at them if they can't annotate it, return to it, study it on the page? I'd rather have music to sing to or silence to reflect in, channels that invite participation.
That book on tape you think I'd like? I'd like it a lot better in paperback form. I don't like being at the mercy of the reader's pace, unable to see the paragraph breaks. I don't like listening to faceless voices. They so often sound like sales associates, like they want something from you, like they know you are foolish enough to give it to them. But they're not gonna get anything from me!
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I know. I'm glad we got this out of the way.
Nice one@
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