I’m a daydreamer, so quite often I find myself lost in my own theatrics, all staged in my head.
In today's performance, I'm playing Chuck Bass. Yes, the strangely appealing (despite his oddly rectangular head) manipulative bad boy from the television series that defined a generation: Gossip Girl.
Because of my creative license, I make changes to the character that I feel appropriately caters to the story and theme. So in this fantasy world, I'm lesbian Chuck Bass.
His brooding swagger, mixed with my chilled out charm, paired with a hopefully good hair day where my attempted coif reaches Bieber proportions, is a bear trap for the ladies, at least in the scenario in my mind.
I'm playing mysterious indifference well, sauntering through a too hot night club on ladies’ night. There are a million places I'd rather be - mainly on my couch, in my living room, planted underneath my ceiling fan in a cotton shirt I've owned since I was 17, sprawled out with Netflix.
But there's one person I'm there for - the person who makes the skinny jeans and splash of make-up worth it. And I'm about to go Chuck Bass on that ass!
My apologies. That was an awful character break.
And just an awful thing to say in general.
Anyway, this woman. She's surrounded by a brood of pale, skinny women with hipster tendencies, their threads an androgynous wardrobe dream. Their flippant flirting is constant, set against this woman’s blaze giggling. I'm wholly unimpressed and when the last clone traipses off for an overpriced, watery cocktail or to wait 15 minutes to use a cramped, urine stained bathroom, I cooly make my way over, sliding up right behind her - almost, but not quite touching.
"Why are you bothering with all these Bieber body doubles?" I ask in the smooth, low tone of Chuck Bass that can only be described as having the texture of silky chocolate fondue. If a voice could have a smolder, it would be that of Chuck Bass's.
"I'm so much cuter," I finish as she turns around, appraising me with an amused eye twinkle and a sly smirk. My mouth barely quivers, but I pray my eyes entice.
"What are you doing?" she'd ask, sitting somewhere between humor and intrigue. The corner of my lips upturn but I refuse to let teeth show in a display of my practiced smirk and my "you know you just might want this" eyes.
"Channeling Chuck Bass." I shamelessly tell her, because why would I ever be interested in anyone who couldn't recognize and appreciate a reference to a TV show that ended 3 years ago and was geared towards the demographic below us? I use that gravely, chocolately inflection again, and it does all that it needs to do. I get her laughter and her full attention.
"And seeing those other girls flirt with you bothers me a lot more than it should," I continue, allowing just a slip of vulnerability to show through the quirk of a well-groomed eyebrow and the ever so slight quiver in my otherwise velvet voice.
"I can give you so much more than any of them. Let me show you."
She'd naturally be enraptured and compelled. With a silent smize, fingers would lightly intertwine as the power of [lesbian] Chuck Bass would prevail again.
In the production in my head again. And nowhere else.
I could never authentically be so effortless in my game, after all. Especially since that would mean having game to begin with.
The low, rich vocal tones and the nonchalance suaveness - that will never be me. And if I ever did manage to pull off that facade in real life, then maybe in my most ideal scenario, the woman would smile kindly at me after my whole Chuck Bass spiel and tell me that I don't have to try to fit into that persona, but rather just be myself because that's who she'd actually prefer. That's exactly who she wants.
Sometimes, though, I can't help but think that that's more fictional than some elaborate fantasy where I'm possessed by the irresistible spirit of Charles Bart Bass.
Because when it comes to this - this botched up lesbian dating game - a lot of times who I am doesn’t feel good enough.
If only "I'm Chanelle Tyson" would have the same effect as “I’m Chuck Bass.” Unfailingly kind, subtly nerdy (that first adjective was a reference to Harry Potter after all - the movie, though, which is blasphemous, I know), wholly pleasant, charmingly goofy and quite witty (a proclivity in puns counts as wit, right?). Smart and conscientious and all these qualities that justify my parents' bragging on Facebook, the kind of person people always want to have around, but never want to spend the night.
I mean, unless it's for a totally platonic friendly sleepover gathering, of course. I'm popular at those.
It's this strange conundrum of really liking the person I am, while simultaneously feeling like that person isn't good enough.
Like that person isn't good enough to "get the girl."
I wish who I am could be good enough.
But I’m slowly learning not to care about that or even further, to believe differently than that. Everything before this current paragraph I wrote about eight months ago and just found it in the depths of my iPhone notes. It was too good to pass up.
In the eight months that have passed, not only have I gradually started to shake myself out of such a self-pitying mindset and stop seeking romantic validation for the person I am, I also have started to at least try to grasp onto the sliver of hope that one day, to some special girl, the person who I am will be good enough. And it absolutely won’t matter, every time before where I’ve tried and failed.
It’s like what the Beach Boys sang in That's Not Me: “I could try to be big in the eyes of the world; what matters to me is what I could be to just one girl.”
Even that trivializes my self-perception and acceptance, however - to still have hope to find eventual validation from the mutual affections of some woman. Ultimately, I shouldn't find validation for my self-with from that at all. It’s a hard struggle to navigate with its daily high and lows, to not get myself down because of insecurities that try to creep up, but I have to know that it doesn’t matter if anyone ever sees it or not - the person I am is enough. I’ll embrace me, I won’t change me, and I certainly will stop fantasizing about being a fictional bad boy from a teen soap opera.