I just remembered, he also put his jacket inwards on the chair so the label would show! Who does that? Jesus Fucking Christ. So gross. His look of “oh you poor thing” when I said I’ve been to several restaurants but I don’t remember the name of any of them (nor any particular dish, otherwise I would’ve cared to remember). In his defense, the last blatant “oh you poor thing” look I got was this Italian guy that couldn’t believe I couldn’t identify the logo of his car (a Ford). We’re (just) friends now 😛
The non-sexual up and down look all over your body to assess your outfit. The sense of disbelief when I don’t know something that’s like big going on, or a club/pub “everyone’s” been to that I haven’t. If someone is so basic that they think they will get a good assessment of me based on 1)the places I’ve been 2)the things I have bought…that’s just not someone I want to get to know better, simply because there won’t be a deeper level to get to know.
Why would I define myself outwardly in any way? That’s all changing and impermanent. Utterly unimportant. When all is said and done, only thing that will remain (Goddess willing) is my brain. My heart. Peace of mind, kindness, sense of humor. To me, that’s what life is all about.
So, why did I go out with him. I wanted to socialize. I told him beforehand I’m pretty broke, since he already knew I live outside of the city, in social housing (he asked me why I chose this little town, like it’s some sort of sin to live here). When he asked me out, I (as is my custom) told him we’d need to see which restaurant, as I have a student budget and I need to know whether I can swing it or not. He said it was on him. I told him dinner and a movie entitles him to nothing, in case he’s a nice guy. He said he’s a cunt (ew) in many ways, but that’s not one of them. When men tell you who they are, believe them, L! Lol.
I told him if we saw each other again, I’d try to talk him into going for a picnic with me, as I couldn’t swing constantly treating him to a restaurant. Throughout my decision-making progress and explanations of it, he knew I’m poor.
Ah! I got it. He was expecting I wouldn’t show it. That my clothes wouldn’t be from the Lidl shop. That I’d wear some makeup. That I wouldn’t be a sweater, jeans, and sneakers type of gal. He was hoping I try my gosh-darndest to hide my SES.
Cause that’s what he’d do.
I get it. Not fully formed, weak personalities die to blend in. To not stick out in any way. And when people are simply not poor (which is NOT rich, and rich is NOT wealthy), they want EVERYONE to know. The old “new money talks, old money whispers” type of thing.
So, has the middle class been obsessively looking down instead of up? LOL. Do they not know (to this day), that wealthy people don’t care about brands or relentlessly telling you the mAnY pLaCeS tHeY’vE bEeN? ThE rEsOrTs ThEy’Ve ViSiTeD iN InDiA?
The reason I blame myself is because Bumble lets you put tags on politial affiliation, and this was a moderate. So the punitive parent mental schema is telling me I should’ve known better. Lol.
I didn’t bring up politics at all because I already knew we were most definitely not a match. I still thought we could find some other points in common, and again, I’m trying to be more open. I need exposure therapy because I have C-PTSD and it’s important for me to take risks with people. But my period just came so I guess that makes me sad and emotional.
We got out of the “restaurant” and walked back to my place to get my jacket. When I said “here to the left”, he asked: You live in an apartment building? I smiled and said: Yeah! He said: I thought so.
I’d preferred it’s clear he disliked me because I’m fat or because he doesn’t find me attractive, but to be looked down for things out of my control (as poverty while Brown immigrant Latina studying with a trauma background is in great part -at least for now- out of my control) is a new kind of painful. Because there’s added layers, you know? When you intersect that with race and nationality, there’s more to the stereotype. She’ll be permanently poor, and forever stuck in this.
Well, newsflash basic Dutchies. I’m poor here, middle class in LatAm. And let me tell you, I still didn’t care then about signifiers of appearance. And here, I could also still buy clothes from other places, and graffiti my face.
I choose not to, mfs.
And wealthy would just ignore you or be cool and unassuming; rich will act uppity hoping any reaction would make them feel better about themselves; and middle class will be forever thirsty and aspirational…and no-longer-poor will feel so triggered by how little you care, and desperately will want to be the opposite of you. Poor can be bitter, or cool and learning about what really matters in life purely because they had to.
Do we really need to be defined by our economical circumstances? Can’t anybody anymore decide how they feel?
And I feel for the Global North. There’s money around here (not that anybody is questioning how it was accumulated, or where it came from to begin with). I guess it’s harder to not care about what the majority wears, or what’s expected, appearance-wise. And people here are sheep, no doubt about it. Doe normaal (act normal, do not stand out).
Color within the lines.
This color doesn’t even stay on the page.
