For the four or five people who still check this blog (thanks for that, by the way), here is the Cliff Notes version of where I’ve been for the past three months: After a lot of thought and research, I parted ways with Girl and Guy roommate (sniff, sniff), ended things with J-Dogg (yes, again), studied for the GRE (including re-teaching myself how to do long division), drafted my essays, gathered recommendations and applied to graduate school.
Sigh. It’s physically, emotionally and mentally exhausting just thinking about it now.
So, I’m currently living with my parents until I decide where to go to school this fall. It could be New York, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia or Los Angeles. Possibly even more exciting than the fact that I could be living in a new city in just a couple of months, is the prospect of getting out of my study dungeon and gathering juicy stories to share with you. It’s definitely time for some new adventures.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Sluttly McSlutterson
I had a long overdue appointment with the dentist today, and while I've never really had problems with my teeth, sitting in that chair with my mouth hanging open for an hour isn't my favorite way to spend an afternoon.
But today, I experienced a different kind of horror at the dentist.
As I pushed open the office door, I was immediately met with what can only be described as a "family friendly" atmosphere - complete with a variety of toys on the floor and a half dozen framed photos of the dentist's children decorating the walls. I wandered to the front desk and stood there, waiting for someone to greet me so I could fill out my paperwork and fess up - to myself and to the receptionist - that NO, I don't have dental insurance, and YES, I will be paying for this "out of pocket." Moments later, the receptionist rounded the corner and I was almost suffocated by the overwhelming presence of her enormous, prominently displayed, fake boobs.
This receptionist was probably in her mid-thirties, still young, but not young enough to be able to claim blatant ignorance about what is and is not acceptable office attire. To say she was wearing a cleavage-baring shirt would be a gross understatement. Honestly, she might as well have been wearing a bikini. Admittedly, and with the exception of the over-sized breasts that were easily three cups sizes larger than what would have looked proportional, she had an amazing body - one she had clearly, and obviously, spent a lot of time and money to achieve and maintain. I don't begrudge her that. However, I do begrudge her the "feminist" label.
I wouldn't dare to comment on fake boobs in general...partially because I have boobs, and can't possibly know what it's like not to have them, and therefore want them bad enough to spend thousands of dollars to purchase them. However, the supposedly feminist prerogative to strut one's stuff to whatever extent one desires, and to then be offended if people - especially men - take notice, really annoys me. My experience at the dentist proves that people can't help but notice, be distracted and, if you're a heterosexual man, probably be aroused by such a display of skin. Heck, I was so distracted, that I could hardly keep my eyes off the mammary twins, much less focus on filling out my medical history.
Later, it occurred to me that it's rather hypocritical for a woman wearing revealing clothes to claim sexual harassment when a male colleague compliments her appearance, while men can't claim sexual harassment when provocative clothing distracts them from their work. I don't really see a difference - the man might enjoy the distraction in some capacity, but if the woman chose to wear a low-cut blouse, she was clearly hoping someone would notice.
Obviously, I'm commenting on extreme cases. Certainly, there are slimy men who harass even appropriately dressed women, simply to feel superior and powerful. I happen to think it's great for a woman to look and feel (especially feel) sexy. I don't think we should be forced to wear huge cloaks to hide our bodies simply because men in the workplace might be attracted to us. My annoyance is specifically targeted toward those women who clearly connect "sexy" with "revealing," and figure it's their "feminist right" to shake what their mamma gave them, everywhere and anywhere. Perhaps it is their feminist right, but then I pose the following quandary: HOW CAN WOMEN INSIST ON NOT BEING OBJECTIFIED WHEN WE'RE DOING IT TO OURSELVES?
At the risk of once again sounding quite conservative (is anyone picturing me in a channel suit with a string of pearls and a cup of tea?), I worry that instead of a step toward liberation, the sexual revolution was a step toward permissiveness, promiscuity and sexual confusion. Regardless of your personal views of stripping and pornography, allowing these industries to become mainstream only blurs the lines between a healthy attitude toward sex and the ancient human fascination with exhibitionism. Sex sells, this we know. But that doesn't necessarily mean that its prominence isn't damaging the future of women and society. Could the obsession with sex and the acceptance of things that were once considered dangerous and sleazy, be partially responsible for the fact that as a group, women in American are constantly battling insecurity and depression, while striving to look like porn stars and swimsuit models?
From bearly-there Halloween costumes to Girls Gone Wild, we are teaching ourselves, and future generations, that attractive, fun and sexy are synonymous with slutty. Personally, I think we've gotten ourselves into trouble, with a capital "T."
But today, I experienced a different kind of horror at the dentist.
As I pushed open the office door, I was immediately met with what can only be described as a "family friendly" atmosphere - complete with a variety of toys on the floor and a half dozen framed photos of the dentist's children decorating the walls. I wandered to the front desk and stood there, waiting for someone to greet me so I could fill out my paperwork and fess up - to myself and to the receptionist - that NO, I don't have dental insurance, and YES, I will be paying for this "out of pocket." Moments later, the receptionist rounded the corner and I was almost suffocated by the overwhelming presence of her enormous, prominently displayed, fake boobs.
This receptionist was probably in her mid-thirties, still young, but not young enough to be able to claim blatant ignorance about what is and is not acceptable office attire. To say she was wearing a cleavage-baring shirt would be a gross understatement. Honestly, she might as well have been wearing a bikini. Admittedly, and with the exception of the over-sized breasts that were easily three cups sizes larger than what would have looked proportional, she had an amazing body - one she had clearly, and obviously, spent a lot of time and money to achieve and maintain. I don't begrudge her that. However, I do begrudge her the "feminist" label.
I wouldn't dare to comment on fake boobs in general...partially because I have boobs, and can't possibly know what it's like not to have them, and therefore want them bad enough to spend thousands of dollars to purchase them. However, the supposedly feminist prerogative to strut one's stuff to whatever extent one desires, and to then be offended if people - especially men - take notice, really annoys me. My experience at the dentist proves that people can't help but notice, be distracted and, if you're a heterosexual man, probably be aroused by such a display of skin. Heck, I was so distracted, that I could hardly keep my eyes off the mammary twins, much less focus on filling out my medical history.
Later, it occurred to me that it's rather hypocritical for a woman wearing revealing clothes to claim sexual harassment when a male colleague compliments her appearance, while men can't claim sexual harassment when provocative clothing distracts them from their work. I don't really see a difference - the man might enjoy the distraction in some capacity, but if the woman chose to wear a low-cut blouse, she was clearly hoping someone would notice.
Obviously, I'm commenting on extreme cases. Certainly, there are slimy men who harass even appropriately dressed women, simply to feel superior and powerful. I happen to think it's great for a woman to look and feel (especially feel) sexy. I don't think we should be forced to wear huge cloaks to hide our bodies simply because men in the workplace might be attracted to us. My annoyance is specifically targeted toward those women who clearly connect "sexy" with "revealing," and figure it's their "feminist right" to shake what their mamma gave them, everywhere and anywhere. Perhaps it is their feminist right, but then I pose the following quandary: HOW CAN WOMEN INSIST ON NOT BEING OBJECTIFIED WHEN WE'RE DOING IT TO OURSELVES?
At the risk of once again sounding quite conservative (is anyone picturing me in a channel suit with a string of pearls and a cup of tea?), I worry that instead of a step toward liberation, the sexual revolution was a step toward permissiveness, promiscuity and sexual confusion. Regardless of your personal views of stripping and pornography, allowing these industries to become mainstream only blurs the lines between a healthy attitude toward sex and the ancient human fascination with exhibitionism. Sex sells, this we know. But that doesn't necessarily mean that its prominence isn't damaging the future of women and society. Could the obsession with sex and the acceptance of things that were once considered dangerous and sleazy, be partially responsible for the fact that as a group, women in American are constantly battling insecurity and depression, while striving to look like porn stars and swimsuit models?
From bearly-there Halloween costumes to Girls Gone Wild, we are teaching ourselves, and future generations, that attractive, fun and sexy are synonymous with slutty. Personally, I think we've gotten ourselves into trouble, with a capital "T."
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Brutal but brilliant
I recently ran across the following nuggets of truth, and I wanted to share:
Nugget 1: Why do I waste my time on someone I know isn't good?
Because you're hoping you're wrong. Everytime they do something to show you they're no good, you ignore it, and everytime they come through and surprise you, they win you over and you lose the battle with yourself.
Nugget 2: When the sex is good, it's only 5 percent of the relationship, but when the sex is bad (or nonexistent), it's 95 percent of the relationship.
Nugget 1: Why do I waste my time on someone I know isn't good?
Because you're hoping you're wrong. Everytime they do something to show you they're no good, you ignore it, and everytime they come through and surprise you, they win you over and you lose the battle with yourself.
Nugget 2: When the sex is good, it's only 5 percent of the relationship, but when the sex is bad (or nonexistent), it's 95 percent of the relationship.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Hard to get
Dating is a game...until it's not. We all know people who used to be one of us, struggling through the dating game one strategic (or not) play at a time - sometimes ending up with a devoted new fan, sometimes ending up with a new coat of pain for the closet of unrequited love. Then one day they run into the man/woman of their dreams at the grocery store (does this ever REALLY happen to anyone?), local bar, animal shelter, etc. and that's it - game over. But for the rest of us, we're still stuck rolling the dice and hoping for the "get-out-of-jail-free" card.
What I'm about to write will certainly be met with some resistance, but while it might not be the world's most perfect theory, it's definitely something to consider.
Playing hard-to-get works.
I'm not saying that "playing" anything is an ideal situation, but it's a time-tested fact that men (and women) appreciate things more when they don't fall into their laps (or beds). I see women who aren't especially pretty, smart or interesting, playing 'the game' with seemingly effortless confidence:
Step 1: She goes out dressed to kill, but when men do gawk and approach, she's standoffish, but not bitchy. If she's interested, and they spend an appropriate amount of time trying to talk to her, without treating her like a piece of meat, she may give them her phone number.
Step 2: The guy calls and she doesn't answer the phone. He leaves a messages along the lines of "Hi Brenda, it's Chad. I met you on Saturday night at Bar W. Just wanted to say hi and see how you're doing. You can reach me at 555-1234. Hope to talk to you soon."
Step 3: Two days pass and she doesn't call him back (because unlike most women, she isn't motivated by the intense fear that if she doesn't call him back, he's going to lose interest). He calls her again and this time she answers the phone - she apologizes for not having called him earlier but she was busy, busy, busy.
She wants to be pursued and has the self-control to act calm and collected, even though her heart may skip a beat when the phone rings. She knows that if she were available whenever he wanted, if she called him back right away and slept with him after one night, he'd lose interest quicker because the thrill of the hunt would be gone. Instead, she keeps him guessing and doesn't tell him what she's doing Friday night after she declines a date - he's intrigued.
Step 4: She finally accepts an invitation for a date and everything goes great -- the conversation, chemistry, etc. Maybe there is the much-anticipated first kiss, but when he calls her again to set up another date, she is busy, busy, busy.
The thesis is simple, and familiar to evolutionary scientists (and any woman who's mother was born before the 1960s): men are hunters who thrill in 'the chase.' For me, the wisdom here is that feminism hasn't changed the innate instincts of most heterosexual men. Women might have evolved from housewife to CEO, but men are still men. This is why we can't fully blame them for sleeping with a woman they met at a bar earlier that night - - if we're making it available, can we really blame them for taking it?
While the above may describe a common dating scenario in the 1940s and 50s, here's what's happening today:
Scenario 1: A single gal goes out in her cleavage baring halter top and drinks until she's wobbling in her stilettos. She sees a guy she likes and walks right up to him, making it clear that he can have her if he wants. They laugh and flirt. She goes home with him. Maybe she sleeps with him, or maybe, in a misguided attempt to play "hard to get," she limits herself to only making out with him. Either way, by being in his bed, she really isn't very "hard-to get."
Outcome 1: She goes home the next day, knowing deep down that she should have had more self-control and probably shouldn't have gone home with him. But she still hopes that this time it's different, that they had a "special connection" and that he's going to call.
He doesn't call.
Outcome 2: She goes home the next day, knowing deep down that she should have had more self-control and probably shouldn't have gone home with him. But she still hopes that this time it's different, that they had a "special connection" and that he's going to call.
He calls.
She is OVERJOYED, and in yet another attempt at playing hard to get she waits to call him back...until later that night. They chat and he asks her to meet for drinks the next night, she accepts. They have a great time. When he doesn't call her again for a week, she is confused. Wanting to "make sure" he knows she's interested, she calls him. After all, there is nothing wrong with a girl calling a guy, right? He calls her back and they arrange to hang out again. She thinks she is into something good, but then she doesn't hear from him again...until late one night when he texts her to see if she is "out." They officially become hook-up buddies.
Here's the thing: we want to believe that because women have proven themselves in so many ways, that it's anti-feminist and pathetic to follow "rules" in order to get the right type of attention from men. We should be able to be ourselves. Well, today's translation of "being ourselves" often means pursuing a guy because we don't believe they'll pursue us on their own. Feminists can also sleep with guys right away because sexual responsibility should be equal. Well, it's not. If it were equal, men would get pregnant too.
In some ways, we're using feminism and the fact that it's "not fair" that acting a certain way captures a guys attention, to make excuses for our own insecurity. By pursuing men, making sure we're available when they ask us out, and calling them back right away, we're trying to ensure that they won't lose interest and move on to someone better.
After years of being a cheerleader for the feminist dating camp, I'm here to report my findings: it's not feminist at all.
In fact, I think this so-called feminist view has taken away a lot of a woman's control in the dating world...we don't demand pursuit, chivalry or commitment before devoting ourselves to a guy. This gives men an unbalanced amount of control, and relegates women to waiting around to see if the man we choose will disappoint us or stick it out. How is this a better representation of feminism than playing hard to get? At least with the latter, we're in a position to choose someone who has already proven they're willing to go the extra mile and treat us right.
For those of you who are foaming at the mouth, waiting to argue that some men like a woman to pursue and be in charge - - I have no doubt that you're right. However, I wonder if these are the men who don't have the confidence to pursue women themselves? Anyone who is insecure finds it comforting to get assurance that there's no risk. Yet men who are comfortable with what they have to offer, may be turned off by a women who pursues, and therefore accidentally gives the impression that she doesn't think she's worth being pursued. And as for those heterosexual guys who fantasize about a woman taking charge on dates, and in bed? Well, it's my personal belief that a little goes a long way. There is nothing wrong with being a strong woman, but most heterosexual men don't want to date another man.
As usual, there are no stones being thrown from behind my pink lap top - this is coming from someone who has always been told to just "be herself," and someday I'll find the "love of my life." While this might very well be true, no one ever warned me that in the meantime, I might scare off a bunch a great practice guys by being my emotional, over-thinking, passionate, honest self.
Like most women, at one point or another I've worried that if I don't call a guy back right away, he's not going to know I'm interested. Then I was struck by a bolt of lightening: when I don't like a guy, I forget to call him back, I'm too busy for dates, and I'm accidentally aloof. Consequently, it's these men - the ones I'm not interested in - that fall all over themselves to pursue me. When I don't like a guy, and I don't call him back, does he call once and give up? No. Usually, if he likes me, he wants to "make sure" I got his call, and he'll try again. So why are we so scared to take that risk with a guy we like?
While I think there is some unavoidable truth in the "hard to get" theory, I think there is a bigger problem here: why are beautiful, strong, intelligent women so insecure that they need to play hard to get? We should be hard to get. We should be "busy, busy, busy." Regardless of what should be, the truth is, that no matter how far women have come, successful, interesting women everywhere are spending a lot of time worrying about what men think and want. Worse than that, we measure ourselves against what we read and learn about men, and end up feeling undesirable.
What I'm about to write will certainly be met with some resistance, but while it might not be the world's most perfect theory, it's definitely something to consider.
Playing hard-to-get works.
I'm not saying that "playing" anything is an ideal situation, but it's a time-tested fact that men (and women) appreciate things more when they don't fall into their laps (or beds). I see women who aren't especially pretty, smart or interesting, playing 'the game' with seemingly effortless confidence:
Step 1: She goes out dressed to kill, but when men do gawk and approach, she's standoffish, but not bitchy. If she's interested, and they spend an appropriate amount of time trying to talk to her, without treating her like a piece of meat, she may give them her phone number.
Step 2: The guy calls and she doesn't answer the phone. He leaves a messages along the lines of "Hi Brenda, it's Chad. I met you on Saturday night at Bar W. Just wanted to say hi and see how you're doing. You can reach me at 555-1234. Hope to talk to you soon."
Step 3: Two days pass and she doesn't call him back (because unlike most women, she isn't motivated by the intense fear that if she doesn't call him back, he's going to lose interest). He calls her again and this time she answers the phone - she apologizes for not having called him earlier but she was busy, busy, busy.
She wants to be pursued and has the self-control to act calm and collected, even though her heart may skip a beat when the phone rings. She knows that if she were available whenever he wanted, if she called him back right away and slept with him after one night, he'd lose interest quicker because the thrill of the hunt would be gone. Instead, she keeps him guessing and doesn't tell him what she's doing Friday night after she declines a date - he's intrigued.
Step 4: She finally accepts an invitation for a date and everything goes great -- the conversation, chemistry, etc. Maybe there is the much-anticipated first kiss, but when he calls her again to set up another date, she is busy, busy, busy.
The thesis is simple, and familiar to evolutionary scientists (and any woman who's mother was born before the 1960s): men are hunters who thrill in 'the chase.' For me, the wisdom here is that feminism hasn't changed the innate instincts of most heterosexual men. Women might have evolved from housewife to CEO, but men are still men. This is why we can't fully blame them for sleeping with a woman they met at a bar earlier that night - - if we're making it available, can we really blame them for taking it?
While the above may describe a common dating scenario in the 1940s and 50s, here's what's happening today:
Scenario 1: A single gal goes out in her cleavage baring halter top and drinks until she's wobbling in her stilettos. She sees a guy she likes and walks right up to him, making it clear that he can have her if he wants. They laugh and flirt. She goes home with him. Maybe she sleeps with him, or maybe, in a misguided attempt to play "hard to get," she limits herself to only making out with him. Either way, by being in his bed, she really isn't very "hard-to get."
