End of an era

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

theQuestionable.com

I bet...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Desperate times don’t call for measures that desperate. 

Taking a stand

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

It’s against their moral code.  

They’re waiting for marriage. 

They need emotional intimacy to reach physical intimacy.  

They’re terrified of STD’s. 

They’re even more terrified of getting pregnant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stronger sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tale as old as...last year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here goes nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Meet Cute

Where, in God’s name, do people meet people?

Coffee shops. Entertainment has suggested that you go to a coffee shop alone, whip out a book, and get approached by your soul mate. That’s how Summer met her husband and broke Tom’s heart in (500) Days of Summer. Hell, Landon Pigg wrote a song called “Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop.” They make it seem so plausible. But then you go to the coffee shop, and the people sitting alone have their headphones in or are typing away furiously as their computers, and suddenly plausibility is going down the tubes with coffee dregs.

Bookstores. He picks up Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs and you say that you love Chuck Klosterman and the chapter on Billy Joel is musical truth. He takes you to the nearby coffee shop where you never meet anyone and you talk for another two hours about life, love and the pursuit of living and loving. Maybe he gets Billy Joel tickets for your second official date, I don’t know, it’s a scenario. But then you go to the bookstore, and the only people who are shopping alone are obvious loners. They haven’t combed their hair in a while and there are questions on whether they’re capable of speech.

Cooking classes. I don’t have the money for that.

Steak houses. Rich men? Check. Young men? No check. When I get desperate enough to want an old dude or hot enough to be a trophy wife, we’ll revisit the steak house.

Bars. Now there’s a question mark. There is no doubt that people meet people in bars. The question mark comes when you factor in finding something semi-permanent with someone.

I have found reasonable success in bars of late - at least more success than I had in the past. But the guys that I met only seemed interested in that stereotypical “one thing.” Is it possible to meet someone in a bar that might want to see you when you’re both sober? It seems like such a crap shoot when you meet someone in the throes of alcohol.

But in actuality, isn’t it all a crap shoot? The guy in the coffee shop could be coming off of a stint in prison. Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs could be an integral part of the bookstore man’s morning routine. The old dudes at the steak house could still be married with wives and children in Greenwich.

So really, what’s so bad about meeting someone at a bar? If it’s all a crap shoot, then maybe my alcohol-induced reservations don’t exactly hold up. Reasonable risk taking. That’s what I’m looking to do now. And if that doesn’t work I’ll roll the dice with the old guys.

The Trader Joe’s Theorem

I never met a check out guy at Trader Joe’s I didn’t like.

What’s more, I never met a check out guy at Trader Joe’s that didn’t like me.

The food service industry and I are interlinked. You know how people get nervous sometimes that the waiter spit in their food? I’ve never had that issue. I can get a waiter on my side faster than you can say tiramisu. The guy making your sandwich? I’ve probably made him laugh once or twice. And I’ve traded smiles and quips with all the Joe’s ringing up my hummus and tortilla chips.

Just last night, I went to Trader Joe’s and when I approached the check out guy, he was looking glum. He barely raised his “Register 8” paddle so I knew where to walk. I told him he could be a little more excited to see me, and suddenly he started to perk up. He told me he ate from a food truck named something like “Go Gorilla Food” and was now regretting his decision based on some grumblings in his stomach. I told him I question his life decision to eat from anywhere that has “gorilla” in the title. He instantly agreed with me. By the end of our conversation he was a changed man. It’s amazing what a food truck that possibly uses gorilla meat can do to bring people together.

The kicker was when I said I was sorry that he didn’t feel well. His answer? “Well you have definitely taken away most of the pain with this conversation.”

That’s just a great statement. There’s no weak part of that sentence. Now what do I do with that? Why do I have such success with men that handle food for a living and not men that don’t?

That may have been a double negative, but you catch my drift. Was that man an opportunity? Should I have given him my number? Or is there something that I should be learning in those conversations to take with me when I meet someone in a bar or in a different social situation?

