Scrappy Little Nobody

by Anna Kendrick

  By twenty-two, I was back to business as usual love-wise: alternating between being contentedly alone and scaring off anyone I actually liked with my intensity and desperation. I did, however, implement a new rule: no discussion of “the number.”

  I’m happy to say that only a few years on, guys stopped thinking it was okay to ask me how many people I’d had sex with. I don’t know if that change was a reflection of my age or the quality of men I was seeing, but there was a time when, if a guy had known me for more than twenty-four hours, he thought it was his right to know my complete sexual history.

  This is a trap for girls. I always felt embarrassed about my late start in the sexual world, but the fiasco with Landon had taught me that you could be labeled slutty after having only one partner. Was my number too low or too high? And what did this information measure? An STI is an absolute; you either have one or you don’t, and while a doctor can tell you that, knowing someone’s number cannot.

  Outside of a health concern, the question seemed designed only to shame and discourage promiscuity. And if that’s the case, why just intercourse? Why did no one ask “How many people have touched your boobs?” or “How many penises have you seen?” or “Did you ever hump a swing set in first grade when no one was looking?” The logic is: I must avoid (even responsible, protected) sex with someone new, because it affects my “number,” but this dude can go ahead and stick his face in my vagina because . . . who’s counting? I decided that I would not engage with this ridiculous and arbitrary metric.I

  The first time I implemented this new rule, I’d been seeing a guy for a couple weeks. He asked and I said something like, “I’ve decided to stop answering that question, because I think there is no answer that a woman can give without being judged. If it’s a health matter, because you’d like to have sex with me, I can get tested and show you my results.” I fully expected that when I said this, the guy might assume I’d had so many partners that I was embarrassed to reveal the number. But I figured if it weeds out the kind of guy who infers shame from reticence or thinks sexually active women are disgusting, all the better.

  He took me up on the offer and we both got tested, which I respected. So far, so good! What I didn’t count on was him pretending to be cool with me not answering while letting it fester and take on a life of its own. He brought it up several times in the following months. He never asked about my previous relationships, or my attitudes about sex or intimacy or fidelity. He wanted the number. I understood that if I simply told him that by his count he was number three, it would have brought him some comfort. But I didn’t want to give it to him. He wanted some assurance that I wasn’t “too” experienced, but I didn’t want to comfort someone who found that objectionable.

  When we had our first big fight, his true colors came out. Slut. Whore. I’ll bet you were molested when you were little. Charming, right? He was barking up the wrong tree in terms of trying to hurt me, but at least now I knew who I was dealing with.

  In related news:

  [INFOMERCIAL VOICE!]

  Ladies, if you ever date a guy who shows up at your apartment uninvited, or calls you from someone else’s phone when you block his number, or inspires you to attach a little can of Mace to your key ring, tell your friends! They will help you! If a guy threatens self-harm, or tells you that you are the crazy one and all your friends are on his side, they aren’t! Your friends want to help you! And if you start talking yourself out of it because you’re worried about looking overdramatic or vindictive because, I guess, he hasn’t ever hit you . . . No! Don’t do it! Don’t talk yourself out of it! Your friends don’t need you to get hit to want to help you! Yay!!!

  Moving on.

  Back on the Horse

  More recently a friend of mine tried to play matchmaker for me. She proudly told me that the guy was reluctant to be set up until she showed him my picture. Of course, the picture she showed him was from a GQ shoot where I happened to be blond, backlit, and half naked. I texted her.

  Me: Dude. Please get back to him and tell him to prepare to meet, like, a human woman. I did not know I would be attempting to live up to the expectation of a solid three man hours from a team of hair, makeup, and lighting professionals.

  Sarah: Oh my god, stop, you’re being ridiculous!

  Me: Let me do my impression of this guy’s evening: “Oh, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet anyone right now—wait! You didn’t tell me she was a half-naked blonde with baby oil all over her legs! Let me Febreze my “going out” shirt and call an Uber!”

  Me: Then “Aw, what’s this? She’s wearing clothes and isn’t looking at me with lust in her eyes? I shaved my balls for nothing.”