Outcome 1: She goes home the next day, knowing deep down that she should have had more self-control and probably shouldn't have gone home with him. But she still hopes that this time it's different, that they had a "special connection" and that he's going to call.
He doesn't call.
Outcome 2: She goes home the next day, knowing deep down that she should have had more self-control and probably shouldn't have gone home with him. But she still hopes that this time it's different, that they had a "special connection" and that he's going to call.
He calls.
She is OVERJOYED, and in yet another attempt at playing hard to get she waits to call him back...until later that night. They chat and he asks her to meet for drinks the next night, she accepts. They have a great time. When he doesn't call her again for a week, she is confused. Wanting to "make sure" he knows she's interested, she calls him. After all, there is nothing wrong with a girl calling a guy, right? He calls her back and they arrange to hang out again. She thinks she is into something good, but then she doesn't hear from him again...until late one night when he texts her to see if she is "out." They officially become hook-up buddies.
Here's the thing: we want to believe that because women have proven themselves in so many ways, that it's anti-feminist and pathetic to follow "rules" in order to get the right type of attention from men. We should be able to be ourselves. Well, today's translation of "being ourselves" often means pursuing a guy because we don't believe they'll pursue us on their own. Feminists can also sleep with guys right away because sexual responsibility should be equal. Well, it's not. If it were equal, men would get pregnant too.
In some ways, we're using feminism and the fact that it's "not fair" that acting a certain way captures a guys attention, to make excuses for our own insecurity. By pursuing men, making sure we're available when they ask us out, and calling them back right away, we're trying to ensure that they won't lose interest and move on to someone better.
After years of being a cheerleader for the feminist dating camp, I'm here to report my findings: it's not feminist at all.
In fact, I think this so-called feminist view has taken away a lot of a woman's control in the dating world...we don't demand pursuit, chivalry or commitment before devoting ourselves to a guy. This gives men an unbalanced amount of control, and relegates women to waiting around to see if the man we choose will disappoint us or stick it out. How is this a better representation of feminism than playing hard to get? At least with the latter, we're in a position to choose someone who has already proven they're willing to go the extra mile and treat us right.
For those of you who are foaming at the mouth, waiting to argue that some men like a woman to pursue and be in charge - - I have no doubt that you're right. However, I wonder if these are the men who don't have the confidence to pursue women themselves? Anyone who is insecure finds it comforting to get assurance that there's no risk. Yet men who are comfortable with what they have to offer, may be turned off by a women who pursues, and therefore accidentally gives the impression that she doesn't think she's worth being pursued. And as for those heterosexual guys who fantasize about a woman taking charge on dates, and in bed? Well, it's my personal belief that a little goes a long way. There is nothing wrong with being a strong woman, but most heterosexual men don't want to date another man.
As usual, there are no stones being thrown from behind my pink lap top - this is coming from someone who has always been told to just "be herself," and someday I'll find the "love of my life." While this might very well be true, no one ever warned me that in the meantime, I might scare off a bunch a great practice guys by being my emotional, over-thinking, passionate, honest self.
Like most women, at one point or another I've worried that if I don't call a guy back right away, he's not going to know I'm interested. Then I was struck by a bolt of lightening: when I don't like a guy, I forget to call him back, I'm too busy for dates, and I'm accidentally aloof. Consequently, it's these men - the ones I'm not interested in - that fall all over themselves to pursue me. When I don't like a guy, and I don't call him back, does he call once and give up? No. Usually, if he likes me, he wants to "make sure" I got his call, and he'll try again. So why are we so scared to take that risk with a guy we like?
While I think there is some unavoidable truth in the "hard to get" theory, I think there is a bigger problem here: why are beautiful, strong, intelligent women so insecure that they need to play hard to get? We should be hard to get. We should be "busy, busy, busy." Regardless of what should be, the truth is, that no matter how far women have come, successful, interesting women everywhere are spending a lot of time worrying about what men think and want. Worse than that, we measure ourselves against what we read and learn about men, and end up feeling undesirable.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Time for a new type of feminism
I've babbled on about how I'm frustrated by certain aspects of feminism - mostly that traditional feminism seems to seek equality by encouraging the view that women are the same as men. Call me a "girl," but I don't want to pretend that pet adoption commercials don't make me cry, and that I can carry a six foot Christmas tree from the car to my living room by myself, in order to be considered a "strong woman." Personally, I think my strength is very different than the strength I admire in certain men, but that doesn't make it any less valuable. Similarly, I don't think allowing a man to open the door for me or buy me dinner, makes me any less intelligent, independent or liberated. I happen to like it when a man wants to make me feel special by treating me with a little touch of traditional chivalry...as long as he also treats me with respect.
Recently, I discovered that I also have a bone to pick with "lipstick feminism." Prior to my recent online research (brought about by Monday afternoon ADD), I mistakenly thought that lipstick feminists were those that didn't find it contradictory to both be a feminist and to spend time on one's appearance. If this were the case, the mere number of products in my bathroom and eye-shadow colors in my make-up case, would make me an excellent candidate for admission into this group. For me, clothes and make-up are hobbies, sources of enjoyment, that are completely separate from my feelings about what makes women equal to men as human beings. I mean, what's wrong with having a little glamour in your life?
However, beyond an inherent "no-judgement" clause for the number of trips a woman makes to Sephora in any given month, lipstick feminism doesn't find conflict between stripping, pole dancing, flashing, girl-on-girl exhibitionism - sometimes even glorification of prostitution - and feminism. Additionally, lipstick feminism often associates sex with power, and the power of sexual allure as power over men.
WHOA, NELLY.
I certainly don't think it's anti-feminist to purchase Carmen Electra's workout video (hell, I'd probably eat worms if someone provided evidence suggesting that it would make me look like Carmen) or attempt to liven up a workout routine by taking a cardio-strip class. I also have no problem admitting that I sincerely enjoy sex. But aside from my shock at the idea of glorifying prostitution, I just don't agree that any type of feminism should focus so strongly on sex or power. How did a movement originally intended to ensure that women have the same rights as other human beings, become a power struggle in which stripping, and even prostitution, are used as proof points to argue that women offer as much value to society as men? Does that seem counter-productive to anyone else?
In What Went Wrong , I suggested that the misguided evolution of attraction is partially responsible for our youth obsessed culture and the acceptance of random hook-ups. But I'm beginning to think that feminist backlash has also danced to a few songs at the American "ho-down."
No matter what Oprah says, instead of learning how to develop, appreciate and leverage our individual personalities, unique talents and inherent femininity, young women are striving to become bobble-heads with 0 percent body fat and fake boobs, while drunkenly making out with each other in bars to win attention from men. And, if making out with a buddy doesn't win the man's heart, there's always an opportunity to share the epitome of intimacy with a complete stranger, and then pretend you've never met, when you run into him at the gym or grocery store.
Typically, we point fingers at men for our sex-obsessed culture and the rise of Internet porn. However, as painful as it may be to admit, there's also a connection between feminism, the sexual revolution and the reign of sluttiness. Between 1950 and 2009, being a slut has transformed from a label of shame to a symbol of feminism; proof that, since we're just like men, women can satisfy their carnal needs without emotional attachment. Sleeping with men for sport has become an aspirational quality, something that makes a woman independent and strong.
Congratulations, feminism.
Sex will always be important part of humanity, but my concern is the personality its importance is beginning to develop. Instead of girdles and chastity belts, we have four year-old girls with t-shirts that say "Future Porn Star" and forty-five year-old "cougars" prancing around bars in cleavage-baring halter tops and micro-minis. Although I'm suddenly appalled at how conservative I sound, the point isn't conservative or liberal - it's moderation. We've swung from one extreme to another in the span of 60 years, and we need to find some middle ground. If feminism is meant to benefit women, then I think it's time to focus on bringing an end to the backlash that has left an increasing number of beautiful, intelligent women struggling with self-acceptance. It's time for a new type of feminism.
Recently, I discovered that I also have a bone to pick with "lipstick feminism." Prior to my recent online research (brought about by Monday afternoon ADD), I mistakenly thought that lipstick feminists were those that didn't find it contradictory to both be a feminist and to spend time on one's appearance. If this were the case, the mere number of products in my bathroom and eye-shadow colors in my make-up case, would make me an excellent candidate for admission into this group. For me, clothes and make-up are hobbies, sources of enjoyment, that are completely separate from my feelings about what makes women equal to men as human beings. I mean, what's wrong with having a little glamour in your life?
However, beyond an inherent "no-judgement" clause for the number of trips a woman makes to Sephora in any given month, lipstick feminism doesn't find conflict between stripping, pole dancing, flashing, girl-on-girl exhibitionism - sometimes even glorification of prostitution - and feminism. Additionally, lipstick feminism often associates sex with power, and the power of sexual allure as power over men.
WHOA, NELLY.
I certainly don't think it's anti-feminist to purchase Carmen Electra's workout video (hell, I'd probably eat worms if someone provided evidence suggesting that it would make me look like Carmen) or attempt to liven up a workout routine by taking a cardio-strip class. I also have no problem admitting that I sincerely enjoy sex. But aside from my shock at the idea of glorifying prostitution, I just don't agree that any type of feminism should focus so strongly on sex or power. How did a movement originally intended to ensure that women have the same rights as other human beings, become a power struggle in which stripping, and even prostitution, are used as proof points to argue that women offer as much value to society as men? Does that seem counter-productive to anyone else?
In What Went Wrong , I suggested that the misguided evolution of attraction is partially responsible for our youth obsessed culture and the acceptance of random hook-ups. But I'm beginning to think that feminist backlash has also danced to a few songs at the American "ho-down."
No matter what Oprah says, instead of learning how to develop, appreciate and leverage our individual personalities, unique talents and inherent femininity, young women are striving to become bobble-heads with 0 percent body fat and fake boobs, while drunkenly making out with each other in bars to win attention from men. And, if making out with a buddy doesn't win the man's heart, there's always an opportunity to share the epitome of intimacy with a complete stranger, and then pretend you've never met, when you run into him at the gym or grocery store.
Typically, we point fingers at men for our sex-obsessed culture and the rise of Internet porn. However, as painful as it may be to admit, there's also a connection between feminism, the sexual revolution and the reign of sluttiness. Between 1950 and 2009, being a slut has transformed from a label of shame to a symbol of feminism; proof that, since we're just like men, women can satisfy their carnal needs without emotional attachment. Sleeping with men for sport has become an aspirational quality, something that makes a woman independent and strong.
Congratulations, feminism.
Sex will always be important part of humanity, but my concern is the personality its importance is beginning to develop. Instead of girdles and chastity belts, we have four year-old girls with t-shirts that say "Future Porn Star" and forty-five year-old "cougars" prancing around bars in cleavage-baring halter tops and micro-minis. Although I'm suddenly appalled at how conservative I sound, the point isn't conservative or liberal - it's moderation. We've swung from one extreme to another in the span of 60 years, and we need to find some middle ground. If feminism is meant to benefit women, then I think it's time to focus on bringing an end to the backlash that has left an increasing number of beautiful, intelligent women struggling with self-acceptance. It's time for a new type of feminism.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
More confessions
Just for shits and giggles...
-I loved Gilmore Girls and I'm currently re-watching the entire series.
-Cellulite. My mom has it. My sister - who weighs about 10 pounds - has it. I have it.
-Sometimes I tell people I have plans, when I fully intend to stay home, reading and drinking wine. Alone.
-My nickname in high school was Kelly Kapowski.
-I generally think puppies are cuter than babies (don't worry, it's just aesthetics, I LOVE kids).
-I have a couple of deep, dark secrets that would shock the eyebrows off a number of people who assume they know all there is to know about me.
-I love cigarettes but made a conscious decision not to become a smoker.
-I have a recurring nightmare about marrying someone I don't love.
-I've never seen Star Wars. Or Wizard of Oz.
-I was asked to leave the movie theater (by management, no less) during "The Horse Whisperer" because I was crying so hard when the horse got hurt, that I was "disturbing the other patrons."
-I get really uncomfortable when people reference geography - for the sake of humanity, let's hope the fate of the world never depends on my ability to identify specific countries on a map.
-I cried on my 20th birthday because I thought I was getting old (that is both incredibly embarrassing and a poignant commentary on our society)
-I wanted to be Miss America (WAY after the age when it's okay to dream about being Miss America).
-I recently ran out of gas and had to have AAA come and bail me out.
-I loved Gilmore Girls and I'm currently re-watching the entire series.
-Cellulite. My mom has it. My sister - who weighs about 10 pounds - has it. I have it.
-Sometimes I tell people I have plans, when I fully intend to stay home, reading and drinking wine. Alone.
-My nickname in high school was Kelly Kapowski.
-I generally think puppies are cuter than babies (don't worry, it's just aesthetics, I LOVE kids).
-I have a couple of deep, dark secrets that would shock the eyebrows off a number of people who assume they know all there is to know about me.
-I love cigarettes but made a conscious decision not to become a smoker.
-I have a recurring nightmare about marrying someone I don't love.
-I've never seen Star Wars. Or Wizard of Oz.
-I was asked to leave the movie theater (by management, no less) during "The Horse Whisperer" because I was crying so hard when the horse got hurt, that I was "disturbing the other patrons."
-I get really uncomfortable when people reference geography - for the sake of humanity, let's hope the fate of the world never depends on my ability to identify specific countries on a map.
-I cried on my 20th birthday because I thought I was getting old (that is both incredibly embarrassing and a poignant commentary on our society)
-I wanted to be Miss America (WAY after the age when it's okay to dream about being Miss America).
-I recently ran out of gas and had to have AAA come and bail me out.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Confessions and technicalities
I have a confession.
I've told you about my attempts to stir the pot. I've told you about my recent dates with Surfer Dude. I've told you about my fleeting attempt to become a gold medal flirt-er (this was a disaster, btw. Turns out, it's not the flirting I need to practice, it's communicating that my interest ends there). However, I haven't told you how much time I've been spending with J-Dogg.
At first it was sex. Then it was sex and the fact that I sincerely enjoy his company. Then it was frequent movie nights at his apartment, where he'd bundle me up on the couch with a blanket and all my favorites - red wine and brown sugar pop tarts or chips (all of which he keeps on hand, specifically for my visits). Then it was an occasional dinner or movie date. Then it was a weekend trip to the mountains, kissing in the hot tub under a light snow fall. Then it was a brief escapade in New York City.
A few days before Christmas, while in a Pottery Barn-type store looking for a Christmas present for my sister, I saw some pillows and towels that were perfect for the I'm-not-in-a-frat-anymore decor that J-Dogg has been implementing in his apartment. I bought them.
Then, when I went over for movie night, I had him close his eyes while I bustled around his apartment, replacing his thread-bear Chicago Bulls towel from 1987 with a fluffy new bath towel, and arranging the chenille throw blanket and pillows on his bed. When I was done, I dragged him around his apartment, explaining my purchases and babbling about how I hope it's not weird that I bought him Christmas presents when I'm not technically his girlfriend.
He smiled, thanked me, kissed me and asked if I wanted a glass of wine and a pop tart. I did.
We went into the kitchen, and while J-Dogg opened a bottle of wine and cleaned a glass for me, he pushed the pop tart box toward me and asked me to grab a package for him to put in the toaster. I opened the box, but there weren't any pop tarts inside. Instead, there was just a very distinctive "little blue box" with a white ribbon, and the simple black letters, "Tiffany."
Dumbfounded, I just stood there, staring at the box. Finally I looked up at J-Dogg with huge eyes. He just laughed and told me to open the box. I lifted the small blue square out of the pop tart box and untied the ribbon. From the blue box, I removed a butter-soft leather pouch. Inside the pouch was a beautiful, delicate, absolutely perfect, silver necklace.
Since that night, almost every one of my friends has asked me the same question you're probably thinking right now, "WHAT DOES THIS MEAN???????"
Well, it means that we still care about each other, and it means that I've learned a TON about myself since we broke up. I'm able to accept J-Dogg - and our connection - for exactly what it is, without silently torturing myself about "where it's going" and if it's "right." I don't need it to be anything other than what it is at this very moment.
Before I started dating J-Dogg, I hadn't been in a relationship in years. The unhealthy combination of my immediate connection to J-Dogg, my lonely lifestyle and a general lack of direction in my life, led me to put way too much pressure on "us."
Now my perspective is entirely different - I'm not looking to find a partner so I can feel like I'm moving forward with my life. I need to focus on figuring out what I want, and not what everyone else wants me to be. Right now, that means moving back to New York for awhile. It also means enjoying every moment I have with J-Dogg.
Years ago, my best friend, Beantown, introduced me to a great quote, and it seems very appropriate today: "Dance like no one is watching and love like it's never going to hurt."
I've told you about my attempts to stir the pot. I've told you about my recent dates with Surfer Dude. I've told you about my fleeting attempt to become a gold medal flirt-er (this was a disaster, btw. Turns out, it's not the flirting I need to practice, it's communicating that my interest ends there). However, I haven't told you how much time I've been spending with J-Dogg.
At first it was sex. Then it was sex and the fact that I sincerely enjoy his company. Then it was frequent movie nights at his apartment, where he'd bundle me up on the couch with a blanket and all my favorites - red wine and brown sugar pop tarts or chips (all of which he keeps on hand, specifically for my visits). Then it was an occasional dinner or movie date. Then it was a weekend trip to the mountains, kissing in the hot tub under a light snow fall. Then it was a brief escapade in New York City.
A few days before Christmas, while in a Pottery Barn-type store looking for a Christmas present for my sister, I saw some pillows and towels that were perfect for the I'm-not-in-a-frat-anymore decor that J-Dogg has been implementing in his apartment. I bought them.
Then, when I went over for movie night, I had him close his eyes while I bustled around his apartment, replacing his thread-bear Chicago Bulls towel from 1987 with a fluffy new bath towel, and arranging the chenille throw blanket and pillows on his bed. When I was done, I dragged him around his apartment, explaining my purchases and babbling about how I hope it's not weird that I bought him Christmas presents when I'm not technically his girlfriend.
