Kung Fu Is Not For You

Sitting around with a group of girls discussing movies brings on a special kind of anxiety. I know at some point in time someone is going to say "The Notebook is the best movie ever!!". The group of girls will collectively sigh and one by one they all begin recounting their favorite moment.

My palms begin to sweat and I try desperately to recall any of the snips of the movie I had heard real girls talk about in the past. As the room sighs and squeals of joy make their way towards, my adrenaline starts pumping. I am now in absolute flight or fight mode. I realize I am clutching my hands together in terror as the expectant faces in the room have all turned to me. Before I realize what is happening I blurt out:

"Did you know in Unleashed Jet Li created a new style of fighting to come up with the really crazy animalistic  style in the movie? It was pretty bad ass." 

And cue the looks of horror on the faces around me. What did I just do? Exposed my failure as a girl to the world that's what. I had meant to mumble something about kissing in the rain. I had seen that on the previews. That would be enough to get someone else gushing and ensure my secret girl suckiness was never exposed to the room. No, somehow my stupid brain decided now would be a good time to let everyone know that I am a total sucker for Kung Fu movies. 

I hear the collective gasps around the world as the ladies react to my admission. They shake their heads and turn away from me as I have broken one of the most scared of all girl codes. Trust me I know. It is a looming cloud of shame that follows me wherever I go. As the rest of the womanly world around me goes skipping off merrily to imbibe in the delight of endless romcom's, I hide in my house shamefully watching a litany of movies that should never cross a ladies retina. I know I was supposed to be posting all of over Facebook about how I couldn't wait to see Magic Mike. Instead I was all excited about Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter (which sucked by the way, the book was of course way better). 

The range of my shame knows no bounds. Can I even admit to the amount of times I have watched Kung Fu Hustle? Ichi the Killer is my go to whenever I have had a rough week. I know popping that sucker into the DVD player will bring me a few hours of unadulterated arterial spraying joy. When I put The Raid on the check out belt at Target I tried desperately to cover it with the other items from my cart. Of course the check-out guy had to ask me what it was and I of course in turn had to gush on for ten minutes about how awesome it was. The pretty and polished girl standing behind me tsked at me as I violated all things girl. 

One day a few years ago I knew my problem had become serious. My mom came over and wanted to watch a movie with me. I have an extensive collection of  DVDS so we decided we would watch something I already had. After twenty minutes of searching the shelves my mom turned to me with disbelief on her face. 

"What are we supposed to watch? All you have is Kung Fu movies." 

She was right. There was nothing there fit for me to share with any girlfriend that might stop by. 

Please understand I have tried to stop watching these movies. Netflix was queued up at one point with every chick flick I could find. I was going to use immersive therapy to force myself to watch movies that were appropriate for my gender. Hour after hour of mind numbing formulaic tripe later, I found the cursor hovering over Tokyo Gore Police. One click and the wonderment that is a well choreographed beat down would be mine. I tried desperately to force the cursor back to 27 Dresses knowing that if I clicked on the wrong movie all would be lost. The next thing I know, blood is squirting out in splendid sprays of gore and I was in need of an intervention. 

To date I have not been able to stay on a path to recovery. I am anxiously waiting the release of Pacific Rim instead of The Host. I may be a lost cause. 

The Adventure Begins

Over the last few years, I have had to look in the mirror and face some hard facts. I am growing older. Crap. I have gotten fatter. Double crap (like for real double). I am one of the worst girls ever. Ever? Yes probably ever.

As you age and spend more time with Ben and Jerry's than you really ought to, you tend to reflect on past and present events more then ever before. It was one these carb fueled binges that led me to the realization that I had failed at being a girl on so many levels it had pretty much reached epic proportions. My memory stretched as far back as I could go and I found a long litany of crimes I had perpetrated against my own gender. I could not find a moment in time when I had done the correct thing according to girl code. Never had I liked the appropriate things or bounced with glee at the moment when most other girls had. Knowing that I had failed I knew this needed to be documented. If it did nothing else but to serve as a cautionary tale for other girls it would serve it's purpose.

I will use this blog to track all my crimes against girldom past, present and future. For this the inaugural post of the Adventures of the Worst Girl Ever, we will start with a defining moment. The moment that started me down the path of analyzing my inherently flawed girlness and led me to realize how truly failed I was at the art of GIRL.