You know what? For once I’m going to answer my own question. I think it’s the latter. I think for some reason I feel comfortable with Trader Joe and not the Regular Joe I meet in a bar or otherwise. I don’t know why, but the why isn’t really important. The important thing is figuring out how to translate that comfort to other situations.

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe the important thing is to start slipping those check out guys my number. Hey, I did it once before to a waiter ... and that didn’t end well.

But more on that later.

The friend, the myth, the legend

There are a lot of things the movies inaccurately portray. Pocahontas and John Smith’s relationship. The ability to walk away from an exploding building without flinching. Being able to blow up an asteroid with a bomb. But I’m not interested in those things. They have no bearing on my life. I doubt America will be colonized by any good looking aliens. God help me if I had anything to do with that exploding building. And God help the world if I’m the one that has to figure out how to destroy an asteroid.

What I am interested in is the common portrait of two best friends that get together. I saw it tonight in the new movie Friends with Kids, in which Adam Scott and Jennifer Westfeldt’s characters are completely platonic, decide to have a kid, and then contend with ensuing feelings. SPOILER ALERT: They get together in the end. Years and years of friendship, tons and tons of claims of zero attraction, and the two still end up together.

Does this actually happen?

I used to think it did. My brother and his wife have always contended that the key to the success of their relationship is that they’re best friends first and husband and wife second. But does that mean you should be best friends before the relationship?

I don’t think so. At least not anymore. When you meet someone, you know whether you’re attracted to them - if not instantly, then by the time you leave your first meeting with them. If there is no mutual attraction, it’s hard to get past that. That feeling of lust, however fleeting it can be, is still an integral part of the relationship process. Great conversation is awesome, a free drink or meal is wondrous, but at the end of the day it doesn’t go that far. If he doesn’t want to get in your pants, it probably isn’t going to happen. I know, the theory isn’t worthy of a modern-day fairy tale, but that doesn’t mean it’s without merit.

When you really think about it, to think that two people would be in love but do nothing about it is to think that they’re masochistic. You go through this life hoping to find someone that gets it in the same way you do. So you find that person, and what, you keep looking? It makes me wonder. When people say they married their best friend, were they in love first and fore most, then learned to depend on each other? Or maybe they were always best friends and settled, thinking it really wouldn’t get any better than that?

For my part, I’ve decided that I’m done trying to turn friendships into something else. I will devour fiction that tells me I’ll end up with the guy who’s been by my side the whole time, but I am done chasing just that - fiction. I want to find someone who has no questions when they meet me. He knows, unequivocally, that he wants to wine me, dine me and bed me.

After a few wines and a few dines, of course. I might be throwing out the story book when it comes to models of romance, but I still have standards.

Coming Clean

My last blog post was ... angry? Sure. Negative? Yes. Honest? Absolutely. Had there been a trend of all three of those things in recent writings? I suppose. People have called me out on it, and I appreciate their support and concern and all the rest of those lovely things things.

But here’s the thing: there’s a difference between being honest and being completely truthful. I’m honest about my feelings and what I’m going through when I write, but I’m not always completely truthful with the specifics. Thoughts are exaggerated for entertainment value. Self-deprecation is taken to the max in the name of a joke.

For example, in my last post I wrote about having the expectation of ending up alone in ten, fifteen, twenty years. Do I actually think I’m going to be alone? No. At the very least I’m sure I’d have a boyfriend or an ex or a ton of friends. But I am afraid of dying alone. I am afraid of never knowing what real love feels like. And that’s being honest.

And being honest about my trials in the dating world also means writing what I feel. In the past month or two, I have been in a funk. I will freely admit it. Sometimes I’m more hopeful than others. Sometimes things happen and I’m angry. And all of these things come out in my writing. I can’t censor that. And I’m not sure I want to.

Do I wish I was more confident? Yes, I do. I’m working on it. I’m working on self-deprecating humor actually being a mask for feeling really good about myself. I am trying not to be so hard on myself. But just like someone tries not to eat sweets everyday, sometimes you slip up.

I’ve taken a few weeks off to think about my approach. To think about the idea that people could be concerned about my mindset based on my writing. I can’t promise that everything I write will be positive from now on. That isn’t real life. Sometimes crappy things happen and you’ll know when you read it.

