Three random thoughts of the day

1. A friend told me tonight that I’m better at putting myself out there than she is. After I finished picking my mouth up off the ground, I laughed. After I finished laughing, I told her that it took me quite a while to get to this point. But the very thought that someone said that to me? Pretty groundbreaking. Must be on a good track with this whole resolution business.

2. I read an article today that stated the following. How inspiring for those of us who would actually like to get married one day:

Marriage has never been less popular. A recent Pew Research Center study found that a record-low 51% of people older than 18 in the U.S. were married in 2010, a precipitous drop from 72% in 1960. If the trend continues, married people will no longer be the majority in a few years. New marriages decreased by a sharp 5% last year, and there are fewer married people in all age groups. The biggest decline has been among 18-to-29-year-olds, from 60% a half-century ago to the current 20%, perhaps illustrating that the younger generation has little faith in getting hitched.

3. Last Thursday I gave a security guard in my building a Christmas card with my number in it and an invitation to hang out. He referenced the card as “sweet” and something that “lifted his spirits” when I saw him later in the day. He also mentioned hanging out but made no specific plans. I see him again tomorrow. What will happen? Tune in tomorrow.

Like sands through the hour glass, these are my thoughts of the day.

Size matters

As a girl of sizable, er, size, I will confidently tell you that size matters. And no, I’m not talking about my own size (for once). I’m talking about men. And no, I’m not talking about the size of their, er, spirit stick. I’m talking about their vertical size. Their height.

I am 5 feet, 8 inches tall. Not a giant. But since I have hips and thighs to spare, the entire mixture can certainly make me feel self-conscious about reaching giant status. And so size matters to me. I need a guy to be taller than me. But not because of physical specifications - because of the way it makes me feel.

Antiquated customs say that the man is the protector. He will shield you from harm in his manly way. Inherently, a woman is still looking for someone to protect her. Some look for it in age (daddy complex). Some look for it in wealth (money complex). And me? I look for it in height. I have a size complex.

I have enough problems with feeling feminine with my personal size complex. Add a shorty into the mix and all feelings of femininity are gone. Suddenly I’m the protector. If a mugger were to come attack us, I’d feel responsible for our well-being. After all, I’d most likely weigh more, and that means I’d pack a meaner punch.

But pair me with a man who is taller and I can at least PRETEND he weighs more than me. The world won’t look at us and wonder what the logistics are. He bends down to kiss me, maybe he can pick me up, badda bing badda boom it makes sense. And that’s why size matters. So I don’t have to worry about dwarfing the one who’s supposed to theoretically protect me.

Now hopefully I didn’t set women back a thousand years with that diatribe, but clearly it’s all stemming from a regression to talking about my own size and what it means in the world. If I were a smaller girl - and by height and bone structure alone, I’ll never be THAT much smaller - I wouldn’t have this great concern.

Take a look around you at the skinny women that are part of a couple. Now look at their male counterparts. Their sizes vary far greater than that of the girls. Skinny girls have their pick of the litter. Tall guys, short guys, fat guys, skinny guys. They make all of them work. If the guy is shorter, no big deal! He can still pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and run away from imminent danger. If the guy is fat, no one thinks she’s slumming - they assume he has a stellar personality. Unfortunately, even though it may be true, they wouldn’t think that way if the girl was bigger. And there would be endless comments if she were bigger both vertically and horizontally. Odd couple comments.

You could deny that to me until you’re blue in the face, but the only reason you’d have to is because it’s true.

But sometimes the rules of the universe suck. And there’s nothing you can do about it but identify the rule and try to work within it. So I recognize that size matters. On all accounts. And I’m trying to work it in any way I can.

Chasing butterflies

Alas, it’s been a while since I took to my blog. Mistake, I know, but it happened so we’ll all have to deal. As the year winds down, though, I join the trend of becoming reflective, and I can think of no better way to celebrate that.

In the few months since I’ve written, you may be wondering what has happened. Am I still single, white and clueless? Indubitably. We should even make it Clueless with a capital “C.” But it hasn’t been for a lack of trying. For the first time in my life, I actually feel like I’ve put myself out there to a certain extent. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been long-lasting, but baby steps are supposed to be the first steps, right?

I drunkenly made out with someone on a dance floor in Montauk. I (sort of) dated someone I met at work for a month. I flirted with a waiter, gave him my number and successfully turned that into a date. The date itself wasn’t quite as successful. I flirt with a guy at work on a regular basis. More on all of these stories as I settle into blogging again (a New Year’s Resolution I fully intend to keep).

Here’s the thing: I haven’t met anyone that I’ve been really excited about. I haven’t met anyone that’s inspired me to blog or do much else. Sure, the guy I saw for a month had my attention, but I was never THAT into it - even if, admittedly, it wasn’t my idea to let it fizzle out.

But where is the excitement? Where is the passion? Where are the butterflies?

I sometimes worry that I’ve become too jaded. That I’m 24 going on 25 going on 46. Whenever I talk to an older confidante, they always tell me I’m too young to worry about such things. I’m sorry, but being four months away from 25 still feels old enough to worry. It would be one thing if I was turning 25 and I could put one serious relationship notch in my belt. Hell, one semi-serious relationship could be a win. But I don’t have that. What I have are a series of makeout sessions and a few dates. Woo hoo.

So the only choice I have is to press forward. New Year’s Resolution #1 is to write more - both blog and otherwise - but Resolution #2 is to really commit to putting myself out there. Going out with a few of my girlfriends with the purpose of meeting new people. Giving out my number if I have a fun conversation with someone. Online dating (gulp). I vow to do it all until I have a semblance of a relationship. Or at least something resembling butterflies.