Several months ago my husband and I planned a weekend get away to San Francisco. It's an hour flight from where we live. Easy to do on a Friday afternoon and back for dinner on Sunday. My husband would already be up there for a business trip so one flight was paid for SCORE! With kids and working full time, a quick 48 hours in the foggy city sounded like heaven.

Leading up to the trip I had gathered ideas for where to go and must sees. It was my first time going to Frisco baby and I wanted to see it all. As anyone who knows me can attest, when I am excited about something, I do not shut up about it for like ever. The three girls I work with were tormented daily leading up to the trip with my plans, ideas and non stop prattle over the impending journey. In my defense I don't get out much.

I bought tickets to Alcatraz a month in advance. I was terrified it would be sold out. I called the hotel we would be staying at several times to ensure nothing was wrong with my reservation. Why there would be I don't know but I was leaving nothing to chance. I Googled things to do in San Francisco probably twenty times a day. The night before the trip I checked off my list of final preparations for me and the kids. I was ready!

The morning I strode into work  full of giddy excitement. As the girls filtered in for the day they caught a little bit of my excitement. We chatted about my trip until the horrible moment when they discovered my girl crime. The following in is the actual conversation that took place.

Girl A-Where did you put the rest of your luggage? In the mail room?
Me-No. this is all I am taking. (Point to small black bag sitting under my desk)
Girl A, B and C-GASP! No!
Me-Yea I'm just going for two days.
Girl A,B and C-GASP! No!
Me-Umm yes
Girl B-What can you even fit in that bag for two days?
Me-Everything I need
Collective shaking of heads from the group
Girl C-I would need at least two bags
Collective agreement from all three. Stares from all three as if I had a second head.

I turned back to my computer in utter confusion. You would have thought I had said I was smuggling a baby in the bag. I had thought I was so very clever when I packed my bag the night before. I can wear jeans to work on Friday. Score! Jeans can be worn at least two days with out washing pending no major accidents happened. So into my bag went another pair of jeans (in case of a major accident), three tops, pjs, 2 pairs of undies, 2 pairs of socks, tennis shoes, a hair brush and my toothbrush. I wore one pair of silver hoops to work which would work with all my outfits for the weekend. I wore flats to work that day which I figured I could wear instead of the tennis shoes at night. Brilliant! I would wear my wool jacket on the plane since I would need it when I landed. No shampoo, blow dryer or soap would be needed since there would be some at the hotel. My husband had deodorant and toothpaste with him so I would just use his. No need to waste extra space on those items. Make-up could stay at home. We would be up at the crack of dawn to go to Alcatraz. Our dinner spots were microbrew pubs that my husband wanted to try. I did not foresee any fancy forays that would need to see my looking extra gussied up in my weekend. When I had finished packing my one little bag I had been pleased as punch. Damn I was efficient.

Now instead I sat at my desk absolutely mortified that I had failed so miserably at being a girl. As my co-workers chatted back and forth I realized I should at minimum have a large suitcase and two carry owns. If I really wanted to win at being a girl I would have had two suitcases. I tried desperately to think of all the clothing I should have packed but could not seem to wrap my head around this entourage of luggage that should be accompanying me at this very moment.

Our boss (a man) walked into the office for the morning and the girls were still all a twitter about my crime. They showed him the bag I had so disgracefully thought was enough. He laughed and said "Hmm that's like how a man would pack." BAM that just happened. Proof I had strayed so far from the path of girlness it could now be said I actually packed like a man. F&%K!

That evening it tormented me as I bypassed the long baggage check line and went straight to security  As I made it through TSA with no layers of frippery to remove, I lamented I wasn't the girl two rows over piling item after item peeled from her person into the plastic bucket for scanning. Once I boarded the plan I had extra time to really stew over my inadequacies since my stupid tiny bag slid right under my seat. I didn't even get the luxury of fighting for overhead space in the cabin to distract me from my thoughts. When the plane landed I grabbed my bag from under my seat and was the first one off the plane, hoping to avoid all of the looks of sympathy from the other girls who had thought to pack more. I rushed to meet my husband with my shame lingering over me.

That ladies and gentleman is the what they call hitting rock bottom. With the humiliation fresh in my mind I began the soul searching that lead me to the realization that I was the worst girl ever. My defining moment in which I knew something had to give. Either I could continue to live my life with the shame or I could learn from it and become a real girl someday.

Stay tuned for more past memories proving I earned that title and my future struggles as I try to break free from the chains of being the worst girl ever.