The Color of Resentment

I resent him now just as much as I loved him then. I hate that feeling. It is bothering me. He is bothering me. It makes me feel weak, bitter, needy, and sick. I decided to let it out once and for all. I am looking now at his picture and I am forcing all the memories that I have blocked to come out; our first meeting and how I was so turned off by his lack of determination and laid back attitude; our first phone call and how his voice annoyed me; our first outing and why I had no interest in his lame conversation and anecdotes; our first week and how I spared no effort to push him away. My first angry email and how hurt I was. Our first breakup and how I missed him. It is all flowing back into my head now.

I got used to the voice that once annoyed me. I longed for the words that never interested me. I needed his presence in my life regardless of the definition. I settled for friendship and had to listen to his previous escapades, current flings, and future plans with someone who will never be me. Occasionally, I would compile the strength to walk away only to relapse into him again like an incurable addiction to a fatal drug. I tired all the tricks in the book; pros and cons lists, motivational post-its on my mirror, feminist articles, survival songs, chocolates, and other partners. Nothing worked. He knew that he was graciously stepping on my ego. He knew I was insulted and in love. He enjoyed looking at the new addition to his collection of broken-hearted women. In his condescending patronizing tone, he refused to validate my feelings, and withheld from apologizing.

One day, he was telling me – his friend – about his new amour when all of a sudden my green-eyed monster rose from the ashes and breathed fire in his face. His words literally and physically hurt me. Listening to him talk about the new kid on the block gave me the feeling of hundreds of little bees stinging my shoulder. We hung up that day and never spoke again. I put him, my feelings for him, and all my memories with him in a big box and threw it down the gutters of my deep psyche. That was almost a year ago and I never missed him once since then. I got off the ground, shook the dust off my clothes, straightened my hair, wiped my face, and walked away.

If I were to choose a color for that feeling – the feeling of resentment – I would opt for silver. Silver is the color of bullets, knives, swords, scalpels, and all cutting tools. It is the color of chains, cuffs, shackles, and all restraining equipment. It is the mirror that only reflects your words and actions; it shows you nothing but yourself, your anger, and your resentment. It is the glamorous version of the dull grey. It is a color that smells and tastes like rust, and feels and looks like dust. Like a relationship that went belly up, silver has neither a soul nor a core; it is just the mummification of what was once alive. Sparkling ashes are still ashes and gun powder is what is left after a gun shot.

Silver is not a solid color; it is a metal. Metals are cold, sharp and they expand under heat and tend to shrink in the cold. Like my resentment of him, he is made of silver. He himself is a cutting edge that wounds women who come his way. I am not the only one; they all have been on his rollercoaster. The ride starts with a lot of anticipation, eagerness, and excitement, and then once it reaches the point where the girl develops any sort of attachment to him, the relationship goes downhill. It deteriorates slowly, painfully, and heavily. He backs off and she plays hide and seek with herself; she hides from the resentment and seeks inner peace. She either becomes a face from the past or a trophy among many others. He is a collector.

Seeing his picture or hearing his name evokes the unresolved anger and animosity that I have been harboring against him. Last week his name came up in a casual conversation and I felt the bitter silver-ish taste in my mouth. I was silently fuming as I remembered my bruised ego. I sat there gritting my teeth and trying to smile when I really wanted to scream and yell at whoever dared mention his name in my presence. I tried hard to name 10 good things about him and I only thought of one. I tried to push him back into the black box but he was out and the silver ashes were suffocating me; my eyes hurt, my nose itched, and my skin was irritated as I struggled for a breeze. I decided to spit the silver ball out of my system. Passively waiting and wishing that time will wash away the silver residue was not working. This is why I ran to my laptop and decided to write one last time about him. I will no longer push my resentment down; I will let it surface and will capture its metallic essence in a tight mesh and throw it away.

I am cured and healed, but what about you my friend? I know he broke your heart. I know you have had a bumpy ride. I know it hurts. I know you want him. I know you hate him. I know how sad you are now. I know his games. I know your pain. I know you are alone. I know that being with him made you feel lonely. I know he is not there. I know he was never there. I know he will never be there. Do not make my mistake. Do not waste your energy on a lifeless person. Do not build your dreams on someone who will not make them come true. Do not look back at someone who does not want to walk forward. Do not let the silver color blind your golden heart. Do not give him another chance to waste. Do not settle for a place in his trophies closet. I am older and I am asking you not to worry … the see is full of fish … bigger better fish.

What Color is your Collar?

When did I become so class conscious? How did I grow into that obnoxious girl that categorizes people based on where they live, what they wear, and how they talk? Their dialects, education, and possessions determine their location on my social stratification model. I am not materialistic by any means – I just believe that social class reflects on a person’s general disposition in life; occupation, education, qualifications, income, grooming, manners, cultural refinement, taboos, and language and diction. I fully realize that over the years, I have evolved from a common middle class girl into a distinguished lower upper class lady.