Letting me go

So it's been a while since I've been on here - not cool self, not cool. But why has it been a while? Is it because interesting things are actually happening in my life? Why yes, yes they are.

It shouldn't be surprising to anyone who reads this blog that I over think most things. And by most things, I mean everything. Here's a sample conversation that I will have with myself on the subway:

"Oh I like those girl's shoes. I couldn't wear shoes like that. I would feel like a giant. But maybe guys like girls that wear heels. But guys don't like giants. Who does like giants? Andre the Giant probably. People from New York who don't root for the Jets. Me, if we're talking about the kids' sports movie Little Giants. Rick Moranis was in that. Where is Rick Moranis these days? Did he shrink himself and forget how to unshrink himself? Is he living with a colony of ants?"

Scary place, right? I promise that'll never happen again. The point though is that with thoughts like that, sometimes it can be hard to just let go and not have a pathway to God knows where when I'm out, perhaps looking to meet someone. But what has proven to be a great help in this area over the years is probably obvious: alcohol. It's what got me karaoke singing in December, it's what got me into a bathroom making out with someone in college (story for another day), and it's what put me into a very un-Blair situation last weekend.

I went away with a few friends to Montauk, where the air is clear and the people are far more free than they are here. Chalk it up to the sun and sea or the vacation mentality, but it just felt like everyone around me was far more free than the people that surround me in New York. And that was a challenge I could rise to with a little (lotta) bit of alcohol.

There were three bars involved in the night. The first I remember. The second I don't aside from the $58.60 bar tab I discovered in my purse the next morning... oops. The third? The third is hazy, but I do remember a very important detail. There was a boy. And I made out with him.

Do I currently have the boy's number? No. Did I get the boy's name? No. Would I be able to pick the boy out of a lineup? Questionable. But I do know I made out with him. On the dance floor. For everyone to see. After reenacting quite a few moves I saw in Dirty Dancing (not the end scene, of course, but the staff club scene).

Is this something I aspire to do all the time? No. But more often? Absolutely. I let go. For once I just did something that I wanted to do in the moment and I didn't worry about feeling awkward or self aware. And that is something I want to do all the time. Connecting the dots be damned, I want to quiet my mind more often, preferably without the help of a few vodka cranberries.

Define ‘ready’

Ready. It’s such a subjective word. What does it mean? How is one truly ready for anything? And in the greater theme of this blog, how is one truly ready for a relationship?

We hear it all the time. “Oh he likes you but he isn’t ready for a relationship.” “She is totally into you, but she just got out of something, so isn’t ready for you yet.” Are these real reasons people don’t get together? Or are they a harbinger of a greater issue: He or she just doesn’t like you enough to take the risk?

Maybe ready for a relationship means being ok with yourself. You’ve been single for long enough to know who you are without another person. You aren’t looking for a relationship to complete you, merely supplement you. You’re ok with being alone, but you genuinely think this other person could make it even better.

And what about former relationships? If you just had a lengthy one, conventional wisdom says you should wait before you get into another. I tend to agree with this. We’ve all watched friends bounce from relationship to relationship, basking in the glow of serial monogamy (and in most cases, steady yet guilt-free intimacies, let’s be honest here). It’s almost as if they’re hiding behind another person.

Clearly I am understanding of the “ready concept.” I would never say it’s invalid - there is absolutely truth to it. But here’s the thing - can anyone ever really be READY for a relationship? Can anyone ever truly be ready to give themselves over to another person in that way?

Not having much relationship experience - perhaps from not being ready? - I can’t answer that definitively, but I tend to think no. Sometimes people blind side you. They come out of nowhere and they enter your life and there was no way you could possible prepare. So I guess my answer is that yeah, you may not be ready, but guess what? Sometimes you just have to suck it up. Sometimes you just have to take a chance. You may not think you’re ready, but so what? Some people are worth the risk.

I often think that job advice and dating advice are eerily similar, and here’s one of the best pieces of bi-applicable advice I’ve ever gotten: “If you make a decision, and it feels completely comfortable, and there is no element of a ‘leap of faith,’ chances are the decision isn’t worth making.”

What’s wrong with this picture?

Quite a few male friends of mine over the years have lamented the fact that they have tried to make it work with every sort of girl and nothing has ever stuck. The wholesome. The slutty. The introverted. The extroverted. Every race. Every size. Nothing has worked.

It all sounds vaguely familiar - probably because it sounds like the sort of things I complain about on a daily basis.

So what’s wrong with this picture. Here I am, complaining. There they are, complaining. And never the two shall meet. We aren't looking at each other, thinking that maybe we're missing something in the person across from us. And while that is the 'When Harry Met Sally' dilemma I've discussed before, it's a bit of a harbinger of why we're having said problems.

Of course these are friends I enjoy in a purely platonic way, and I’m sure they feel the same way about me. Positive, actually. But what can the fact that we’re mutually complaining teach us about what we’re doing wrong?

I think it means we’re going after the wrong type of people. But I’d like to think that I have a leg up on them. Why? I actually have the wherewithal to admit that I am going after the wrong men. I know what I’m doing isn’t working. And I am vowing to change it. But you already know that because I have already shared that plan with you, my reading “public.”

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. But if it is broke, take a look at it, find the source of the problem, and fix it. Or, you know, keep banging it until it fixes itself. That’s more akin to my strategy, I’d say.

Why are you like that?

Here’s what I don’t get: douches. Guys who act like they’re above everyone. They walk around with this air of importance. They haven’t even achieved anything, not the douches of my age anyway, and they think they’re all that AND a bag of chips. In reality, they aren’t even a half bag of chips. They’re barely even one chip.