He smiled, thanked me, kissed me and asked if I wanted a glass of wine and a pop tart. I did.
We went into the kitchen, and while J-Dogg opened a bottle of wine and cleaned a glass for me, he pushed the pop tart box toward me and asked me to grab a package for him to put in the toaster. I opened the box, but there weren't any pop tarts inside. Instead, there was just a very distinctive "little blue box" with a white ribbon, and the simple black letters, "Tiffany."
Dumbfounded, I just stood there, staring at the box. Finally I looked up at J-Dogg with huge eyes. He just laughed and told me to open the box. I lifted the small blue square out of the pop tart box and untied the ribbon. From the blue box, I removed a butter-soft leather pouch. Inside the pouch was a beautiful, delicate, absolutely perfect, silver necklace.
Since that night, almost every one of my friends has asked me the same question you're probably thinking right now, "WHAT DOES THIS MEAN???????"
Well, it means that we still care about each other, and it means that I've learned a TON about myself since we broke up. I'm able to accept J-Dogg - and our connection - for exactly what it is, without silently torturing myself about "where it's going" and if it's "right." I don't need it to be anything other than what it is at this very moment.
Before I started dating J-Dogg, I hadn't been in a relationship in years. The unhealthy combination of my immediate connection to J-Dogg, my lonely lifestyle and a general lack of direction in my life, led me to put way too much pressure on "us."
Now my perspective is entirely different - I'm not looking to find a partner so I can feel like I'm moving forward with my life. I need to focus on figuring out what I want, and not what everyone else wants me to be. Right now, that means moving back to New York for awhile. It also means enjoying every moment I have with J-Dogg.
Years ago, my best friend, Beantown, introduced me to a great quote, and it seems very appropriate today: "Dance like no one is watching and love like it's never going to hurt."
Monday, December 29, 2008
The last stop on the campaign trail
A few weeks ago I watched a movie about several girls in college. It was one of those glorious fictional stories where the characters are just starting their lives, and the potential and possibilities before them are almost tangible. In the end, everyone figures out what they want and begins to follow their dreams toward becoming an actress, artist or anthropologist.
Instead of getting the high-on-life feeling I'm certain the director intended, I started to cry. I cried to the point of convulsions. I cried until I had a snot-covered t-shirt and a painful case of the hiccups.
I wasn't crying because I regret my own college experience. College was a crazy montage of all the emotions associated with the novelty of freedom and the fear of not quite knowing who you're going to become.
I cried because I suddenly understood my recent loneliness.
In this moment, I have a successful business, a great apartment steps from the beach, a loving family and meaningful friendships. Without a doubt, I'm a lucky girl. It seemed like I had everything I could possibly want, and I mistakenly thought the only thing missing was a life partner.
As someone who has lived life as if progressing along a never-ending campaign trail, I've worked hard to adapt according to my audience - I've perfected renditions of the devoted friend, academic, peace-maker, patient roommate, cheerleader, obedient daughter, court jester, homecoming queen, ambitious business woman and girl next door.
A whirlwind of nervous energy and campaign promises, I fell into my major, and subsequent career, through a series of decisions made to compensate for personal shortcomings and make my parents happy. I've learned how to present myself to achieve, accomplish and win votes, but I've never learned how to accept myself or trust my own intuition.
I value the flexibility and autonomy of my job, but I've never had any sincere interest in my work. I've created lifelong friendships with people I respect and admire, but I don't currently have anyone in the same place in their life to connect with on a daily basis. I love being close to the beach, my family and childhood friends, but I feel suffocated by the inaccessibility of this city.
The cruel combination of traffic, parking and having to drive after a few drinks, keeps me from going to new bars, taking salsa classes, seeing shows, or going to concerts and museum exhibits as often as I would like. Instead, I remain within the convenient bubble of my beach town. I go to the same bars and hang out with the same group of people; all very nice, but lacking my interest in life and learning.
Some people know who they are and what they want to do with their lives by pre-school graduation. But most of us aren't that lucky - we have to solve the mystery ScoobyDoo style through a series of experiences, mistakes and disappointments. The past year has been a crazy roller coaster ride with some tummy-turning drops and loops. Somehow, through all the jolts and jerks, my death grip on the safety consult has loosened, my eyes are open and I'm ready to trust that I'll get where I need to go.
This may seem like standard, post-chick flick introspection, but it's more. Assuming I can figure out the logistics without going broke or ending up homeless, I'm going to move back to New York for awhile. Hopefully I'll be able to live alone, take some continuing education classes and dance lessons, and meet some new people. This is not an attempt to run away from everything and everyone I've known over the past 28 years. Instead, I feel like I'm running toward something. I'm not doing this to win votes, meet a life partner, or make my parents happy. I'm doing this for the woman behind the 100-watt campaign smile.
Instead of getting the high-on-life feeling I'm certain the director intended, I started to cry. I cried to the point of convulsions. I cried until I had a snot-covered t-shirt and a painful case of the hiccups.
I wasn't crying because I regret my own college experience. College was a crazy montage of all the emotions associated with the novelty of freedom and the fear of not quite knowing who you're going to become.
I cried because I suddenly understood my recent loneliness.
In this moment, I have a successful business, a great apartment steps from the beach, a loving family and meaningful friendships. Without a doubt, I'm a lucky girl. It seemed like I had everything I could possibly want, and I mistakenly thought the only thing missing was a life partner.
As someone who has lived life as if progressing along a never-ending campaign trail, I've worked hard to adapt according to my audience - I've perfected renditions of the devoted friend, academic, peace-maker, patient roommate, cheerleader, obedient daughter, court jester, homecoming queen, ambitious business woman and girl next door.
A whirlwind of nervous energy and campaign promises, I fell into my major, and subsequent career, through a series of decisions made to compensate for personal shortcomings and make my parents happy. I've learned how to present myself to achieve, accomplish and win votes, but I've never learned how to accept myself or trust my own intuition.
I value the flexibility and autonomy of my job, but I've never had any sincere interest in my work. I've created lifelong friendships with people I respect and admire, but I don't currently have anyone in the same place in their life to connect with on a daily basis. I love being close to the beach, my family and childhood friends, but I feel suffocated by the inaccessibility of this city.
The cruel combination of traffic, parking and having to drive after a few drinks, keeps me from going to new bars, taking salsa classes, seeing shows, or going to concerts and museum exhibits as often as I would like. Instead, I remain within the convenient bubble of my beach town. I go to the same bars and hang out with the same group of people; all very nice, but lacking my interest in life and learning.
Some people know who they are and what they want to do with their lives by pre-school graduation. But most of us aren't that lucky - we have to solve the mystery ScoobyDoo style through a series of experiences, mistakes and disappointments. The past year has been a crazy roller coaster ride with some tummy-turning drops and loops. Somehow, through all the jolts and jerks, my death grip on the safety consult has loosened, my eyes are open and I'm ready to trust that I'll get where I need to go.
This may seem like standard, post-chick flick introspection, but it's more. Assuming I can figure out the logistics without going broke or ending up homeless, I'm going to move back to New York for awhile. Hopefully I'll be able to live alone, take some continuing education classes and dance lessons, and meet some new people. This is not an attempt to run away from everything and everyone I've known over the past 28 years. Instead, I feel like I'm running toward something. I'm not doing this to win votes, meet a life partner, or make my parents happy. I'm doing this for the woman behind the 100-watt campaign smile.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Flirting
I had to go to UPS yesterday. While I waited in line to spend $60 to send a ridiculously small package over seas for work, I noticed that the manager - who was younger than me by the better part of a decade - was adorable.
When I got up to the front of the line, the adorable manager gave me a huge smile and said, "now that you've finally made it to the front of the line, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure it was worth your wait."
I laughed.
As BossMan (the name displayed on his name tag) helped me through the laborious process of sending my [very] small package to the U.K., he winked, smiled and made funny comments. His good-natured manner made me feel completely comfortable and I found myself engaged in witty banter.
As I walked out of UPS, I noticed two things:
1. Everyone in line had been watching our little encounter.
2. They were all smiling...and so was I.
It wasn't until I was back in front of my computer, that I realized what had happened: the UPS guy had been flirting with me. He wasn't hitting on me and I wasn't wondering if he was going to ask for my phone number. In fact, there weren't any expectations at all. It was the kind of innocent flirting that I just don't experience very often - the kind that is done by two people who are simply enjoying each other's company in that moment.
The key to BossMan's flirting was the ease of his delivery - he wasn't intrusive, demanding or desperate. A crucial distinction since, as we all know, a failed attempt at flirting can make the recipient feel so uncomfortable, they might as well be watching Michael Scott deliver a seminar on sexual harassment.
The point? I've always been able to step up and respond when offered some quality flirting, but after my delightful experience at UPS, I've decided it's high time I learned how to be the instigator. So, no grocery bagger, valet attendant or dry cleaning cashier is safe - I'm on the prowl for some flirting practice.
When I got up to the front of the line, the adorable manager gave me a huge smile and said, "now that you've finally made it to the front of the line, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure it was worth your wait."
I laughed.
As BossMan (the name displayed on his name tag) helped me through the laborious process of sending my [very] small package to the U.K., he winked, smiled and made funny comments. His good-natured manner made me feel completely comfortable and I found myself engaged in witty banter.
As I walked out of UPS, I noticed two things:
1. Everyone in line had been watching our little encounter.
2. They were all smiling...and so was I.
It wasn't until I was back in front of my computer, that I realized what had happened: the UPS guy had been flirting with me. He wasn't hitting on me and I wasn't wondering if he was going to ask for my phone number. In fact, there weren't any expectations at all. It was the kind of innocent flirting that I just don't experience very often - the kind that is done by two people who are simply enjoying each other's company in that moment.
The key to BossMan's flirting was the ease of his delivery - he wasn't intrusive, demanding or desperate. A crucial distinction since, as we all know, a failed attempt at flirting can make the recipient feel so uncomfortable, they might as well be watching Michael Scott deliver a seminar on sexual harassment.
The point? I've always been able to step up and respond when offered some quality flirting, but after my delightful experience at UPS, I've decided it's high time I learned how to be the instigator. So, no grocery bagger, valet attendant or dry cleaning cashier is safe - I'm on the prowl for some flirting practice.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Heating up leftovers
I went on a date or two with Surfer Dude about six months ago, but stopped seeing him when I started getting more serious with MML. A couple weeks ago, I ran into him while I was out with Girl Roommate. Surfer Dude is more than a foot taller than me with striking blue eyes and brown hair. He is both very laid-back and incredibly funny, and we had a great 'ol time hanging out. Over the next couple of weeks we talked on the phone a couple of times, and I laughed out loud at his stories about going hiking in Hawaii without shoes and breaking his toe (it was funny, although writing it now, it doesn't sound very funny), and the annual trip he takes with his buddies to various college towns on Halloween weekend. Even though our conversations were good, scheduling issues kept us from seeing each other again. Then on Monday, he called to see if I was free to go to the Coldplay concert on Tuesday night.
I was.
I've always taken on more than my share of responsibility for making conversation - on dates, in social business situations and otherwise. If the other person isn't holding up their end of the conversation, I automatically feel the need to compensate by asking a lot of questions and avoiding awkward silences by talking about anything and everything that comes to mind. If I'm honest with myself, this is probably my attempt to make other people feel comfortable, and therefore win their vote in my on-going campaign to be liked and accepted.
Well, it's exhausting and I'm done - with the campaign, and with forcing conversation on dates.
While Surfer Dude is funny and interesting, he isn't a "talker." So, on our way to the concert, I started making conversation out of habit. When I realized what I was doing, I tapered off and spoke only when I had something to say. I wasn't necessarily more quiet than I would be ordinarily, but I also didn't work overtime to fill the silences. After my initial discomfort passed, I was pleasantly surprised to find that when I shut up, Surfer Dude stepped it up a notch, asking questions and introducing me to some of his favorite artists. Phew.
The night only got better from there.
We people watched, ate soft pretzels that were simultaneously soggy and stale, sang along with Chris Martin at the top of our lungs, and ran through the pouring rain holding hands on the way back to his car. When we finally made it back to the car, dripping wet, he bundled me in his huge sweatshirt and kissed me.
Cheers to finally shutting up and discovering some absolutely delicious leftovers.
I was.
I've always taken on more than my share of responsibility for making conversation - on dates, in social business situations and otherwise. If the other person isn't holding up their end of the conversation, I automatically feel the need to compensate by asking a lot of questions and avoiding awkward silences by talking about anything and everything that comes to mind. If I'm honest with myself, this is probably my attempt to make other people feel comfortable, and therefore win their vote in my on-going campaign to be liked and accepted.
Well, it's exhausting and I'm done - with the campaign, and with forcing conversation on dates.
While Surfer Dude is funny and interesting, he isn't a "talker." So, on our way to the concert, I started making conversation out of habit. When I realized what I was doing, I tapered off and spoke only when I had something to say. I wasn't necessarily more quiet than I would be ordinarily, but I also didn't work overtime to fill the silences. After my initial discomfort passed, I was pleasantly surprised to find that when I shut up, Surfer Dude stepped it up a notch, asking questions and introducing me to some of his favorite artists. Phew.
The night only got better from there.
We people watched, ate soft pretzels that were simultaneously soggy and stale, sang along with Chris Martin at the top of our lungs, and ran through the pouring rain holding hands on the way back to his car. When we finally made it back to the car, dripping wet, he bundled me in his huge sweatshirt and kissed me.
Cheers to finally shutting up and discovering some absolutely delicious leftovers.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Another ride on the Man-Wagon
Taking a short break from my rants about self-acceptance, I’m going back to another one of my favorite topics: gender. It was apparent from the response to my post, “Letting a man be a man” that I didn’t effectively articulate my point of view. So, I’m jumping back on my Man-Wagon to give it another go.
A quick Google search for “traditional male values,” revealed that authority, infallibility, virility and strength are common masculine attributes. Nothing shocking.
I’m not even going to begin the conversation about whether attributes can be shared by both sexes (I think they can) while preserving the gender differences that keep us from blending us into some weird uni-sex life form that reproduces through science and technology, instead of through “traditional” methods.
However, I will comment on the distinct discrepancy between the traditional definition of masculinity and the representations of masculinity we see today. The example that comes to mind immediately is one of my favorite TV Shows - Two and a Half Men. Charlie Sheen’s character is supposed to represent the Holy Grail of male life - an attractive, successful, perpetual bachelor who answers to no one and is free to indulge in beer, sports, cigars and women (usually significantly younger women) to his testosterone’s desire. While this is supposed to be a comical extreme of masculinity and male utopia, the relationship between manliness and innate laziness and uselessness, is growing in popularity. Married with Children and The Simpsons are other examples of the lazy, useless, bumbling idiot-man that come to mind.
I’ll admit that there are some shows with characters that portray positive masculinity. For instance, Brooke Shield’s character on Lipstick Jungle is married to a man who is sexy and masculine, yet supportive and communicative - hell, he stayed home and played Mr. Mom while she went out and rocked the business world. However, that show has been cancelled. Other masculine characters include Mel Gibson (not the person, merely his character) in The Patriot. Father, protector, provider and leader, the character respects and appreciates women, while embracing the role of homemaker and maintaining the essence of manliness, capability and purpose.
Sure, we're talking about fiction, and neither Mel Gibson nor Charlie Sheen are people I’d be psyched to hang out with in real life, but if I had to choose between the two characters, it’s a no-brainer - I’m going with the man on the horse, carrying the bayonet, who is willing to make room for me in his life.
It seems to me that while women are breaking out of stereotypical roles as mother, sex-pot and ingénue, and into roles as action hero, world leader, crime fighter and business tycoon, men are more frequently being relegated to roles as couch-potato-frat-boy, weak weenie-man, geekizoid and bumbling Neanderthal.
What’s most interesting to me is how these powerful female and negative male stereotypes might be influencing character development in the three-dimensional world. Some of us independent, successful types like to whine about how men are passing us up for the cleavage-barring, eyelash-batting poodle-types because they are “intimidated.” We snarl at men who want to provide for and protect us (even if they know we don’t need them to do either), without considering that these men might merely be seeking purpose in life beyond ESPN.
Have we cast feminism and traditional masculinity in the roles of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort - enemies, incapable of co-existence? Could it be that one of the negative side effects of the feminist movement (please unclench, a simple criticism doesn’t mean I believe a woman’s place is as the submissive and nurturing compliment to her man’s leadership and authority) that allowed women to be valued for abilities beyond motherhood and homemaking, is also partially responsible for the male-bashing phenomenon and the fall of traditional masculinity?
Call me pro-masculinity (AKA anti-feminist), but perhaps the appeal of poodles is less about their eye-shadow application skills and more about their ability to let men feel that they are needed, that they are appreciated…that they have a general purpose. If we staunchly independent feminist types are guilty of aligning masculinity with the lazy, couch-dwelling, womanizing, beer-guzzling, porn-loving, Charlie Sheen-esque Neanderthal, should we be surprised that men aren’t rushing to hold open the door for us? Heck, for all they know, we might yell at them for it.
There are no stones being cast from behind this computer screen. I’m guilty of lumping men into masculine stereotypes. I find myself making excuses for my Guy Roommate, who is unconcerned with the fact that making dinner and leaving all the ingredients - usually meat, sour cream and cheese - out in the pan or on the counter for hours and hours on end, will inevitably attract bugs and create unappetizing odors. I find myself defending his distaste for picking up after himself to my Girl Roommate (for whom male-bashing, and alcohol, eases insecurities about her own appeal to the opposite sex) by stating that “he’s just a dude.” What the hell does that mean? Yes, a large percentage of men might be less genetically inclined to care if they are surrounded by clutter than most women, but I’m pretty convinced it’s also a function of the lazy man-slug perception that we’ve bought into. We let guys off the hook for certain behaviors that we consider a function of their masculinity. While deciding that vacuuming is the epitome of manliness might not result in men jumping off the couch and revving up the Hoover, I can see why, if their gender lets them off the hook for some less-than-fun chores, they’d go with it. Expecting nothing - or the worst - from men is certainly not going to motivate them to prove us wrong.