But what I can promise is that I will try. I will try to change my attitude toward one filled with a molecule more hope. Because that’s being honest. I’m attempting to change my attitude - to stop looking quite so hard, to have the confidence to meet new people, and to feel better about what I bring to the table.

Dear Future Me

You know what the worst assignment ever created by teachers is? The one where you write a letter to your future self.

In what universe does that ever end well? It doesn’t matter if you wrote it to your ten-years-in-the-future self or your forty-years-in-the-future self, that future self will always pale in comparison to what you imagined.

Never has anyone opened one of those letters, read “You will have two kids and be making a million dollars,” and said, “Nice try, me as a child, but I actually have THREE kids and I’m making TWO million dollars.” Nope. That doesn’t happen.

Instead, you open that letter, read that phrase, look around and realize that you’re actually alone in your single bed eating a cannoli.

Because that’s real life. Thinking your future bed would be filled with action instead of cannoli crumbs.

If I were to write a letter to my future self now - five, ten, twenty years in the future, no matter - here’s exactly what it would say:

Hello you, er, me-

Glad you made it this far. That’s a real accomplishment. I bet you’re sitting alone while reading this. And not the waiting for someone to come in from the other room alone. Like, alone alone. No boyfriends. No prospects. Just there. Alone.

Love, me, er, you

See how I set myself up for success with that letter? Even if I have a friend in the room with me as I read it, that’s a win! If I’m going on a date later in the week, fantastic. If I have a boyfriend, man I underestimated myself. And what if, God forbid, I’m married? Well I’m just going to call it a life because it won’t get better than that.

The first of many

A single girl who hates Valentine’s Day. What a novel concept, right? I try not to be a cliche, but sometimes cliches exist for a reason. I don’t care about the commercial part of it - after all, the same could be said of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day but that doesn’t make those holidays awful.

I just question a holiday that makes about 99% of the populous feel bad about themselves. You either hate looking at all of the hearts and hearing the word “love” because you’re single, or you feel tremendous pressure to plan a special yet random day to someone you actually do care about. Who needs it?

You know the one group of people that always loves Valentine’s Day, though? Elementary school kids. Because think about it: that was the last time Valentine’s Day was egalitarian. You HAD to give every single person in your third grade class a valentine. Sure, you’d give the better Power Ranger cards to the people you actually like, and two chocolates perhaps to the cutest boy in class, but other than that everything was equal.

But for me, the differences between my third grade self and my adult self are...basically non-existent. Romance was just as elusive then as it is now. And Valentine’s Days were just as unwelcome.

There was a boy in my third grade class named Ryan Mason. He had eyes as blue as the sky - but only because it was the only simile I could muster at the time. He was quiet, but not when you got to know him (read: sit at the desk next to him and listen to his random mumblings).

Things developed rather slowly between Ryan and I. An occasional glance. A small smile. A mutual laugh at a gaffe Mrs. G made. And then he gave me his Gobstoppers without expecting any candy in return. That’s when I thought it had the potential to really go places (like the swing sets at recess).

Then on Valentine’s Day, Ryan gave me a valentine. Based on my earlier assessment, that obviously wasn’t something to glow about, but what was on the card seemed to be. Underneath the chicken-scratched “From, Ryan,” you could make out the faded word “Love.” Ryan had originally used his Erasable Pen to declare his love for me. The point introduced by Gobstoppers had been proven. I told all the girls in my class and they all agreed there was about a 77% chance we’d end up getting married (100% chance that if we did, our resulting children would have blue eyes).

But then there was that one girl - you know the kind. She can’t just be happy for you. She has to pry. That one girl went up to Ryan on the playground and asked him, point blank, if he liked me. He was in front of all of his little boy friends. I was hardly the girl about town I am (not) today. He denied, denied, denied.

And then it got worse. He came up to me and my little girl friends, interrupted our discussion about whether I could wear a blue wedding dress to match his eyes, and told me off. It was the third grade equivalent of saying hell would freeze over before he would deign to like the likes of me. He was a child bastard.