In 1949 William Lloyd Warner set an early example of a stratum class model; Upper-upper class is what we call “old money” and those are people who have been born into and raised with wealth. Lower-upper class is equivalent to “new money”, and those are people who, like me, have become rich within their own lifetimes and due to their own work. The upper-middle class is, like my family, professionals with a college education. But other members of my family belong to the lower-middle class, who are low paid white collars, but not manual laborers. Today, I believe it is only fair to mingle with or marry from my current social class.

Ok … let me start from the start. It hit me for the first time when I met Lisa in her office back in June 2001. She was leaving Egypt and I was her successor. I still remember how my eyes wandered around and literally fell in love with everything Lisa had in her office; the glass bowl and gold fish, the scented candles, the tall vase and bamboo shoots, the lace curtains, the Christmas cards on the shelves, the pink and orange pens on her desk, and his picture - a picture of a dark Egyptian man on Lisa’s desk.

“Ismail, my husband.” Lisa said and I did not know what to say. He obviously looked like an impoverished under-educated working-class Egyptian. As though Lisa could read my mind, she openly admitted that he was poor, that his English was even poorer, and that his family was among the poorest, and that she knew that I would never consider talking to him, let alone getting married to him. I was shocked and perplexed. I struggled for the right words and nothing came out.

Later on that day, Lisa told me that her mother thought she was out of her mind when she decided to get married to Ismail - a black Arab waiter who could not speak English. But she had never met a man who made her feel so special and so precious. She did not need him to talk to her in English, when everything she needed to know was written in his eyes. I told her that they were different – socially and culturally different. She replied with confidence that we were all different and that if I was looking for a man who is a clone of me, then I would look for an eternity – in vain.

I told her that she was smart, pretty, successful, well educated, well traveled, and well positioned in her career. She could have had any man she wanted. Lisa’s smile grew wider as she told me that she did get the man that she wanted. She told me that people from the same country might share the same cultural outlines but when looking deeper one would find various sub-cultures, norms, values, and beliefs. Lisa told me that she loved his family; they had a small house, yet they insisted that she spent a few days with them. They had little food, yet they shared it with her. They did not speak her language, yet they made her feel welcomed and important with what went beyond words.

“Girls in this part of the world measure men on the scales of wealth, education, and social status. Those scales are often deceiving. They only permit you to look at the outside of a person and deny you any access to his real potential; you see his house not his heart, his car not his mind, his language not his words. The Egyptian society is like a foster home for the seven deadly sins including greed, gluttony, lust, and sloth. Why do you insist on turning human beings into dogs who have to wear collars and labels to identify them? A white collar for well educated executives and professionals, a blue collar for workers and laborers, a pink collar for female jobs like nurses, nannies, and secretaries, and a golden collar for those who dropped out of school and college to pursue a vocational career.” Lisa’s words still resonate in my head and I still have no answer.

Failure to Launch

I was watching Matthew McConaughey’s and Sarah Jessica Parker’s romantic comedy Failure to Launch, and I was highly entertained by the idea of working as an “interventionist”. I would kill to get that job! Come on … look at it my way … it will get me to date regularly and …. I will get paid for it. The plot was built around Tripp, a 35 year old dude, whose parents were trying to get him to move out of the house. He had a nice job and a passion for sailing. His mother still made his bed, vacuumed his room, picked up his dirty clothes and left his clean laundry for him. She also made him pancakes, eggs, and bacon for breakfast. Sounds familiar?

At first I did not get the point of the movie – so what?! A single adult living with his parents – there is no law against that! Then I realized that in real life, with a subconscious twist, I selectively date men who live on their own. I also noticed that my resentment for guys who still lived with their parents erupts in sarcastic comments, sudden mood swings, unjustified aggression, or implicit punishment sentences. Deep down I would automatically consider him as less mature, less responsible, less reliable, and less worthy when compared to me. In that sense, I would be more experienced and more exposed than he ever was. I know this sounds awfully judgmental but this is how I weigh it.

It took a lot of strength and courage for a single girl like me to move out at the age of 28. Society, family, friends, men, and people who did not even know me frowned upon my decision. In the eyes of some, I was an outcast, for others I was insane, and for the majority I was a question mark. Five years later people still cannot understand my quest for independence and my need for growing into a whole person instead of becoming another female invalid who needs to lean on male crutches. I admit that leaving the nest has its pros and cons; the best thing about it is a sense of pride that only achievers can relate to. The worst thing about it is an utter lack of freedom. Yes! No freedom … responsibilities and bills govern almost every decision I take.