A quick Google search for “traditional male values,” revealed that authority, infallibility, virility and strength are common masculine attributes. Nothing shocking.
I’m not even going to begin the conversation about whether attributes can be shared by both sexes (I think they can) while preserving the gender differences that keep us from blending us into some weird uni-sex life form that reproduces through science and technology, instead of through “traditional” methods.
However, I will comment on the distinct discrepancy between the traditional definition of masculinity and the representations of masculinity we see today. The example that comes to mind immediately is one of my favorite TV Shows - Two and a Half Men. Charlie Sheen’s character is supposed to represent the Holy Grail of male life - an attractive, successful, perpetual bachelor who answers to no one and is free to indulge in beer, sports, cigars and women (usually significantly younger women) to his testosterone’s desire. While this is supposed to be a comical extreme of masculinity and male utopia, the relationship between manliness and innate laziness and uselessness, is growing in popularity. Married with Children and The Simpsons are other examples of the lazy, useless, bumbling idiot-man that come to mind.
I’ll admit that there are some shows with characters that portray positive masculinity. For instance, Brooke Shield’s character on Lipstick Jungle is married to a man who is sexy and masculine, yet supportive and communicative - hell, he stayed home and played Mr. Mom while she went out and rocked the business world. However, that show has been cancelled. Other masculine characters include Mel Gibson (not the person, merely his character) in The Patriot. Father, protector, provider and leader, the character respects and appreciates women, while embracing the role of homemaker and maintaining the essence of manliness, capability and purpose.
Sure, we're talking about fiction, and neither Mel Gibson nor Charlie Sheen are people I’d be psyched to hang out with in real life, but if I had to choose between the two characters, it’s a no-brainer - I’m going with the man on the horse, carrying the bayonet, who is willing to make room for me in his life.
It seems to me that while women are breaking out of stereotypical roles as mother, sex-pot and ingénue, and into roles as action hero, world leader, crime fighter and business tycoon, men are more frequently being relegated to roles as couch-potato-frat-boy, weak weenie-man, geekizoid and bumbling Neanderthal.
What’s most interesting to me is how these powerful female and negative male stereotypes might be influencing character development in the three-dimensional world. Some of us independent, successful types like to whine about how men are passing us up for the cleavage-barring, eyelash-batting poodle-types because they are “intimidated.” We snarl at men who want to provide for and protect us (even if they know we don’t need them to do either), without considering that these men might merely be seeking purpose in life beyond ESPN.
Have we cast feminism and traditional masculinity in the roles of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort - enemies, incapable of co-existence? Could it be that one of the negative side effects of the feminist movement (please unclench, a simple criticism doesn’t mean I believe a woman’s place is as the submissive and nurturing compliment to her man’s leadership and authority) that allowed women to be valued for abilities beyond motherhood and homemaking, is also partially responsible for the male-bashing phenomenon and the fall of traditional masculinity?
Call me pro-masculinity (AKA anti-feminist), but perhaps the appeal of poodles is less about their eye-shadow application skills and more about their ability to let men feel that they are needed, that they are appreciated…that they have a general purpose. If we staunchly independent feminist types are guilty of aligning masculinity with the lazy, couch-dwelling, womanizing, beer-guzzling, porn-loving, Charlie Sheen-esque Neanderthal, should we be surprised that men aren’t rushing to hold open the door for us? Heck, for all they know, we might yell at them for it.
There are no stones being cast from behind this computer screen. I’m guilty of lumping men into masculine stereotypes. I find myself making excuses for my Guy Roommate, who is unconcerned with the fact that making dinner and leaving all the ingredients - usually meat, sour cream and cheese - out in the pan or on the counter for hours and hours on end, will inevitably attract bugs and create unappetizing odors. I find myself defending his distaste for picking up after himself to my Girl Roommate (for whom male-bashing, and alcohol, eases insecurities about her own appeal to the opposite sex) by stating that “he’s just a dude.” What the hell does that mean? Yes, a large percentage of men might be less genetically inclined to care if they are surrounded by clutter than most women, but I’m pretty convinced it’s also a function of the lazy man-slug perception that we’ve bought into. We let guys off the hook for certain behaviors that we consider a function of their masculinity. While deciding that vacuuming is the epitome of manliness might not result in men jumping off the couch and revving up the Hoover, I can see why, if their gender lets them off the hook for some less-than-fun chores, they’d go with it. Expecting nothing - or the worst - from men is certainly not going to motivate them to prove us wrong.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
What went wrong?
Since cavemen and clubs, women have sought the attention of men. This innate desire is clearly tied to survival of the fittest and procreation - we must be more attractive than other women in order to be chosen for reproduction. Fair enough.
Since we've evolved past seeking a mate based solely on their physical ability to hunt for food or protect our offspring from wild animals, it's only natural that the definition of attractive should evolve as well.
But has it?
While we might work at developing qualities that make us good candidates for life partnership, most of us are also guilty of focusing on - with or without actually achieving - the extreme physical qualities that are considered attractive. Extremely thin. Extremely large boobs (even if they're fake, erasing the original basis for their appeal - reproductive ability). Extremely white teeth. Extremely young-looking skin. Extremely expensive clothes, jewelry and shoes.
While we might strive to become dynamic, rich with life experience and develop true confidence from the inside out, we also buy into the message - which is constantly being shoved in our faces - that in order to be the most attractive, we must be waifishly thin with big boobs and a perky butt, have a glow-in-the-dark smile and wear $300 jeans.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to pretend that my sunny disposition, compassion and intelligence make me feel any cuter when I'm standing in a bar full of Malibu Barbies, but I'm certain that we can all agree that one of the most attractive qualities a woman - or man - can have, is confidence. The extremes will certainly stop traffic, but they don't stand a chance of covering up insecurity that presents itself in the extremely unattractive neediness, jealousy and desperation.
The era of extremes doesn’t stop at injecting poison into our bodies to stop the unthinkably unattractive signs of age. Between the acceptance of random hook-ups and the abundance of mid-drifts, cleavage and micro-minis, being slutty has become standard, trendy even.
High school, college and twenty-something women are making out with each other in bars to win the timeless battle of “who can get the most attention.” It’s commonplace to share the epitome of intimacy with a complete stranger and not even greet them when you pass on the street. How have we managed to convince ourselves that running into a one-night stand at the gym, and not feeling like you know the person well enough to say hello, isn’t weird? Where being a slut used to be associated with shame, it’s now a symbol of feminism; proof that, like men, women can satisfy their carnal needs without emotional attachment. Sleeping with men for sport has become an aspirational quality, something that makes a woman independent and strong.
I'm certainly not the Yoda of life or love, but I have learned that confidence, independence and strength have very little to do with receiving attention from men or achieving certain physical standards. These lofty attributes are even more hard-won then a perfectly taut tummy - they come from self-acceptance.
Since we've evolved past seeking a mate based solely on their physical ability to hunt for food or protect our offspring from wild animals, it's only natural that the definition of attractive should evolve as well.
But has it?
While we might work at developing qualities that make us good candidates for life partnership, most of us are also guilty of focusing on - with or without actually achieving - the extreme physical qualities that are considered attractive. Extremely thin. Extremely large boobs (even if they're fake, erasing the original basis for their appeal - reproductive ability). Extremely white teeth. Extremely young-looking skin. Extremely expensive clothes, jewelry and shoes.
While we might strive to become dynamic, rich with life experience and develop true confidence from the inside out, we also buy into the message - which is constantly being shoved in our faces - that in order to be the most attractive, we must be waifishly thin with big boobs and a perky butt, have a glow-in-the-dark smile and wear $300 jeans.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to pretend that my sunny disposition, compassion and intelligence make me feel any cuter when I'm standing in a bar full of Malibu Barbies, but I'm certain that we can all agree that one of the most attractive qualities a woman - or man - can have, is confidence. The extremes will certainly stop traffic, but they don't stand a chance of covering up insecurity that presents itself in the extremely unattractive neediness, jealousy and desperation.
The era of extremes doesn’t stop at injecting poison into our bodies to stop the unthinkably unattractive signs of age. Between the acceptance of random hook-ups and the abundance of mid-drifts, cleavage and micro-minis, being slutty has become standard, trendy even.
High school, college and twenty-something women are making out with each other in bars to win the timeless battle of “who can get the most attention.” It’s commonplace to share the epitome of intimacy with a complete stranger and not even greet them when you pass on the street. How have we managed to convince ourselves that running into a one-night stand at the gym, and not feeling like you know the person well enough to say hello, isn’t weird? Where being a slut used to be associated with shame, it’s now a symbol of feminism; proof that, like men, women can satisfy their carnal needs without emotional attachment. Sleeping with men for sport has become an aspirational quality, something that makes a woman independent and strong.
I'm certainly not the Yoda of life or love, but I have learned that confidence, independence and strength have very little to do with receiving attention from men or achieving certain physical standards. These lofty attributes are even more hard-won then a perfectly taut tummy - they come from self-acceptance.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
When pot sitrring goes awry
Halloween night started out fabulously. My costume - Betty Boop circa 1940 - was a hit, our party was raging and two of my three 'pot stirring' invitees were in attendance.
One of my these special guests, Rico Suave, is a very good-looking, incredibly charming guy I'd met on a recent Thursday night date with my Girl Roommate. Initially, I'd been turned off by his slightly intrusive, over-the-top attention, but he eventually won me over with his light-hearted personality and tireless effort. Rico Suave called me a couple days after we met, but I never called him back.
Although I have some good reasons to be wary of super-charming, ultra good-looking guys (it has been my experience, that guys who are smooth talkers got that way by practicing...a lot), I tend to discount them altogether...which is a lot like discounting any guy who wears tapered jeans or drives an expensive sports car. So, in the midst of my pot stirring revelation, I'd decided to invite Rico Suave to our Halloween party. What better way to stir the pot then to throw in some unusual ingredients.
With the party in full swing, I was having a great 'ol time flirting, drinking and being a social butterfly. I didn't even realize I was drunk until I started making out with Rico Suave in the middle of the party...much to the dismay of my other special guest (oops). It was clear I needed to cut myself off - this was bad form for a reformed kissing slut. When Rico Suave's friends were ready to leave and head downtown, he hesitated, making it clear that he was hoping we could take our public display of affection somewhere a little more private. Inexplicably disenchanted, I told him to go with his friends.
Shortly after saying goodnight to my make-out buddy, I noticed that Girl Roommate and Guy Roommate were no where to be found. I briefly waded through the party for my roommates, realizing that I didn't recognize most of the remaining party guests, and that our house was quickly beginning to look like a frat house on homecoming weekend.
I decided to take brief refuge in my room to remove my itchy Betty Boop wig and enjoy some quiet time with a few Doritos. I was sitting on my bed, happily munching away, when four Poodles (for a definition of a Poodle, please refer to The Poodle Problem ), dressed as slutty cast members of Whinny-the-Poo (who knew Eeyore and Piglet could be slutty), came crashing through my closed door, landing in a drunken, giggling pile on my floor. I'd never seen these girls before in my life, so stepped over the Disney road kill, and fought through the crowd to catch some random, rather large guy, letting people into our house through the back door.
I was pissed.
I decided I needed to find my roommates, have them identify their friends and kick everyone else out. Apparently, in my drunken state, I hadn't noticed that my Girl Roommate had left the party and headed to the bars (Girl Roommate isn't a fan of house parties where the choices of men tend to be limited), and that Guy Roommate was off somewhere, "occupied" with his out-of-town crush, Cowgirl.
Now I was really pissed.
I identified one of Guy Roommate's friends, a frequent resident of our couch during football season, and demanded that he help me kick out the people we didn't know. Minutes later, there were only a handful of people remaining...and pretty soon, I was alone, lying on the couch in a cave of beer cans and red cups, drunkenly trying to bring DVRed episodes of The Office into focus by closing one eye.
With no desire to see my roommates or start cleaning up the mess, I called for back-up. My knight in shinning armor, on loan from the LAPD (yes, J-Dogg), came to pick me up after he got off work. I retreated to his apartment, eager for Halloween to be over.
Of course I didn't expect my first efforts to stir the pot to end with my ex-boyfriend. But sometimes, you just know what you need.
One of my these special guests, Rico Suave, is a very good-looking, incredibly charming guy I'd met on a recent Thursday night date with my Girl Roommate. Initially, I'd been turned off by his slightly intrusive, over-the-top attention, but he eventually won me over with his light-hearted personality and tireless effort. Rico Suave called me a couple days after we met, but I never called him back.
Although I have some good reasons to be wary of super-charming, ultra good-looking guys (it has been my experience, that guys who are smooth talkers got that way by practicing...a lot), I tend to discount them altogether...which is a lot like discounting any guy who wears tapered jeans or drives an expensive sports car. So, in the midst of my pot stirring revelation, I'd decided to invite Rico Suave to our Halloween party. What better way to stir the pot then to throw in some unusual ingredients.
With the party in full swing, I was having a great 'ol time flirting, drinking and being a social butterfly. I didn't even realize I was drunk until I started making out with Rico Suave in the middle of the party...much to the dismay of my other special guest (oops). It was clear I needed to cut myself off - this was bad form for a reformed kissing slut. When Rico Suave's friends were ready to leave and head downtown, he hesitated, making it clear that he was hoping we could take our public display of affection somewhere a little more private. Inexplicably disenchanted, I told him to go with his friends.
Shortly after saying goodnight to my make-out buddy, I noticed that Girl Roommate and Guy Roommate were no where to be found. I briefly waded through the party for my roommates, realizing that I didn't recognize most of the remaining party guests, and that our house was quickly beginning to look like a frat house on homecoming weekend.
I decided to take brief refuge in my room to remove my itchy Betty Boop wig and enjoy some quiet time with a few Doritos. I was sitting on my bed, happily munching away, when four Poodles (for a definition of a Poodle, please refer to The Poodle Problem ), dressed as slutty cast members of Whinny-the-Poo (who knew Eeyore and Piglet could be slutty), came crashing through my closed door, landing in a drunken, giggling pile on my floor. I'd never seen these girls before in my life, so stepped over the Disney road kill, and fought through the crowd to catch some random, rather large guy, letting people into our house through the back door.
I was pissed.
I decided I needed to find my roommates, have them identify their friends and kick everyone else out. Apparently, in my drunken state, I hadn't noticed that my Girl Roommate had left the party and headed to the bars (Girl Roommate isn't a fan of house parties where the choices of men tend to be limited), and that Guy Roommate was off somewhere, "occupied" with his out-of-town crush, Cowgirl.
Now I was really pissed.
I identified one of Guy Roommate's friends, a frequent resident of our couch during football season, and demanded that he help me kick out the people we didn't know. Minutes later, there were only a handful of people remaining...and pretty soon, I was alone, lying on the couch in a cave of beer cans and red cups, drunkenly trying to bring DVRed episodes of The Office into focus by closing one eye.
With no desire to see my roommates or start cleaning up the mess, I called for back-up. My knight in shinning armor, on loan from the LAPD (yes, J-Dogg), came to pick me up after he got off work. I retreated to his apartment, eager for Halloween to be over.
Of course I didn't expect my first efforts to stir the pot to end with my ex-boyfriend. But sometimes, you just know what you need.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Getting off my butt and stirring the pot...
Recently, I've gotten some questions about whether I'm actively dating anymore. The answer is yes, I still go on a lot of dates. In fact, my guy roommate never ceases to be amazed at the sheer number of dates on which I go (although he is easy to impress, as he hasn't gone on a date since I've known him). But here's the thing: for me, there is a monumental difference between "going" on a date and actually "being" on a date. "Going" on dates has become such a large part of my life, that I've actually added it to my resume. However, with the exception of a couple recent, random, dates with J-Dogg, it's been awhile since I've really been on a date.
Until last night.
I met Military Man last week and was actually rather excited to give him my phone number. Although he is very cute, when it came time to actually go on a date with Military Man, I didn't feel like it...I wanted to sit at home, watching DVRed episodes of Gossip Girl and drinking wine. However, this is generally the reaction I have to the EXHAUSTING prospect of a first date. I didn't feel like taking a shower, doing my hair, picking out an outfit and struggling through "first date conversation." I was about to cancel when my Girl Roommate gave me the speech: "Just suck it up and go. You never know, it could be great. Plus, Guy Roommate is parked on the couch watching sports...again. Even a first date beats battling him for the remote."
Can't argue with that.
So, I took a shower, did my hair, picked out an outfit and gave myself a pep talk. Turns out that Military Man is really quite interesting. He is from Iowa, went to college in Wisconsin, enrolled in Officer's school after graduation, joined the Navy, served in Iraq, came back and is now finishing up his service while simultaneously getting his MBA from a very prestigious program. He suffered through my endless questions - and relative cluelessness - about the military, and seemed interested in my work and my life as well. Overall, it was very pleasant.
Maybe I'll see Military Man again, maybe I won't. Regardless, last night was exactly what I needed to remember what it feels like to enjoy a date (with someone other than J-Dogg). It also made me realize that being bored with my dating life isn't an excuse to camp out on the couch and live vicariously through my favorite friends from The Upper East Side - it's a reason to stir the pot a little.
So, in an attempt to stir the pot, I invited several guys that are yet to be important enough to have nicknames, to the Halloween party I'm throwing with my roommates on Friday night. It could end up being a disaster, but at least I know my vintage Betty Boop costume will go to good use.
Until last night.
I met Military Man last week and was actually rather excited to give him my phone number. Although he is very cute, when it came time to actually go on a date with Military Man, I didn't feel like it...I wanted to sit at home, watching DVRed episodes of Gossip Girl and drinking wine. However, this is generally the reaction I have to the EXHAUSTING prospect of a first date. I didn't feel like taking a shower, doing my hair, picking out an outfit and struggling through "first date conversation." I was about to cancel when my Girl Roommate gave me the speech: "Just suck it up and go. You never know, it could be great. Plus, Guy Roommate is parked on the couch watching sports...again. Even a first date beats battling him for the remote."
Can't argue with that.