There are few things more infuriating to me than a male douche. Sure, there are girls that piss me off, but never to the extent that a male with an air of conceit can. Specific examples of the type of actions I find particularly heinous:

1. Acting like any girl who isn’t a leggy blonde isn’t worth talking to
2. Rubbing other people’s shortcomings or misfortunes in their face
3. Not saying hi to people you know
4. Not asking for someone’s name after they’ve chatted you up for at least ten minutes
5. Thinking you’re better than anyone, everyone
6. Expressing your beliefs with total disregard for anyone else’s opinions or feelings
7. Saying things that aren’t socially acceptable yet thinking you have a pass

I could probably keep going, but I won’t (besides I hear seven is a lucky number, and I need karma after this rant). I think you get the idea, as all of these actions fit under one larger category entitled “Thinking you’re God’s gift to the world.”

Men like this bring out a very interesting side of me. My sarcasm is at an all-time high and borders on snark and/or snipe. The fangs come out, and the only thing that will satisfy them is to see a douche retreat with his tail between his legs. I don’t like what they do to me. I believe in treating everyone with respect and giving everyone the chance to voice their opinion. What bothers me is when other people don’t give me or the people around me that same chance. You forfeit your rights when that happens, and I have no problem letting you know it.

By the way, people might read this and assume that I’m singling out a particular person, or maybe more than one person. If you think it’s you, I quote Carly Simon, “You’re so vain, you probably think this blog is about you.” You know, without the word blog.

My role model

To be quite honest, I find myself with not much to say tonight. There are no stories I want to recount, nothing I need to get off my chest, and no burning questions I desire an answer to.

Instead I'm sitting on my bed, watching Gilmore Girls, and thinking about how I idolize Lorelai Gilmore. Minus the whole getting pregnant at 16 thing (which we've already past), I would be totally ok with growing up to have a life like hers.

She has a group - nay a town - filled with people that love her. Opened her own business. Raised a good kid. Ate whatever she wanted and never gained weight. But more than anything, she always won people over by being no one but herself.

Best part? Her banter. Curse anyone who says sarcasm isn't attractive. Lorelai Gilmore, I aspire to be you. And yes, I know she isn't real. But Lauren Graham is practically the same thing.

The Masculine Mystique

I remember standing in a hallway, looking around, wondering how I got there. In front of me was the door to the BC radio station, a place I hadn’t been since earlier in the year when I thought about joining the radio station, naively thinking that a love of music was all you needed, completely neglecting the necessities of skinny jeans, horn rim glasses, and a perfectly coiffed bed head. Luckily I had figured it out with just one trip to the lair that was the radio station. But I digress, as none of that answers the question as to how I got there.

It all started a few weeks into my second semester math class. Side note number one: I hate math and had I gotten one point higher on the AP Calculus test, I wouldn’t have had to take it. Alas that wasn’t the case. Side note number two: the class was at 9 am. I am not a morning person. So that should give you an indicator to my mindset during this course.

There was a guy who sat in my general vicinity. The teacher would refer to him as Martin - that is, when he actually participated and spoke, which wasn’t often. I only noticed him as the guy who wore pajamas and looked half asleep. Until one fateful day when the professor was handing back our first quizzes or tests. Professor Volpe goes up to Martin and says:

“Your name isn’t Martin, is it?”

The student formerly known as Martin looks back at him and shakes his head no. Professor Volpe inevitably asks, “Then what is your name?”

“Robert.”

What? This kid is named Robert, but he let the professor call him Martin - not a derivative of Robert as far as I know - for a good month? Color me interested.

I started Paying attention to Martin/Robert more. Sat a little closer, trying to observe his behavior as a way to get me through the tedium of probability. He was growing a beard at the time, so that certainly piqued my interest even more. As I believe I’ve established, I’m a huge fan of beards.

I told my friends on my floor about this mysterious character, and my Facebook obsessed roommate suggested a Facebook stalk was in order. I had since found out his full name - Robert Burke - and took to the interwebs. I typed in his name, eager to find out more. There were a few matches at BC, but none were him. Now this struck me as odd, because this was far enough into freshman year that EVERYONE had Facebook. I tried again, thinking perhaps I spelled something wrong (unlikely since I am of reasonable intellect and it’s not a hard name to spell). Nada.

My Facebook savvy friends suggested trying just his last name. As a last ditch effort, I listened. We scrolled through the Burkes. Finally I come across his photo. There Martin/Robert stands in a Velvet Underground t-shirt - a great find after the tough search. But what was his name? Was I reading that right? It wasn’t Robert Burke, no. Not Martin Burke either. It was Matt Burke. Matt. M-A-T-T. What in God’s name is this kid’s deal? Color me intrigued.

Weird occurrences followed - awkward exchanges that made absolutely no sense. He would look at me during class but not say anything. He would sit behind me, stretch himself into me, and when I would turn around he would merely smile. He would say hi at the END of class, then walk away. I would see him walking in front of me on my way to the dining hall for breakfast, but never see him in the actual dining hall.

And yes, yes that was how I got there. One day, in a fit of frustration at not being able to crack the nut that was Martin/Robert/Matt, I followed him discreetly one day. I saw him take a turn I never took before, and watched him walk down a hallway and enter the radio station. So all I knew about him then - nay, to this day - was that he had a passion for music.

Martin dropped out of my life after class, and my interest slowly waned as I realized that I’d probably never figure his deal out. I’d see him every so often, and our interactions were always similar to those of math class.

Instead of learning the probability of winning a March Madness bracket, I should have asked Professor Volpe the probability of figuring out which three names Martin/Robert/Matt ACTUALLY went by.

In a land called every woman’s dream

Why are there so many love triangles?