So really, if you get to the root of the problem, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day because of the commercialism or the preference for those in relationships. No, it’s really Ryan Mason’s fault. And for that he must pay - if only for my therapy bills.

How will I know?

In honor of Whitney Houston’s momentous, and deeply tragic, passing, I will blog under the heading of one of her most recognizable songs: How will I know?

How will I know indeed. But I’m not looking to know if he really loves me, I’m just looking to know if he likes me. If there’s the chance of dating. Hell, if there’s the chance of one date.

In the past, I have sat back and gone with the flow when I suspected someone may like me. I would have conversations, put us in group hangout situations, and then get fed up when, two or three months later, nothing had happened yet. I never tried to rock the boat, and yet when that nothing did happen I got fed up. This led to one of two things: I either gave up entirely or I tried to force the issue. I pulled away or I had the uncomfortable conversation.

And only after the uncomfortable conversations did I understand that I couldn’t have known anything. There was nothing to know. I mistook friendship and vague companionship for the beginning of a relationship. I bought a ticket for the wrong ship. And only recently did I start to figure out where to find a ticket for the right ship.

I dated (whatever that means) someone for about a month back in the fall. And how did I know then? I actively flirted with the man in question. I went out of my way to visit him. I gave him my number. And when I felt that he was putting something out there, I did my best to actually pay it back. I was bold. I made it clear I wanted to make out with him, not just see him and talk to him.

Turns out all of that stuff makes a difference. Seems like such a simple lesson to learn, but it took 24 years to figure it out. Better late than never I suppose. And to be fair only, like, ten of those years actually count.

So now, when I ask the question how will I know, I plan to employ a similar tactic. I want to force the issue in all the right ways - and not after all hope is lost.

Sometimes putting yourself out there doesn’t mean overtly telling someone you like them. I now get why that could be off-putting. No, sometimes it means saying it without actually saying it. Using actions instead of words.

So, in answer to the famous Whitney question, how will I know, I guess I’ll just know. Because he’ll either respond or he won’t. Don’t worry, you’ll know which way it goes.

Leading a horse to a mirage

I call bullshit. I call bullshit on every single person who’s ever said that they met their future significant other and knew momentarily they were meant to be with them. In other words, I call bullshit on ever single man and woman who have ever gotten married on a TV wedding show or been featured in the New York Times engagement section.

I am a hard core romantic in so many ways, but that is not one of them. I don’t think you can look at someone and know you want to spend the rest of your days on earth looking at them. No one is that attractive. I think you have to let it marinate. Get to know them. Find the intricacies of their personality. Allow yourself time to fall for them.

But some people think that you should just know. Be attracted to them right off the bat. If not for the long haul, at least to spend the next few months with a companion until someone more suited for you comes along. This theory doesn’t allow wiggle room for the idea of a mounting attraction.

Is it an impossibility to think that if you spend more and more time with someone, you may come to realize just how attractive they are in every sense of the word? And if you didn’t feel it right off the bat, is it wrong to keep exploring just to see if it does develop? Is that, in a sense, leading them on?

I’m not sure. I’ve never been on that end of the situation. I usually convince myself there’s something a play with any guy who likes to talk to me, only to find that the attraction was either one-sided or a complete fabrication.

But I do know that the few guys I have dated (or, more often than not, made out with once) weren’t guys that inspired me to jump their bones the moment I met them. It took time. The more we talked, the more we exhibited a fun repartee, the more I wanted to be with them. The more I wanted to kiss them. The more I developed some sort of feelings.

And if I hadn’t developed those feelings, I don’t think I could have been rightfully accused of leading the guy on. Because sometimes, in order to lead yourself to water, you have to lead a horse to a mirage.

On the Navy

When some people join the Navy, it means they’re in the Navy. On Saturday night, for me, joining the Navy meant being on the Navy. Well, not so much on the Navy as pressed up against the Navy. Making out with the Navy.

My friends and I stepped out Saturday night with the sole mission of having a great time. We went to a neighborhood we don’t normally frequent and we just drank, made conversation and drank some more. You know it’s a good night when nobody begrudgingly claims the sober card and we all just decide to throw caution to the wind.

