I’m Not Your Damn Cool Girl
Thank God, because she’s not even remotely interesting.
I can hang.
I drink whiskey. I smoke cigars. I listen to Ray Wylie Hubbard. I’ve read Marcus Aurelius and Hunter S. Thompson. I cuss like a sailor. I freaking love Star Wars.
On most days, the level of give a shit I have runs solidly in the red. My guy friends joke around that I’m pretty much a dude. I just smell really nice.
I do these things for two very good reasons. I like it and I feel like it. These things make me happy. Done.
Usually, it makes me pretty easy company for men. Men like women who can hang.
There’s one caveat here: I have really healthy boundaries I have worked hard to determine and I hold a strong line. Strong. My guy friends who are worth my time are absolutely aware of this. Cross my line, you will know. They never cross the line.
Recently, I had a text exchange with a guy I genuinely liked go so horribly south for one reason: he did not respect my boundaries.
This was not a man I had just started talking to. We’ve been talking for four months. We developed a nice friendship. Conversation had recently turned to migrating out of the friend zone. He was one of my dear unattainable men.
Without getting into gory details, he asked me to send him a picture. A very specific picture. You know how I love that. My answer was no. His answer was…surprising.
“Damn, you’re boring as hell. Why are we friends again?”
Oh wow. He was dead serious. It was not a playful, sarcastic joke.
He noted that you can be a smart woman and still take a kinky picture. Well, isn’t that just every man’s god damn dream? The Cool Girl. He wants the Cool Girl.
For those of you not familiar with the Cool Girl, it was defined well by Gillian Flynn in Gone Girl:
“Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.
Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl.”
But, I am not your god damn Cool Girl. I am a 44 year-old grown ass woman. I’ve got pride and self esteem and self worth. It would have been really easy to just oblige and send a picture, but I don’t do that shit.
Doing that would have launched me right back into Cool Girl status. All it would have taken is one picture. If I didn’t do it, I knew it was going to be over with this guy. I. Didn’t. Care.
I am not going to pretend to be someone I’m not, like things I don’t or do things I won’t to keep any man on the line.
What guys who want the Cool Girl don’t realize is that she’s the one who is boring as hell. She’ll do whatever you want as long as you’re telling her what that is. She’s not creative. She’s not liberated and strong. She’s a doormat. She is wholly unoriginal.
I’m high maintenance. I take work. I require a little effort. I’m not so easy won over and I am sure as hell not going to compromise who I am just so some guy on the other end of my phone thinks I’m cool. Fuck that.
The sad thing is that men have been fooled into thinking this woman is actually out there. He thinks he’s going to find her. Maybe he has before but clearly that didn’t last. Because the Cool Girl isn’t cool. She’s smoke and mirrors, baby. Smoke and mirrors.
Regardless, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m just going to sit over here drinking my whiskey and hanging out with the grown ass men who aren’t fools. I don’t suffer fools.