Talk about unrealistic expectations that media puts out, man. A girl is luck to get one man to notice her, let alone two. And yet everywhere we look, media is practicing wish fulfillment and showing women the joys and pains of having two men attached to you romantically. They’ve created deviated the standard love triangle for every possible desire or fetish. Here are the two current types:

Sensitive and nerdy versus tough and hott

An extension of high school, this triangle is the crux of the romance genre. Should I choose the sensitive nerd who’s always been in love with me or the hot tough guy who I’ve always lusted after? Oh the decisions fictional women agonize over!

You have Felicity on her eponymous series, constantly ping-ponging between Ben and Noel. Ultimately, Ben, the attractive yet emotionally stunted choice, won out, leaving Noel’s graphic design geek in the dust.

On the other hand, you have pretty country bumpkin Rosalee in Win a Date with Tad Hamilton (rent it, you’re welcome). Rosalee has watching Tad Hamilton in movies for years and she gets the chance to go on a date for charity with him. Shocker! It turns into more than one date. But her childhood bff, Pete, has always pined for her. After underrated and hilarious happenings, Rosalee finally figures out Pete is the guy for her. Sensitive wins out this time.

If I were in such a triangle - and I never will be - which choice would I make? The Felicity or the Rosalee? Not accounting for special circumstances like the hott guy learning to open up, I’m sure you wouldn’t be surprised to know I would choose the sensitive friend. I mean Lord, if I could get someone to have the conversations I have with myself out loud, the possibilities of curing my neuroses would really be endless.

Werewolf vs. Vampire

Remember I used the word fetish before? Well, I’d say this qualifies. Cold blooded hottie protector vs. warm blooded hottie protector. Edward vs. Jacob. Bill/Eric vs. Alcide. One has a calm, suave demeanor and the other is openly passionate. All are handsome. Blast Bella and Sookie.

Choosing in this triangle is irrelevant? No, not because they don’t actually exist. Because it’s a case by case basis. I was in love with Eric (aesthetically) until Alcide entered the picture and caught my attention (aesthetically). Edward is a bit of a controller so I think I’d have to go with Jacob, but not if he’s ruining every pair of pants I buy for him when he transforms. That would be tiring.

Bottom line: Has any woman ever actually had to deal with this? Or is this the stuff that literal dreams are made of? Though I suppose you don't have to choose in a dream...

Say Yes to the Idea of the Dress

I love weddings in spite of myself. I watch the shows, I gaze longingly at the magazines, and I think about what my one-day-wedding will look like. I don’t like that I love them, but I do. So sue me.

I would consider myself a modern woman. I am career driven. I now live in an apartment in New York City on my own, paying my own way. When I am married and the first of the brood comes, I plan to go back to work, knowing I would be bored by the prospect of being a stay-at-home mom. Yet the antiquated idea of wearing a frilly white princess dress in a church, declaring love and devotion to a man in front of everyone is totally and utterly appealing to me - whether it’s thoughts of my own (hopefully) future wedding or someone else’s.

TV shows like Say Yes to the Dress certainly aren’t helping matters. Women of all shapes and sizes walk in, armed with a picture of the dream gown and a perfect love story. Shows like this could have existed in the 1950s, but in the 70s and 80s? Never. Women’s liberation would not have allowed it. Instead we had images of Melanie Griffiths slipping out of her sneakers and into her heels as she ran to work in her big shoulder pads. Sure, there was Harrison Ford to contend with, but in the end she was dealing with her future. And there was no talk of donning a princess frock and stand in front of a minister.

And what happens when and if my wedding day does come? Will it even live up to the expectations that wedding shows have set out for me?

I have a vision stepping into a store and a sales clerk literally floating on a cloud to come greet me, bringing me ten dresses and purposefully giving me four of the wrong ones to try on first just so I know I’ve found the right one.

I have a second vision of David Tutera becoming my best friend as we plan the wedding, encouraging me to dream big and offering to foot the bill for the extras.

And then I have the vision of the day a la 27 Dresses, where everyone turns to look at me when I walk down the aisle, but I’m only focusing on my groom.

Are these all unrealistic visions that are bound to disappoint? It’s possible. But hopefully not the last one. That’s the most important. And that’s really the whole point of the other stuff, right? Which makes me think that maybe it’s not so bad to venerate weddings.

Grass is always greener

I complain almost incessantly about guys only seeing me as a friend, being a guy’s girl, not being the one they want to date, blah blah blah. Even I get sick of my complaints sometimes (perhaps not often enough).

But what about the people who have the opposite problem? What if a girl only wants to be friends with a guy? What does she do? I have had two friends encounter this issue recently. And since it’s foreign to me, I just don’t know what to say.

If you like someone as a person and want to be just friends with them, how do you convey that? If you ignore them, there’s no chance at a friendship. If you text them like you do your current friends, they may get the wrong idea. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

I know, being on the other side of that, that I would rather have the person just talk to me, be straight up with the way they see our relationship. But that’s not always easy, especially since in makes you seem vain and incredibly presumptuous. And yet, when I found myself in this situation just a few weeks ago, I found that when the object of my interest was straight up with me - when I learned the truth and realized all the signs I was seeing as vibes were really just indicators of friendship - the attraction lifted off my shoulders and I was able to look at him and honestly see him and just a friend.

But that took me forcing the issue. Forcing the uncomfortable conversation. Not everyone - nay, few people are comfortable doing that. How do you know the proper signals to send to someone of the opposite sex if you know, without a doubt, this is someone you just want to be friends with?

Better yet, can guys and girls EVER just be friends? Do sexual politics always get in the way? To be continued...

How bizarre, how bizarre

I always thought the whole biological clock thing was a myth. Not the conceiving part - the idea that a woman can feel as time is ticking on. And yet, as time passes, I do find myself warming to children. And boy, it’s a strange feeling.