“To leave the nest, some men just need a little push” but what kind of push are we talking about when it comes to our men? How can we push a man away from his mommy’s arms? How can we plant any seeds of responsibility in the soul of men who are so spoilt beyond reconciliation? Unlike parents here, in the movie, the parents were upset that their baby would not leave the nest; they felt that they did something wrong in the way they brought him up because he failed to claim his independence. They hired Paula to motivate their son to move out. Her strategy was basically to meet him by coincidence, get him to ask her out, involve him in a trauma, meet his friends and get their approval of her, delay sex, have him teach her something, and finally launch him. She believed that men still living at home lacked self-esteem so she would establish a relationship with the man, build his confidence up and then move him out of his parents' house.

Let’s assume that I got Paula’s job. Let’s assume that I am on a mission to throw men off the terrace – set them free in my sick metaphorical way – and that I will follow Paula’s plan for launching a man. I would expect the following scenario: We meet by coincidence, he plays Mr. So-Big-So-Hard-To-Get, then after several maneuvers from his side and some well-aimed blows from my side, he finally gets attached. I declare that our relationship will not progress until I know that he is an independent person who can survive on his own. Like other guys who are trapped in the comfort zone of their parent’s house, he throws one excuse after the other at me and I brilliantly fail at my mission.

Excuses? Yes! Plenty! “My parents are too old. I have to take care of them and their needs. They will be heartbroken.” Or “when I got married” or “people do not respect men who live alone, they automatically think that this man is a womanizer.” Some are more honest and they just say that they are comfortable and well taken care of. Some say that the only thing they would miss about living on their own would be the ability to come and go as they pleased, and with whom ever they pleased. One guy told me honestly that he could not afford it.

On the other hand, parents panic when their grown up little boy asks for his right to blossom into manhood. Somehow they interpret it as treason and ingratitude. They feel that they raised up an ungrateful little monster who walked away on their old age. Of course I will not start a girls-living-alone movement here; I am still fighting the battles of self-esteem with my fellow women. But men, our men, our macho men, our male prima donnas – why are they seeking refuge in the sheltered nest of mother goose? In nurturing societies like ours, independence is translated into aloofness and people living on their own are automatically categorized as trouble makers. Good boys and good girls never leave the nest unless they are dead, married, or forced to work abroad. Failure to launch … this is the one failure that families celebrate rather than lament!

When the Apple is Ripe it will Fall

“I met someone” she said in a voice that lacked the buzz of a new relationship.
“But?” I asked knowing that there had to be a “but”.
“He is eight years younger!”

I understand why a woman my age, or older, could be attracted to someone who is younger, or much younger; yet, I failed to grasp the logic – if such a word exists – behind young men who willingly consensually freely choose to dive into a relationship with someone who is ten years older than he is. By a relationship I do not mean an affair, I am referring to a full fledged relationship that incorporates all the rules of Victorian courtship – the wining and dining, the meet my friends and meet your friends, the call me and call you, and the love you and miss you routines.

Almost 33, I am secretly growing more insecure in the presence of younger girls, but obviously I have competitive advantages that I am not aware of. I am no exception to this new perplexing rule; A, N, M, and H are four of my friends whose ages range from 37 to 47, and they are attracting guys who are at best 8 years younger. My last four attempts at dating were with guys whose ages ranged from 23 to 28. My Facebook account is bombarded with friend requests from a breed that is a decade younger than I am. My blog is piling up comments from angry bloggers who recently developed facial hair. Something is wrong!! How do we, older women, attract them - younger guys?

I am bad at guessing! I had to ask them! I needed to hack their little green brains and find out the answer. My classroom – there is no better place to start. Instead of a pop quiz in marketing, I handed them a piece of paper with one question and I gave them an hour to give me the answer that has been confusing the heck out of me. The question was: If you had a choice, would you rather date someone your age or, would you date me, or someone else, knowing that there is more or less ten years of difference in age? Why yes? Why no? The look on their faces was priceless! The silence that filled the room was louder than anything they would have said. They were looking at me for clarification and I gave them none. I told them that the clock was ticking and that I was serious.

In an hour the answer sheets were on my desk and I impatiently began checking their responses. There were some flattering comments about my eyes and smile and there were some semi-insulting comments about my temper and insanity. As I went deeper into their explanation my eyes grew wider in shock as I found out the major points of differentiation that make those guys favor ripe apples – as one student put it down. A combined list would say that we are more mature, independent, experienced, understanding, and appreciative of the little things young girls take of granted. We have careers and are busy with important and meaningful stuff. We are good listeners and we give good advice. The list goes on to highlight our graces; secure, intellectual, connected, and confident.

One student said that we do not ask silly questions and we do not get upset over stupid things like “Do you love me? Do I look good? Why didn’t you call? Where were you? Who’s that girl? Or I have a curfew, I cannot be seen with you, and let’s cruise.” Some guys said that being with an older woman will make younger women interested; “if I were to date you, young girls will be jealous and they will want to know what is so special about me that would make an icon like you go out with me. – I must be really mature and experienced to satisfy you.” Another student was very honest when he said “you will pick up the check all the time; this is the price you will pay for going out with a hot dude like myself – I mean you know I am young and I cannot afford your outings.” Several opinions shed light on expectations; “girls my age want to get married – not to me in particular, they just want to get married. You will not rush me into meeting your family and will not bother me with questions about the future. Older women are down to earth and they just want to live the moment.”

