Ode
to the Nice Girls
This rant
was written because a nice girl finally snapped.
I've read the tribute to the nice guys; this is my response.
This is my tribute
to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends
and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their
personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing
something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first
date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug
and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times.
This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that
the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt
and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper,
touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope that
maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the
girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and
sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who
don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been
in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake
up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word.
This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have
heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in
the sea," to "time heals all wounds."
This is to honor
those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know
that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.
This is for the
girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that
they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night
with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments,
and explicit invitations that they'd rather not have experienced. This
is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines
of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale
for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk
phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite
them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed.
This is for
the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who
have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing
profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after
hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in
a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good
or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of
breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only
wanted as a friend.
This one's for the
girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep
with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have
been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either
only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the
girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to
discover that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not
looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses
because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you,
it's that they don't want anyone.
This is for the girls who have had their
hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared
in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word
and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've
returned home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room
him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking
a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup.
This
is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally
having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it
was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or
his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held
him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right
words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what
it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it
would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing
to sleep.
This is for the
"I really like you, so let's still be friends" comment after
you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never
realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which
make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've received from
your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are
beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a
great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath
of your tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you'd have
was with a pillow and your teddy bear.
This is for the girls who have
been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least
he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we've
believed that something was better than nothing, though his something
was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been
satisified with too little and who have learned never to expect anything
more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've
been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys.
This is what I don't
understand. Men sit and question and whine that girls are only attracted
to the mean guys, the guys who berate them and belittle them and don't
appreciate them and don't want them; who use them for sex and think of
little else than where their next conquest will be made. Men complain
that they never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interested and
compelling, who are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men
despair that no good women want to share in their lives, that girls play
mind games, that girls love to keep them hanging. Yet, men, I ask you: Were you to meet one of these genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling,
interesting and intelligent and sweet and beautiful and smart girls, were
you to give her your number and wait for her to call... and if you were
to receive a call from her the next day and she, in her truthful, loyal,
intelligent and straightforward nice girl fashion, were to tell you that
she finds you intriguing and attractive and interesting and worth her
time and perhaps material from which she could fashion a boyfriend, would
you or would you not immediately call your friends to tell them of the
"stalker chick" you'd met the night prior, who called you and
wore her heart on her sleeve and told the truth? And would you, or would
you not, refuse to make plans with her, speak with her, see her again,
and once again return to the bar or club or party scene and search once
more for this "nice girl" who you just cannot seem to find?
Because therein lies the truth, guys: We nice girls are everywhere. But
you're not looking for a nice girl. You're not looking for someone genuinely
interested in your intermural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm
grade, or that argument you keep having with your father; you're looking
for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to have a connection with
another human being which is just as disposable as the condom you were
using during it.
So don't say you're
on the lookout for nice girls, guys, when you pass us up on every step
you take. Sometimes we go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise: sometimes
when that girl in the low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt won't answer
your catcalls, sometimes you're looking at a nice girl in whore's clothing
- - we might say we like the attention, we might blush and giggle and
turn back to our friends, but we're all thinking the same thing: "This
isn't me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a teeshirt and flannel shorts,
I'll have slept alone and I'll be making my hungover best friend breakfast.
See through the disguise. See me. You never do. Why? Because you
only see the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes those
advances.
You don't want the nice girl.. so don't say you're looking for
a relationship: relationships take time and energy and intent, three things
we're willing to extend - - but in return, we're looking for compassion
and loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to express.
Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race they're running they're chasing
after the whores and the sluts and the easy-targets... the nice girls
are waiting at the finish line with water and towels and a congratulatory
hug (and yes, if she's a nice girl and she likes you, the sweatiness probably
won't matter), hoping against hope that maybe you'll realize that they're
the ones that you want at the end of that silly race.
So maybe it won't
last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that race will turn in their
running shoes and make their way to the concession stand where we're waiting; however, until that happens, we still have each other, that silly race
to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because what's a concession
stand at a race without some chocolate?)
By Jessica Leigh Griffith