So, I took a shower, did my hair, picked out an outfit and gave myself a pep talk. Turns out that Military Man is really quite interesting. He is from Iowa, went to college in Wisconsin, enrolled in Officer's school after graduation, joined the Navy, served in Iraq, came back and is now finishing up his service while simultaneously getting his MBA from a very prestigious program. He suffered through my endless questions - and relative cluelessness - about the military, and seemed interested in my work and my life as well. Overall, it was very pleasant.
Maybe I'll see Military Man again, maybe I won't. Regardless, last night was exactly what I needed to remember what it feels like to enjoy a date (with someone other than J-Dogg). It also made me realize that being bored with my dating life isn't an excuse to camp out on the couch and live vicariously through my favorite friends from The Upper East Side - it's a reason to stir the pot a little.
So, in an attempt to stir the pot, I invited several guys that are yet to be important enough to have nicknames, to the Halloween party I'm throwing with my roommates on Friday night. It could end up being a disaster, but at least I know my vintage Betty Boop costume will go to good use.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The return of FR
Didn't expect to see that name again, huh? In case you need a refresher, Filthy Rich (FR) is a bi-coastal hotel mongrel with whom I once had an amazing conversation. Unfortunately, FR is probably about 30 years my senior...think wrinkles and sagging body parts.
Anyway, about a week ago, I ran into FR at a local dive bar. With a few drinks under my belt, I was very excited to see my old friend (no pun intended), even though I'd ultimately decided to blow him off after our previous meeting, mostly due to my aversion to liver spots and my acknowledgement of his intentions (I’m not cut out for the Anna Nicole Smith role). Within seconds, we were in the midst of yet another fantastic conversation, and what seemed like only moments later, the bar had closed and the bouncer was kicking us out.
FR: Let's go somewhere else and have another drink
TAF: I think all the bars are closed.
FR: Let's go to Bar X.
TAF: Pretty sure it's closed.
FR: Well, I'm pretty sure it'll be open, let's check it out.
Turns out Bar X was closed, but that they were miraculously willing to stay open just for us. I'm not sure if FR owns Bar X or if he just paid them to stay open, but we enjoyed another couple of drinks while the staff waited. Patiently. After pre-paying for my cab (which I didn't even notice) and saying goodnight, FR said that he wanted to see me again...the following night for dinner, if possible. I told him I had plans (which I did), thanked him for the drink and smiled coyly as my urban carriage pulled away.
FR texted me later that night to make sure I'd gotten home - no response (I was too busy passing out).
FR called me the next day to tell me that he rarely enjoyed an evening as much as he'd enjoyed our evening together, and to ask if my plans could be broken - no response.
FR called the following day to see if I would be able to have dinner before he went back to NYC - no response.
FR called again the next day to ask what he'd done wrong, to tell me that I was one of the most charming and interesting woman he'd ever met, and to beg me to please consider sharing one meal with him.
I knew I'd run into FR again at some point, and I certainly didn't want him to think he'd done anything wrong. So, liver spots and all, I decided to accept the dinner invitation with a resolution to make it very clear - in a breezy, classy way, of course - that things weren't going to progress past friendship. I finally called him back and agreed to have dinner several days later.
FR never contacted me to confirm the details for our dinner date. In fact, I didn't hear from him until late in the evening on the day we were supposed to meet. He'd suddenly had to fly to San Francisco for a meeting and hadn't been able to call. Luckily, a couple months ago I made a hard and fast decision not to wait around for guys - geriatrics included - who don't call. By the time FR contacted me to explain, and say that he'd just flown back down to LA and was hoping we might still be able to meet up, I'd made other plans. We rescheduled, but several days later I found myself stuck in almost the exact same scenario. There were apologies, compliments and assurances that this was uncharacteristic behavior.
I enjoy spending time with FR, but I have no intention of having any sort of relationship with him. Somehow this knowledge protects me against being too flexible (sure, life happens, and flexibility is essential, but there is a fine line between being flexible and not putting enough value on your own time and life), disappointed, or worrying what he'll think about me if do this or say that. It never occurred to me to change any of my set plans to accommodate his schedule. I wasn’t even tempted to down-shift our plans and meet him for late-night drinks in order to satisfy his desire to see me immediately.
After recent reflection about the behavioral differences between being in a Fan Club and having one, my situation with FR served as a case study. For me, the freedom of having no interest in someone comes from the previously discussed ability to be completely comfortable with myself and what I have to offer, and an absence of any premature fear that if I don't present myself or do things in a particular way, I might miss out on something that could be great...something that could be forever. After realizing this, I've decided it's not much better than expecting to be whisked away by a handsome prince and live happily ever after. With someone I'm not interested in, I take things as they come, without thinking about the future or putting unrealistic expectations on myself or the "relationship." Obviously it's easier to value yourself and your time when you don't have any real interest in someone, but I'm hoping practice makes perfect.
Anyway, about a week ago, I ran into FR at a local dive bar. With a few drinks under my belt, I was very excited to see my old friend (no pun intended), even though I'd ultimately decided to blow him off after our previous meeting, mostly due to my aversion to liver spots and my acknowledgement of his intentions (I’m not cut out for the Anna Nicole Smith role). Within seconds, we were in the midst of yet another fantastic conversation, and what seemed like only moments later, the bar had closed and the bouncer was kicking us out.
FR: Let's go somewhere else and have another drink
TAF: I think all the bars are closed.
FR: Let's go to Bar X.
TAF: Pretty sure it's closed.
FR: Well, I'm pretty sure it'll be open, let's check it out.
Turns out Bar X was closed, but that they were miraculously willing to stay open just for us. I'm not sure if FR owns Bar X or if he just paid them to stay open, but we enjoyed another couple of drinks while the staff waited. Patiently. After pre-paying for my cab (which I didn't even notice) and saying goodnight, FR said that he wanted to see me again...the following night for dinner, if possible. I told him I had plans (which I did), thanked him for the drink and smiled coyly as my urban carriage pulled away.
FR texted me later that night to make sure I'd gotten home - no response (I was too busy passing out).
FR called me the next day to tell me that he rarely enjoyed an evening as much as he'd enjoyed our evening together, and to ask if my plans could be broken - no response.
FR called the following day to see if I would be able to have dinner before he went back to NYC - no response.
FR called again the next day to ask what he'd done wrong, to tell me that I was one of the most charming and interesting woman he'd ever met, and to beg me to please consider sharing one meal with him.
I knew I'd run into FR again at some point, and I certainly didn't want him to think he'd done anything wrong. So, liver spots and all, I decided to accept the dinner invitation with a resolution to make it very clear - in a breezy, classy way, of course - that things weren't going to progress past friendship. I finally called him back and agreed to have dinner several days later.
FR never contacted me to confirm the details for our dinner date. In fact, I didn't hear from him until late in the evening on the day we were supposed to meet. He'd suddenly had to fly to San Francisco for a meeting and hadn't been able to call. Luckily, a couple months ago I made a hard and fast decision not to wait around for guys - geriatrics included - who don't call. By the time FR contacted me to explain, and say that he'd just flown back down to LA and was hoping we might still be able to meet up, I'd made other plans. We rescheduled, but several days later I found myself stuck in almost the exact same scenario. There were apologies, compliments and assurances that this was uncharacteristic behavior.
I enjoy spending time with FR, but I have no intention of having any sort of relationship with him. Somehow this knowledge protects me against being too flexible (sure, life happens, and flexibility is essential, but there is a fine line between being flexible and not putting enough value on your own time and life), disappointed, or worrying what he'll think about me if do this or say that. It never occurred to me to change any of my set plans to accommodate his schedule. I wasn’t even tempted to down-shift our plans and meet him for late-night drinks in order to satisfy his desire to see me immediately.
After recent reflection about the behavioral differences between being in a Fan Club and having one, my situation with FR served as a case study. For me, the freedom of having no interest in someone comes from the previously discussed ability to be completely comfortable with myself and what I have to offer, and an absence of any premature fear that if I don't present myself or do things in a particular way, I might miss out on something that could be great...something that could be forever. After realizing this, I've decided it's not much better than expecting to be whisked away by a handsome prince and live happily ever after. With someone I'm not interested in, I take things as they come, without thinking about the future or putting unrealistic expectations on myself or the "relationship." Obviously it's easier to value yourself and your time when you don't have any real interest in someone, but I'm hoping practice makes perfect.
Friday, October 10, 2008
The next step
Most of my best friends from growing up are married, and a lot of them are starting to have kids. I suppose the EVENTUAL goal of finding a life partner would be to start a life and a family together. But lately, I've realized that I'm in no hurry for the eventual part.
One of my very best friends was venting to me after bickering with her husband, and said something along the lines of, "honestly, I don't even care if he's started smoking again as long as he helps with the damn dishes." I couldn't help it, I laughed out loud.
Watching how hard my parents have worked to make their 40-year marriage a successful one, I have no delusions that people get married and "live happily ever after." There have been times when I've even wondered if it's worth all the effort.
Another girlfriend is juggling a three-month old baby, a husband with a career that forces him to spend a lot of time away from home and a job of her own. Talk about exhausting - the woman can barely eat a full meal or watch a TV show. Sure, I see how she looks at that little girl, but I still need a nap just thinking about all the responsibility.
From runny poop and incessant crying to the fear of hurting or irreversibly screwing up your child, early motherhood looks like it sucks. It looks like a lot to put up with just to have someone who, bound by the circle of life, will comfort and care for you when your body and mind inevitably begin to deteriorate.
Of course I can't fully understand what it's like to be married and have kids from where I stand, but I do understand how people get there. For the same reasons I feel ready to share my life with someone, I can imagine that once you are with someone who is worth the sacrifice, frustration and exhaustion of constant compromise and communication, the desire for the rest - regardless of if "the rest" is commitment or marriage and kids - will follow.
In relationships, we always seem to be focused on the next step, whether that be our first kiss, our first boyfriend, getting married or having our first kid. However, since I've yet to meet someone that I want to share a bathroom with for the rest of my life, I'm going to make it my personal mission to enjoy exactly where I am. Who knows, in a few years, I might miss this...
One of my very best friends was venting to me after bickering with her husband, and said something along the lines of, "honestly, I don't even care if he's started smoking again as long as he helps with the damn dishes." I couldn't help it, I laughed out loud.
Watching how hard my parents have worked to make their 40-year marriage a successful one, I have no delusions that people get married and "live happily ever after." There have been times when I've even wondered if it's worth all the effort.
Another girlfriend is juggling a three-month old baby, a husband with a career that forces him to spend a lot of time away from home and a job of her own. Talk about exhausting - the woman can barely eat a full meal or watch a TV show. Sure, I see how she looks at that little girl, but I still need a nap just thinking about all the responsibility.
From runny poop and incessant crying to the fear of hurting or irreversibly screwing up your child, early motherhood looks like it sucks. It looks like a lot to put up with just to have someone who, bound by the circle of life, will comfort and care for you when your body and mind inevitably begin to deteriorate.
Of course I can't fully understand what it's like to be married and have kids from where I stand, but I do understand how people get there. For the same reasons I feel ready to share my life with someone, I can imagine that once you are with someone who is worth the sacrifice, frustration and exhaustion of constant compromise and communication, the desire for the rest - regardless of if "the rest" is commitment or marriage and kids - will follow.
In relationships, we always seem to be focused on the next step, whether that be our first kiss, our first boyfriend, getting married or having our first kid. However, since I've yet to meet someone that I want to share a bathroom with for the rest of my life, I'm going to make it my personal mission to enjoy exactly where I am. Who knows, in a few years, I might miss this...
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
The Fan Club
The group my brother has always jokingly referred to as my "Fan Club," is a small collection of guys who inexplicably, but firmly, believe that I'm the best thing since Monday Night Football.
The Fan Club consists of men from different periods in my life - high school, college, New York and LA - that have professed their love and proven their devotion to me...repeatedly. Some of these men have gone to great lengths to keep in touch with me, or show how they feel about me. Flowers delivered across 6,000 miles, jewelry, mixed CDs, letters and even a marriage proposal or two. One of them sent me a copy of a painting by my favorite artist, two years after I mentioned - in passing - that the particular scene reminded me of "how love should feel."
I've briefly dated a couple members of the Fan Club and kissed all of them (shocker, I know). Members of the Fan Club vary in personality, interests, intellect and attractiveness. In fact, these men have only two things in common: a romantic interest in me, and my lack of romantic interest in them.
While this probably seems like a sudden outburst of uncharacteristic arrogance, I urge you to hang in there - my point is far from arrogant.
In fact, I have been the president of several Fan Clubs myself...
We've all had them - the guys we obsess over, the ones for whom we carry torches and wear rose colored glasses, avoiding the reality of their imperfections and their luke warm interest - or total disinterest - in us.
Dickwad
During my freshman year of high school, eager for a romance like the ones I saw on TV, I fell hard for Dickwad. Oblivious to the fact that he was a senior with a reputation for preying on younger girls, I hungrily accepted his attention and his compliments about my smile, my eyes, my body. He was sexy with piercing green eyes and dark hair. I waited with baited breath for Dickwad to look at me, to talk to me, to call me...and he did. Assuming the attention of an older man was my official transition into womanhood, I tried to act sophisticated and coy, but in reality, I followed him around campus, gazing at him with Bambi eyes and giggling like the fourteen year-old girl I was. When he asked me to the Homecoming dance, I was on cloud ninety four.
As you may have guessed, the night didn't go as planned. Straight out of a scene from a high school soap, Dickwad barely acknowledged me during the dance, and proceeded to earn his nickname after I refused to perform certain...tasks. Scared, hurt and confused, I found an older family friend and hitched a ride home.
Naive, but not without self-respect, I should have despised Dickwad, and I knew I should despise him. But I didn't. Instead, I wondered why he didn't like me, and assumed that somehow I wasn't enough. I continued to carry a torch for Dickwad until he graduated the following spring. I'd been addicted to the pain of unrequited love and infatuated with my perceived inadequacy.
CollegeGuy
I met CollegeGuy during my first year at Lehigh, and the attraction was immediate. He was preppy but manly, quiet but witty, athletic and incredibly intelligent. We lived in neighboring dorms and flirted for weeks until he finally worked up the guts to kiss me. For the next two months, we laughed, talked, flirted and made out between classes. I found myself in foreign territory - I felt like I was falling in love.
During my senior year of high school, my first real boyfriend had cheated on me with my best friend and then dumped me to be with her (for more details, please refer to The Ex Files). A year later, I was scared to death. I was scared I wouldn't measure up to other girls. I was scared that I'd lose the amazing feeling I'd found. Desperate to understand "where I stood," and how far I was from the inevitable rejection, I tried talking to CollegeGuy about the status of our relationship. The more I talked, the more I felt him slipping away. A month later, he told me he was still in love with his girlfriend from high school and that they were getting back together.
I was devastated. I wondered what SHE had that I didn't have, I wondered if I just hadn't said X, or if I’d done more of Y, maybe he would have picked me instead of HER. Eventually, I became good friends with CollegeGuy. I was his confidant, and I guided him through his romantic pursuit, while silently nursing the hope that he’d see the error of his ways and leave HER for me. It never happened. I tortured myself over CollegeGuy, while unintentionally collecting members of my own Fan Club...until Lacrosse came along.
Lacrosse
I met Lacrosse at a frat party - he was wearing light blue pajama bottoms with white clouds on them, and he was heading to bed because of an organic chemistry exam. I was hooked. Immediately. I walked right up to him and made some flirty, witty and smart-ass remark about his choice of PJs. I remember the way he looked at me appreciatively before he threw his head back and laughed his deep, sexy, contagious laugh. We dated for awhile and I couldn't get enough. Lacrosse liked me too, so I called him, found ways to be at the same parties as him, accidentally-on-purpose ran into him at the library and attended his Lacrosse games (and cheered loudly). About a month or two after we started dating, he mentioned that we was really nervous about an upcoming exam...I baked him chocolate chip cookies in the shape of the words "good luck."
I'm completely serious.
About a week later, Lacrosse told me that he needed to focus on his school work.
My roommates spent months scrapping pieces of my shattered heart off our gold linoleum kitchen floor, while I convinced myself that Lacrosse ended things because I wasn't interesting enough, or because I wasn't thin, cute or even smart enough.
Cringe. Gasp. Shudder. Looking back now, these stories evoke intense physical pain. I literally want to hurl myself onto the 405 Freeway when I think about my past displays of rampant insecurity. But we've all been there at some point.
Eventually, I realized that CollegeGuy and Lacrosse felt what I feel about the members of my Fan Club. They liked me, just not enough. Aside from the fact that insecurity is the ultimate turn-off, their lack of interest had very little to do with how interesting, cute or thin I was (or wasn't) - sometimes you're the one who pines, and sometimes you're the one who is pinned after.
Sometimes you just end up with the short end of the Emotional Wishbone.
But in my opinion, there is another point to all this. From high school through my early twenties - when I didn’t know exactly who I was, much less know how to act like myself - “being myself” with someone I was crushing on, meant being anxious to tell the guy how much I had to offer (often via the oh-so-attractive first date resume regurgitation). It meant never giving him a chance to discover what I was all about or to prove that he was worth all the hype I’d created. It meant dropping everything to spend time with him. It meant waiting around for phone calls. It meant being available at a moment’s notice. It meant focusing on every small detail, just to gain clues about how he felt.
In contrast, with members of my Fan Club, I was never worried about presenting myself in a certain way - I was confident, caring, ambitious, sarcastic, curious, and even a little demanding. Authentic me.
Even though I’ve come a long way since the days of cookie art, I still struggle to remain calm when I meet someone who makes my teeth sweat and has the potential to throw my entire universe out of whack. In fact, I’ve actually had to train myself to let the other person EARN a place in my life…to maintain my routine instead of offering infinite flexibility, to remain open to other dating opportunities for as long as appropriate, and to not throw all my emotional eggs in one basket every time someone makes my tummy do a little flip-flop.
We all have baggage, we all have insecurity and we all fear rejection. But until we are genuinely comfortable with what we have to offer, and can accept the fact that some people just aren't going to like us as much as we like them, those crush-worthy dreamboats are always going to have the ability to shatter our world...or at least catapult us into a couple weeks of general self loathing.