At the second bar we went to, I broke out into the Dougie on command, as I am wont to do ever since our holiday party at work (side note, white girls doing the Dougie is apparently a rare thing people enjoy, who knew). I was so wrapped up in getting my hair sweeps in time with the music, I didn’t even notice the man in the Navy uniform behind me giving me the up/down. But thankfully my friends did.

Now I’ve always heard about the mythical wing wo/man. But I had never really seen it in action. At least not in relation to me. But my one female friend was just a revelation. She saw the up/down and she dragged me over there before I had the chance to question.

We got into a group conversation. Exchanged pleasantries. Then she pretended that there was a dance off she needed to tend to and left us alone. And surprisingly enough, I didn’t choke. I didn’t accuse him of anything in my patented sassy tone. I just talked to him.

And then we kissed. He used his hat as an excuse (I didn’t hate it). We progressed into making out pretty quickly (I didn’t hate it). And it was in front of all of my friends and a bunch of people I didn’t know (didn’t love that, but also...didn’t hate it). My inhibitions were down because of alcohol, but not down enough that I was in danger of making bad decisions. The stars just aligned.

And what’s more was that I didn’t mistake it for anything it wasn’t. I didn’t try to slip him my number for future contact. I didn’t obsess over what he thought of me. I just let go. And it was fun.

I also didn’t go into the bathroom with him to progress the make out session - trashy - and didn’t take him home with me - questionable. Like I said, no bad decisions.

But we did make out. And for that half hour or 45 minutes or however long it happened to be, I could pretend like I wasn’t single, white and clueless. I was just a single girl, making out with a sailor, not caring if he loved her or not.

By the way, did I mention he was a mere 18 years old? I didn’t? Oh...my bad.

Have you ever...?

Have you ever been in such a dating rut that you’ve convinced yourself you’re the opposite sexual orientation?

Whenever I’m having bad luck with men, I often think maybe there’s something big I’m missing. Maybe I should be dating women! Maybe I’m a lesbian! I work myself into a frenzy, question my identity, put on the episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Willow starts experimenting and ... realize I have no desire, whatsoever, to kiss a woman. So much for that theory.

Have you ever targeted someone that you considered a safe bet, only to still get rejected?

When I tried online dating for a month, I talked to this guy who didn’t look that great in his photo. He wasn’t that interesting. But I kept talking to him because, hey, why not! He seemed into me. He could be chocked up to “experience.” Yeah...he stopped talking to me. Come to think of it, maybe it had something to do with my lack of enthusiasm...

Have you ever hoped you could just will yourself back in time to the days of Jane Austen?

I watch/read Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion, and then I look around, and suddenly I hate every man that surrounds me (well, more than I already do). They had it right back then. They courted. They wrote letters. They knew how to play the piano. And if one of them didn’t pursue you, your father would go out and find one for you. Those were the days. Damn you Mr. Darcy. You ruined me for modern times.

Have you ever looked at someone who is beautiful, smart and super nice and absolutely hated them?

That happens to me quite frequently. It’s like, wow you’re so great. And I’ve never hated anyone more. Then I hate myself for hating them. It’s a whole thing.

Have you ever loved somebody so much it makes you cry? Have you ever needed something so bad you can’t sleep at night? Have you ever tried to find the words but they don’t come out right?

Just kidding, those are the lyrics to Brandy’s “Have you Ever.”

Proverbially speaking

Those who can’t do teach.

Never had there been a truer statement in my life. My dating life, to be exact. I can give other people sound advice. I can read chemistry between two potential love birds. I can figure out the right thing for someone else to say. But when it comes to me, I don’t have a clue. I have no read on the opposite sex. I can think they’re giving me all the signals in the world, and in the end they’re still dating someone else.

There’s a great story that I collected in 2011 to illustrate that very point. A guy that, amazingly enough, I’m still friends with, asked me out. Twice. And paid for me. Twice. Except he didn’t. Oh, he did pay. And he didn’t invite anyone else to come out with us. But it turns out he didn’t ask me out. It took him not asking me out a third time for me to figure it out.

