Is is possible to possess an undetectable pheramone that repells members of the same sex? This is not the first time I've examined the fact that young(er) women simply do not seem to like me. I know I'm odd, but guys are usually okay with me. I do have a few female friends floating around, but the type of girl-friends I make are usually social misfits who end up aggrivating me with their terrible life-choices, to the point where I don't want to be around them anymore.
I've always assumed that women think I'm a lesbian and that they're purposely being stand-offish to avoid being hit on. I'm not particularly mannish either. I like clothes and makeup as much as any chick out there. And by the way, lesbians–I'm talking the really butchy ones in wife-beaters and mustaches, with the permanent beer breath–seem to find me adorable. Just ask "Aunt" Lori and "Uncle" Sue.
I get along well with older ladies. The middle-aged mom/grandma-types. They never give me funny looks or pained smiles whenever I try to engage them in conversation. They don't treat me as though I'm an intruder or an unenvited drunk who sits at their table in a bar just for asking about school or their other job.
My fiance doesn't try to convince me that it's all in my head. When I admit that I know I'm weird, he agrees–but he's okay with my weirdness as only another weirdo can be. Although his weirdness is quirky and cute and makes people like him. Mine is of the other sort, apparently. I referred to myself as weird to one of my aggrivating female friends and she seemed to think disagreeing with me was what I wanted or needed. All it did was show me how little she really understood me after eighteen years of friendship. Don't blow sunshine up my ass. Just accept the weirdness, and I'll be satisfied that you like me in spite of it or even because of it.
I think it may have something to do with the directness of my gaze and the frankness of my demeanor that puts other women off from wanting to form friendships with me. Truthfully, I don't have a problem with other women. I miss the girl-friendiness of bitching about guys over the phone and clothes shopping and dying eachother's hair.
Somewhere along the line, I became convinced that I was worthy of no more than table scraps, and now I don't know how to reach for anything better than the leftover gristle and bone that no one else wants. Problem is, I don't want it either and now I can feel myself starving.