Bossy Betsy

Dear Betsy,

I’m kind of in love with a guy. We hang out all the time and we laugh and have fun and agree on everything. He’s pretty much perfect for me. Like, randomly throughout the day, he’ll call me, recite a Sue Sylvester quote, and then hang up. Isn’t that awesome?

The only problem is, he is sort of gay. I mean, he says he’s gay. He seems like he’s gay. But he’s never had a boyfriend or anything, so what if he’s not gay? If I may quote Sue, “So you like show tunes. It doesn’t mean you’re gay. It just means you’re awful.”

How do I tell him I want to be with him forever? I’m afraid he’s going to freak out. I don’t want to ruin the friendship, you know? But I have visions of us getting married and living happily ever after and watching Glee together for the rest of our lives.

Signed,
We can work it out?

Dear Work Out,
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Hey, guys. I’m having a busy week at my real job. I don’t have time for a whole letter, but I did want to tell the person who found me by Bingoogling “what do you do when your boyfriend and his friends feel that you are too bossy” that boyfriends are optional. If they think you’re bossy because you’re bossy, stop bossing them. Or get a blog. If they think you’re bossy and you’re not, ditch ’em. HTH, Bets.

Dear Betsy,

Ugh. I have to go to my cousin’s wedding this weekend. There is no way I can get out of it. I don’t mind going so much, but the thing is, there are only two people in the whole world who think this marriage is going to last more than a year, tops, and I’m not even sure about the groom. It’s her second wedding (she’s 24) and his third (he’s 39). They met in rehab. My aunt and uncle are broke from the first wedding (and rehab), so my cousin and her husband-to-be are going into massive debt to pay for their big day. Then they’re going on a tour of Europe. With his teenage daughter. Do you see what I mean? No chance.

They’ve registered for cash. I guess you can do that now. Register. For cash. Here is my question: do I have to give them a present? I don’t want to be a jerk, but I can’t afford my own European vacations, let alone theirs. I would buck up if there were any hope of this thing working, but let’s be real. They’re going to split up before they even get to the Mona Lisa.

Sincerely,
Cousin Scroogey

Dear Scroogey,
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Dear Betsy,

My boyfriend is a jock. Not a meatheaded nut-scratchin’ “WOOO!” jock, but an actual enthusiastic athlete. He runs in races, bikes everywhere, swims to relax, etc. He also runs with a crowd of people who have similar interests, so he and his friends are always rushing off to play volleyball and tennis and whatnot.

Now that we’re dating, he’s very excited to share all these activities with me, so he’s always inviting me along. And the “invitation” often comes in the form of unintentional pressure – “Come on, are you coming? You’ve gotta come! It’ll be so much fun! Seriously! You’ve gotta come along!” etc.

I know he’s just excited, and actually, I think it’s sweet that he wants to share this side of his life with me (and the positive influence associated with getting me in better shape doesn’t hurt either). The thing is, I’m a sedentary, bookish sort and always have been. I stay in decent shape just because I live in the city and walk everywhere, and I noodle around with some Pilates and jogging in my spare time, but these are solitary endeavors, and that’s the case for a reason. I’m an exceptionally clumsy person, uncoordinated and easily winded, and I never developed the muscle memory for playing sports that most people did when they played as kids, because I just… never did.

I’m horribly anxious about flailing around like a huge doofy goober in front of my boyfriend and (especially) his friends, and I don’t want everyone having to grit their teeth and be a good sport while I’m just clearly dragging the true athletes down. The whole thing is kind of making me want to hide, but I don’t know how to tell my boyfriend that without dampening his sweet “let me show everyone how awesome you are!” enthusiasm.

Help me, Bets – this is like eighth grade gym class all over again.

Signed,
A Klutz In Love

Dear Klutz,
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Dear Betsy,

My stupid friends are stupid, and so am I. A couple of weeks ago we were out and I was drinking and someone asked me who my celebrity crush was. I couldn’t think of anybody. They wouldn’t let me say I didn’t have a celebrity crush. Unfortunately, right before I left to go out I was watching Celebrity Fit Club, so the only person who popped into my head was
Sebastian Bach

Yeah. Sebastian Bach. I could just as easily have said K-Fed or Harvey Whatsit the Fourth, but I didn’t. Ever since then, people have been posting Skid Row videos on my Facebook wall, or singing, “I’ll Remember You” when I walk by. But the worst thing was that it turns out that my friend’s cousin’s sister’s uncle or something is his accountant, so they got Sebastian Bach to call me on the phone. They told him I was his biggest fan and I have alopecia. He felt sorry for me. He asked me about my hair and what my favorite song of his was. I lied all over the place. I was so embarrassed.

How do I get them to stop with this? I am so tired of hair metal I could scream.

Signed,
My crime is time, and it’s 18 and life to go.

Dear Crime,
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Dear Betsy,

I used to listen to that song “Ants Marching” by Dave Matthews and think, man, I need to go do something with my life. But now I’m older, and when I hear it I think, screw you, Dave Matthews. We can’t all be hippie musicians. The world needs accountants, too.

So who is right, Dave or me?

Signed,
Antannae Waving

Dear Antannae,
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Dear Betsy,

Why do people suck so much? I was reading about Constance McMillen this morning. She wanted to go to prom with her girlfriend. Some adults in her town organized a separate prom for her to be excluded from, so she was only one of a handful of kids at the official prom.

Why did they think this was an okay thing to do? And why is this bothering me so much? I’m not gay and I’m never going to another prom. I don’t know why I care. But I can’t stop thinking about it.

Signed,
People. They’re the worst.

Dear People,
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