Nice Guys Finish First
I know the popular saying contradicts what I’m calling this piece. I’m here to argue otherwise.
Ladies, admit it. There’s something about the bad boy that’s a complete turn on. He brings danger, a sense of adventure, and total drama into your life. Rarely a day goes by where you’ll actually be thinking to yourself, “wow, this day was boring.” It’ll usually be the complete opposite.
But with all this excitement comes a price usually paid for in tears and hurt feelings. For some reason I’ve still yet to figure out, we’re under some kind of crazy misguided notion that we’ll be the ones to change him! We magically delude ourselves into thinking that we’re somehow special enough to be the one who’ll turn him around.
I’ve been there and done that. By “done that,” I mean that I was a card-carrying member of the Delusional. I’m also way over it because I’m onto something way better. It’s called NORMAL. (More on this in a bit.) Whenever I think back on this period of my dating life, I recall Fergie’s wise words in her epic song “My Humps”….
You don’t want no drama
No, no drama
NO NO NO NO DRAMA
Fellas, I know what you’re thinking. If you’re the nice guy, you’re probably thinking I’m smoking some goooood [fill in the blank] because you’re always the one holding the short end of the stick. You’re the one who spends hours upon hours comforting girls like the one I used to be when our rebels-without-a-clue stomped on our feelings. You’re thinking we’ll come around one day when we see how nice and sweet you are. You start believing we actually mean it when we say, “God, I just want a nice guy!”
When you hear those words, you’re probably doing the happy dance to end all happy dances. You’re about to make your move… only to have the music come to a screeching halt when we run off with our bad boy the second he shows something that vaguely resembles remorse.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
So what’s my point? My point is that I used to be one of those clueless girls. I wanted to save them like they were some kind of wayward puppy. But, you know what I realized? They’re not wayward puppies. And even if they were, puppies have teeth. And they bite. And they’ll eat your shoes after they pee all over them.
I’ve seen the light because I don’t want to babysit anymore. That’s essentially what dating a bad boy is like. I felt like I was babysitting a manic eight-year-old boy and trying to house-train a not-too-bright puppy the entire time:
“No, you can’t do that. Why? Because that’s battery and assault, and you don’t want to go to prison, do you? Good boy. Here’s a treat.”
“No. Don’t drink that entire bottle of wine! No!! Bad!!! BAAAAAAD PUPPY!!!! BAD!!! GO TO YOUR ROOM! I SAID YOUR ROOM!! NOT MY ROOM!!!”
Fast forward to today. My boyfriend is a nice guy. He’s thoughtful, sincere, genuine, and all kinds of awesome. He brings me little treats like ice cream (I think it’s more for him, and he’s just ensuring he has a supply of ice cream at my home. I eat it all when he’s not looking, and then he brings more! Just like magic!! Haa haa haa!). And to this day, he opens my doors. He treats me like a lady, and I think he’s the best thing since humans figured out how to make fire.
You know what? I have to thank the guys I dated in the past because they showed me exactly what it is I don’t want. They showed me how I don’t want to be treated and that I don’t like crying. They taught me an invaluable lesson because now I know what I do want. I appreciate Clyde for the man he is and for everything he does for me. Thanksgiving doesn’t come once a year. It’s an everyday occurrence for me, and I let him know every day that I am thankful for everything he does for me.
Granted, I have no idea what kind of person he was before we met, but that’s irrelevant because that’s not whom I’m with now. People change and people (hopefully) grow. I know he’s not perfect (Heaven knows I’ve got my own issues and am pretty weird, but he’s still here…and he likes it! SCORE!!!!!), but I’m not looking for perfection. I’m looking for someone who’s broken pieces will fit with my broken pieces. Through trial and error, we learn what works for us and what doesn’t. Whatever doesn’t pass muster gets kicked to the curb as fast as my stiletto-heeled feet can make contact.
Whatever is left standing is therefore considered the winner. And guess what? In my case, the nice guy won. Which means he also finished first.