A Girl With Standards
Let me start off by saying that I am not opposed to falling in love. I just…doubt it’s going to happen. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for finding the perfect man and joining the 2.5 WPF club (2.5 children and white picket fence club) but let’s face the facts. The perfect guy doesn’t exist.
And I find it so sad—so frustrating—that lately my friends have been getting into relationships and thinking that they’ve found ‘the one’ only to have their hearts broken by ‘their soul mate’ within the same month. But not me. Oh, no. Never me.
My name is Anya Hale and I am a girl with standards.
So my ideal picture of what the ‘perfect guy’ is supposed to be like…well, he has to be mature, so that rules out about, oh I don’t know…50% of all men in this world. He should be able to read my emotions and know how to act accordingly. And by that, I mean, knows how to make you laugh at the right times, when you just need to be held, and when to shut the hell up while you go on a raging rant. Yet another 10% down the drain. He should be active. I don’t want to date a guy who sits around on the couch all day eating junk food. That doesn’t mean he has to be an Olympic athlete (though that would be nice), but he should have some physical goals. That’s another 10% of all men that I will never consider marrying. And that’s me being generous. Because it doesn’t take a genius to know that in this country (good old ‘Murica) there are a lot of physically inactive people. And not lastly, but definitely most important, he should be a gentleman! And I know that kind of ties in with my first standard, but it doesn’t at the same time because even though it takes a mature guy to be a true gentleman, there’s a difference between being immature (acts like a fourteen year old boy who is still in the middle of puberty and thinks ‘your face’ is the absolute funniest insult in the world) and being a sleazebag who’s just looking to get into your pants.
And these are not my only standards, but they are the four that immediately come to mind when I think of a man that I would consider dating. I mean, I could go on and on about how he should never (ever) ask you out through phone call, text message, or other friends, know how to balance his time between you and his friends, and has to be willing to commit to a long term relationship. But I won’t. I kind of just did, but…I won’t anymore.
So, basically with all of the mentioned standards (and the dozens of unmentioned ones) that leaves about .0001% of all men on this Earth that would even come close to being my idea of a ‘perfect guy’. And my chances of meeting this guy? Probably about .00001%. And my chances of actually marrying him? .000001%. And the chances of the marriage working out would be about .0000001%. The chances of us speaking the same language?
Instead of boring you with more confusing math, I’ll get straight to the point.
I will never meet ‘the one’. And the reason that that’s true is probably (okay, definitely) because I have so many standards. That is what sets me apart from my friends (Yes, they have standards. It’s not like they’re ignorant, irresponsible sluts like certain younger sisters of mine *cough cough* Lydia *cough cough*) because unlike them, I don’t change mine. What I find strange about my friends—and most people in the world, for that matter—is that they actually edit their standards to fit the person that they’re interested in having a relationship with. I cannot stress enough that it should be the other way around! If he wants to be in a relationship with you, then they should try to change for you!
If he’s an immature jerk, make him grow up with a reality bitch slap to the face. If he spends too much time with his friends, play the ‘it’s them or me’ card. If he’s completely lazy, drag his sorry ass to a gym. NEVER EVER LOWER YOUR STANDARDS FOR A GUY! EVER!
My point has been made. I’ll get to the story now.
My dramatic, twisted, and totally nail-biting (modestly speaking) tale begins in my bedroom. I’m just sitting on my bed, reading, enjoying my last day of summer before I hear, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my freaking God!” from down the hall. And then about two seconds later, my door is practically being ripped off of its hinges as Lydia (the previously mentioned *cough cough* ignorant, irresponsible slut of a younger sister) barges into my room.
“Hey Lydia. Great to see you. Thanks for knocking, by the way.”
“Who cares about knocking? Guess who’s going to be at Arianna Miller’s party tomorrow?”
“Who?” I ask boredly.
“Aiden Dawson! He just came back from England last week and he’s single!”
“Who’s single?” My best friend and foster sister, Talia, asks from my bedroom door.