We went to a baseball game with two other people. I felt good about my chances going into the night.

And then he didn’t sit next to me.

It’s funny how you can absolutely convince yourself of something, and the moment one small thing goes wrong you lose all hope. Him not sitting next to me told me everything I needed to know about the course of that night. Alas, the universe wanted to hit me over the head with the point.

In a roundabout way, the boy in question and I worked together. He knew most of my coworkers, including our two game mates, so the subject of office crushes came up. The other half brought up who they considered hot. I skirted the issue. And then it was the boy’s turn. And he told me he had a crush on someone else.

Straw, meet camel’s back. Knife, you were already in, but you can twist yourself now.

Obviously now it isn’t a big deal. I’ve transitioned into complete friendship with this guy. He’s dating someone else. But the story is like the ghost of crushes past, present and future.

Because PC (Potential Crush from two and three blogs ago) asked someone else on a date. And he didn’t tell me he liked this other girl. And he didn’t pay. And I wasn’t even that into him. But now I can add him to the proverbial list. And the list is getting long.

Three douches with a point

Every so often, someone without full brain capacity actually makes a good point. When I was walking home Monday night, I was strolling behind three such someones - men, to be exact. They were talking about a guy’s weekend they were planning.

One of the fellas was questioned about his ability to attend, given his status as a man in a relationship. He said something like “I’m not married, she’ll deal with it.” Then the three proceeded to talk about the girlfriend’s anatomy - luckily before I decided to tune out of the conversation they switched back to the original topic.

They brought up a friend who wasn’t in the trio. Apparently they were dissatisfied with that compadre’s answer to the proposition of a guy’s weekend. He had to clear it with his girlfriend. Apparently, he was married, just sans ring and license. And that’s when the brightest of the bunch said this: “He’s so whipped. He has to get her ok for everything he does. She has him by the dick and the balls.”

I was only being half sarcastic by calling the speaker the brightest of the bunch. Did he articulate his thought in the most eloquent of ways? No. The crudest? Yes. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a solid point there.

“Louise, do you want to go out for a drink with the girls?” Louise looks at you and grimaces. “Ooo see Lou and I are going to see Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked tonight.”

“Lou let’s play some pool tonight.” Lou lights up. “That’s great. Louise is great at pool.”

Ignoring the fact that someone named Louise should never date her male doppelganger Lou, you know you’ve had this conversation with one of your friends. We’ve all known that person who gets into a relationship and dissolves into his or her partner. Their daily decisions revolve around another person. They’re never an “I,” strictly a “we.” Suddenly you stop inviting Louise to things, either because you know she’ll have plans or Lou will crash the party despite the lack of an invitation.

But what causes someone to cling so hard to another person like that? I look at couples who spend every waking moment together and I think, “Man, I don’t like anyone in this world enough to spend that much time with him.”

As much as I’d like to be in a relationship, I’m not looking for someone to attach himself to my hip. I mean God, what could we possibly have to say to each other in that scenario? There’s only so many times I can rehash the last episode of Parks and Recreation with someone. I suppose that feeling may go away when I actually do meet someone and fall in love. But I’m really hoping it doesn’t. My hips are wide enough.

Did I do that?

Steve Urkel used to knock over people, burn down houses and otherwise endanger everyone in his way, then look around and utter one simple phrase to wipe it all away: “Did I do that?” It’s a pop culture phenomenon everyone between the ages of 20 and 30 probably recognizes - much the the chagrin of the man behind the Urkel, Jaleel White, who is actually a suave guy. But I digress.

My lack of a dating life is filled with so many “did I do that?” moments - some recounted here, like hitting the tennis ball at a hot guy’s balls, and others yet to be shared (older men, homeless men and gang members, oh my!). Did I REALLY trust that random guy I met? Did I REALLY just walk away from someone who was hitting on me because I didn’t get it? And, most familiar, did I REALLY just say that?!?

