End of an era

Back in the fall of 2010, I met a(nother) guy at one of my (many) internships. I was convinced (as I always am) that this was the time. This would be the guy who I finally date. Maybe we’d make out. Maybe we’d have an illicit office romance. Maybe some of that would happen in the supply closet. I don’t know - I thought many things.

And that’s when I started blogging. In the lead up to this would-be relationship. I thought I could chronicle a single, white, clueless girl’s first foray into dating. I could write my anxieties, making a calm-cool-collected facade that much easier to fake. A few weeks later, the dream of a relationship was already out the window - same old song and dance.

But what did last was my blog. Throughout the next year and a half, instead of chronicling a blossoming relationship, I chronicled the times of a girl who was just trying to figure it out. Have I figured it out? Am I any less clueless? Well...depends how you define the word clueless I suppose.

Many have pointed at that word in the name of this blog and thought of it with a negative connotation. I’ve never seen it that way though. Sure, I don’t think I get relationships. But at the same time...does anyone our age? Even people in relationships have moments of cluelessness. Moments of questioning. And not just about love. About life.

And that leads me to my announcement. Single, White and Clueless is about to be put to rest. Not because I am no longer single, white or clueless. No - because I’m living a life that can be defined as something else as well - questionable.

Questionable behavior abounds for our generation and anyone else in the transition between dependence and adulthood. It’s a perspective I’ve only taken one angle of - but there are so many more. So my college friend, Tue, and myself have become business partners and are about to embark on a new journey: thequesitonable.com

We’ve gathered trusted friends and fellow writers to share their own honest approaches to their lives. So please, follow me on this new journey. Listen to multiple perspectives. Stick with mine. Tell your friends.

theQuestionable.com

I bet...

Here’s the thing. Should the day come when someone I’m interested in reciprocates that interest, I’m rather convinced I won’t believe it. Sure, it’s partly a confidence thing. And yes, it’s sort of because my history with men’s interests is shoddy at best. But given those two factors, the movies have taught me there’s a third candidate for doubt: the bet.

Think about it. Think about the movies we grew up with. Whenever a guy fell for a girl, it was the result of a bet. 

She’s All That. Freddie Prinze Jr. only even LOOKS at Rachel Lee Cook’s character after someone bets that he can’t make her prom queen.

10 Things I Hate About You. Heath Ledger has no interest in Julia Stiles until JGL asks him to woo her in order to date her sister.

Whatever It Takes. Shane West bets someone about something to get someone else and ends up with Marla Sokoloff. No one remembers this movie, barely even me.

So how is this going to factor into my life? Let’s see.

In college, I met a guy at my friend’s 21st birthday party. He followed me around all night and it seemed like he was honestly pursuing me. He was after me to leave with him - I could barely remember his name. But I did remember the location of the bathroom. And so that’s where we went. The bathroom. To make out. Not one of my proudest moments.

What, perhaps, I didn’t know was that earlier in the night his friend had turned to him and bet him $50 if he did one simple thing: Got a girl he’s never met before to want to take his pants off.

And so, after about 30 minutes of knowing each other and only ten minutes of less-than-enjoyable making out, this guy asked me if I wanted him to take his pants off. I laughed. It had to be a joke. It wasn’t. He was serious. And perhaps it’s because he had money riding on the whole situation.

Looking back, it really seems to be the only logical conclusion. And looking forward, I can see the same thing going down (pun MAYBE intended).

But what if instead of leaving the bathroom feeling awkward I stuck with the situation. Not in the idea that I would ACTUALLY take his pants off, but in some way. Giving him my number. Walking to the dining hall. I don’t know - something. What could have happened? Maybe his friend would have sweetened the pot. Maybe he would have seen me again to try his luck. Maybe he would have fallen for me.

I mean it isn’t out of the question. But really, in real life, would a girl want to fall in love with a guy as the result of a bet? Would you want to know that a guy was pushed toward you with the promise of money?

Desperate times don’t call for measures that desperate. 

Taking a stand

There are many reasons women resist the allure of the one night stand. 

It’s against their moral code.  

They’re waiting for marriage. 

They need emotional intimacy to reach physical intimacy.  

They’re terrified of STD’s. 

They’re even more terrified of getting pregnant.

They’re even MORE terrified this strange man has no skills in the kitchen for breakfast the next day.

For me, there was always another reason: I didn’t think it was an option. I legitimately didn’t think anyone wanted to even try for a one night stand with me. I was the awkward girl in the corner. I was commenting on how much I hated birds instead of telling them how big their biceps are. I did not consider myself one night stand material. At least not for the types of guys that sane girls go home with. I was reasonably confident about my ability to pick up the fangled-toothed man in the opposite corner.

However, as I’ve hit up the bar scene in the city, I’ve realized that this image of myself isn’t quite right. Sure, maybe I won’t be able to snag the Justin Timberlake look-alike, but there are some reasonably attractive guys that have propositioned me. 

