I'm Attractive?!

One of my workout DVD’s ends by telling me I am “amazing.” The first time I worked out, I scoffed at this notion. “Amazing? For finishing a work out video? Please.” But somewhere along this struggle, I’ve come to believe it—at least, when I finish a work out.

It’s so easy to forget the rest of the time. I’m late for class. I skipped class. My homework isn’t done. I only got a B on that test. I forgot my niece’s birthday. My nephew called and I forgot to call him back. I blew up at my mom.

The dishes in my sink are piled high with no end in sight. That conversation with so and so ended so awkwardly, and it was totally my fault for being a weirdo. I feel like a frazzled, effed-up failure.

But the days where I actually think I’m fucked up or a failure are becoming far less frequent. Yeah, I’m frazzled, but EVERYONE’s frazzled. This is the US, after all.

And I find that the more adept I get at exercising regularly and frequently, the more often I do my homework. The more often make my bed. It’s a criss cross effect. But for all that, I’m busy all the time, and sometimes, it’s nice to be reminded that I’m amazing. Especially when it is by someone who isn’t Shaun T (the workout instructor from my DVD.)

I went out to the Wild Rover on Saturday, which is my favorite bar in Marquette. My roommate and I were in sore need of roomie-bonding-time. We ran into some people we know. Mostly, though, I introduced myself to a bunch of people I DIDN’T know.

Once of my favorite games to play at the bar is “Whose hat can I wear tonight?” I got quite a lot of hats, and plenty of pictures to help fill in the blanks for the morning. I don’t typically black out, but sometimes things get a little fuzzy.

The game got a little old, and we started to leave. On the way out, a song came on that we had to dance to. So we did. There was a guy who was lurking awkwardly on the edge of the dance floor, so I invited him to come out and dance with us.

Learned his name was Chris, got his phone number. Told him he should have been wearing a hat. Went back to the bar, ran into a man I knew and his friend. His friend’s name was Kyle.

“Hey,” Kyle started, “I’m really bad at dancing, but would you like to go onto the dance floor with me after this drink?” I was flattered. Through middle school, I was the girl people would play pranks on their friends with.
“So-and-so wants to dance with you,” the kids would say. The few times I believed them, it turned out to be a practical joke on the other person.

So at first, I was skeptical. What if he was joking? But it turned out he wasn’t. After Kyle and I slammed an Irish Car Bomb, we went out and danced together. I dragged my roommate with us, and it was really fun.

Nights like Saturday remind me that I am attractive. I may not be gorgeous. I may not be hot. But I can go to a bar, in khakis, a single swipe of mascara, and a t-shirt, and have cute guys ask me to dance. I woke up the next day with no less than five pictures of me in different hats, and three men's phone numbers. I wonder how much more attractive I will be when I start believing it, instead of being shocked when I realize it.