The Doormat Syndrome

What makes us fall prey to the doormat syndrome? What makes us easy prey to be walked all over?

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe I am wrong.

Maybe it’ Maybelline. (Sorry about that, I had to put it in.)

Maybe.

Such a beautiful lovely word; but only when it’s not used in any of the above mentioned ways (save for the beauty product, which if you use, does not make you a lovely beautiful person, sorry.)

Been there, done that?

Definitely, maybe.

Wonder what’s on my mind (not in the boring Facebook status update kind of way)? Well, I’ll get to the point soon enough, but for that I need to sidetrack a bit.

 

Bargaining came easy to me and thus, you were the perfect accomplice to a woman’s shopping needs; probably that’s what found me spending an otherwise quiet Sunday evening which I would have rather spent sleeping in, doing-

“Shopping!” she squealed out, her eyes glazed over, her lips, trembling.

We were at the mall, and she was back with me. The ‘she’ in question was a girl friend, all of twenty- wait, giving her age would give away mine.

“Have I mentioned how much I love it?” she asked me, her hands full of a Santa’s bag worth of clothes.

“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” I pointed out, helping her with some of her buys, which was a mistake.

“Thanks, you are a brilliant clothes rack!” she exclaimed, taking utmost advantage of my bleak attempt at chivalry, heaping garment after garment, tried and tested, in my frail arms.

“it’s ok,” said my muffled voice, from underneath the clothes,” I have been a doormat all my life,”

“In life, you shouldn’t be one of either of these things, a doormat or a doorknob, everything else is fine,” she said wisely, flicking clothes from the aisles as if she were dealing a hand of cards.

“I wouldn’t want to be a toothbrush too.” I mulled, a Christmas tree of clothes.

“Maybe I should go buy a tooth brush,” she said pointlessly, while I wondered whether there was anything she didn’t want to buy.

 

So that’s it. End of the story, point being made. Did you miss it in the heaps of used clothes, and unnecessary jargon?

Not necessarily, no.

hi-im-mat-doormat-1

It’s just a bleak introduction to what I call the Doormat Syndrome. (I call dibs on the name, all you plagiarists!) Yes, we’ve all seen it- That one boy who walks all over you as if you were a drawbridge of drudgery and gets away with it. Every single time.  The doormat treader, I call him.

What makes us fall prey to the doormat syndrome? What makes us easy prey to be walked all over? What makes us the simpering, stuttering sad excuse of a human being that we become?

It ‘simple; and it’s clearer than a male model’s exfoliated skin.

We are all scared.

Scared of the fact that we’ll never find love; Scared of the fact that someone nicer might not necessarily come along. Scared of the fact that ‘happily ever after’s’ might not exist.

And so, we settle.

For someone who’d rather settle all over us. Make us their human treadmill. Everything aside, is something really better than nothing?

Probably not.

I dated treader X for all of two months last year- he was everything i could ever want-Cute, Charming, smart, witty, one of those sales managers in a reputed fashion house. Sadly, he was also a treader. I let him walk all over me, until he found a new “Welcome” mat down the line. I was crushed, and felt stomped upon.  Life lesson learnt the hard way.

But it got me thinking, was it only X’s fault? Wasn’t I equally to blame? Didn’t he do all the treading only because I let him? They say the power of any relationship is in the hands of the person who cares less, (‘they’ being a B-grade sappy rom-com.) and they might be right.

Boys, it’s time to get your socks up. Maybe it’s time we change the gay perspective. We have these balls; we might as well use them. Say no to Treading. Say No to a life full of misery. And most importantly, say No to being whimpering and sad.

It’s time to step up, instead of being stepped down.

So what do you the next time a boy makes you feel like a door mat or a door knob?

Just one thing to do; show him to the door.

And fast.

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Gaypocalypse