The scant times it happened in college, I always had the excuse of a roommate. I have far too much Catholic guilt to even think about kicking someone out of their own bedroom for my own pleasure. After college, I lived at home in Jersey with my parents and spent my life on NJ Transit - talk about a buzz kill.

But now that I’m living on my own, logistics are no longer an issue. Which means I actually need to think about the matter at hand. And my feelings are anything but clear-cut.

All of the reasons that other women employ are completely justified, don’t get me wrong. I have a moral code. I do think that emotional intimacy ups the ante when it comes to the physical stuff. But the marriage principle is antiquated, and the STD’s and babies can be prevented with science. Breakfast? Well, the jury is still out on that one.

I usually live my life by a simple question: what do you think you’ll regret more? It’s a pretty sound code of conduct for a twenty-something. I don’t want to be the forty-something talking about all the things I COULD have done in my twenties. And Ryan Gosling makes a compelling argument in the movie “Crazy Stupid Love,” when he asks Emma Stone whether she’ll ever regret going home alone over going home with the handsome stranger from the bar.

Of course, he’s also Ryan Gosling. And if there’s one thing every woman can agree on it’s the fact that they would NEVER regret sleeping with Ryan Gosling. But barring such extraordinary circumstances, it’s impossible to know what I would be feeling the next morning. Would I be ashamed of myself for letting my guard down like that with someone I know nothing about? I don’t know. Knowing that I’m looking for something special with someone - knowing that guilt is part of my genetic makeup - what would my self-worth be after I cross that bridge? 

It’s possible french toast may not even fix that one.

The stronger sex

Generations have painted men as the stronger sex. Not just because they hunted and gathered, but because they don’t get emotional. 

For years, people said a woman couldn’t be president because of this. “What if she gets emotional while she’s PMS’ing and brings us to war?” Of course, that’s the extreme macho pig talking, but it’s still a joke that was told more times than any feminist would care to count. 

For years, we have been painted by men as the weaker sex. We’re needy. We think with our hearts. We lack logic. We can’t be scientists. Blah blah blah. Or should I say womp womp womp, a la the droning teacher in Charlie Brown (also a woman - you’d never see a man portrayed in such a way).

But upon further dissection, I will go on record to say that that is nothing but a load of crap.

I might sit here and talk about my feelings. I may be irrational at times because of them. But the very fact that I have the balls - yes, balls - to admit that I have feelings makes me stronger than any man would care to admit. They can bury their emotions, think with their dicks and still call themselves strong. We take on our own feelings and try to figure out theirs, try to reconcile both. Tell me that multitasking doesn’t count for anything.

A friend of mine is currently trying to figure out how to handle a situation with a guy she’s dating. She’s dealing with a full plate at work, grasps at a social life, and a guy who will disappear for a few days with no warning. And yet, even though she’s dealing with all of these moving parts, she’s afraid that if she tells the guy how she’s feeling she’ll scare him away.

We’re always afraid we’ll scare them away. Which begs the question - why would someone so strong scare so easily? We have to sacrifice what we want and how we want it for the whims of the opposite sex. I’ve seen my female friends do it time and again. I’ve had out of body experiences watching myself do it. It’s not fair. And at the same time... what choice do we have? All becoming lesbians and merely dating each other? As Vera Farmiga’s character said in ‘Up in the Air,’ “We’re no picnic ourselves.”

But at the end of the day, what makes our lives easier? Pretending to be subordinate for a chance at what we really want? Or rising up and quite possibly ending up with none of it? People always tell women we can’t have it all - men rarely hear the phrase. But sometimes it takes a stronger person to accept the shortcomings. And for that I suppose we can silently raise our arms in victory.

So what?

A few years ago - maybe ten, who really knows - there was a craze that swept the nation via a little show called Sex and the City. No, I’m not talking about cupcakes or Cosmos. I’m talking about a phrase: “He’s just not that into you.”

Then the writer/contributor, Greg Behrendt, who came up with the concept wrote a book solely devoted to what that one phrase means. And once again, the phenomenon swept the nation. Women were supposedly revolutionizing the way they think about men. Greg got his own syndicated talk show for God’s sake.

And finally the phrase inspired a movie. The movie pretty much turned the entire concept on its head, telling women at once that they aren’t the exception to the rule, and yet displayed some sixteen famous beauties that were. But still, the phrase was in the national consciousness.

They say “He’s just not that into you.” I say, so what?

Greg Behrendt wrote the book from a man’s perspective thinking he was saving us time and effort. But what he didn’t consider is WHY women make excuses for the men we obsess over.

At the end of the day, what makes you feel better? Thinking he didn’t call because he’s stuck at work, or thinking he didn’t call because he’s just not that into you? Feels like a logical conclusion to me. Greg might think that he’s saving me time by telling me the man doesn’t like me, but what about my delicate female feelings? They want to believe that there was an elevator malfunction that kept him away from cell service.

Men will move on from a failed relationship because it’s over. Women won’t truly move on until they find someone else. The last man you were with is always in the back of your mind, ripe for comparison to every new guy you meet. Therefore, the theory that bluntness is saving me time is a moot point. I’m not going to move on until I’m good and ready anyway, so what’s the point?