I wish I could end this post by offering some brilliant advice for achieving this complete self-acceptance, but unfortunately all I've got to offer is the generic, but oddly appropriate "fake it til you make it." Other than that, I will say that it helps me to remember how far I've come since the Lacrosse games and Bambi eyes.
The Fan Club consists of men from different periods in my life - high school, college, New York and LA - that have professed their love and proven their devotion to me...repeatedly. Some of these men have gone to great lengths to keep in touch with me, or show how they feel about me. Flowers delivered across 6,000 miles, jewelry, mixed CDs, letters and even a marriage proposal or two. One of them sent me a copy of a painting by my favorite artist, two years after I mentioned - in passing - that the particular scene reminded me of "how love should feel."
I've briefly dated a couple members of the Fan Club and kissed all of them (shocker, I know). Members of the Fan Club vary in personality, interests, intellect and attractiveness. In fact, these men have only two things in common: a romantic interest in me, and my lack of romantic interest in them.
While this probably seems like a sudden outburst of uncharacteristic arrogance, I urge you to hang in there - my point is far from arrogant.
In fact, I have been the president of several Fan Clubs myself...
We've all had them - the guys we obsess over, the ones for whom we carry torches and wear rose colored glasses, avoiding the reality of their imperfections and their luke warm interest - or total disinterest - in us.
Dickwad
During my freshman year of high school, eager for a romance like the ones I saw on TV, I fell hard for Dickwad. Oblivious to the fact that he was a senior with a reputation for preying on younger girls, I hungrily accepted his attention and his compliments about my smile, my eyes, my body. He was sexy with piercing green eyes and dark hair. I waited with baited breath for Dickwad to look at me, to talk to me, to call me...and he did. Assuming the attention of an older man was my official transition into womanhood, I tried to act sophisticated and coy, but in reality, I followed him around campus, gazing at him with Bambi eyes and giggling like the fourteen year-old girl I was. When he asked me to the Homecoming dance, I was on cloud ninety four.
As you may have guessed, the night didn't go as planned. Straight out of a scene from a high school soap, Dickwad barely acknowledged me during the dance, and proceeded to earn his nickname after I refused to perform certain...tasks. Scared, hurt and confused, I found an older family friend and hitched a ride home.
Naive, but not without self-respect, I should have despised Dickwad, and I knew I should despise him. But I didn't. Instead, I wondered why he didn't like me, and assumed that somehow I wasn't enough. I continued to carry a torch for Dickwad until he graduated the following spring. I'd been addicted to the pain of unrequited love and infatuated with my perceived inadequacy.
CollegeGuy
I met CollegeGuy during my first year at Lehigh, and the attraction was immediate. He was preppy but manly, quiet but witty, athletic and incredibly intelligent. We lived in neighboring dorms and flirted for weeks until he finally worked up the guts to kiss me. For the next two months, we laughed, talked, flirted and made out between classes. I found myself in foreign territory - I felt like I was falling in love.
During my senior year of high school, my first real boyfriend had cheated on me with my best friend and then dumped me to be with her (for more details, please refer to The Ex Files). A year later, I was scared to death. I was scared I wouldn't measure up to other girls. I was scared that I'd lose the amazing feeling I'd found. Desperate to understand "where I stood," and how far I was from the inevitable rejection, I tried talking to CollegeGuy about the status of our relationship. The more I talked, the more I felt him slipping away. A month later, he told me he was still in love with his girlfriend from high school and that they were getting back together.
I was devastated. I wondered what SHE had that I didn't have, I wondered if I just hadn't said X, or if I’d done more of Y, maybe he would have picked me instead of HER. Eventually, I became good friends with CollegeGuy. I was his confidant, and I guided him through his romantic pursuit, while silently nursing the hope that he’d see the error of his ways and leave HER for me. It never happened. I tortured myself over CollegeGuy, while unintentionally collecting members of my own Fan Club...until Lacrosse came along.
Lacrosse
I met Lacrosse at a frat party - he was wearing light blue pajama bottoms with white clouds on them, and he was heading to bed because of an organic chemistry exam. I was hooked. Immediately. I walked right up to him and made some flirty, witty and smart-ass remark about his choice of PJs. I remember the way he looked at me appreciatively before he threw his head back and laughed his deep, sexy, contagious laugh. We dated for awhile and I couldn't get enough. Lacrosse liked me too, so I called him, found ways to be at the same parties as him, accidentally-on-purpose ran into him at the library and attended his Lacrosse games (and cheered loudly). About a month or two after we started dating, he mentioned that we was really nervous about an upcoming exam...I baked him chocolate chip cookies in the shape of the words "good luck."
I'm completely serious.
About a week later, Lacrosse told me that he needed to focus on his school work.
My roommates spent months scrapping pieces of my shattered heart off our gold linoleum kitchen floor, while I convinced myself that Lacrosse ended things because I wasn't interesting enough, or because I wasn't thin, cute or even smart enough.
Cringe. Gasp. Shudder. Looking back now, these stories evoke intense physical pain. I literally want to hurl myself onto the 405 Freeway when I think about my past displays of rampant insecurity. But we've all been there at some point.
Eventually, I realized that CollegeGuy and Lacrosse felt what I feel about the members of my Fan Club. They liked me, just not enough. Aside from the fact that insecurity is the ultimate turn-off, their lack of interest had very little to do with how interesting, cute or thin I was (or wasn't) - sometimes you're the one who pines, and sometimes you're the one who is pinned after.
Sometimes you just end up with the short end of the Emotional Wishbone.
But in my opinion, there is another point to all this. From high school through my early twenties - when I didn’t know exactly who I was, much less know how to act like myself - “being myself” with someone I was crushing on, meant being anxious to tell the guy how much I had to offer (often via the oh-so-attractive first date resume regurgitation). It meant never giving him a chance to discover what I was all about or to prove that he was worth all the hype I’d created. It meant dropping everything to spend time with him. It meant waiting around for phone calls. It meant being available at a moment’s notice. It meant focusing on every small detail, just to gain clues about how he felt.
In contrast, with members of my Fan Club, I was never worried about presenting myself in a certain way - I was confident, caring, ambitious, sarcastic, curious, and even a little demanding. Authentic me.
Even though I’ve come a long way since the days of cookie art, I still struggle to remain calm when I meet someone who makes my teeth sweat and has the potential to throw my entire universe out of whack. In fact, I’ve actually had to train myself to let the other person EARN a place in my life…to maintain my routine instead of offering infinite flexibility, to remain open to other dating opportunities for as long as appropriate, and to not throw all my emotional eggs in one basket every time someone makes my tummy do a little flip-flop.
We all have baggage, we all have insecurity and we all fear rejection. But until we are genuinely comfortable with what we have to offer, and can accept the fact that some people just aren't going to like us as much as we like them, those crush-worthy dreamboats are always going to have the ability to shatter our world...or at least catapult us into a couple weeks of general self loathing.
I wish I could end this post by offering some brilliant advice for achieving this complete self-acceptance, but unfortunately all I've got to offer is the generic, but oddly appropriate "fake it til you make it." Other than that, I will say that it helps me to remember how far I've come since the Lacrosse games and Bambi eyes.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Panties in a twist
In need of some shallow entertainment, I picked up US Weekly at the grocery store last night. While I enjoyed juicy stories about family drama, wrecked marriages and over-indulged children, I noticed that there were several sections devoted to 90-pound actresses who claim that they "don't diet."
Sigh.
I understand the Hollywood pressure to be thin. I realize that "Who Wore it Best" is more about "Who is Thinner" or "Which Actress/Model is More Popular This Week" than the designer outfit in question. I'll even admit that sometimes I think thin makes up for not-so-pretty. For example, I adore SJP, but if you took away her incredibly thin - yet athletic - figure and trendy hair, she doesn't have a typically beautiful face. Sure, there are times when I sincerely think she is a pretty woman, but mostly, she is just really thin.
Since I'm guilty of these thoughts, I feel that it would be inappropriate for me to climb up on my soap box and point out that as the line between genders becomes more blurred, both men and women look more like 12 year-old boys.
But I simply can't remain quiet when anorexic-looking women are claiming they "don't diet." Clearly full of crap and nothing else, these women avoid the label of "LIAR" on the technicality that to "diet" you must actually consume food at some point. The new trend of claiming to be effortlessly thin really pisses me off. I'm no physician, but I can assume that very few people are born so thin that the bones in their shoulders stick out and the circumference of their thighs is equal to that of their arms.
An expression of deranged Hollywood logic, I think this trend is an attempt to present a healthier attitude to young people. Well, high on spray tan chemicals, these folks obviously didn't consider the possibility that young people - a group that doesn't exclude certain 28 year-olds - are going to see uber-thin women who "don't diet" and figure that their own bodies are genetically inferior since they were never able to attain (even as a 12 year-old), much less maintain a 12 year-old figure in their 20s, 30s, and 40s.
"I have to work very hard to look as good as I do. I work out every day, I go hiking and I have a personal trainer." One of the many reasons Gwen Stefani is a cool chick.
Sigh.
I understand the Hollywood pressure to be thin. I realize that "Who Wore it Best" is more about "Who is Thinner" or "Which Actress/Model is More Popular This Week" than the designer outfit in question. I'll even admit that sometimes I think thin makes up for not-so-pretty. For example, I adore SJP, but if you took away her incredibly thin - yet athletic - figure and trendy hair, she doesn't have a typically beautiful face. Sure, there are times when I sincerely think she is a pretty woman, but mostly, she is just really thin.
Since I'm guilty of these thoughts, I feel that it would be inappropriate for me to climb up on my soap box and point out that as the line between genders becomes more blurred, both men and women look more like 12 year-old boys.
But I simply can't remain quiet when anorexic-looking women are claiming they "don't diet." Clearly full of crap and nothing else, these women avoid the label of "LIAR" on the technicality that to "diet" you must actually consume food at some point. The new trend of claiming to be effortlessly thin really pisses me off. I'm no physician, but I can assume that very few people are born so thin that the bones in their shoulders stick out and the circumference of their thighs is equal to that of their arms.
An expression of deranged Hollywood logic, I think this trend is an attempt to present a healthier attitude to young people. Well, high on spray tan chemicals, these folks obviously didn't consider the possibility that young people - a group that doesn't exclude certain 28 year-olds - are going to see uber-thin women who "don't diet" and figure that their own bodies are genetically inferior since they were never able to attain (even as a 12 year-old), much less maintain a 12 year-old figure in their 20s, 30s, and 40s.
"I have to work very hard to look as good as I do. I work out every day, I go hiking and I have a personal trainer." One of the many reasons Gwen Stefani is a cool chick.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
When TAF goes MIA
I could say that I haven't written lately because I've been crazy-busy keeping my little business afloat during a time of economic ruin. I could say that I've been dealing with health and family issues, and a teenage dog that has enough angst and emotional baggage to rival good 'ol Brit Spears. While all of these statements are true, they aren't the reason for my blogging delinquency. I wish I could say that I've been too busy dating an endless string of delicious and interesting men to find time to chronicle my man-capades (thanks for the new term, Nicole ;-). But that would be a flat-out lie.
Some of my favorite bloggers write their most poignant, hilarious or thought-provoking posts when they are feeling conflicted. But for me, writing usually comes in moments of clarity and evolving life perspective.
Over the past couple of weeks, I've been fighting a vague loneliness. While this loneliness isn't specific to a person or event, it's been so exhausting that I find I'm uninterested in things that ordinarily bring me joy, satisfaction or hope.
Years ago I had a dream about love. It wasn't an over-the-top romantic fantasy where a knight-like character comes to sweep me off my feet; it merely featured a faceless man and an overwhelming feeling of love. To this day, I've never had a dream or real-life experience that could rival that feeling.
I'm a lot of things. Sentimental and emotional are certainly on that list, but sappy and unrealistic are not. So why have I been missing someone I don't know...someone I can't identify...someone I haven't even met?
I know I'm not the first person to feel this kind of loneliness, and I know it doesn't make me sappy or (gasp) un-feminist, but the longer I'm unable to shake my emotional rain cloud, the harder it is to ignore the fear creeping in like a drunk teenager who broke curfew.
I've stood boldly behind my declaration that I'm ready to find a life partner, and I've tirelessly defended the difference between being ready to find a life partner and wanting to get married. While my dedication to defending the latter hasn't budged, I'm beginning to question where I stand on the former: if I'm not completely content in my life as it is, am I really ready to meet the faceless man? If my goals and my life aren't enough to make me leap out of bed in the morning, could it be that I still have some work to do before I'm the person I need to be in order to open my life to someone else?
I'm working on the answer to that question, but in the meantime, I'm also going to work on finishing the numerous blog posts I've started in the past couple weeks...I might even try striking up a conversation with my quiet neighbor who has long hair (it's a little too Fabio-esque for my taste, but I think he's going for more of a surfer dude look, so I'll let it slide) and beautiful blue eyes.
Some of my favorite bloggers write their most poignant, hilarious or thought-provoking posts when they are feeling conflicted. But for me, writing usually comes in moments of clarity and evolving life perspective.
Over the past couple of weeks, I've been fighting a vague loneliness. While this loneliness isn't specific to a person or event, it's been so exhausting that I find I'm uninterested in things that ordinarily bring me joy, satisfaction or hope.
Years ago I had a dream about love. It wasn't an over-the-top romantic fantasy where a knight-like character comes to sweep me off my feet; it merely featured a faceless man and an overwhelming feeling of love. To this day, I've never had a dream or real-life experience that could rival that feeling.
I'm a lot of things. Sentimental and emotional are certainly on that list, but sappy and unrealistic are not. So why have I been missing someone I don't know...someone I can't identify...someone I haven't even met?
I know I'm not the first person to feel this kind of loneliness, and I know it doesn't make me sappy or (gasp) un-feminist, but the longer I'm unable to shake my emotional rain cloud, the harder it is to ignore the fear creeping in like a drunk teenager who broke curfew.
I've stood boldly behind my declaration that I'm ready to find a life partner, and I've tirelessly defended the difference between being ready to find a life partner and wanting to get married. While my dedication to defending the latter hasn't budged, I'm beginning to question where I stand on the former: if I'm not completely content in my life as it is, am I really ready to meet the faceless man? If my goals and my life aren't enough to make me leap out of bed in the morning, could it be that I still have some work to do before I'm the person I need to be in order to open my life to someone else?
I'm working on the answer to that question, but in the meantime, I'm also going to work on finishing the numerous blog posts I've started in the past couple weeks...I might even try striking up a conversation with my quiet neighbor who has long hair (it's a little too Fabio-esque for my taste, but I think he's going for more of a surfer dude look, so I'll let it slide) and beautiful blue eyes.
Friday, September 12, 2008
My life as a practical dater
Warning: serious generalizations ahead.
I have this theory that women in their twenties need to be abused by men. Twenty-something women tend to go for the hot, talented, athletic or charming guys who are used to having things - especially women - fall into their laps. These guys aren't accustomed to putting very much thought or effort into their relationships, because they've never had to. So, twenty-something women get ignored, cheated on, cast aside and blatantly used...and then come back for more. These guys aren't jerks (well, some of them are), they're just coming into their own, which means testing their limits in all areas of life, and experiencing success and failure.
As twenty-somethings, we make it easy for guys: we sleep with them immediately; we call and text before they even have a chance to miss us; we walk, drive or fly to see them; we give them second, third and fourth chances to hurt us; and we lie about how we really feel in an attempt to appear like the cool, independent woman we wish we were. Essentially, we focus on making our guy happy - hoping that we will earn his love - and we don't expect a lot in return.
At some point, things seem to shift. Maybe we figure out who we are, or start to recognize what we need to be happy, but we stop seeking out Mr. Popular, and start noticing guys who notice and appreciate us. I've watched a number of my friends experience this shift, and I've noticed that it's followed closely by finding their future life partner. Call it my theory on the process of romantic maturity.
Although I've definitely suffered my share of twenty-something-like abuse, my romantic history hasn't been as text-book as some of my friends. After a handful of earth-shattering experiences in my teens and early twenties, I realized that dating Mr. Popular caused nothing but heartache, so I shifted my radar and focused on finding Sweet Little Geeks (SLGs). Figuring that these guys were more likely to adore and appreciate me (and secretly - but probably obviously - trying to protect my heart), I thought I'd out-smarted the natural course of romantic maturity. In some ways, my plan worked. I certainly dated men who adored and appreciated me, but something was always missing. I tried to force myself to have feelings for guys who genuinely liked me, assuming that attraction would come with time.
It never worked.
I'd date a guy for a couple months, waiting for my feelings to develop. Eventually, I would give up, hurting the guy and disappointing myself. For someone relatively self-aware and insightful, I let this pattern go on for WAY too long. By my late twenties, I'd never been with someone I wanted to be with...I'd never fallen in love with someone who loved me back.
Then I met J-Dogg.
He wasn't Mr. Popular, but he definitely wasn't an SLG. Even though he never said it (he wrote it, but never did muster up the words), he showed me what it felt like to be loved by someone I loved in return. He taught me that while attraction isn't always connected to the hottest or most charming guy, it's an essential component of a relationship. He was manly - something SLGs often lack - and I FINALLY realized how appealing the differences between a man and a woman can be. I also learned that while I want and need to be adored by any man I end up with, I also need to be with someone who challenges me and communicates with me.
So here I am again, still in the dating game - with its trauma and hilarity - and I'm finally on my own path to romantic maturity as I learn to balance practicality and chemistry.
I have this theory that women in their twenties need to be abused by men. Twenty-something women tend to go for the hot, talented, athletic or charming guys who are used to having things - especially women - fall into their laps. These guys aren't accustomed to putting very much thought or effort into their relationships, because they've never had to. So, twenty-something women get ignored, cheated on, cast aside and blatantly used...and then come back for more. These guys aren't jerks (well, some of them are), they're just coming into their own, which means testing their limits in all areas of life, and experiencing success and failure.
As twenty-somethings, we make it easy for guys: we sleep with them immediately; we call and text before they even have a chance to miss us; we walk, drive or fly to see them; we give them second, third and fourth chances to hurt us; and we lie about how we really feel in an attempt to appear like the cool, independent woman we wish we were. Essentially, we focus on making our guy happy - hoping that we will earn his love - and we don't expect a lot in return.