On the more aggressive side, a guy replied saying that “I like to think of it as a charitable act of goodwill. If being around someone who is going downhill would make her feel better, then so be it. I also enjoy how her younger female friends look at me. Some of them even flirt.” Another guy said that “behind their confident experienced façade, older women need to be held and touched. They need a sharp pencil – if you know what I mean (wink).” Outside the classroom, a blogger told me, face to face, that older women are just a phase “I am learning and gaining experience so I will be ready for a girl my age. Being with her makes me feel so grown up but there will be a time when I go back in the time machine to my real age. It is never serious. There is an implicit deal between me and my girlfriend, if you want to call her so, that there is no happily ever after end to our relationship.”

I was visiting 37 year old divorced N a few months ago at her place and we were having the usual girl talks until she told me that her boyfriend is coming. I wanted to leave but she insisted that I met him. I asked her what he did for a living and she told me that he was an account executive in an agency. I then asked her how they met and she said that they had met online. I asked her if he was married, she laughed, and told me that he was 28. I knew that she was lonely and that her dating options were next to disgusting, and I could understand her reasons for dating a younger guy but I was super curious about his reasons especially when I saw him. He was well groomed, well spoken, well dressed, and well bred. I was too shy to ask him about his interest in my friend, so I waited till he was gone and I asked her to give me her best guesses for his motives.

She told me that he was fascinated by her day to day stories – the same stories that bored men her age. When it came to his personal or professional life, he found her advice indispensable. Plus of course the fact that she had her own place, lived alone, and was in touch with her feminine side. She told me that she offered him the comfort, space, and freedom that young girls could not provide. N would never ask him any question that started with why, when, who, where, how, what, how long, or how often. She is independent – mentally and emotionally – and with his monthly 3000 Egyptian Pounds, it is not likely that he could be entertaining any ideas of getting married soon. N was very comfortable analyzing his motives and was under no illusion that this could be love or that it could end up with something old, something new, or something borrowed and something blue.

A 28 year old guy was wooing me, and after I declared my age, he said with a huge smile on his face that women are like apples; the older they grow the riper they become. Sarcastic as usual, I said that ripe apples are bruised from the inside and have visible brown patches. I was a bit self conscious when I added that this was a sign that they were approaching their expiry date. My smart cookie said that those brown patches are sweeter, softer, more tender, and much tastier than the rest of the apple. I could not keep up with the witty conversation. I did like the puppy look in his eyes. I was falling, and ironically speaking, I resorted to the Irish proverb that says: When the apple is ripe it will fall!

Excuse me? Open What?

“I am in an open relationship!” He said like a proud Egyptian declaring his American passport.
“How do you mean?” I asked like a poor Egyptian who has never seen a map!

I was not playing dumb; I seriously did not know what to make out of his statement! Open relationship as in honest? No taboos? Creative? Mentally stimulating? Physically liberating?

He gracefully explained to my not-so-enlightened self that this was the ideal relationship because they would never get bored of one another, they got to enjoy space and freedom, and that he was open and candid about having other partners, but he would always come back to her. He asked me to loosen up because life was too short! He told me that he was very honest with his girl and with all the other girls; it was a sign of how decent and open-minded he was! I walked away from the conversation before my violent streak took over, and ran to the comfort and warmth of my cats - who have so far proved to have better logic when compared to human beings.

So an open relationship is like an open invitation for the man to come and go as he pleased? Who would accept that? Is it like a permission to cheat? What kind of man would have the audacity to demand that? Does it mean that exclusivity is struck out of the context of the relationship? Why would anyone want to do that? So, could the girl have multiple partners as well? What would that make of her man? Half a man? If you delete commitment, trust, and respect from a relationship, what would you have left? Sex? Where would such an arrangement leave intimacy, bonding, and partnership? Why even call it a relationship in the first place?

In the old days, men used to tell naïve girls that they were separated. I remember the first time I heard that line, I asked a series of closed-ended questions for clarification; I always started with whether they lived in separate houses, and when the answer was negative, I asked whether they lived in separate bedrooms, and when that test came out negative as well, I would ask timidly if they slept in separate beds. Most of the time, that also was negated. I used to struggle as I asked for a definition of being separated, and I was always told that they were separated on the mental and emotional level. – This is my definition of sliced baloney marinated in crap that men feed us all the time!