I used to look around, see children, and regard them with a wrinkled nose. Not that I didn’t like children - please, I babysat the same kids for eight years, they loved me, the feeling was mutual. But the idea of dealing with one every single day. Being responsible for their lives. Yuck. That’s enough to wrinkle any nose.

But lately, I’ve been looking around and thinking “aw, isn’t that precious?” Precious? Why is that a word I’m using outside of a Lord of the Rings Gollum impression?

Does this mean I want to have children tomorrow? No. Does this mean I want to have children in five years? Maybe, but maybe not. It just means all of a sudden, I’m not weirded out by the idea. And THAT is weird.

Case in point: It is known amongst my friends that I tend to think that 67% of the white babies I encounter are creepy. Particularly the ones that have the faces of 30 year olds. But lately, almost every white baby I see I think is just adorable. When did this revolution happen? Did all white babies just get exponentially cuter? I think no. So then it’s me. The clock ticks on, the babies get cuter, and I am left in wonderment at the natural progression of life.

Important side note: One baby I will never think is cute is the baby from Friday Night Lights. Lord in Heaven. Don't tell me you disagree.

Does this happen?

In the first season of Mad About You, we get to see the story of how Jamie and Paul met. It’s just the type of story that you read about in the New York Times Wedding Announcements (not that I read those ... or anything):

They met at a newsstand. Jamie pushed her way into buying the last newspaper. She lied about her parents’ obituary being in that paper, hence her insistence. Instead of being offended by her lie, Paul finds her charming and pushy and pretty. He picks up her dry cleaning receipt and tracks her down to her office. Jamie told him to go away at first, scared he was an axe murderer, but suddenly realized there was chemistry between them. They’ve been together two years and now they’re making it official.

Check out the video highlights from that fateful day they met here.


So my question is: Does this really happen? Are there nice guys around that track women down after one innocuous meeting? Is there anyone that would both tell 33 people that I was pretty and then insist on being a relationship guy? Doubtful. But there’s always a glimmer of hope...

A Whole New World

I am officially a city dweller, and with that go certain expectations:

I won’t be wasting three hours of my day on NJ Transit. Fact.

The men I am exposed to after work on a day to day basis will not be 40 plus, married, creepy, or perhaps all of the above. Unless I go to a steakhouse. I’ve heard stories about those. I don’t have enough money to go there anyway.

When I go out, I don’t have to cut my nights short, inspecting the train schedule and factoring in subway time depending on how far from Penn Station we are. This means I can dance until 3 am, should my feet allow it. I can drink someone under the table and then have someone else put me in a cab to my home (don’t worry, I don’t actually plan on doing that, it’s just an option I didn’t have before).

I can be a regular somewhere. Which has always been a dream of mine. I want to be Norm on Cheers. I want to walk in and have everyone know my name. Well, maybe not everyone. And maybe not at a bar. That might say things. Coffee shop perhaps.

I could be in that coffee shop, have the baristas give me my regular order (Iced Tall Vanilla Latte), and have a semi-attractive man smile at me and ask me if I come here often. Ok, maybe not that line. But something along those lines.

I want to amass funny stories. Like the one I collected on the fourth of July, my first in the city, that involved a mass exodus toward fireworks, key lime pie shots, a married man basically asking my friend and I to be in a foursome with his wife, and a man with a ponytail who was just plain ridiculous.

Basically, I’m looking for a whole new world. And I don’t know how that won’t happen. And I’m excited about it.

I love me not: Part deux

Would you mercilessly criticise a good friend who just made a huge blunder in order to help her get on track again? Of course not.
If you’re like most women, you’d be kind and supportive. You might be tough, but you’d be fair, letting your friend know that you were there for her. So why do we think that beating ourselves up helps us to be at our best?

It just so happens that the morning after writing my last blog post, I found this article on a UK news website that takes an incisive look at WHY we women are so hard on ourselves.

The quote I pulled above I think is the best reason I could think of to start a move toward personal positivity. If a friend came to you and started beating herself up verbally. She says she’s fat, ugly, dumb, her shoes are coordinated with her handbag, etc. what would you do? Would you sit there and agree with her and add to the list things she should change? Or would you stick up for her and tell her all the things she does RIGHT? If your answer is the former, well, to be blunt, I’m glad I don’t know you.

Not only does the media tell us, as women, that we need to aspire to an impossible level of physical perfection, but make us feel like it is our natural duty to nurture everyone else in the process. How exhausting.

My favorite part of the article, however, has to be when the author talks about the ultimate backhanded compliment she’s ever received: “You are very beautiful. Don’t ever shave your mustache.” A) How hilarious. B) What do you think she was more apt to remember later that night - the beautiful or the mustache?

Why is it that if we were handed five compliments and one insult right in a row, we would be more apt to remember the insult than anything else? What if we started listening more to the positive things the good people say and letting the negative things the douches say?

Tomorrow’s new assignment: really listening next time someone gives you a compliment. Not trying to downgrade what the person said with a sarcastic comment or an “oh stop.” Smiling, saying thank you, and really taking what they said to heart.

I love me not, I love me

Women spend a lot of time sitting around thinking of all the things we’re not, the things we can’t do.

I’m not 120 pounds soaking wet. I’m not a vixen with long shapely legs. I’m not a girl whose hair doesn’t get messed up from the wind. I’m not able to wear short dresses. I can’t throw my hair up into the perfectly messy bun. I don’t know how to stop sweating. I’m not always sure of the best way to dress for my body type. Hell, I’m not always interested enough in figuring out the best way to dress period.