  Me: Please tell him that since this photo was taken, I have dyed my hair back to its natural, mousy shade, and I have eaten several sandwiches.

  He didn’t show up.

  I found that guys liked to showboat on the first few dates by talking restaurant managers into letting us in at closing time or hiking in restricted areas or sneaking into movies. These guys underestimated how much I love rules.

  Also, while I love a good round of dirty talk, I don’t enjoy bawdy talk. A lot of guys didn’t understand that. For a while it seemed like men thought that pointing out that they had a penis would inspire some amazement on my part. I once told a guy I had to wake up early and he said, “I could wake you up with my—” Sir, I’ll stop you right there.

  That is the least sexy thing you could say to me. Nothing about you is sexy when you are the reason I am awake—you are basically an iPhone alarm with a pulse. And I don’t want to fuck my iPhone. At least not at seven a.m.

  But I get mine. For a while I had a fling with a guy who was so good-looking I think he was as confused by his interest in me as I was. The physical stuff was always great, but his perpetual expression was one of profound confusion. He obsessed over my body, but it seemed like it was because he was trying to locate the homing device that was scrambling his brain. I felt like saying, “I know, buddy, I don’t get it, either. But . . . for now let’s get you back to work!”

  Something amazing happened to me when I hit my mid-twenties. I don’t know how it happened—I didn’t even notice it at first—but I stopped liking guys who didn’t like me back. In fact, I stopped liking guys who were bad people. I wish I could impart some concrete advice about how to achieve this, because I have to tell you, it’s incredible.

  When I first realized this was happening I didn’t want to mention it to anyone. I didn’t even want to fully acknowledge it to myself. I thought I might jinx it or scare it away. How many times have I thought, Wow, I guess I’m just at that point in my life where healthy foods are more appealing, only to end up facedown in a plate of melted cheese and maple syrup.

  I thought I was destined to fall for assholes forever. Misanthropic and fifteen years my senior? Sign me up! Makes misogynistic jokes but thinks I’m “feisty” for calling him on it? It’s love! I’m still not certain I’m out of the woods—you never know where life will take you until you’re awake at four a.m. dissecting text messages from a guy named Jordan who has a The Wolf of Wall Street poster in his bedroom.

  But I think I might be done finding shallow and sad people attractive. It’s paradise. Pretty in Pink was wrong; you can fall in love with Duckie.

  A couple of years ago, I brought my boyfriend to a friend’s weekly Game of Thrones viewing party. As the episode began and we all settled into our seats, two of the male attendees started whispering to each other.

  “Oh my god, dude, you know who’s on this show now? Diana Rigg. Wait ’til you see her.” They seemed positively gleeful. These two grown men were giggling like bitchy cheerleaders at the fact that a woman who was once a sex symbol had the audacity to turn seventy-five and (gasp!) be on TV!! I reeled from witnessing this exchange, and as I prepared to ask just what the hell that was supposed to mean, my boyfriend chimed in.

  “Oh, Diana Rigg, man! She’s been on the last few episodes; she’s brillia
nt in this, right?” My sweet boyfriend didn’t even notice when the two men shot each other smug “That’s not what we meant, buddy” glances.

  When we left I told him, “You realize what you’ve done, right? You just expressed that it’s possible for a woman you don’t find sexually attractive to have value. I think those guys might think less of you now.”

  “Really? I hate those guys. So that would be great.”

  • • •

  I’ve still got stuff to work on. If a guy can convince me he has the answers or a better plan than me, I will follow him anywhere. I’ve fallen for it more than once. It’s not easy to pull off, because I happen to think most people are idiots, but if you can do it, I’m in trouble.

  I would follow a confident woman just as blindly. However, in my experience, women are less comfortable pretending to know what they’re doing when they don’t.

  I’ve been on the other side of it, too. I’ve met the guy who is young and talented and wise beyond his years and still looks to me for advice. What an ego trip that is. It took an older man saying point-blank “I like giving you advice” for me to realize that yes, that’s the bit you like. Not being helpful to me, but the sound of your authority reverberating in the ears of a younger woman.