A decade later, men grew wiser and realized that their “I am separated” line is not flying. They used the head on top of their shoulders and voila: a new type of relationships that sounds so politically sound - an open relationship was their proposition! A solution that relieved them of any previously felt guilt. He does not have to lie about his whereabouts or hide his tracks anymore; why should he when his partner gave up her right to object and agreed to become an object in his life? There are two types of girls who would accept such a deal; Prototype A is a girl who does not have true feelings and is using him just as much as he is using her. Prototype B is a desperate girl who consensually gives the man the right to kick her behind whenever he pleased. Aside from the traditional code of ethics, and shockingly enough, I carry more respect for the first type, as opposed to contempt, with no traces of sympathy, for the second.

Following George Orwell’s Animal Farm model, upon replacing the word animals with men and making the necessary adjustments, let me jot down the seven commandments of a man’s open relationship:

“Remember, comrades, your resolution must never falter. Never listen when they tell you that men and women have a common interest, that the prosperity of one is the prosperity of the other. It is all lies. Women serve the interests of no creature except themselves. And among us men let there be perfect unity, perfect comradeship in the struggle. All women are enemies. All men are comrades. Here is a toast to open relationships!”

1. Whatever goes upon two legs, and asks for exclusivity, is an enemy.

2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has no character, is a friend.

3. No man shall wear a wedding ring – married or not.

4. No man shall sleep in the same woman’s bed forever – married or not married to him.

5. No man shall respect women – women were created for entertainment.

6. No man shall commit to any woman – married or not married to him.

7. All people are equal but men are more equal than women.

The Witch Effect

In my Pocahontas nighty, with a whole bar of chocolate stuffed in my mouth and empty wrappers all around me, I watched Nicole Kidman’s and Will Ferrell’s Bewitched. I needed a distraction. I wanted to give my mind a break. It should have been a nice funny romantic chick flick movie but I found myself drifting away from the main plot and the sub plots, and sinking into a plot of my own; I drew a parallel line between the witch, Nicole Kidman, as Isabel Bigelow, and myself – Don’t laugh! I am not talking looks wise! I outgrew that illusion a few years back!

Let me show you how I ingeniously came to that conclusion; the first thing that got my attention was Isabel’s taste in men. She fell in love with Will Ferrell, playing Jack Wyatt, at first sight. Why? Because he was a mess! He even spelt it out for her: “I am a mess. I am a jerk, number one, extremely arrogant, and I love to bleach my hair out.” I thought I was the only girl on earth with self destructive tendencies, bad taste in guys, and a shallow streak! – I thought wrong!

A few minutes later in the movie, Isabel could not stand the thought of not telling her beloved Jack that she was a witch! She did not want to trick him into loving her, she wanted him to love her for who she really was. – sounds painfully familiar! She struggled with her fear, put her strength together, and blurted it out in his face; “Guess what? I'm a witch!” she said, and what did she get in return? Sarcasm! “Guess what? I'm a Clippers fan!” Jack replied! Poor Isabel was left with the only choice of having to demonstrate her powers. – I do that too!

His laughter stopped. His face changed. He finally realized that she is a broom-flying spell-casting cauldron-brewing witch! Like a lot of guys out there, Jack could not handle her supernatural gift. Behind Isabel’s angelic face and frail figure, lies a witch! In the fifteenth century Europe, and for centuries to follow, witch-hunts involving moral panic, hysterical masses, and mob lynching, resulted in tens of thousands of executions. The thought of having a witch in town evoked superstitious fear, not to mention dating one or, even worse, getting married to one.

Over the centuries, ignorant masses killed any alleged practitioners of witchcraft, and labeled the gifted as quacks who practiced nothing but extortion and fraud. People who failed to comprehend, and accept, the differences that witches brought to the table found it easier to drown, hang, stone, or execute them. The poor witches were alienated in their exile, and eventually, the whole species became extinct and the commoners lived in peace. Books say that witch-hunts ended in the eighteenth century – Oh! did they?

I guess not! today, women who have brains, character, and experience are treated the same way witches were treated in the dark ages. Girls, like me, who ask questions and who insist on being honest and straightforward are castaways in this patriarchal society. As human beings, we are inclined to reject people who differ from us; different in how they look, how they talk, and how they think. Watching Isabel’s witch-effect on Jack brought back instantaneous memories of my very own witch-effect on men.

Flying and crashing seems to be a pattern in my relationships; I am a relationships expert and I advise people on their love lives, but when it comes to me, my men, and my love life, I am totally clueless. After the initial click, I stupidly, yet willingly, decide to put aside my spells, charms, amulets, and witchcraft. I leave my flying broom at home, get out of my human cloak, and I reveal the real witch within. I express myself with a cursed clarity that leaves no room for confusion or speculation. I share my articles along with my dreams. I show the different dimensions of my character. – I wish there was a delete button in real life!

In my relationships, I turn into a cute kangaroo that is trying to walk gracefully in a china shop. But alas! With the first step in the shop, I intimidate the owner, who reaches out for his gun. A few more steps and I begin breaking his antique rules. And by the time I reach him, he is totally panicked and freaked out. He aims the gun at me. I plead. He looks me in the eye. My eyes water. He orders me to get out before I create any more damage. I beg him not to fear me. He pulls the trigger. I get hurt. Witch or no witch, I bleed like normal human beings, I feel the pain, and I moan in agony; a moan that he cannot hear!