I don’t know the perfect level of laughter when a cute guy says something funny. I haven’t mastered a hair flip. I don’t know when the perfect time to lightly touch his hand is. I can’t tell the difference between someone who’s interested in me as a friend or more. I don’t do the bend and snap. I’m not sure how to flirt with someone. I don’t get why I can’t be sarcastic right off the bat. I don’t get why I can’t show off my intelligence. I don’t get why those two things would be intimidating.

I don’t leave any time to think about the things I am.

These are thoughts that run through my head pretty much every day. I am consumed of looking around and being reminded of all the things I’m NOT, that it occurs to me I rarely think about the things that I AM. Women could take a cue from men, who I doubt compare themselves tirelessly to other men. We could stand to take a step back from being so critical of ourselves and start thinking about the good things we have to offer.

Tomorrow I have a challenge for myself. Any time I find myself looking at another girl and thinking I’m not sure, I am going to think about one thing that I have that she might envy.

I AM my own worst enemy. And the only person that can change that is me.

Sweet dreams are made of what?

It’s important to note that I don’t usually remember my dreams. I wake up with a certain feeling, and when I think back on it, I literally have no clue what caused it. I don’t remember an iota of what I was just seeing in my head. But two nights ago, I did not have that problem. Two nights ago I remembered my dream. Vividly. And it involved me making out with a security guard from the building where I work.

Is this security good looking? My female friends that work in the building think so. I’ve never found myself to be wildly attracted to him, but he’s pleasant to look at. Do I think that he has any ambition to make out with me? No. He likes me in some capacity, as I am one of the only people he talks to on a regular basis. He’s admitted he doesn’t like most people but he likes me. But that, as previously discussed, does not mean he has a desire to make out with me, let alone the desire to follow me into an elevator and start macking on me like his dream avatar did. (I know what you’re thinking, and no, it didn’t turn into THAT kind of dream. Mind out of the gutter, people.)

So what DOES the dream mean? That I need to get out there and start meeting men outside of work. Currently that is the only outlet I’m allowing myself for male attention. I commute to the city on an unnecessarily long train ride, and the men on that train are slim pickins, either married, old, or married AND old. When I do stay in the city and go out, I’m surrounded by friends, focusing on hanging with my posse rather than meeting strangers.

But starting on Sunday, my woman-on-a-mission attitude gains new ground. I’m moving to the city, which means I will have unlimited options to figure out how to meet people. I can go out during the week with a few friends and try the wingman approach. I can try to chat up someone in a coffee shop. My life won’t be ruled by train schedules and work hours. I’ll finally feel like I’m living my life on my terms. And if that isn’t a suitable start to my life overhaul, I don’t know what is.

But before Sunday, I have to face that security guard, knowing that in my dreams he decided he wanted to make a move on me. And hey, if things get dire, maybe I’ll push him into an elevator. At least my subconscious will enjoy it.

Put a ring on it

Back in Jane Austen’s day, there was never any question of whether a man was spoken for or unattached. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Relationships were also far more black and white. You were either single, betrothed or married. There were no other options. You met a man in town, he picked up your lace handkerchief, you batted your eyelashes, and suddenly it seemed your spinster days were over. Chances are you already heard about him and his entire family history before he even moved into town, and if you didn’t recognize his name your cousin Fannie certainly did. Intel was a cinch.

Fast forward to the 1950s and things were still cut and dry. You were either single, dating, engaged or married. Women wore engagement rings to advertise engagement plus, and it was standard for men to do the same once they were pronounced man and fit to kiss their bride.

But now EVERYTHING is just so damn CONFUSING!

Men don’t seem to be required to wear wedding rings anymore, which is particularly ironic give the fact that men wearing all other types of jewelry is far more acceptable. When he is wearing a wedding ring, all questions are dispelled barring some sort of catastrophe that made him a widower or the inability to accept divorce - in which cases he isn’t ready for you anyway.

But what if he isn’t wearing a wedding ring? The options are endless! He could be:

a) Single and unattached
b) In a messy, unofficial hookup relationship
c) In a long distance relationship
d) Dating exclusively
e) Living with someone
f) Engaged
g) Married but against wearing rings
h) Looking for something on the side
i) Divorced
j) Divorced with kids (totally different)
k) Baby Daddy
l) Confused

Roughly half of the alphabet, and I haven’t even covered men who are widowers, gay, perennial bachelors or bi curious.

To illustrate my point, in that same (apparently) eventful trip to Pinkberry, my friends and I sat next to a man and his adorable daughter. My one friend struck up a conversation with him and we talked about how much of a ball buster his daughter was turning out to be at the ripe old age of three. He dropped the word “mommy,” but never the words “my wife.” And, you guessed it, there was no wedding ring to be found. Now I’m not saying I was interested in him - no matter how good looking he was I am not ready to even entertain the idea of being a mother - but had his daughter not been there, would we have even known about that part of his life? Doe she have a wife or simply a baby mama? Are they together or not? Too many questions!

So please, for God’s sake, men, take Beyonce’s advice, make it easier on the ladies, and just put a freaking ring on it.

Pinkberry nice to meet you

Apparently frozen yogurt makes me flirty. In my quest to figure out how, exactly, women flirt with men, I have been looking for opportunities to test out different approaches.

When I entered Pinkberry with my two friends Saturday night, I did not have the goal of hitting on the man serving me frozen yogurt. Not even to try to score some free toppings, as I have never been the sort of girl that works the system like that. I was just there to appease my Pinkberry loving friend and wash down my Mexican food with some dessert.

There was an intriguing new flavor advertised on the board - Salted Caramel - and I planned to ask for a sample. My friend requested one ahead of me, and before I knew it the Pinkberry workman - aka Kevin - was handing me a sample as well. He told me he read it on my face. In that moment I realized it’s possible Kevin understood me more than any man I had ever met.