“Aiden Dawson,” Lydia responds as if she’s daydreaming, flinging herself onto my bed and hugging me (something that never happens unless she’s blackmailing me, wants something from me, it’s my birthday, or a combination of the three).
“Well what’s so special about him?” Talia asks. I sigh. She hasn’t been living with us for that long, so she doesn’t understand that my mother has been dreaming about one of her daughters marrying him since we moved here eight years ago.
“He’s just some rich snob that lives in that old estate in the historical part of town,” I say, yawning and tossing my book on the floor.
“Rosewood?” Talia asks, walking farther into my room and sitting on the floor next to my bed.
“Yeah. That one. Apparently his family’s owned that place since the early 1800’s,” Lydia says. Okay, how did she know that? I didn’t know that. I’m pretty sure Mom didn’t even know that.
“And you got this information how?” I ask, praying to God that the answer isn’t that she Facebook stalked him, because that’s totally something Lydia would do.
“I overheard Clarissa Dubois bragging about how she practically spent her entire summer there.”
“Whatever. I don’t care about Rosewood and I certainly don’t care about Aiden Dawson.”
“How can you not care about Aiden Dawson?” Lydia exclaims in disbelief, as if I had just told her that I kick puppies for fun. “His dad owns a—”
“Multi-million-dollar-making company and the family of the girl who marries him will be set for life. Yeah, yeah. Got it. Mom won’t shut up about him.” For those of you who don’t know my mother…well, just be glad that you don’t know my mother. Remember the 2.5 WPF club that I mentioned earlier? Well, basically what that means is that you want a typical, perfect life with a typical, perfect family. And my mother may as well be president of that club! See, a fact about her is that she’s stuck in the nineteenth century and thinks that as soon as you’re legal, you should be married with a rich husband and popping out children like it’s your job.
Unfortunately, I turned eighteen a few months ago, so I’ve been getting the ‘You need to find a husband before it’s too late!’ speech way too often. And my response is always,
‘But Mom, I’m not even out of high school yet! I have plenty of time.’ Her response? She gives me this glare like I’m the freaking devil’s spawn and says in the harshest tone ever,
‘It’s your fault if I die without grandbabies!’. This is what you get when you have a mother born and raised in the parts of the South that apparently didn’t get the memo that it’s the (insert curse word of your choice) twenty-first century!
“Well, Aiden Dawson or no Aiden Dawson, we are going to that party and we are going to look hot. Hair, makeup, and nails courtesy of this girl.” Lydia says, pointing at herself while striking a dramatic and an extremely unnecessary pose. Talia and I exchange worried looks. I can tell that we’re both thinking the same thing.
“Actually, Talia and I were going to—”
“Oh, don’t even try to give me a bullshit excuse! Both of you are going to that party.”
“Maybe it’ll be fun,” Talia says with a little smile. I groan. Great. Two against one. Perfect.
“Tomorrow’s a school night, Lydia. We all need to study and do homework, especially you.”
“Come on, Anya! Nobody gives homework on the first day! And besides, you and Talia are seniors! Have a little fun before you turn into some sort of law-studying robot.” I sigh because I know it’s only a matter of time before her annoying begging will break me down.
“She’s got a point. Soon, we won’t even have the option to go to these parties. It might be fun.”
“Yeah, it might be fun!” Lydia repeats, giving me the puppy-dog eyes. Ugh! I do not want to go to some stupid party where I’ll probably just end up driving Lydia’s drunk ass home!
“Why can’t you just go without me?”
“Because I’m tired of you being an antisocial freak! I don’t want to be related to that girl. I mean, how embarrassing would that be?” Gee, Lydia. Way to make me feel good about myself.
“Anya, you should go. It’ll give you and your sister a chance to get closer before you graduate.” Of course, Talia. Of course you would be the one to say that! Can’t you just be a bit unpleasant for once in your life and tell her that there’s no way in Hell any of us are going to that party?
“Please go?” Lydia begs, her blue eyes going wide and her lips curling into a (seemingly) sweet smile.
“You don’t need your embarrassing big sister—”
“Please?” She repeats.