In the movie, Jack realized that his love for Isabel is bigger and stronger than his fear of her being a witch. He followed her home only to catch her before she took off on her broom. The happy lovers reunited and lived happily ever after. This is the part that I never got to experience. Once a witch always a witch! People will always hunt me down and try to get rid of my evil influence. They will stone me with their cruel words and ruthless judgments, drown me in negligence and guilt, hang me on the alter of ignorance, point a finger at my scars, and deprive me of true love.

Now I am a witch in hiding; here now on this page I vow to never ever reveal my true nature before a living soul. Like my fellow witches, I will lead a double life. Yes! I have been defeated, but how much rejection can a witch handle? From now onwards, I will lie about the past, cheat in the present, hide in the future. Yes! I have given up, but how much longer was I supposed to fight? I will master the art of nodding, bowing, and smiling and, forever, I will relinquish the rebel that took home in my soul. No … No … I can’t … ok … one more round … just one more! I just hope that you are real – and handsome – I just hope that you can handle the witch-effect!

The Beauty & The Geek

If the producers of The Beauty and The Geek wanted to torture someone who thinks of herself as a beauty by having her date any of those plain geeks on the show, then I would have made an excellent candidate. I am quite certain that those girls do not care about the geeks; they are in it for the money or the fame. I am also positive that they do not continue to date them once the cameras are off. With a pat on the head and a kiss on the cheek they send them off with their goddess-like smiles. Bottom line, the geeks are nice but they are not dating material! I cannot date Winnie the Pooh!

On her show, Ricki Lake invited some girls who were “single by choice” and asked them about their physical requirements in a man. They all seemed to judge a book by its cover and have lost plenty of good guys to a fixation on physical attractiveness. Ricki told them that she had what they were looking for but the name of the game is a blindfolded date dare; the girls will go on a literally blind date! I admit that my eyes have always deceived me into choosing the jerk over the geek but what am I supposed to do? Keep the blindfold on to maintain the chemistry?

So what is it that attracts me to, or repels me from, a man? I tossed away the character nonsense, the vision and mission clichés, and, by digging deeper into the layers of my Freudian heaven of a psyche, I narrowed it down to attractiveness! Yes! The attractiveness of a man is directly proportionate to my being attracted to him. Through extensive research Dallas Barabasz-Lynn has been able to discern the inner structure of attraction. The Ladder Theory claimed that 50% of a woman’s attraction to a man depends on physical attraction, 20% on competition, 20% on novelty, and 10% on other things. Power and money were categorized separately; the amount of money, and the degree of power, required to get a woman’s attention change according to her age. At the age of 16 a gift and a love note would have done the trick. As of the age of 25, a woman’s definition of the richest and the most powerful man changes with her exposure and demands.

In all my happy articles and sweet dreams I envisioned myself with the tall dark and handsome prince; the captivating gaze, the broad shoulders, the flawless smile, the husky voice, and hard in the right places - muscular that is. I have a soft spot for long soft hair, breath-freshener, clean laundry, and perfume. I also spot check nails and hands for cleanliness. Jerks who met these criteria made a doormat out of the little princess’s heart – yours truly!

Good guys who, in my eyes, had a weight or a shape issue were discarded immediately. Those who looked anything less than perfect were tormented to fit a mold that damaged me more than it hurt them. Those who were eager to please, I labeled as geeks, and those who accepted my inner or outer deformities, I crucified on the basis of their own scars and frailties.

The Ladder Theory pointed out how gals like me are attracted to competition; by competition, Lynn meant disinterest. The attractiveness of a man is by far stronger if he has other interests in life than making us happy. We are more tempted to pursue those who run away from us. “Ultimately, almost all guys learn this truth: The best way to never score with a woman is to show too much interest in her.” says Lynn.

What about novelty? Who wants an ordinary guy with a normal life and a normal job? – boring … yuckkkkkk! “Something different is more attractive. Like someone who does not have to work like most people because they have lots of money” says Lynn. I will add to that a few disorders that spice up the appeal of novelty: workaholic, alcoholic, manic depressive, obsessive compulsive, hypochondriac, malingerer, and chronic liar – yes, I have seen it all!

Moral of the story, if you are attractive, rich, powerful, novel, and show no interest in her, she is almost guaranteed to want to get intimate with you. Bonus points for destroying her self esteem, flirting with her friends, cheating on her, and being always late, forgetful, noncommittal, manipulative, and controlling – Isn’t this the definition of the Alfa male? Isn’t that the man who had the lion’s share of my verbal, visual, and written curses?

“So Beauty, why complain now of being painfully single, when you detest the jerks you have created and reject the geeks you have attracted?” – asked the voice of reason that I so often silence!