At some point, things seem to shift. Maybe we figure out who we are, or start to recognize what we need to be happy, but we stop seeking out Mr. Popular, and start noticing guys who notice and appreciate us. I've watched a number of my friends experience this shift, and I've noticed that it's followed closely by finding their future life partner. Call it my theory on the process of romantic maturity.
Although I've definitely suffered my share of twenty-something-like abuse, my romantic history hasn't been as text-book as some of my friends. After a handful of earth-shattering experiences in my teens and early twenties, I realized that dating Mr. Popular caused nothing but heartache, so I shifted my radar and focused on finding Sweet Little Geeks (SLGs). Figuring that these guys were more likely to adore and appreciate me (and secretly - but probably obviously - trying to protect my heart), I thought I'd out-smarted the natural course of romantic maturity. In some ways, my plan worked. I certainly dated men who adored and appreciated me, but something was always missing. I tried to force myself to have feelings for guys who genuinely liked me, assuming that attraction would come with time.
It never worked.
I'd date a guy for a couple months, waiting for my feelings to develop. Eventually, I would give up, hurting the guy and disappointing myself. For someone relatively self-aware and insightful, I let this pattern go on for WAY too long. By my late twenties, I'd never been with someone I wanted to be with...I'd never fallen in love with someone who loved me back.
Then I met J-Dogg.
He wasn't Mr. Popular, but he definitely wasn't an SLG. Even though he never said it (he wrote it, but never did muster up the words), he showed me what it felt like to be loved by someone I loved in return. He taught me that while attraction isn't always connected to the hottest or most charming guy, it's an essential component of a relationship. He was manly - something SLGs often lack - and I FINALLY realized how appealing the differences between a man and a woman can be. I also learned that while I want and need to be adored by any man I end up with, I also need to be with someone who challenges me and communicates with me.
So here I am again, still in the dating game - with its trauma and hilarity - and I'm finally on my own path to romantic maturity as I learn to balance practicality and chemistry.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
An interesting night
On Thursday I was supposed to write an eloquent and persuasive letter on behalf of one of my clients. However, I wasn't feeling particularly eloquent or persuasive. I was feeling annoyed.
I wasn't annoyed at anything in particular, but at everything in general. I was annoyed that some women don't exercise and are just naturally thin. I was annoyed that I'm not particularly stimulated by my job, but that fear of failure keeps me from pursuing my secret aspirations. I was annoyed that people don't use their turn signals when it's SO easy to do. I was annoyed that my Guy Roommate STILL hasn't grasped the concept of putting things INSIDE the dishwasher, instead of next to it. I was annoyed that people keep telling me I'll find love "when I'm not looking for it." What a load of crap. Not that finding love is the sole focus of my life, but unless I become a bitter, haggard woman living in a small apartment with a bunch of cats, I seriously don't see how I will ever not be looking for love...until I find it.
But mostly, I was annoyed that I was annoyed. Luckily, it was Thursday, and the best remedy for a grumpy mood is Thursday night date night with my Girl Roommate. I thought going out with my roommie was a great idea until I got to the bar and came face-to-face with MML for the first time since he ended things.
MML was with FunnyMan and Hair, two of my favorite people, and we all had a happy reunion. I figured we would get the hugs and hellos out of the way, and then my Girl Roommate and I would continue with our evening.
Nope.
MML was clearly drunk, and it was mere seconds before he was all over me. He was dancing with me, on me, or around me for the majority of the next several hours. His buzz made him deeply aware that there is nothing sexier to a woman trying to have a conversation with someone else, than a man who dumped her, coming up and ramming his butt in to her crotch and stomach. Sexy.
As the night went on, and I was laughing and talking with my friends, he was kissing my cheek, rubbing my back, sweeping my bangs off my forehead and pulling me as close to him as physically possible. He couldn't stand it when I wasn't paying attention to him, he couldn't stand it when I was talking to his friends and not to him, and he couldn't stand it when I was looking at the crowd and not dancing with him. Confused, I didn't overtly reject his advances. Instead, I quietly, gently and consistently moved his hand, his lips, and his body away from me. MML finally left the bar to go home, and I stayed for awhile as my Girl Roommate's wingwoman. When I got home, I wasn't at all surprised to find the following text from MML: "What are you doing?" Although 20 responses ranging from scathing to flirty came poring into my head, I managed not to respond at all.
The part of me that was abruptly dumped by someone I was beginning to have sincere feelings for, was triumphant and satisfied by this display of attention. But the part of me that wants to stop dating the wrong guys and find something lasting and real, was stunned to see a man who had spent three months convincing me that he was ready to move into the next stage of his life acting like a spoiled two-year-old who wasn't getting his way.
My limited interactions with MML since things ended between us, have made it increasingly clear that the guy I thought I was dating was partially a fraud. MML presented himself as a man with all the pieces of his life in place - a man who was happy with his life and ready to share it with someone. I sincerely believe he wanted to be that man, and I certainly wanted him to be that man...maybe we are both at fault for allowing ourselves to live in a fantasy world. But seeing him now, pouting when the girl he dumped won't come running back to his embrace, I see that he was a man-child playing dress-up. He was role playing with me; trying on adulthood like a costume for some play. I could be flattered that he cast me as his leading lady, but I'm not looking for a role-playing partner, I'm looking for a life partner.
Maybe it's hindsight, maybe it's my annoyed mood, but I'm hoping that I'm ever-so-slightly more wise having been able to resist a charming, successful and adorable guy to see a potentially hurtful situation. Plus, with the cat-lady years still safely in my future, I'm optimistic enough to let myself think that this experience will bring me one step closer to finding someone wonderful, someone who really is ready to share their life with me.
I wasn't annoyed at anything in particular, but at everything in general. I was annoyed that some women don't exercise and are just naturally thin. I was annoyed that I'm not particularly stimulated by my job, but that fear of failure keeps me from pursuing my secret aspirations. I was annoyed that people don't use their turn signals when it's SO easy to do. I was annoyed that my Guy Roommate STILL hasn't grasped the concept of putting things INSIDE the dishwasher, instead of next to it. I was annoyed that people keep telling me I'll find love "when I'm not looking for it." What a load of crap. Not that finding love is the sole focus of my life, but unless I become a bitter, haggard woman living in a small apartment with a bunch of cats, I seriously don't see how I will ever not be looking for love...until I find it.
But mostly, I was annoyed that I was annoyed. Luckily, it was Thursday, and the best remedy for a grumpy mood is Thursday night date night with my Girl Roommate. I thought going out with my roommie was a great idea until I got to the bar and came face-to-face with MML for the first time since he ended things.
MML was with FunnyMan and Hair, two of my favorite people, and we all had a happy reunion. I figured we would get the hugs and hellos out of the way, and then my Girl Roommate and I would continue with our evening.
Nope.
MML was clearly drunk, and it was mere seconds before he was all over me. He was dancing with me, on me, or around me for the majority of the next several hours. His buzz made him deeply aware that there is nothing sexier to a woman trying to have a conversation with someone else, than a man who dumped her, coming up and ramming his butt in to her crotch and stomach. Sexy.
As the night went on, and I was laughing and talking with my friends, he was kissing my cheek, rubbing my back, sweeping my bangs off my forehead and pulling me as close to him as physically possible. He couldn't stand it when I wasn't paying attention to him, he couldn't stand it when I was talking to his friends and not to him, and he couldn't stand it when I was looking at the crowd and not dancing with him. Confused, I didn't overtly reject his advances. Instead, I quietly, gently and consistently moved his hand, his lips, and his body away from me. MML finally left the bar to go home, and I stayed for awhile as my Girl Roommate's wingwoman. When I got home, I wasn't at all surprised to find the following text from MML: "What are you doing?" Although 20 responses ranging from scathing to flirty came poring into my head, I managed not to respond at all.
The part of me that was abruptly dumped by someone I was beginning to have sincere feelings for, was triumphant and satisfied by this display of attention. But the part of me that wants to stop dating the wrong guys and find something lasting and real, was stunned to see a man who had spent three months convincing me that he was ready to move into the next stage of his life acting like a spoiled two-year-old who wasn't getting his way.
My limited interactions with MML since things ended between us, have made it increasingly clear that the guy I thought I was dating was partially a fraud. MML presented himself as a man with all the pieces of his life in place - a man who was happy with his life and ready to share it with someone. I sincerely believe he wanted to be that man, and I certainly wanted him to be that man...maybe we are both at fault for allowing ourselves to live in a fantasy world. But seeing him now, pouting when the girl he dumped won't come running back to his embrace, I see that he was a man-child playing dress-up. He was role playing with me; trying on adulthood like a costume for some play. I could be flattered that he cast me as his leading lady, but I'm not looking for a role-playing partner, I'm looking for a life partner.
Maybe it's hindsight, maybe it's my annoyed mood, but I'm hoping that I'm ever-so-slightly more wise having been able to resist a charming, successful and adorable guy to see a potentially hurtful situation. Plus, with the cat-lady years still safely in my future, I'm optimistic enough to let myself think that this experience will bring me one step closer to finding someone wonderful, someone who really is ready to share their life with me.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
28...and a half
Last Friday morning, I woke up to hot, rather stinky, breath on my face. I opened my eyes and found myself staring at my puppy. She was peering at me over the edge of my bed with a look of concern on her fuzzy little face.
As I slowly became aware of my surroundings, I realized why my puppy was so concerned. Aside from a nasty headache, I was still wearing my clothes from the night before (including my stilettos), and had clearly never made it under the covers. In fact, I was lying sideways across my bed, with my silver BCBG pumps dangling haphazardly off my swollen feet. Judging from the make-up stains on my bedspread, I'd probably intended to take a little "nap" before committing to putting on PJs and washing my face.
It had been another Thursday evening date with my Girl Roommate, and once again, we'd ended up having too much to drink. But this time it was different - it was my half birthday. I didn't share this information with my Girl Roommate because, well, does anyone besides me really notice when it's their half birthday? Usually it's a passing thought, but this year, it kept popping into my head like an Outlook reminder.
My half birthday ten years ago was the day I got drunk for the very first time. I'd just moved in for my first year of college and my best friend, Beantown, came to visit. Being a more experienced partier (I was president of the goody-goody club in high school), she guided me toward Mike's Hard Lemonade for my first real alcoholic experience. Needless to say, the evening did not end well.
I inevitably drank too much and drunkenly begged my best friend to accompany me to bathroom, where I immediately plopped down on the tile in front of the toilet. The bathroom was approximately 3 square feet and didn't have any windows or ventilation. Plus, the August heat had transformed the bathroom into a torture sauna, and Beantown kept begging me to "throw up already" so we could "get the hell out of the godforsaken bathroom." But I couldn't. I just sat there, with the world spinning so quickly it was reminiscent of too much funnel cake and "The Tumbler" at Six Flags.
With sweat dripping from every last extremity, my best friend grabbed the plunger that had been sitting innocently in the corner, and told me to "open up." Before I could even focus my eyes enough to see her coming at me Psycho-style, Beantown was sticking the wooden end of the plunger down my throat. After the relief of throwing up, I looked at Beantown from the floor, and with big, drunken brown eyes and said, "thank you." Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I wish I could say the night ended there. But after we escaped from the bathroom and had a SunChip feast on my carpet, I threw up in my own underwear drawer and proceeded to take the entire drawer out of the dresser and attempt to "rise it out" in the sink. It didn't fit. I left the drawer sticking awkwardly out of the sink, filled with my own original cocktail of barf and water. Finally, I passed out - in my stilettos - for the very first time.
A decade later, Beantown is married, finished with grad school and living in Boston. And then there's me...a 28 and a half year-old, recently reformed kissing slut, who hasn't quite (but almost!) grown out of passing out in her stilettos. But here's the thing: I like who I am. I like my life. I like that I'm a woman on the verge of everything important in my life. I have yet to meet my life partner or figure out of my life's work. I have no idea where the next year will take me, much less the next five. Sure, when I was 18 and a half, I certainly thought I would be married and settled by the decrepit age of 28 and a half, but the truth is I wouldn't trade the last ten years of adventure, experience, city life, career changes, dating drama and friends for all the plungers in the world.
As I slowly became aware of my surroundings, I realized why my puppy was so concerned. Aside from a nasty headache, I was still wearing my clothes from the night before (including my stilettos), and had clearly never made it under the covers. In fact, I was lying sideways across my bed, with my silver BCBG pumps dangling haphazardly off my swollen feet. Judging from the make-up stains on my bedspread, I'd probably intended to take a little "nap" before committing to putting on PJs and washing my face.
It had been another Thursday evening date with my Girl Roommate, and once again, we'd ended up having too much to drink. But this time it was different - it was my half birthday. I didn't share this information with my Girl Roommate because, well, does anyone besides me really notice when it's their half birthday? Usually it's a passing thought, but this year, it kept popping into my head like an Outlook reminder.
My half birthday ten years ago was the day I got drunk for the very first time. I'd just moved in for my first year of college and my best friend, Beantown, came to visit. Being a more experienced partier (I was president of the goody-goody club in high school), she guided me toward Mike's Hard Lemonade for my first real alcoholic experience. Needless to say, the evening did not end well.
I inevitably drank too much and drunkenly begged my best friend to accompany me to bathroom, where I immediately plopped down on the tile in front of the toilet. The bathroom was approximately 3 square feet and didn't have any windows or ventilation. Plus, the August heat had transformed the bathroom into a torture sauna, and Beantown kept begging me to "throw up already" so we could "get the hell out of the godforsaken bathroom." But I couldn't. I just sat there, with the world spinning so quickly it was reminiscent of too much funnel cake and "The Tumbler" at Six Flags.
With sweat dripping from every last extremity, my best friend grabbed the plunger that had been sitting innocently in the corner, and told me to "open up." Before I could even focus my eyes enough to see her coming at me Psycho-style, Beantown was sticking the wooden end of the plunger down my throat. After the relief of throwing up, I looked at Beantown from the floor, and with big, drunken brown eyes and said, "thank you." Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I wish I could say the night ended there. But after we escaped from the bathroom and had a SunChip feast on my carpet, I threw up in my own underwear drawer and proceeded to take the entire drawer out of the dresser and attempt to "rise it out" in the sink. It didn't fit. I left the drawer sticking awkwardly out of the sink, filled with my own original cocktail of barf and water. Finally, I passed out - in my stilettos - for the very first time.
A decade later, Beantown is married, finished with grad school and living in Boston. And then there's me...a 28 and a half year-old, recently reformed kissing slut, who hasn't quite (but almost!) grown out of passing out in her stilettos. But here's the thing: I like who I am. I like my life. I like that I'm a woman on the verge of everything important in my life. I have yet to meet my life partner or figure out of my life's work. I have no idea where the next year will take me, much less the next five. Sure, when I was 18 and a half, I certainly thought I would be married and settled by the decrepit age of 28 and a half, but the truth is I wouldn't trade the last ten years of adventure, experience, city life, career changes, dating drama and friends for all the plungers in the world.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Men-u
I need to know who casts models for the J.Crew catalog...and I need to make that person my best friend.
A new J.Crew catalog is a serious event for me. No, it's not the over-priced - yet adorable - prepster clothes. No, it's not the 'aspirational life scenario' photo shoots that make me wish the J. Crew photo department could plan my dates, my wedding, my life. It's the men.
For me, going through that catalog is like a menu at a delicious restaurant - everything looks so damn good it's almost painful.
I like to sit down with the catalog and a glass of wine, and pretend that I can actually order one of those men gracing the not-so-glossy pages. Pretty, yet slightly rugged. I love them - each and every one of them is my soul mate.
Yes, I got a catalog today.
A new J.Crew catalog is a serious event for me. No, it's not the over-priced - yet adorable - prepster clothes. No, it's not the 'aspirational life scenario' photo shoots that make me wish the J. Crew photo department could plan my dates, my wedding, my life. It's the men.
For me, going through that catalog is like a menu at a delicious restaurant - everything looks so damn good it's almost painful.
I like to sit down with the catalog and a glass of wine, and pretend that I can actually order one of those men gracing the not-so-glossy pages. Pretty, yet slightly rugged. I love them - each and every one of them is my soul mate.
Yes, I got a catalog today.
Friday, August 15, 2008
FR Update
Okay, so I've decided not to call FR, and here is why:
I was walking home from the gym on Tuesday, bouncing back and forth between the two more poignant comments:
Life with Marcy:
"NOOO! This reminds me of the movie Big Daddy when Sonny found his woman with an old man. "Hey, you just made the biggest mistake of your life, baby. I know you're gonna be missing me when ya got that big, white, wrinkly body on top of ya, with his loose skin and...old balls! Gross!"I had to look the quote up for this occasion."
Chardsy:
"think of all the blog fodder you will get from having dinner with him, it will be amazing!"
Then, I passed a man, probably in his 60s. Without the forgiving lighting of the bar and the even more forgiving fog of three glasses of wine, I was struck - almost to the ground - by how OLD he looked. The wrinkles, the the liver spots, the gray hair - it could be my D-A-D. I just can't do it.
But regardless, I do have a date tonight with a youthful, motorcycle-loving engineer.
I was walking home from the gym on Tuesday, bouncing back and forth between the two more poignant comments:
Life with Marcy:
"NOOO! This reminds me of the movie Big Daddy when Sonny found his woman with an old man. "Hey, you just made the biggest mistake of your life, baby. I know you're gonna be missing me when ya got that big, white, wrinkly body on top of ya, with his loose skin and...old balls! Gross!"I had to look the quote up for this occasion."
Chardsy:
"think of all the blog fodder you will get from having dinner with him, it will be amazing!"
Then, I passed a man, probably in his 60s. Without the forgiving lighting of the bar and the even more forgiving fog of three glasses of wine, I was struck - almost to the ground - by how OLD he looked. The wrinkles, the the liver spots, the gray hair - it could be my D-A-D. I just can't do it.
But regardless, I do have a date tonight with a youthful, motorcycle-loving engineer.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Big bucket of crap
Friday wasn't exactly a day I'd like to rewind and relive. First, there was the whole dumping thing, after which I came home to a very scary voicemail about a close family member's health. Home alone without access to my family, I felt helpless, scared, vulnerable and incredibly alone. My sad little day ended with me on the couch watching Felicity DVDs and feeling nothing and everything, all at the same time.
