Sunday, February 12, 2006

Random Tangent #93

Being 19-years-old and a spinster isn't so bad after all. New research has confirmed the old stereotype that men find funny women a turn-off:
Scientists say women who tell jokes are seen as a threat, undermining men's idea that they should hold the dominant role.

Hundreds of men and women in their twenties were questioned by academics. Most said they found a sense of humour to be attractive in women - but when asked if they would want to be with a woman who cracked jokes herself, more than half said no.

Dr Rod Martin, whose research will be published in the scientific journal Evolution and Human Behaviour this week, said his findings suggested men feel threatened by witty women.

'When forced to choose between humour production and humour appreciation in potential partners, women valued humour production, whereas men valued receptivity to their own humour,' he said.

Dr Martin, a psychologist with the University of Western Ontario who has written several academic papers on humour, added: 'One of the reasons why men don't like female comedians may be that humour is seen as a masculine thing.'

But his research did find that men did show a preference for funny women when it came to one-night stands.

Newsflash ladies: If you're looking for more than a fling, better keep your mouth shut and bring enough giggly enthusiasm to last eight karmic lifetimes. I find this study (however shoddily researched) liberating for obvious personal reasons. It would be a waste of time to be attractive to horseshit bores anyway. To think how much of myself I'd need to give up for the chance to join the echelons of zealous couples, those professional purveyors of philistinism. If my ability to generate humour is unacceptable, then why bother squeezing that last smidgeon of hope to chase down something that, in all likelihood, could turn out to be dull and tedious? It seems illogical to appear more attractive when it is so detrimental to one's self-expression. I mean, God forbid that I make men laugh. To think I thought I spent all those evenings entertaining them when in actuality, I might as well have been making out with Osama with a goat hanging off my teet. Crudeness. Ha! I admit I test my boundaries on occasion, but is it really necessary to expect me to fit these double standards? Left-of-the-middle bedroom shenanigans are fun while you're going at it (against a wall/on an ice rink/inside a potato chip factory), but it would be very unlady-like indeed should she happen to speak frankly about them.

Yet similarly, it's distressing to think that my ability to be myself hinges on social integration. I WON'T STAND FOR IT. Making a quip isn't grounds for castration. For a little companionship, I'm required to a) feign ignorance about relevant subjects, b) inhibit intellectual pursuance, and c) relinquish any sort of impulse to appear dominating. It's a game of strategy that's based on unreasonable sacrifices. I've always wondered what I was missing as a romantic pariah. It seems the real question is what will I be giving up for the opportunity to know? The opening of Pandora's box as a panacea, it's this sort of paradoxical mentality that makes us hunger for the unobtainable, the abstract. And a justification for my pickiness.

Boys, boys, boys: What aren't they scared of these days?


I think the biggest hurdle in getting over the demise of a relationship is remembering how much of yourself you compromised. Giving so much only to see it go to shit is ... difficult. It's not the sexual proclivities that I linger over either (because I don't regret them), but the domestic, the scholastic, the placing one over the other to satisfy him and his ever-changing objectives. It seems pretty stupid talking about this now; I just need to get it out of my system. I feel it necessary to mourn: not for the loss of the relationship, but for the part of me that perished with it. All I can say is, at least I'm functioning, which is more than I hoped for a few short months ago. (Crap, I'm getting all melodramatic. Stupid over-dramatic adolescent angst. Damn you to shlock hell!)

Grey's Anatomy, think Grey's Anatomy. Have I mentioned how fucking great this show is? Lavender! Her hair smelled of lavender! ... I'll have what she's having.

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