Life has some awkward conversations. Like the, “Oh, when’s the baby due?” chat with the fat girl. Or the let’s-talk-about-my-suicide-attempt talk (what are you supposed to say to that? “Better luck next time?”).
But tops on that list has to be men reading you poetry. Maybe that doesn’t count as a conversation, because they’re just blathering on for a zillion years and you’re just sitting there with glazey eyes, but it’s my blog and I do what I want so nah nah nah.
I mean, seriously. In the movies they make it all romantic and the guy is staring at his beloved and holding her hand, and there’s sweeping music in the background, and OH MY GOD IT’S THE SWEETEST THING EVER MOM WHEN WILL BOYS READ ME POETRY? No, but for real, every effing preteen girl I’ve ever met swans around longing for a boyfriend to sing to her or send her eighty-seven pages of love letters in flowy cursive.
But as anyone who’s ever had a guy read them poetry knows, it is awkward as fuck.
What are you supposed to DO while they’re moaning on about your “ocean eyes” and “legs that trail on like a sentence”? I mean, I like a compliment as much as the next girl, but you could just be like, “You have great eyes,” or, “The way your legs look in that dress makes me want to have sexual intercourse with you.” You know, the normal stuff. And then a normal, confident adult can respond, “Gee, thanks.” But you can’t do that when someone’s reading you poetry, because it seems pretty dick and flippant (dickkant?). For example, if the dude says, “So till the judgment that your self arise, you live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes,” and you’re all, “Sweet, thanks,” you’re being dickkant.
So what do you do?!? You can’t smile a lot, because then it’s like you’re laughing at them, which you probably are since they’re reading you shitty poetry. And you can’t frown, because then you seem like you hate the shitty poetry, which you do. And you can’t say anything, because they’re too busy yammering away. So your only real options are a.) Tell them to shut up because you don’t really like poetry and people reading poems about your face is super awk, b.) Run away, or c.) Stand there like a goon with a half-smile half-frown.
Guess what? All of those options suck. So, I propose option d.) Invent a time machine, hop in that sucker, and go back to Billy Shakespeare’s house and sock him in the face.