The goal, of course, is to find a PERSON that makes excuses a moot point, and not just a theory. But until then, I’ve decided to use my blogger creativity to create fun excuses. For the man I’m currently hung up on, I have a variety of options:

1. He has a secret girlfriend.
2. He’s scared of having something real.
3. He has a condition that precludes him from intimacy.
4. His mother wrote in her will that he can’t date anyone named Blair.
5. We’re in a Nicolas Sparks novel and he has a rare disease that he’ll die from in just a few months and he doesn’t want to hurt me more by getting close to me.

I can pick any one of those excuses on any given day. At the end of the day, he may not be that into me, but fake diseases and conditions are just more comforting.

Tale as old as...last year

Once upon a time there was a girl named Blair, and she was starting a new internship. She knows there’s going to be another intern working there, but she knows nothing about this mystery man. The intrigue grows when the other intern is allegedly out sick on her first day. She obtains his screen name and is instructed to work with him via g chat. They hit it off - immediately. The conversation is smooth. He makes her laugh - via pure words, no tone or inflection. The next day the same awesome conversation ensued - not to mention good work achieved together.

The next week they met in person and ... the intellectual sparks didn’t seem to lead to physical chemistry. And so they embarked on a friendship. A work friendship. He talked about his failed relationship, she talked about being afraid of birds. All was well. But as often happens with our heroine, getting along so well with someone got her thinking every so often. She’d cast the ideas out of her head, but there was only so far they could go. The depths of her mind were still prime real estate.

Their internship ended and he went away for a while. They still talked. He came back and they had lunch - they hadn’t lost their intellectual chemistry. But it seemed like something changed. She couldn’t put her finger on it - and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. That could get dicey.

But apparently he didn’t care. He did want it to get dicey. The next time they talked via g chat he hit on her. Hard core. Made it as clear as anyone had that he liked her. It was brash but for a girl that hadn’t had much experience with that, it was refreshing.

She thought he asked her on a date. He showed up with their other intern friend. She was pissed. But as they sat there shooting the shit, it seemed like all hope was not lost. The other friend left. They went to a bar that his best friend was at. Suddenly she was on an audition for his friend. And she passed with flying colors. They left. The boy in question walked her back to the train station and as the train came up they kissed. It was like the perfect date that was never really a date.

Here’s the thing. That should be the beginning of the story. Instead it’s the beginning of the end. Because, like so many stories told on this blog, then it got weird. He started avoiding her. Only hanging out in groups. Claiming he wanted to wait to take her out until he got a job. Excuse after excuse. And she ate them up like a life line, wanting to believe.

Months later, after he moved away, he chatted her up. She wasn’t sure she should bite, but took a chance. Alas, just like all the times she rebuffed him after he spent a couple months avoiding her, he said he wanted to hang out with her when he came back to town. He hit on her using a metaphor. And she finally got her answer. After six months of wondering what it was that happened between them, he told her.

He was scared. He saw it going somewhere and he wasn’t ready. It was the same old cliche bullshit you’d expect. But you know what? At least it was an answer.

That happened to me just about a year ago. I wasted six months being hung up on a guy who didn’t have the balls to really give it a shot with me. And now I’m afraid I’m doing the same thing with someone else.

Does anyone know of a support group for girls with a penchant for unavailable douches? If so, please give me the time and place. Stat.

Here goes nothing

In just 24 minutes, I turn 25. You can account for the time of birth, but now that I’m in my mid to late twenties I have no time for semantics.

My mid to late twenties. A quarter of a century. Somehow 25 just feels like a different league than 24. I know, I know, there’s nothing but a day separating the two ages. But in one day I go from one demographic - the 18-34 set - to two as the newest member of the 25-49 set.

With that new demographic I feel like I should have my shit together. Twenty five used to seem so old, but I feel no more sure of my grasp on life than I did when I turned 21. At least then I had an excuse to drink a lot. Now the only excuse is not feeling like a have a firm grip on where things are going. It’s a vicious cycle!

Of course I’ve come a long way since my 23rd year. Most of my 23rd year was spent living in my parents’ house and searching for a job. In 2011, I somehow managed to score three jobs and finally earned the independence I really needed. Twenty four brought all of that.

And what will 25 bring? I have no idea. I suppose that could be the fun of it. The idea that anything could happen. Because even though, a few posts ago, I wrote about not having expectations in the bitterest way possible, I’m still convinced I actually had something there.

But maybe it isn’t so much about expectations. Maybe it’s about not closing yourself with a set life plan. Because there are things you could never plan for. Some are great - like finding three jobs in a year after an almost-two-year dry spell. Others? Not so much. The key is being open to both sides of the same coin.

I’ve never thought of myself as a planner, but the truth is that there was a part of me that expected to be at a certain place at a certain time. I’m not talking crazy-girl, married by 26 and kids by 29 talk, but a general “this isn’t where I thought I’d be.” Nope. Not anymore.

May 25 be the year of letting go. May it be the year I become less concerned with where I’m going, and more concerned with where I am.