Throwing Noodles
A stranger sent me a friend request. I keep a fairly curated friend list, which has less than five people I’ve never met in real life. If I don’t know you, I want to know why I should. So I asked one of our few mutual friends about him.
“He’s a guy who friends every pretty girl.” 
Okay, got it. This bro is throwing spaghetti to see what sticks to the wall. I’m nobody’s wet noodle.
I still enjoy the company of men. Always have, from the time I was a headstrong grade-schooler in a terrycloth jumper pouting after getting vetoed from a rock battle with my big brother and boy cousins. Not one to heed warnings, I did get in on it long enough to get clipped in the forehead, with a scar above my eyebrow to show for it.
Around the same age, I also spent a lot of time as an innocent bystander to my cousin Jamie’s mischief at Grandma’s place, where he lived with his mom, Aunt Robin, for a number of years. I’ll never forget the time he called her from the barn, faking a grown man’s voice, telling her he was watching her. Or the time he hooked beetles to strings and tied them to the ceiling fan. Or his penchant for hairspray and lighters. Or the time he and I walked through the creek—or crick as we called it—at the bottom of Grandma’s hill, following it to Superette, a small general store where Jamie stuck a whole stick of pepperoni in his sweatpants and left without paying. Those are mild examples. Jamie and the other boy cousins were Jackass long before it hit TV. I’ve never been that reckless myself, unless you count the time I accidentally Jackass’d my oldest son’s hair with the clippers. He was only six at the time, but he’ll never let me live down the fact that he had to go to first grade with a bald spot.
As I grew older, my male friendships grew too. High school was tame, with a few tent-camping adventures on Lowndes Hill, which was private property, so cool points for trespassing and not getting caught; plus some house hangs with Smashing Pumpkins, Tool, and Steve Miller on the soundtrack. When I moved to Miami at 22, my roommate introduced me to her good friend, an older entrepreneur with an impressive resume, including cofounding an infamous theater company. Through clouds of weed, L.E. was a great conversationalist and a gentleman through and through. He took me out for my first-ever sushi dinner and in future outings became a sounding board as I developed my thoughts on politics, religion, and my own future.
After nearly a year, I put the pedal to the metal in my Camry convertible that I’d bought from my mom not long before I made her and Dad cry as I headed to Florida in what would be my first but not last time living far away from home. Riding shotgun in Miami was my new boss who’d flown in from NYC and said I had something that caught his eye—which was otherwise focused on male partners, so I had nothing to fear. We sped up I95 listening to the Indigo Girls, or “lesbian complaint rock” as he called it. Our destination was upper Manhattan, where friendship, male or otherwise, was as hard to find as affordable rent. Until I could get a few paychecks saved up to sell my soul for first, last, and security, my company put me up in an apartment occupied by young male models.
In a flash, life was fast and furious. The modeling industry is full of beautiful people and ugly attitudes. My apartment was full of young boys with big dreams and big-city habits, like cocaine delivered to the door in Chinese-food containers. For a small-town West Virginia girl, the culture shock came roaring like the 6 train that took me to the L headed for Gansevoort St. in the meatpacking district where the agency sat on a pointy corner. Contrary to popular belief at work, where I held the title of Junior Agent, my bed wasn’t open season. I was decidedly celibate at the time, although I may have given a kiss or two. Who wouldn’t. Well, someone might not, but that someone isn’t me. I had three vices at the time: cigarettes, designer discount shopping, and kisses. I’m a good girl at heart.
For a woman seeking connection, work was a soulless desert. When I’d had enough of not having good people around, I do what I always do—I went looking for what I need. I pounded the city pavement until it led me to a new job. Put a deposit on my very own apartment just across the river in Jersey and daydreamed about what life had in store. Turns out it had a dose of big-city middle finger: The job offer was rescinded. I tucked my tail, went home to West Virginia, and signed up for college again.
In Morgantown, the flood gates of male friendship broke free. From watching graffiti sessions to admiring electronica equipment to running from killer bees in a hemlock forest to being gifted a tube of toothpaste because I’d mentioned how satisfying it would be to squeeze it out, I spent real, good quality time with men who, according to small minds, were only waiting for the chance to screw me. Does that even matter? Life offers endless examples of two things being true at once, like finding a friend attractive and not acting on the urge, especially when she's not giving you the look.
My roster of male friends has grown even more since I graduated from college, also graduating from my home state one last time before returning for good. Who would’ve thought this tumbleweed would stop looking for a strong breeze. Surprisingly, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 feels good these days, at least when it comes to geography.
Having male friends has been a gift along this uncommon path of mine. I credit them and also, most importantly, my father for instilling a belief that men can be good—respectful, honest, kind, and selfless. Their example has stood strong through my 30 years of dating, which should’ve turned me sour by now, if I were the kind to be taken down by life’s disappointments. Fortunately I’m my mother’s daughter, made of both petal and thistle.
That guy throwing noodles, he’ll get one to stick, no doubt. It wasn’t going to be me; I can’t entertain the idea of spending time with a man who based his interest on appearances, which are deceptive in a multitude of ways. Under every good-looking exterior is a whole person. If you can't deal with their needs and flaws, then no amount of looks—or money—matters, unless you have the depth of a sidewalk puddle. While my version of courtship isn’t exactly traditional, it’s mine and I’m sticking with it. If the universe can’t get down with that, then I’ll collect more animals and call it a day.
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