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.”
Monday, July 25, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
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...
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...
Monday, July 11, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
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...
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...
Thursday, July 7, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
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...
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...
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
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 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.
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