Today I had one such moment. With the man in question from my last post, no less. Despite not holding out hope of anything really happening with said man - let’s call him Potential Crush, or PC - I still figured it wasn’t a bad idea to flirt. There were some positive moves last week, a few emails and exchanges. And then today I took a typical misstep back. Here’s a sample of the conversation:

PC: Hey how was your trip?

Me: Great! Did anyone tell you any stories about it?

PC: No, just that it was good.

Me: Oh, so you didn’t ask because you don’t really care.

PC: ...

What in God’s name did I think I was doing? Being cute? False. Bitchy? Seems so. There are tons of other responses I could have given, a few being:

Do you want me to tell you some stories?

I have some good stories to share.

What’s your favorite vacation you’ve taken?

Did you hear that I can be too sarcastic for my own good?

But no. I didn’t say any of those things. I said what I said. And there just wasn’t any recovering from it. The saying “I put my foot in my mouth” doesn’t even begin to cover it. If my foot was in my mouth maybe I couldn’t say half the things I do. Nope, I’d say “did I do that” just about covers it.

THAT moment

You know that moment? When you’re with a member of the opposite sex and you’re having a really great time. You look at them, and you feel something inside yourself inch over to the line that serves as the border to crush territory. You have a choice in that moment - do I leap across the line or do I hang back?

It’s an interesting conundrum I was in just this week. I was hanging out with someone for pretty much the first time, and we were really hitting it off. And it got me thinking, as I am wont to do. It seemed like there was a flirtation, possible interest. But I’ve tried to gauge that before and I’ve been very wrong. So when it comes to crossing the line, what do I do with that past knowledge?

Crossing the line means making a second decision - do I embrace my past mistakes and take this extremely cautiously, aiming for a friendship instead? Or do I forget about the past and treat this as a new situation in which anything could happen?

And suddenly I’ve debated an entire life dilemma in my head as I’m still talking to the guy in question. Ultimately, I’ve decided not to cross the line. I’m not giving up on it entirely, but I will not let myself go into crush territory. At least not until there’s more to go off of.

My guy friend said my philosophy should be to “let it marinate.” Feel it out, let it grow, give it time - those are all things most people’s friends say, but mine say let it marinate (I’d have it no other way). I think it’s a great idea - in theory. Because waiting is so hard. And I’ve waited 24 years. I’m fucking tired of not doing anything. Of crossing lines and not meeting anyone on the other side. So I’ll let it marinate. But I can’t promise I have much more marinade in me.

18 girls, one guy and a stereotype

“It’s really hard for me, navigating splitting my time between 18 women.” Cry me a river the length of the Nile, Robert. I mean honestly. You just complained about having 18 women hand-picked, buffed, fluffed and delivered to you on a silver platter known as “The Bachelor.” And you have the nerve to say it’s hard for you.

But what’s even worse is that the women on this show have the nerve to validate a statement like that. At the end of tonight’s episode, a girl who could not have known Robert for more than 2 hours in two weeks, starts crying hysterically about how she’s never going to find love. I mean honestly. You hinged your entire romantic future on this doofus who already proposed to someone and got subsequently dumped on national television? Then you deserve to be fired. Or let go. Or be roseless. Whatever reality TV trope is applicable.

Even though I was currently contributing to the ratings of the show - let’s say it was for research, though morbid curiosity is usually what drives me - I consider this show to be the perfect example of what’s wrong with women. There’s one guy in front of them. His looks are decent. He makes a fair amount of money. He can carry on a conversation. He’s mine! I’m gonna win! (By the way, those last two sentences are practically quotes from tonight’s episode.)

Now it’s obviously not a secret that I would love to find a relationship. A guy worth fighting for. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to fight other girls for him. Women on this show put each other down and look straight into the camera and say - without irony - that the other girls better watch out. Watch out for what? Your boobs because you’re sticking them out so far it’s invading my personal space as I watch the show from my bed? Yes, you’re right, everyone should watch out for them.

We all know that these women are playing it up for the camera - more crazy means more air time - but then that points to a fundamental problem. It means that people want to see women cat fighting. It means that people expect women to fight over men, cry at the drop of a rejection and cut down other women. And it means there are women out there willing to live up to this reputation. And that I’m just not ok with.

