by Armelda Simone
May 26, 2000
I think being a single woman in your early twenties is harder today than it's ever been. Women from our mothers' generation don't understand the complications of modern relationships and living; teenage girls don't yet know the cold hard truths about being financially self-sufficient; and men, well, most men don't understand anything that doesn't start with a blow job or end with a touchdown. My new column at divisiontwo is meant to share some of the trials and tribulations that I experience daily as a single gal living in the city, trying to "make it after all," á lá That Girl. But I'm not a Minneapolis TV reporter married to Phil Donahue; I'm just Armelda Simone, a working girl with a job at a startup web company by day and hopeless romantic trying to balance life and love by night.
Take dating, for example. My own current relationship is about as screwed-up as probably 90% of your own. It takes a lot of strength and composure to put up with it sometimes. Robert, my boyfriend, is always telling me how much he loves me, how much he cares about me, how I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. Duh, Robert, I know - just let me watch Friends. It's like he's always talking about his emotions and expressing himself openly, and he always wants to patiently listen to my problems and console me when I'm feeling blue. It's enough to drive a girl insane after awhile.
Or take dieting. All my friends and all my family are always telling me how skinny I am. Every time I go out, all my girlfriends say, "You're so skinny! You're so skinny!" I'm so skinny that my parents took me to the doctor when I was a teenager because they were afraid I had caught anorexia at boarding school. It turns out that I just have a really fast metabolism that lets me eat all I want and never gain a pound. I pig out on chocolate cake and chocolate ice cream and french fries dipped in chocolate all day long, and I still look like I spend 40 hours a week at the gym. I've never been to a gym in my entire life! My legs and my thighs are so perfectly shapely that it looks like I live on a the top floor of a high rise with no elevator. My breasts are so pert and perfect that I always get accused of having surgery. And there's absolutely nothing I can do about my washboard abs; I was just born with them. My sister has them, my mom has them, even my grandmother still has them and she died seven years ago.
It gets tough for me to maintain my self-esteem after a while, looking through fashion magazines like Cosmo and Glamour and only seeing air-brushed women wearing fifteen layers of make-up who still aren't as beautiful as I am when I just roll out of bed in the morning. Everybody else has to work hard for things that just come naturally to me. I feel like I'm alone, everywhere I look are women uglier than me; at work, on the street, in the dance clubs.
Honestly, every single time I go into dance clubs, the owners offer me jobs. Yeah, whatever, like I would take a job as a bar tender or a tub girl when divisiontwo is paying me $400,000 a year to do practically nothing but play Freecell all day long. Sometimes it feels like I have so much money that I don't have anything left to spend it on. I've already got a nice lakeside cabin up north, an HDTV, three cars, two housekeepers, and now I'm looking at buying a vacation home in Puerto Rico -- and I'm still not making a dent in my bank account. I'm only 23 years old, and I could retire now if I wanted to with all the money I've already made just by being in the right place at the right time.
But it doesn't even matter how much money I have or don't have when it comes to guys; men have practically killed themselves falling all over me ever since I hit puberty in sixth grade. It gets to the point where some days I don't even want to leave my apartment to go grocery shopping, because I know that every guy I walk past is gonna ask me for my number. Sometimes they do it right in front of Robert! And of course Robert's all macho and buff, so he has to kick their asses right there, embarrassing me even further.
But Robert certainly gets his share of attention too--from both girls and guys. You've probably seen him on the new Calvin Klein underwear billboards in Times Square. He also does a lot of covers for Men's Health magazine, and he's got a fashion spread coming up for GQ this August. With all the people hitting on him whenever we go out -- actually begging him to let them suck his cock, I'm not kidding -- I'd be terribly jealous if only he weren't so hopelessly devoted to me. He bought me a new Lexus coup last week; I was furious. He knows I can't possibly fit another car in my garage, so I just abandoned it in the warehouse district with the keys in the ignition and all the doors open. Did he care? No. He just bought me an even nicer one the next day. I can never win with him.
Robert is pressing me to get married, but I don't know about all that yet. We've already been to the eugenics center to find out what our kids would look like, and they're definitely above-average, but I can't help thinking that maybe there's a more attractive, wealthier, more devoted man out there that I might never meet if I decide to settle down with Robert. I don't want to fence off all my options just yet I know that a Mr. Even-Better-Than-Robert could throw himself at me any minute.
But in the mean time, I suppose I'll just keep Robert around for all the love and attention and great sex. And it is great sex. This guy is COMPLETELY obsessed with foreplay and long love-making sessions that can go on for days at a time. I've never known a man with more stamina or control than Robert. He does things I've heard sexologists say are impossible. Every time we make love it's like I'm discovering a new planet; one that's even bigger and more beautiful than the last planet I discovered. Sometimes it gets to the point where I can't take it anymore and I feel like I'm just going to dissolve into a quivering mound of pleasure. It's absolutely horrible.
And there you have it, my rant for the week. Thank you for letting me vent some of these problems...I've found it very therapeutic. I hope some of you women out there can relate to my insecurities and musings about life, and I hope you'll share some of your own with me. In the mean time, my Ask Armelda advice box is still open, and if you have any questions or reactions to my column, feel free to shoot me an email to firstname.lastname@example.org. I love hearing from you all!
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