Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [62]
I approached Karyn at a bar. She was into me immediately, probably because I came highly recommended from a friend. I drove her home and we made out. It was goddamn heaven.
The final piece to my perfect college existence was there. A hot girlfriend. The only problem was, and I didn’t realize it until years later, Karyn thought I was a fucking douche bag.
In fact, she may have only dated me because everybody else thought I was cool. To her I was a Britney Spears record, something of appeal but little substance that you look down at in line and go, “Why am I buying this?”
And the worst part was, I was a douche bag. I thought I was so cool back then. My jokes were terrible. I’d put a cigarette in my belly button and draw eyes and nose on my chest as a gag. Was I in fucking Mumenshantz? I tried so hard to get into the coolest bars on campus. I even dropped names about famous people I had met at SNL. Who could blame her for hating me?
That’s not to say I didn’t try to make her like me—even love me. Early on in our relationship I had an important realization: “Oh right, she hasn’t seen me dance yet! Once Karyn sees what a good dancer I am, she’ll give herself over to me completely.”
I hatched a plan. I’d throw a party at my house, fully believing that once she saw my dancing ability things would turn around. Now, a word about my dancing. It is what I call “mock good.” In that, no, it’s not good, but I’m so serious about it I’ve convinced myself that it is good, and others seem to be charmed by that.
When the music came on I started moving and everyone began laughing and having fun. Everyone but Karyn, who just stood there, like a bored, unimpressed ice sculpture.
“Wait, no, you’re not getting it,” I wanted to say. “See, I’m being ironic. Notice me and appreciate the spectacle I’m making!”
I ran to her, trying to make it better but only doing more damage.
This, of course, is the curse of the insecure male. It’s not our glasses or balding head. It’s the fact that when the hot girl gets in our proximity, we simply can’t just be. Our methods of survival are the very things that will drive her away.
It’s like when you’re at a fancy hotel pool and a bunch of girls take their tops off and it’s no big deal. Well, I’m always the guy running to everyone else, pointing and yelling, “Did you see the topless girls? There are topless girls by the pool!” That’s not what a guy with a hot girlfriend does.
The end came when I asked Karyn to come cheer me and a friend on in the finals of a regional karaoke contest. I would be singing “Say, Say, Say” and doing my best Michael Jackson impersonation.
“I don’t think so,” she sad. “That’s your thing.”
What the fuck did that mean? “That’s your thing.”
Karyn had this way of answering questions that would leave me unsure how she felt. “That’s your thing.” Like you’re above my stupid college bar competition? Or like, you’re jealous of my time in the spotlight? I mean, shit, girl, I wear a fucking sparkly glove during the song! Isn’t that something you’d want to see?
Karyn never showed and we ended up loosing to two lesbians who sang “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” The stage slid out underneath me during the best part of the song: where I come in with a lift of the leg and shake of the shin singing, “All alone I sit home by the phone! Waiting for you, baby!” It didn’t matter really. The contest was a mile from Smith College. We never had a chance against those lesbians.
As we rode to the movies the next day, I was furious. I took a deep breath and finally said it.
“I don’t get it. You don’t think I’m funny. I mean, everyone thinks I’m funny but you.”
“I know,” she said, with no emotion in her voice.
We lasted a few months after that, mostly because I was living in New York. I drove back to college to see her, hoping she would be impressed by the fact that I had moved to the city. She wasn’t.
Our sex started to go downhill, as she began not moving during the act. This made me unable to get hard, and then she blamed me