I ordered Chocolate and Salted Caramel together in the same cup. Then it came time to choose toppings. Kevin said though he could previously read my mind, he wasn’t sure what I wanted now. I asked his professional opinion. He let me try a few different options; I went with Oreo. But before he let me move on to get rung up, he wasn’t quite done with me yet:

Kevin: I think you should try Heath Bar too. You won’t be disappointed.

Me: Ok, I trust you. I’ll take some Heath.

Kevin: Oh, you trust me? That’s a big step in our relationship.

Me: Absolutely. You’ve earned it. Thank you so much. I only wish there’s something I could do for you.

Kevin: Well...I mean...There could be.

Cue me blushing, both of us laughing, and the unfortunate ending to a great conversation with a good looking man. I could have tried to press my luck, but I think by not doing that I learned an even bigger lesson: Knowing when to walk away.

Train spotting

I am currently sitting on the train. I am tipsy, not going to lie (what’s the point in that?) - but that’s not important. What is important is that across the aisle from me is a man I seem to think is extremely attractive. Is it beer/cosmo goggles? Perhaps. But again, that’s not important. What is important is that he is bearded. Huge fan of beards.

He’s sitting in a group with four other people. He’s on the inside, by the window, making it impossible to strike up a conversation. Not that I would anyway. I’m working on my confidence and flirting skills, but Rome wasn’t built in a day people.

However, that doesn’t mean I can’t use it as a theoretical case study in what I WOULD do if I DID strike up a conversation. What would it look like if I were talking to this stranger, a cross between Justin Long and a frequent TV guest star I can’t quite place?

It all begins with eye contact, and that we have. We’ve been exchanging furtive glances since I sat down. Solid start.

If he were alone I might sit next to him, but not before coming up with a suitable topic for repartee. Maybe we could begin with tattoos. He has a few well places tats on his arms and legs. I could ask for a closer look. That could be an hour long tete a tete right there - what do they mean? What made you decide to get them? How long ago did you get them? The list goes on. And what’s more is that I could actually contribute with my three (albeit much smaller and less impressive) tattoos. And I can honestly say I’d like to get more, launching into another clutch five minutes of talking. Boom. Something in common. Check.

The what comes next? I assume I’d give him my name - only the first in the interest of safety, and certainly not loud enough for the drunkard named Josh behind us to hear (yes, he introduced himself to me, but no. Just no). I may ask the stranger where he’s riding to, where he lives. And then ... what?

That is a question I’m hoping to answer in the coming months. I am determined to learn the art of flirting. Maybe not with Justin Long’s distant cousin, but with someone.

By the way, in case you were wondering, as I sobered up tattoo man remained attractive. Damn his friends.

Holding pattern

In every horror movie, there are moments that foreshadow where the action is going. The moment she drops trough and gets in the shower? Bad things are coming. He forgets to kick the gun away from the bad guy he just knocked out? Imminent death approaches. You can yell at the screen all you want, but danger looms. Looking back, I think there was one of those moments in my love life - a moment that may have predicted where I am today. It was a harbinger of things to come. And it was in the third grade.

I developed a crush early on in Ms. G’s class. I’d look across the room, and there he sat. He’d be looking everywhere but the blackboard - too cool for school. Maybe the temperature had to do with the color of his eyes - ice blue, which even back then I knew was a good thing. He wasn’t the class clown or the leader. He was the quiet kid. The George Harrison, if you will (and you better). His name was (presumably still is) Ryan Mason. And they called it puppy love...

The signals seemed as clear as day. It all started when we were seated next to each other for an entire week. We talked - seemingly innocuous things like our favorite color markers and the best sticker in my sticker book. The tide turned when he gave me his Gobstoppers. Other people had to pay - an oreo for three, and only the colors Ryan didn’t want to eat himself. I, on the other hand, got my choice for absolutely nothing at all. In third grade terms, that was practically going to third base.

The kicker came on the Feast of St. Valentine. When I came home after school, I surveyed my stash of Valentine’s - not counting because clearly everyone got the same amount - but judging the classmates that gave a Sweet Tart or two instead of chocolate. I came across Ryan’s Power Ranger valentine and decided to study it, commit it to memory. When examining closely, I could see that, behind the words “From, Ryan” was the smudged outline of the word “Love.” I had never been so happy that erasable pens didn’t truly erase. I asked all of my little girl friends if they also thought that we’d get married someday, and two out of three said a wedding was in my immediate future.

Alas it wasn’t meant to be. I made the mistake of telling the wrong girl - why does that girl exist at every age - Ryan’s speculated feelings. She went up to Ryan on the playground and asked him if he liked me. No time to beat around the bush when you’re eight, after all. He predictably said it wasn’t true. What wasn’t so predictable was that he’d approach me a few minutes later with all his friends and tell me exactly HOW untrue my thoughts had been. Needless to say I have hated Valentine’s Day ever since, becoming the most jaded nine year old my fourth grade teacher had ever seen.

What’s sadder than the image of a third grade me running away from the playground crying is that in the past year, at ages 23 and 24, I’ve encountered the same problem. Thrice. Different lyrics, same melody. I developed a pattern in the third grade that I unknowingly haven’t been able to shake. Bet that girl would have cried a little harder had she known that would be the case. I mean, God, to this day I still can’t eat Gobstoppers.

Weighing the issues

Consider this a further meditation on image and the precedence it takes in the dating game. Consider this a specific dalliance into the topic of weight and how that translates into finding a relationship. Consider this a complaint, a call to arms, a confessional. But whatever you do, do NOT mistake it as me fishing for compliments.