Why would I go through the trouble and (utterly unnecessary) expense of buying an entire wardrobe of brand clothing? With basic (clean, not worn) clothing, I can rule out shallow men. With a lack of makeup, I can rule out (extremely) objectifying, sexist men. With my undyed streak of white hair, I can rule out insecure men. With no social media and knowledge of places and brands, I can rule out the idiots that think those things define a person.
It’s all part of a plan, ba-bies!
A man has to see Me. And, I’m sorry, but I’m gorgeous. With makeup, a knockout. But makeup is a goddamn fantasy! No shade to the artists of any gender that love it and wear their art on a daily basis. To me, it is simply more important not to have the human version of a male suckerfish piggybacking on that love for art as a way to ensure/expect a certain look, as if my bare face weren’t enough. It is more than fucking “enough”.
And a man has to have a fully formed identity within his damn self, regardless of external influences! If my grey hair makes him feel like he’s dating an older woman and that is a thought he cannot bear, he’s still a man, but not one that’s for me. White hair will come! Now it’s a cool streak, in like 5 years it’ll be at least a quarter of my head, by the time I’m 45 it’ll be half of my hair. By 50 I’ll be a fully formed silver fox, dudes. Cannot wait. I look bomb with my white hair, because it’s not the yellowed out type. It’s just another signal of how unique I am.
The man for me has to see Me.
If he needs a second, third, whatever number that’s not one look to see me, he ain’t it.
And I don’t really believe in second chances. Attraction either happens or it doesn’t. I think two people that really loved each other, if and only if they change and grow, can MAYBE once again see the new selves they have become, but I don’t think you can “rethink” desire or attraction.
And if a guy would happen to be super into my look/style but not inner world, that still wouldn’t be my Guy, you know?
I handicap not because I think I’m the next Miss World. I handicap because what I have to offer is pretty fucking unique. Utterly invaluable. No MasterCard or Visa can afford it.
I am wicked smart, an empath, a critical thinker, a Feminist. Kind-hearted, joyous, and cheerful. When I love someone, I cannot tell them enough all the ways in which I find them charming, funny, great. How much I love and adore them. How I can’t get enough of them. I make things for them, cover them in kisses and hugs, and if it’s a partner we’re talking about, I make love to them.
Everything with them becomes special to me. I bite my tongue before saying something hurtful when I’m upset with them, because above whatever it is that’s bothering me, I know my love for them still trumps that, and I value that bond above anything else.
They’re my first thought waking up, and the last one when I go to bed. I daydream about them, and dream at night about them too. I think about their issues, twirl them in my head, and if I notice any pattern or idea for improvement, if I can do it for them, I do. If not, I let them know what they can do.
I go above and fucking beyond. Galaxies ahead. Universes.
There was this intellectual in LatAm that my mom loved, and I didn’t love him because he was sexist, but there was one thing he said on his show that I do wholeheartedly agree with: People don’t all love the same. There are quality variations in how people love. No two loves are the same, true, but even within “categories”, no two loves are the same.
There are better qualities above others in love.
That all-encompassing love is bound to how many aspects and depths your all-encompassing love handles, you know?
Well, I can look at several things at the same time from several different angles at several different depths.
All the time.
Don’t get me wrong, far from perfect. The man that loves me would have to get used to me feeling emotional from time to time; having issues keeping my desk cleared; and starting projects that still need some external encouragement to be finished.
But I’m not a friggin’ robot, so the many perks do come with some hazards. Duh!
I must handicap, because otherwise, I risk getting with a basic dude. And a basic dude, all of this, does not ever deserve. I have to know for a fact he looks deep within.
And I’m not walking around in rags, ffs. It’s simply no brand clothes. It’s simply no makeup. It’s simply a woman in her mid-30s with a streak of white hair (don’t you just love the patriarchy?). If that’s too much to handle for a mf, I most definitely do not want him.
I must, unfortunately, from now on, if I do accept going out with another middle class/no-longer-poor man, make it crystal clear to him that I won’t be “pulling out all the stops” for him.
This poor woman ain’t ashamed she lives below the minimum income. This woman doesn’t care one iota that the sexist expectation is I’ll graffiti my face for a man. This white-haired woman doesn’t give two fucks that women in their 30’s rarely (if ever) walk around undyed.
Funny thing is, I was gonna fuck this dude last week. But I decided to take a chill pill and he started responding quickly and then slowed it down. Had he kept the pace that same day, I’d banged him. This week he picked up the pace again (or was it the weekend? I don’t remember much of our convo, it was absolutely forgettable), and it was his idea to go out. I fully keep this pussy away from (labeled) conservatives, but moderates are making a strong case for me to not give them my bad ass pussy either.
Hey, you live and you learn, amirite?
In working-class appreciation, yours truly.