Google background check

You go to a bar and meet someone new. Your friend tells you she wants to set you up with her friend. You flirt with a coworker. Once you’ve established interest in someone foreign to you, what’s the first thing you do?

Be honest. You go home and you stalk them. You search for them on Facebook - though that has gotten surprisingly tough given the relatively new privacy options. And then, if that doesn’t yield anything, you turn to Google. You could know all about their past without ever having had a serious conversation about them. Question is: Is this good or bad? Does this help the dating process or set it back?

I suppose in some situations it could be a great asset. For example, if the other person was previous arrested in a stalking case. Or they wrote articles about worshipping Satan. Or they run a blog about buttons. Which is scarier? I’m just not sure.

But at the same time, what if you misunderstand something you read? You may make a judgment that keeps you from pursuing something with that person. What if the button blog was started in honor of your potential date’s beloved grandmother? You’ll never know he has a softer side than the sarcasm you saw in the bar.

I think back to the days before all of our shit was posted to the public. We had the ability to sit back and look at the person across from us and really get to know them. At our own speed. At their own speed. Is that a terrifying idea? Yes. But it’s also exhilarating.

This topic is sparked by a conversation I had with a college friend. I was telling her she needed to meet my male friend - that she would greatly appreciate his sense of humor. She then proceeded to google-check him out. The conversation evolved not into what she found out about him, but what people would find out about us.

So I googled myself, like the narcissist we all are. Nothing too crazy to find, but it does make you wonder how you look to other people. What would a potential suitor think about the TV column I wrote in college? Or the student film I made? Or the fact that an article I wrote about hooking up (yes, I wrote about this crap even before post grad life) was picked up by some female blogs?

And what if they, God forbid, found this blog? They would know all of my secrets. And by secrets I mean thoughts I elect to post on a public source. Alas, potential suitors aren’t enough of a reason for me not to share my neuroses. Maybe I’ll find that someone shares the same ones.

Anything did happen

As we sat at our enormous dinner table - it was a reservation for 14 after all - my friend made a joke referencing the trailer for that awful yet timely movie, New Year’s Eve. On the night before 2012, he said, “According to the New Year’s Eve trailer, anything can happen.” We all laughed out loud at the joke. We thought we knew exactly what was going to happen. We’d finish our meals, drink, drink some more, then head across town to a party which indubitably had more alcohol. We’d dance, laugh at inane things and call it a year.

The thing about New Year’s Eve is that no matter how hard you try to curb your expectations, they will always be higher than the actual outcome. In year’s past, I had never spent a new year drunk, surrounded by friends. Plans would fall apart - like last year, when a snow storm made it impossible for me to go see my friend in Virginia - or I wouldn’t even try. More often than not, I would simply opt for sitting in my home with my parents, watching them doze off while waiting for Dick Clark and/or Ryan Seacrest to announce the new year.

But this year? This year was going to be my year. Because the only expectation I had was seemingly already met. Plans with friends. Lovely dinner. Grey goose vodka. Champagne. The hospital.

Yeah. The hospital. And that, my friends, would be the part I didn’t plan for. The part I was not expecting. At the cross-town party, while talking with a group of people, somehow wine ended up on top of my foot. Well, not so much my foot as my little toes. And not so much wine as a full bottle of wine. And not so much ended up as violently fell on. That’s where the hospital comes in. But only after the pain and the pools of tears.

Luckily my toes weren’t broken. It was diagnosed as a “crushing toe injury,” the fancy way of explaining exactly what happened. When I woke up later on the first day of 2012, they were red, black and purple and swollen. They hurt a lot - but maybe not more than my pride as I tried to walk with the ugly supportive shoe they gave me.

I told someone what happened the next day, and their response was “I feel like that would only happen to you.” And I very much agree with that. The majority of my stories end with the sentiment “and then it got weird.” Part of my New Year’s Resolution was to try and change that. Until the wine bottle beat those thoughts out of my mind.

I think it’s time I realize that I am probably just an awkward person. I attract strange situations. But maybe that isn’t a bad thing. It does give me some pretty good writing material.