The Virgin Prostitute!

“The End justifies the Means” is quoted in our everyday life from Niccolo Machiavelli’s book, “The Prince”. So, if the end is getting a ring on your naked left hand finger, then any lie you throw in the way of prince charming is an acceptable means to a justifiable end. What does he want to hear? That you are a virgin? That you have never been kissed? That you have never been in love? That you have never dated? That he is the first and will certainly be the last? That you are a god-sent angel from heaven? Instead of a happily ever after ending to your story, the truth will just bring it to a sudden humiliating ending; hence, maneuvering is called for to perfect this Machiavellian plan.

So let’s assume that we have a girl who is poor beyond poverty, more ambitious than Lady Macbeth, is paying her tuition fees, and is saving for her dowry. This girl chose the least trodden path as a means to her end; she began selling her body bit by bit for the highest bidders, yet holding on to her virginity; kissing has a price, exploring adds to the bill, and making out is rated differently. Advanced services like hand jobs, fellatio (oral sex), and backdoor sex fall in another category. Those girls and their activities shed a florescent light on the definition of prostitution.

“Where there is a will, there is a way” my mom used to remind me whenever my determination failed me, and those girls were willing to prostitute themselves, they just needed to find a way to do so while preserving their virginity. I was first triggered to write this piece on backdoor sex when I read that some girls went to the attorney general and filed a complaint against Hala Sarhan for paying them off and coaching them into pretending to be prostitutes on her show. They said that she promised that their identities will be hidden but when the show was aired they were scandalized because everyone who knew them could recognize them. The girls were presented to forensics so they could prove that they were not prostitutes, as Hala’s show claimed. The forensic report concluded that they were all virgins with intact hymens, however they showed signs of heavy anal use; the signs included abrasions on the anal opening and a 'funneled' anus.

Later on, I received an email with a scan of an article from Al Fagr Newspaper by Amira Melsh that had a shocking headline “80% of prostitutes are virgins” then another article followed by Wael Abel Fattah, titled “Virgin Prostitution in Egypt.” Both articles researched the entangled webs of vice, pimps, strategies and schemes to lure new girls, rules for dealing with customers, pricing strategies, and guarantees. The girls themselves were discussed revealing their ages and motives; the girls made it very clear to the “customer” that they were to remain virgins. In the investigation, they said that most of their customers were Arabs who paid a lot for backdoor sex, many young Egyptians who only wanted to be touched and relieved, and 50 plus men who wanted to feel young again.

Some of the girls had what sounded like strategic goals for a five year plan before they retired, put it all behind them, and got married to their cuckolded prince charming who would flaunt his manhood along with the virginity of his bride. The plan entailed goals as buying a car, a down payment for a house, and some cash to start their own business. “What is better to fill the gap between aspirations and reality, than a girl’s body?” said 25 year old Nagwan, who is a virgin herself and runs a well structured web; someone is in charge of setting up the house, while another is in charge of bringing in the customers; recruiting new girls is a very segmented process that covers school girls, college girls, married women, and mothers. “Our customers have different needs and tastes and it is our job to please the customer” concluded Nagwan.

“I come from a poor family in Sharkia” said Sara “and I have big dreams of living comfortably and of getting married and having kids of my own. I have an image and a reputation to maintain in this society, this is why most of my business meetings are held in Zamalek and Mohandeseen with Arabs; no one will know me and I will never see them again. They are also more generous and more accepting of my sole condition – I have to remain a virgin” said Sara in her interview.

As usual I ran to my laptop and logged on to an Arabic language dating site where I pretended to be a Kuwaiti guy coming on vacation to Egypt and looking for an escort. I did not approach anyone; I just posted a photo and waited. I did not wait long before my inbox was filled with messages from girls of different ages typing, in Arabic, their needs and requests. I picked one girl who specified backdoor sex as the ultimate form of intercourse and she clearly stated that she was a virgin and that she wanted to stay so.

I tried to bargain for full intercourse but she was adamant; I learnt that she came from a conservative family and that she wanted a better life; “If I get married to someone from that level I will remain poor but if I am rich, I can marry rich” she explained. Her services covered airport pick up, arranging for a rented car, outings, kissing and the like, hand jobs and the like, backdoor sex, and sleeping over. She was very forward about her demands and shrewd in negotiating each item. The deal went sour when I insisted on full intercourse.

In the old days prostitutes had distinctive features; the way they laughed, talked, walked, dressed, wore make-up, and chewed gum. Nowadays, they could be anyone you meet in a shop, supermarket, college, or outing. When our society placed all the emphasis on the presence or absence of a piece of meat, a new breed of Machiavellian call girls was born. They used society’s best argument to their favor; socially speaking honor is linked to the presence of a hymen, and they will have a hymen to show on their wedding night. Innocence, integrity, and the truth sunk deep down in our social gutters and now we have to live in the stink of lies and the stench of corruption. They learned that our laws turn the customer into a witness and that the only proof of their innocence is virginity. They found out that where there is a will, there is a way; and when the front door is locked, open the backdoor!