My whole life I have struggled with weight. I’ve been up, I’ve been down, but mostly I’ve been up. I may be overweight, but I’m not stupid. I know that this issue could be at the forefront of my problems attracting men. I know that it could be at the forefront of my problem with men seeing me as only a friend. It’s easy to see the fat funny girl as nothing but a prop, there to amuse you and support you but not there for you to make out with. I get it.

It’s almost like I have a physical barrier keeping me from being truly seen. I have this layer of flesh that keeps people from seeing what else is inside. It clouds judgment. It’s holding me back. I get that I could do something about it. But does that make it easy? No. And does that make the attitude right? Hell to the no.

Men in their 20s will take the bitch with the bod over the good girl with the girth all day, every day. That’s the way it is. If my experiences have taught me anything, it’s that. Will it eventually change with an increase in age? I hope so. But why should I have to wait years to get what other girls my age are getting now?

I know what you’re thinking. Well, are you going after men who are considered overweight? The answer is that I don’t close myself off from anyone. But take a look around. Those guys aren’t dating the overweight girls either. There is a total double standard when it comes to weight in men and women in their 20s, again I think stemming back from the ability of women to make a more emotional connection. Men want what they want, and they think not with their heads nor their hearts. Their nether regions are referred to as junk for a reason.

So where does this mediation leave me? What do I do with this fact? I can’t change it - again, history has taught me that- so I suppose that means I have to lose weight. But not for this reason, of course, because that just straight up won’t work. I have to do it for myself. I have to do it to obtain the confidence needed to look at a guy and say screw you and whatever you think of me because I feel great. I have to do it for health reasons. I have to do it for peace of mind.

I can’t say that it won’t hurt a little if I do indeed lose weight and then start getting asked out or hit on. It will hurt. But the hope, I suppose, is that while my looks may draw them in, my personality and heart will keep them around. And that, I guess, I can get behind.

Mirror Mirror, On the Wall

When Andre Agassi started off his tennis career, he could be seen on television spots in his awful denim tennis shorts and his unnecessary mullet staring into the camera and saying, “Image is everything.” It was an apropos sentiment for the 80s, a time when yuppies and punks alike were proving themselves based on clothing and hairstyle alone. But there’s more to Andre’s (read: Canon’s advertiser’s) words - put into another context, I believe they have greater weight and meaning.

When it comes to meeting members of the opposite sex, image really is everything. It’s important in getting someone to approach you. It’s important in getting someone to see you as more than a friend. It’s important in being the type of person a guy (or girl) wants to show off to their friends. It’s just downright important.

I have encountered proof to this hypothesis when chatting with male friends about their thoughts on a certain girl. I’ll have a judgment about the girl in mind and ask what they think about her. I have found that nine times out of ten, even if the girl is bitchy or crazy, if she’s pretty the man will answer with a “she’s great, I really like her.” Their judgment has been completely clouded by big boobs, a nice ass, and an incomparable way with makeup. Now while I respect the fact that aesthetic beauty is something to be appreciated, I am not quite sure how it can completely ascribe certain aspects of a girl’s personality that simply aren’t there. How is it that guys are able to look past personality flaws in favor of a flawless physicality?

The opposite is true, as well. A guy can speak to a girl that he gets along with really well. He could love talking to her, laugh at all her jokes, go to her for advice. But if he didn’t think she was attractive to begin with, or immediately want to jump her bones, chances are that feeling is never going to change. He’ll label her as a friend and be happy to stay like that forever more.

Are women any different? We are absolutely more emotional beings than men, that much has been proven, but can a man change our minds based on how they treat us and how well we get along? I can’t speak for most girls, but I know I can be swayed. I once befriended a guy I wasn’t attracted to at all, but once I got to know him and realized how compatible we were I grew to like him as more. That story didn’t have a happy ending (as evidenced by this blog's title), but the phenomenon did happen.

But was it because of the compatibility and the mistaken chemistry, or was it because I was fooled into thinking that friendship translated into more? It’s a question I’m often asking myself in terms of relationships. But that’s a problem best tackled for another day, another blog post: My own personal what came first, the chicken or the egg.

Pavlov's dog: A lesson in relationships

(500) Days of Summer has a sequence towards the end of the movie where Joseph Gordon Levitt’s character, Tom, goes to his ex girlfriend, Summer’s house for a party on the roof. He goes hoping that reality will match up with his expectations. He expects to be greeted with a kiss - he isn’t. He expects to have alone time with her - he doesn’t. He expects to be the only guy she’s interested in - he’s not. In fact, it’s this moment in which he finds out that Summer hasn’t only gotten over him, she’s moved on to another guy she actually loves. And they’re getting married.

I am no stranger to grand expectations. Reality often has a way of not just kicking my expectations to the wayside, but ploughing a giant snow bank over them as well. Maybe it’s my writerly nature, always thinking about the perfect way the story of my life could go. I’ll go out with a guy I like, we’ll hang out, it’ll become increasingly clear that he likes me, we’ll talk for hours etc. etc. But there are scant times in my life where reality has even come close to those expectations.

It’s almost a version of masochism. Pavlov’s dog has exhibited smarter tendencies than I have in such things. I get my hopes up, expect something good to happen, then I get the electric shock. Unlike that famous dog from the psychological experiment, I haven’t yet learned from the negative reinforcement. I work within the same patterns over and over and expect a different result. It’s easy to blame it all on someone else, but how could that possibly be fair when I am the only constant in each scenario?

I’ve heard that living a life with no expectations is no way to live, but I’m not quite convinced. If you don’t expect anything, you can live life without anything to tether you down. You can just enjoy great things that happen, and roll with the punches when they’re dealt. I’m hoping to condition myself to this new way of living. I saw Tom’s face in (500) Days of Summer and I knew exactly what it felt like. If I never have to endure that face again myself, now that is a life I can expect good things out of.