ASK E.JEAN (ANYTHING!)

March 2005

DEAR E. JEAN: I've met a gorgeous, funny, sweet man who seems just as interested in me as I am in him. The first three dates were great—the post-make-out oxytocin is still coursing through my veins. Here's my problem: I can be cool, confident, and sexy until I really start to like somebody. Then for some inexplicable reason I get nervous and become seriously afraid of doing something stupid. How can I remain the cool, confident woman I am at the beginning and not turn into a stuttering, bumbling idiot?—Sublime to the Ridiculous

SUBLIME, SWEETIE: The oxytocin's coursing, eh? Alack! Your e-mail's reached me too late! Sections of your frontal lobes (the areas of your brain that govern complex intellectual processes) are about to shut down—I repeat, shut down. A slab of your amygdala (home to your fear system) will turn off—if it hasn't already. (By the by, Helen Fisher, the pioneering Rutgers anthropologist and queen of the brain scan, clued me in to this frontal lobes-amygdala business in the CNN makeup room before we went on air.) And if that's not enough, if you're really crushin', what remains of your brain will be more abuzz with natural amphetamines than Hunter S. Thompson's when he's behind the wheel of his fireapple red convertible. Hell, you're lucky to even remember a word like oxytocin.

Why the BBB (big brain blank)? I can't prove it, but I think Ma Nature needs you dumb enough to mate. I'm serious! No, I am swearing on a Bible. So to answer your question, Miss Sublime: You don't want to act like such a giddy half-wit that you lose the guy; on the other hand, you don't want to completely quash the naturally occurring, very appealing silliness. My advice: Go with the gaga—just remember three things:

1. Lindsay Lohan's hairspray has a stronger hold than your fear system at this point, so though it may seem a good idea to call the chap at 2:30 in the morning/enjoy sex without a condom/arrive at his penthouse with the wall-to-wall rug you made for him on your loom… resist such urges.

2. His frontal lobes are shutting down too; the poor bugger can't tell the difference between your “stuttering” and “bumbling” and Midori on the violin. Just be yourself.

3. Both of your brains (his and yours) will flash back on soon enough. So for once—I'm so tired of giving cautions in this column!—I can say: Enjoy the delicious craziness.

 

DEAR E. JEAN: I know I'm pretty—I'm 5'11", blond, green-eyed, all legs, and skinny. But I take one look at my bum—flabby and covered with cellulite—and I feel no guy in his right mind would want me. Once my clothes come off, he'll see my nasty behind and run off because he'll be so disgusted. I work out every day. It helps, but guys want a woman who's bootylicious.—Haunted by What's Behind Me

HAUNTED, HONEY: Oh, spare me your 5'11", green-eyed, blond leggy-ness, Miss Keister Rump. I've had it up to here with this asininity! (I just read that Jessica Simpson is distressed about her derrière—Lord!) The truth is, unless a chap is a fanatical buttocks man, your fanny can be flatter than a fritter and he'll go for you. My own rear hangs to the back of my knees like a pair of Slinkys. Do you see me flagellating myself with J.Lo's garter belt? Hell no. I know the Two Secrets of Bootylicious Bliss:

Secret #1: It's not your butt—it's your opinion about your butt that makes you crazy.

Secret #2: Official military BDU (battle dress uniform) pants—get a pair and achieve an instant Beyoncé-grade backside! (Go to www.bdu.com; order the six-pocket pants.)

Now, I could send you to a therapist who'll help you get to the bottom of your twisted body image, but the BDUs prompt a higher-minded idea. I want you to put your posterior into perspective and volunteer once a week at a veteran's hospital (there are several in your city). Some of our brave soldiers have come home from Iraq without legs. I think you're just the woman to help cheer them on as they adjust to a new life.

DEAR E. JEAN: I'm a young, broke, single administrative assistant being bullied by four older, better-off female coworkers. They belittle my liberal views. They tease me because I brown-bag and they dine out. But worse, they all struggle with overeating; obsess all day about food, diets, and weight loss; and hound me because I happen to be naturally slim. The ringleader stalks my desk, checks out the contents of my lunch, and yells to the others when I have a snack; if I ever so much as bust open a bag of chips, she swoops down upon me like a hawk. It's bad enough being a struggling assistant in an expensive town, but to be surrounded by food hecklers! I never used to think about my weight, but their fixation is getting to me.—Boston Brown-Bagger

MY DEAR BOSTON: Prepare to confront the Hawk. Gird your loins, because you're about to employ a rude lexicon. Please memorize the following: “Stop right there: Don't come near my desk. And don't mess with me, Bitchcake: I'm a warrior! I'm a legend in the making! Take your diets, you born-again Anna Nicole, and stick them in your ear! Thank you.”

The blood will drain from your face as you say this, but so what? Don't retreat. Don't surrender. And here's the key: Don't say it out loud. Say it to yourself as the Hawk approaches. It will pump your courage just enough for you to face down the Harpy Quartet and deliver your real message: “Gosh, girls, thanks for your intense interest in my tuna fish sandwich and baby carrots. It's bizarre, but wouldn't it be better if all the weak, powerless females in all the offices across the country spent less time thinking about food and more time plotting to take over their corporations? We'd all be a lot richer—not to mention thinner. Right? So golly, girls, do me a favor: Stop talking about what I'm eating or I'll stab you in the ankles with my plastic fork.”

They'll flinch with shock, but that's the point. You can leave out the bit about the fork if you like. Or you can use it the next day when the Hawk swoops down to test you again (as she will, trust me). Simply stand up and say: “Back off, Edweema. Anytime you're riveted on my PB&J rather than focusing on being great is a waste of time.” Then start interviewing for other jobs. Life's too short to suffer with the Glutton Girls in the Third Circle of Hell.



DEAR E. JEAN: I have eight ex-boyfriends. Please tell me if the following plan is totally cracked or a great idea: All eight men are upstanding, trustworthy, wonderful, and college-educated. None is in a relationship now, they were all once in love with me, and they want to get back in my life. What do you think of my seeing them all—each one every once in a while? I know lovemaking would bring a lift to each of their lives and make them happier. Me too. Is this morally wrong? Or stupid?

I'm in great shape (I shoot hoops), I'm still the size 6 I was in high school, and besides that I'm intelligent, humorous, kind, responsible, happy, and almost 70 years old. The men range from 13 years younger than I to 14 years older. I'm not interested in having a long-term, committed relationship. I love being single and free! Well…what do you think?—Helen of Troy, Michigan

HELEN, HONEY: I think it's brilliant! An Octagon of Bouncing Old Boyfriends! I adore it! Indeed, it would be morally wrong not to attempt it. But you must play fair and tell each bloke that you're seeing other blokes. (You don't have to announce that you're rolling an eighter from Decatur, as the dice players say, but simply that you're seeing “others.”)

And then…good luck. I tried this (with a mere four old flames) for an Esquire article, and I can tell you one thing: When you play with the past, you kill it. It's the quickest way I know to strangle your sweetest, tenderest memories. Yeah, yeah, I know you'll “bring them a lift” (as if any lad in your octagon wouldn't mind sharing you), but it won't be like it was before. It may be queen-hell better, but I warn you.

P.S.: This is exactly the reason my sister and I created GreatBoyfriends.com: too many fantastic ex-lovers going to waste.

Copyright E. Jean Carroll 2010.