“Why do you want me to go so badly anyway—”
“Please!” She yells, and I know if I keep rejecting her, she’ll get so loud that Mom will come in to see what all of the fuss is about. I can already imagine her response when Lydia tells her about the party.
‘Oh, Anastasia, you must go! It’s a perfect chance to meet boys! Rich, handsome, single boys!’.
‘But Mom, I’ll have all year to meet boys. I just want to spend the first night of the school year studying.’
‘You are just begging to die single, aren’t you? Why, Anya? Why do you do this to me?’
‘But wouldn’t you rather me get good grades in school than find a boyfriend?’
I am not exaggerating, people! This is a typical conversation with my mother! So, I grudgingly nod my head and put on the fakest smile ever.
“Fine, Lydia. Talia and I will go.”
“Um, I’m not so sure if I should—”
“Maybe it’ll be fun,” I quote her, using an annoyingly high and overly sweet voice, batting my eyelashes and flipping my hair.
Yeah, that shut her up.
“But don’t even think about getting ready until after you finish your homework!” I say sternly. I’m pretty sure Lydia didn’t hear me, or if she did, she refused to acknowledge it, because now she’s throwing her arms around my neck for yet another hug (seriously, what is going on with her today?) and exclaiming,
“Yay! You’re my favorite sister ever!” I try to squirm away, but she has a killer grip and I’m stuck like this—awkward turtles swimming everywhere—until she finally heads to the door.
“I’m your only sister ever,” I call after her in an unenthusiastic tone, trying to make it as obvious as possible that I am not happy about this.
“And that’s what makes you my favorite!” She squeals once she reaches the door, and after she leaves, she screams, “Woohoo! We’re going to a par-tay! YOLO, bitches” in a voice so loud that I’m pretty sure our neighbors can hear.
Talia gets off the floor and sits on the edge of the bed while I uncross my legs and lean against my headboard. I sigh, wondering if Lydia will ever really grow up.
“Hey, what’s the worst that can happen?” Talia asks, trying to look on the bright side of things like she always does.
“Somebody brings drugs, we all get high, the police bust us, we get sent to jail, don’t get into our choice colleges because we’re drug-addict criminals, never get jobs, eventually get kicked out of our parents’ house, never get married and spend the rest of our lonely lives on the streets as mentally-ill beggars,” I reply, almost robotically. She stays silent for a moment, letting that sink in. Yeah, not everything is rainbows and sunshine.
“I hope you’re not always like this,” She says before getting up and heading to the door.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Hopelessly negative,” She responds before leaving.__________________________________________________
I know, I know! I'm a bad person! I left you guys hanging for months and now I'm starting over completely! But the truth is, I just wasn't feeling the story anymore. Not only was it horribly, awfully cheesy, but my main goal was just falling apart.
What was my main goal?
To write a modern story based on Pride and Prejudice.
I think my main problem was that I was focusing on one of the main aspects of the original book by Jane Austin--social classes and money. And I just wasn't that good at it.
So now that I've started over, I decided to experiment and focus on the other main aspect of the original novel--marriage. Of course, social classes and money will still be one of the main concepts of You Drive Me Insane, it just won't be that big of an issue.
I really hope this goes better than my original attempt. And I was ready to drop YDMI all together, but I really didn't want to because honestly I had a great time writing it, but it was just a whole big ball of cheesiness and sappiness and I just couldn't take it seriously anymore.
So many changes! Ah! And for those of you who are confused, Lydia is Rose. I didn't drop the character, I just changed the name. I also made her more of a party girl than a complete bitch (as you can tell by the "par-tay! YOLO, bitches!" which, my wonderful friend Lizzy added, by the way) because I just thought she needed better character development than texting 24/7 and saying "whatever" all the time.
I also am making a few changes to Scott's character. Don't worry, he'll still be the same snotty, douchey, arrogant Scott Taylor that we all know and love. I'm just...well, I'm not going to tell you because that'd just be spoiling, now wouldn't it >:)
Anyway, I've rambled enough. Next chapter is in the works and should be posted within the next couple of days. Happy late Thanksgiving, and since it's officially the Christmas season, Merry early Christmas!