  It’s not that deep down I want someone to “take care of me,” it’s that I’m exhausted, and occasionally overwhelmed by self-doubt. I’m steering the ship, but I don’t know what I’m doing. None of us do. But it would be so nice to believe that someone out there did, and that maybe they could take the wheel for a little while.

  It’s a seductive feeling. It would be great if it were real. But I guess I’ve got to count on myself. Which is not great news.

  * * *

  I. Some dudes like to say that men have the instinct to spread their seed, while women are supposed to protect their reproductive organs from everything but the best sperm for the strongest potential offspring. By that logic every woman in the world should be saving herself for Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and never let any of you shitheads touch her. Seriously, you guys should stop using that argument.

  fashion

  Suit Up

  In third grade my fashion hero was Claudia from the Baby-Sitters Club books. She was into fashion and junk food and art and being Japanese. I was into the first two things, so I figured I could model myself after her. I used to reread every description of her outfits (usually found in chapter two, where the POV character describes the other club members), and I compiled them all in a notebook. When my family went to the mall I’d stay on the lookout for things like purple high-tops and printed turtlenecks. Unfortunately, the books were written in the mid-eighties and it was 1993, so my fashion hero was pretty “five minutes ago” but would be right on point today. What’s that? The mid-eighties are out again? AND the mid-nineties are out? 2002 is in? Wasn’t that like three years ago??

  Since I could never find what I needed to precisely re-create Claudia’s every outfit, I settled for coveting the most absurd-looking articles of clothing at Contempo Casuals or T.J. Maxx. I was eight years old at this point, and my mother had a brilliant plan: occasionally buy me a stupid-looking outfit, let me wear it, and I’d get it out of my system before I got to high school.

  For the most part, “stupid-looking” was the worst offense: stretch pants with sequined piping from my brother’s Michael Jackson Halloween costume, a sweatshirt with an iron-on appliqué and puff paint, a massive faux mother-of-pearl daisy necklace—ya know, stupid-looking. Some of it, though, was hilariously “provocative.” My favorite piece was a black halter top that tied in the back and around the neck. Over it, I wore a sheer white collared shirt with black velvet polka dots, tied up at the bottom. I looked dope. I think I even wore it in our class picture. On its intended customer, this halter top probably would have shown off the navel and full abs as well as a generous helping of cleavage. On me (the eight-year-old fetus) it covered my entire torso, almost up to my neck. It was the equivalent to a toddler wearing an actual dress Paris Hilton got up-skirted in—they’d smell like a stripper but they’d look like a nun.

  It caused something of a stir among the other parents. They’d chirp to my mother, “Wow, you let your daughter wear a halter top to school?”

  “Yeah, why not, right? If I tell her what to wear now, she’ll just want to rebel even more when she’s sixteen.”

  “Oooh, what a neat idea. Not for me, though, I could never let my kid dress like that.”

  “Okay, but ten bucks says she’s gonna start dressing like a tramp the second she gets boobs.” Mom would actually wait and say that to me in the car, but it was still awesome.

  Even at eight I knew it was pretty pathetic for someone else’s parents to care about what I wore. Perhaps it should have prepared me for my current state of affairs, where my clothing is the subject of professional debate for equally unaffected people. Bring on the critique, Fashion Police! My mom’s gonna have a wicked burn all lined up the second you turn your back!

  When I got to middle school my style was informed by the rise of two movements: grunge (which had finally hit Maine) and my personal self-loathing. Even in the summer I wore long sleeves, because a schoolmate gently pointed out that the hair on my arms was dark and revolting. It’s gone away now after years of waxing and perhaps sheer force of will. If you still have dark hair on your arms maybe you don’t hate yourself enough. My mom told me that she had dark hair on her arms as a kid, but it went away as she grew up and the same thing would probably happen to me. (That doesn’t help me right now, idiot! I’m an abomination!!!) I made sure to find clothing that covered as much real estate as possible.

