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.”