Good Riddance!

To: All the Narcist Jerks I know … and to those I do not know
From: Marwa Rakha – on behalf of all women
Subject: I do not love you … I do not even like you

Date: Now and forever

__________________________________________________

Dear Narcist Jerk

Please do not take this letter personally; I neither mean insult nor injury. I am writing to you on behalf of all the females that I know, and those that I do not know. Who? You know who; the doormats. Oh please, do not give me that face!

To be more specific, I am representing the women who stay in relationships with worthless men like your kind self; women who have no demands; who give without expectations; whose return on investment is your humble smirk. Yes, the ones who can do much better but because of some fatal flaw with their self perception, they settle for half the man they deserve. Oops! Did that hurt?

Hold your horses! I am not done yet! I have not even started! Let me remind you of the long list of your offences; falsifying a male ID on the grounds of facial hair and protrusions, theft of their hearts, deception to gain access to their lives, evading liability relating to any of your actions, trespassing to other feminine pastures, assault of their friends, battery of their ego, unlawful wounding of their self-esteem, wounding with intent of their pride, recklessness throughout the relationship, negligence of their needs, intimidation and threats, conspiracy against their peace of mind, and murder of their happily ever after dreams.

If I were to sentence you to prison for all your crimes, I would sentence you to an eternity of loneliness and suffering. I would have you stoned for every tear a woman shed for you. I would have you whipped for every dagger-of-a-word you threw in her heart. Like a plucked chicken, I would toss you in boiling water for every jealous moment you caused her. I would stick an iron rod in each ear that would not listen to her desperate pleas. Should be broken, those fingers that hurt when they promised to heal. Should have been cut …. I will let you figure that one out on your own!

She wanted you strong to protect her not to bully her; handsome to please her sight not to torture her wits; rebellious to support her causes not to offend her logic; imaginative to fly with you not to get caught in your entangled webs; sensitive to understand her not to confuse her; determined to lean on you not to suffer your well-launched attacks; eloquent to appeal to her mind not to flirt with her friends; charming to give her pride not shame.

How could you live with yourself? On a merry-go-round, you sent her heart racing standstill shadows and fighting lost battles. You exhausted her senses on your swing; one day, she touched the stars in the sky, and the next day she licked the dust off the ground. You played her like a ruthless circus trainer; you gave her sugar when she performed tricks for you, and I could hear her trumpet in agony when your sharp metal hook, with the spiked end, tore through her sensitive skin.

What excuses have you to offer? You told her you were confused and depressed. You said you were a mess from within. You pleaded innocent when you were guilty as charged! Did you not ask for her help? Was it not you who needed her support? Were you not the illegitimate child of receding passion? Have you not suffered the withdrawal symptoms of love? Had she not held your hand through your suffering? Was it not for her ears, who would have listened to you? Was it not for her wise words, who would have consoled you?

Now you sit back and judge her? Now you list her faults and flaws? Now you point a finger at her weakness? Today you turn your back to her? Today you no longer want to be with her? Today she repels you when only yesterday she was never close enough? High time you smashed her wise head with your stupid words? Tomorrow you will wake up and forget all about her, and about all your crimes against her? What a pig! What a drag! What a narcist jerk!

Good Riddance

Marwa Rakha

The Scars of Life

Here I am, again, with the ever so familiar tear lingering between my eyelids; it refuses to surrender to gravity; it just sits there and sparkles. Sadness? How would I color it? Blue is classic for sadness but I do not see just any shade of blue; I am wearing a necklace of sapphire; so royal; so proud; so attractive; so untamed. Gems are more precious when they are raw and sadness is the gem I am wearing today - close to my heart.

This is how the story goes:

One day a little boy decided to go for a swim. He flew into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.

His father saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, he ran toward the water, yelling to his son as loudly as he could. Hearing his voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a U-turn to swim to his father. It was too late. Just as he reached his father, the alligator reached him.

From the dock, the father grabbed his little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two. The alligator was much stronger than the father, but the father was much too passionate to let go. A farmer happened to drive by, heard his screams, raced from his truck, took aim and shot the alligator. Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived.

His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal. And, on his arms, were deep scratches where his father's fingernails dug into his flesh in his effort to hang on to the son he loved.

The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs. And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my Dad wouldn't let go."

We too have scars, too. No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret. But some wounds are because God has refused to let you go. In the midst of your struggle, He's been there holding on to you.

Sometimes we foolishly wade into dangerous situations, not knowing what lies ahead. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril - and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That's when the tug-of-war begins - and if you have the scars of God's love on your arms, be very, very grateful. He did not and will not ever let you go.

Never judge another person's scars, because you don't know how they got them.