  For the most part I had to shop in the kids’ sections of JC Penney and L.L.Bean, but large children’s sizes kept me plenty covered. There was an especially unfortunate plaid bucket hat, and a daisy-covered wallet with . . . a chain. The memory of this wallet chain pops up whenever I’ve been feeling too good about myself. I mostly used clothes as a means to avoid detection. It’s like I thought that if my shirts were baggy enough, I’d be mistaken for a pile of laundry that moved from class to class.

  In high school, clothing became armor. Other girls dressed to accentuate whatever they were working with. Since I was working with nothing, I relied on my flared corduroys and a revolving collection of lewd T-shirts. Now, some of you will have to trust me on this, but there was a time before every douche bag had a “Jesus Is My Homeboy” shirt when printed tees were an actual novelty, especially to Mainers. Around fourteen, I discovered a store called Yellow Rat Bastard. (Shut up! That store used to be cool!) Every time I went to New York for an audition, I’d find my way to Prince Street and buy a funny and occasionally obscene T-shirt.

  The shirts were always too big for me, so they hid the fact that I had the measurements of a hairless cat, and they were rude, so they gave off a real “I could dress in cute clothes if I wanted but I’m above it” vibe. One had a picture of Pee-wee Herman captioned “Pervert.” Another had the cast of Baywatch and the word “ORGY.” I layered them over long-sleeve waffle tees and took on the world. I can’t feel bad that I’m not one of the pretty girls if I’m actively making myself look weird! Loophole! I wanted to be sent home for my inappropriate clothing. Badly. True to form, though, I was terrified and filled with regret the only time a teacher mentioned it.

  When Abercrombie & Fitch came to the Maine Mall and created a scramble among the wealthier kids to prove they could afford it, I shoplifted a shirt and wrote “Am I Popular Yet” across the chest with a marker. Suck it, fashion! I’m not your bitch!

  Sometime during junior year my friend Sam told me that when guys walked into a room, they scanned the girls and picked out who they’d have sex with. He explained that it was like a reflex, so I’d love to get some feedback from guys on whether this is true. Just tweet me or leave an Instagram comment, or if you see me in the grocery store definitely just come up and let me know. When I asked if I made his list, he shrugged and said, �
��Yeah, you’re always on the ‘I would’ side. I think you’re probably on most guys’ ‘I would’ side.”

  This. Was. Great. News. Given the choice, with no effort required, guys would rather have sex with me than not have sex with me? This changed everything! I mean, I still didn’t want to have sex, but you’re saying that if I DID I wouldn’t have to promise to wash the guy’s car to get him on board? The revelation that in spite of my boy-chest and braces I wasn’t considered a monstrosity led to about eight months of really sad attempts to highlight my AA cups and gel (gel!) my hair into submission. Turns out that trying to look as pretty as you can and still not being a pretty girl does a real number on you. My waffle tees were more comfortable anyway.

  Audition Closet

  Reverting back to my homely-by-choice tactic served me well when I moved to Los Angeles. I’d never seen people this good-looking. I know lots of people say that LA is full of tall blondes who make you feel like Quasimodo’s ugly cousin. I know it’s unoriginal and feels like a cry for attention. But when you’re auditioning to say one line on an episode of Entourage, you can’t help but think, Even I would cast this part on looks alone, then scan the room and regret using your last quarter for street parking.

  Maybe I had to compete with these girls at auditions, but I was not about to battle the changing tides of style in my spare time. Boho chic is in, you say? Cool, I’m gonna go buy a SpongeBob jacket from the boys’ section of Target.

  My closet looked like the by-product of schizophrenia. When you’re searching for an acting job, you never throw anything away because, you know, what if there’s an audition for a futuristic businesswoman who happened to spill ketchup on herself earlier that day? And if something is cheap enough, you’ll buy even the most hideous garments for the same reason. Your personal clothing is less than half of what you own. And no matter how strong you are, you will end up wearing something regrettable like your “spoiled homecoming queen” audition outfit to a party and take a photo with your friend Lacy where you’re both obviously sucking in your stomachs. Maybe your photos will be higher than three megapixels, but it will happen.