When I woke up on Saturday morning, I put on my cute pink polka dot bikini, an even cuter cover-up and my new, very hot, cowboy hat. Determined not to waste any time feeling sorry for myself, I was going to blow off the work I'd sworn I'd do and the errands I needed to run, and take my puppy for a walk down to the pier to see if I could take my mind off the thick layer of CRAP that had blanketed the last 24 hours.
My plan didn't go very well.
Some of you who are more detail-oriented may remember that during our break-up, MML and I had talked about how I was off the hook for a certain birthday party. Well, what I didn't mention was that prior to breaking up with MML, I was supposed to help his best friend's girlfriend, Texas, set up a surprise party on the beach for her boyfriend, FunnyMan. After three months of hanging out, I'd gotten to know Texas and FunnyMan pretty well and I really liked them, especially Texas. Since the party was set to take place less than a block from my house, I'd volunteered myself and my Girl Roommate to help Texas set up for the party and keep some of the food in our fridge. There was a lot to set up (tons of beer, food, coolers, two large tents, beach chairs, a table and balloons) and MML and his friends were in charge of getting FunnyMan to the party, so Texas would have been handling everything on her own.
Anyway, during our last conversation MML had asked me to please attend the party anyway, insisting that it wouldn't be awkward and that it would mean a lot to Texas and FunnyMan. Obviously I had no intention of going to a party for MML's friend - call me crazy, but it just didn't sound like a whole lot of fun. However, because MML was insistent, I lied and said I would consider it. Basically, I figured that once he told Texas we were no longer together, she would find someone else to help her set up for the party, and I'd be off the hook altogether.
Yeeeeeah.
Around 9:30am I got a cheery call from Texas. Apparently MML hadn't mentioned to Texas (who, btw, happens to sublet a room in his condo, so it's not like they didn't have an opportunity to talk) that we were no longer seeing each other. So, as planned, she'd called me to begin the set up process. By ditching her at this point, I knew I'd be screwing over this sincerely nice, super-fun girl, so I rallied what was left of my dignity and started carrying coolers, tying balloons and going on ice runs.
Knowing that Texas would feel incredibly bad if she found out later, I gave her a heads up that MML and I had ended things the day before, and that while it was my pleasure to help her set up for the party, I couldn't stay. She was very surprised, and even more apologetic, thanking me again and again for helping anyway.
With the very sweaty process of setting up behind us, and the surprise only minutes away, Texas was getting nervous that there weren't a lot of party attendees. Being a glutton for punishment and horrible at saying "no," I agreed to stay for the surprise when she pleaded with me, insisting that it wouldn't be a big deal.
With my Girl Roommate at my side, I gritted my teeth and yelled "surprise!" with impressive sincerity. I even made it through all the hugs and MML whispering "thank you" in my ear. Planning to have one beer and then gracefully exit, I chatted with Texas and some other friends, while the guys started their intensely competitive volleyball game.
Because the set up process had been so hot, a couple of us decided to go cool off in the water. When I returned to the tents - eager to finish my beer and get the hell out of there - I noticed that a new attendee had joined the festivities. A thin girl in a green bikini was smiling and bouncing around on the volleyball court. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach, and was vaguely aware of the fact that I was standing, staring, with my mouth visibly open.
My Girl Roommate leaned over asked me what was wrong and I whispered, "that's MML's ex-girlfriend, Wenchface!"
For a full 30 seconds, I was paralyzed with shock and embarassment. Then I tossed my beer into the nearest trash and walked slowly away from the party. As my eyes filled with tears (sometimes you just can't help it), I was flooded with thoughts and questions. I'd been told that MML hadn't hung out with Wenchface (who actually seems pretty nice, but I maintain that I'm allowed to hate her on principal) since they broke up last fall - was she the reason that the guy who had spent months of time and effort pursuing me, had suddenly turned cold? When had they started talking again? Were they getting back together? If they were getting back together, how long had it been going on?
I will never know the answers to these questions, and that's just fine with me. For now I plan to avoid, avoid, avoid - a tough job when you live in a small community like ours. Then eventually, time will take pity on me and I won't give a flying fuck anymore.
When I woke up on Saturday morning, I put on my cute pink polka dot bikini, an even cuter cover-up and my new, very hot, cowboy hat. Determined not to waste any time feeling sorry for myself, I was going to blow off the work I'd sworn I'd do and the errands I needed to run, and take my puppy for a walk down to the pier to see if I could take my mind off the thick layer of CRAP that had blanketed the last 24 hours.
My plan didn't go very well.
Some of you who are more detail-oriented may remember that during our break-up, MML and I had talked about how I was off the hook for a certain birthday party. Well, what I didn't mention was that prior to breaking up with MML, I was supposed to help his best friend's girlfriend, Texas, set up a surprise party on the beach for her boyfriend, FunnyMan. After three months of hanging out, I'd gotten to know Texas and FunnyMan pretty well and I really liked them, especially Texas. Since the party was set to take place less than a block from my house, I'd volunteered myself and my Girl Roommate to help Texas set up for the party and keep some of the food in our fridge. There was a lot to set up (tons of beer, food, coolers, two large tents, beach chairs, a table and balloons) and MML and his friends were in charge of getting FunnyMan to the party, so Texas would have been handling everything on her own.
Anyway, during our last conversation MML had asked me to please attend the party anyway, insisting that it wouldn't be awkward and that it would mean a lot to Texas and FunnyMan. Obviously I had no intention of going to a party for MML's friend - call me crazy, but it just didn't sound like a whole lot of fun. However, because MML was insistent, I lied and said I would consider it. Basically, I figured that once he told Texas we were no longer together, she would find someone else to help her set up for the party, and I'd be off the hook altogether.
Yeeeeeah.
Around 9:30am I got a cheery call from Texas. Apparently MML hadn't mentioned to Texas (who, btw, happens to sublet a room in his condo, so it's not like they didn't have an opportunity to talk) that we were no longer seeing each other. So, as planned, she'd called me to begin the set up process. By ditching her at this point, I knew I'd be screwing over this sincerely nice, super-fun girl, so I rallied what was left of my dignity and started carrying coolers, tying balloons and going on ice runs.
Knowing that Texas would feel incredibly bad if she found out later, I gave her a heads up that MML and I had ended things the day before, and that while it was my pleasure to help her set up for the party, I couldn't stay. She was very surprised, and even more apologetic, thanking me again and again for helping anyway.
With the very sweaty process of setting up behind us, and the surprise only minutes away, Texas was getting nervous that there weren't a lot of party attendees. Being a glutton for punishment and horrible at saying "no," I agreed to stay for the surprise when she pleaded with me, insisting that it wouldn't be a big deal.
With my Girl Roommate at my side, I gritted my teeth and yelled "surprise!" with impressive sincerity. I even made it through all the hugs and MML whispering "thank you" in my ear. Planning to have one beer and then gracefully exit, I chatted with Texas and some other friends, while the guys started their intensely competitive volleyball game.
Because the set up process had been so hot, a couple of us decided to go cool off in the water. When I returned to the tents - eager to finish my beer and get the hell out of there - I noticed that a new attendee had joined the festivities. A thin girl in a green bikini was smiling and bouncing around on the volleyball court. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach, and was vaguely aware of the fact that I was standing, staring, with my mouth visibly open.
My Girl Roommate leaned over asked me what was wrong and I whispered, "that's MML's ex-girlfriend, Wenchface!"
For a full 30 seconds, I was paralyzed with shock and embarassment. Then I tossed my beer into the nearest trash and walked slowly away from the party. As my eyes filled with tears (sometimes you just can't help it), I was flooded with thoughts and questions. I'd been told that MML hadn't hung out with Wenchface (who actually seems pretty nice, but I maintain that I'm allowed to hate her on principal) since they broke up last fall - was she the reason that the guy who had spent months of time and effort pursuing me, had suddenly turned cold? When had they started talking again? Were they getting back together? If they were getting back together, how long had it been going on?
I will never know the answers to these questions, and that's just fine with me. For now I plan to avoid, avoid, avoid - a tough job when you live in a small community like ours. Then eventually, time will take pity on me and I won't give a flying fuck anymore.
Friday, July 25, 2008
At least it's not my dating theory
I finally met MML for coffee to put it all out there and figure out what's going on between us. It turns out his increased distance has nothing to do with my approach to dating. Apparently he "isn't ready for a relationship." For those of you who like detail, here's the jist of the conversation:
Me: Sorry to "call a talk" during such a crazy week. In the interest of getting right to the point, I feel like you've been pulling back with me, and I want to know if it's just me being a bit of a fruitloop because I think you're so great, or if there really is something going on? Anyway, I thought it would be best to just address it directly.
MML: First of all, I should have called this talk and I'm sorry I didn't. I have been pulling away and I think it's because I'm just not ready for a relationship. You haven't been demanding or needy, in fact, you're far from it. I've just noticed myself wanting to do what I want to do, and that's not a good mentality for the beginning of a relationship. Things should be moving forward between us at this point and they aren't, and it's because of me. It was never my intention to drag you along, there just never seems to be a good time for these type of talks.
Me: Yeah, they're always a little on the awkward side. Well, I certainly don't want to be dragged along, so I appreciate the honesty...that's pretty much all I can ask for.
[Insert some topical conversation about work and an upcoming birthday party I no longer have to attend for one of his friends]
Me: You know, I'm not sure it even matters, but I don't really believe you. I think you are ready for a relationship, maybe not with me and that's fine, but if that's the case, I wouldn't want you to tell me something else just to spare my feelings.
MML: I think I want to be ready for a relationship, but I'm in a selfish place and that's not fair to you. I should be willing to make more sacrifices in my time and my life for someone I'm with, and I'm not there yet.
Me: That makes sense. I can accept that. [smile]
After that, we joked about the sudden awkwardness between two people who have never before been awkward with each other. Then, we hugged it out and parted ways.
I'm definitely bummed. My gut knew something was up, and I could have only hoped it was something easy to resolve like my dating theories. My guess is that MML will be dating someone else in a matter of a month - I have no doubt that he's ready to find someone with whom he'll want to spend time...someone with whom it won't feel like a sacrifice or time away from the things he really wants to do. It's hard not to take it personally, but I do feel like my pride is as hurt as my heart.
When all is said and done, if he isn't ready, or I'm just not right for him, I want to move on. I'm not ready to find someone - I'm ready to find the right one, and I'm willing to wait. So for now, the search continues. Sigh.
Me: Sorry to "call a talk" during such a crazy week. In the interest of getting right to the point, I feel like you've been pulling back with me, and I want to know if it's just me being a bit of a fruitloop because I think you're so great, or if there really is something going on? Anyway, I thought it would be best to just address it directly.
MML: First of all, I should have called this talk and I'm sorry I didn't. I have been pulling away and I think it's because I'm just not ready for a relationship. You haven't been demanding or needy, in fact, you're far from it. I've just noticed myself wanting to do what I want to do, and that's not a good mentality for the beginning of a relationship. Things should be moving forward between us at this point and they aren't, and it's because of me. It was never my intention to drag you along, there just never seems to be a good time for these type of talks.
Me: Yeah, they're always a little on the awkward side. Well, I certainly don't want to be dragged along, so I appreciate the honesty...that's pretty much all I can ask for.
[Insert some topical conversation about work and an upcoming birthday party I no longer have to attend for one of his friends]
Me: You know, I'm not sure it even matters, but I don't really believe you. I think you are ready for a relationship, maybe not with me and that's fine, but if that's the case, I wouldn't want you to tell me something else just to spare my feelings.
MML: I think I want to be ready for a relationship, but I'm in a selfish place and that's not fair to you. I should be willing to make more sacrifices in my time and my life for someone I'm with, and I'm not there yet.
Me: That makes sense. I can accept that. [smile]
After that, we joked about the sudden awkwardness between two people who have never before been awkward with each other. Then, we hugged it out and parted ways.
I'm definitely bummed. My gut knew something was up, and I could have only hoped it was something easy to resolve like my dating theories. My guess is that MML will be dating someone else in a matter of a month - I have no doubt that he's ready to find someone with whom he'll want to spend time...someone with whom it won't feel like a sacrifice or time away from the things he really wants to do. It's hard not to take it personally, but I do feel like my pride is as hurt as my heart.
When all is said and done, if he isn't ready, or I'm just not right for him, I want to move on. I'm not ready to find someone - I'm ready to find the right one, and I'm willing to wait. So for now, the search continues. Sigh.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Working girl
I don't read a lot of blogs frequently - if I had time for that, I would listen to the people who yell at me, and post more consistently - but there are a couple of blogs I absolutely L-O-V-E (if you're interested in which blogs those are, check my little list on the left hand side). One of these is Working Girl.
Maybe its because it wasn't all that long ago that I was in my early 20s, living and working in New York and can relate to pretty much everything posted on this blog, or maybe it's because these girls are damn witty - regardless, I read it whenever I have a chance.
The most recent post is a gripe about how generally normal, respectful men become incredible hulk-style beasts when it comes to their morning commute. This is something I no longer have to deal with since I work from home (best thing to ever happen to me), but it did remind me of my New York days and my mildly amusing morning commute shennanigans:
Being a poor recent grad, I lived with two girlfriends on the third floor of a walk-up on the industrial 10th Avenue. We named the neighborhood "Hell's Bathroom" since we weren't exactly in the kitchen, but pretty darn close, thank you very much. Aside from getting locked INSIDE our apartment, having kittens that lived in our ceiling (probably mice, but doesn't kittens sound so much cuter and less terrifying?) and plumbing that caused us to have plungers in both the bathroom AND the kitchen, this was a major step up in location from our first apartment on Avenue D ("D" is for DANGER). One of the drawbacks of this location was that it was directly across town from my work, and I either had to take a bus and two subways to get there, or I could walk.
Born and raised in Southern California, having wavy hair, and sweating more than the average gal, humidity it a fierce foe of mine. So, as you can imagine, walking all the way across town (usually at a bisk pace, since I tended to be running a tad late) in my standard three-inch stilletos was a very sweaty experience. I quickly learned a few tricks of the trade:
*Wear sneakers or flip-slops on the walk
*Carry large shoe bag with stilletos and small wash cloth
*Do not wear slow-drying clothing or clothing that retains pit stains
*Keep deoderant in purse at all times
Once at work, I would not go directly to my cubicle, to the kitchen for coffee or to see my office crush for a morning chat. Instead, I would take a pit-stop (no pun intended) in the bathroom, wet my shoe bag wash cloth and close myself in the handicapped stall. I would then remove all my clothing and pat down my sweaty body. Once I'd air dried and reapplied deoderant, I would put my clothes back on and walk into the cubicle farm looking and feeling significantly more fresh.
This system worked quite well, but some days were just better than others. The following is a true story:
One summer morning, I decided to look extra cute for my office crush - maroon pencil skirt and black (good color for those of us with advanced sweating skills), fitted button-up. I'd even spent the time to blow dry my hair straight and apply eye make-up. I'd packed up my deoderant, black stilettos and wash cloth into my shoe bag, and headed out in my flip flops.
As I walked down the stairs, I noticed our resident Homeless Dude walking out of the vestibule between the outside and inside doors of our building, where he often slept. Nothing out of the ordinary, so I walked through the vestibule and RIGHT THROUGH A PUDDLE OF WARM PEE. Gee, thanks Homeless Dude.
After my morning primping, and my trip back upstairs to wash my feet, I was running pretty late, so I walked even more briskly than usual. Power walking easy-spirit style across 49th street, I felt the sweat start to gather on my scalp (there goes my straight hair), drip down my face (there goes my eye make-up) and gather under my shirt (there goes my careful ironing job).
By the time I was one block away from my building (where I always changed my shoes, heaven forbid anyone I work with see me in flip-flops) I was feeling agitated and disgusting. Eager to get to my handicapped stall for a little spit bath, I slid on my stilletos, ran full-out into my building, and through our Fort Knox security. As I took a leap (like only an ex-ballerina can) into an already full elevator, my right heel got stuck in what the British charmingly refer to as "the gap."
I'd heard wife's tales and urban legends, but I never thought it would actually happen to me -- my heel, my adorable three-inch BCBG stilleto, had broken free from the bottom of my shoe and was firming stuck in the gap, preventing the elevator door from closing. I desperately twsited and pulled at the heel, while the previously mentioned Hulk-style commuters sighed and rolled their eyes at the 23-year old squatting on the elevator floor.
If there were mercy in the world, the story would end there. But no.
I finally made it to the 32nd floor and was so anxious to take refuge in the last stall on the left, that I didn't notice my office crush watching as my rubber flip-flop caught on the slick tile floor and I flew toward reception, landing face-first with shoes and heels flying everywhere.
I did manage to pull myself together that day, but it's struggle I will never forget, and one that reminds me how great it is to live in LA, far away from humidity, vestibule pee and evil office elevators.
Maybe its because it wasn't all that long ago that I was in my early 20s, living and working in New York and can relate to pretty much everything posted on this blog, or maybe it's because these girls are damn witty - regardless, I read it whenever I have a chance.
The most recent post is a gripe about how generally normal, respectful men become incredible hulk-style beasts when it comes to their morning commute. This is something I no longer have to deal with since I work from home (best thing to ever happen to me), but it did remind me of my New York days and my mildly amusing morning commute shennanigans:
Being a poor recent grad, I lived with two girlfriends on the third floor of a walk-up on the industrial 10th Avenue. We named the neighborhood "Hell's Bathroom" since we weren't exactly in the kitchen, but pretty darn close, thank you very much. Aside from getting locked INSIDE our apartment, having kittens that lived in our ceiling (probably mice, but doesn't kittens sound so much cuter and less terrifying?) and plumbing that caused us to have plungers in both the bathroom AND the kitchen, this was a major step up in location from our first apartment on Avenue D ("D" is for DANGER). One of the drawbacks of this location was that it was directly across town from my work, and I either had to take a bus and two subways to get there, or I could walk.
Born and raised in Southern California, having wavy hair, and sweating more than the average gal, humidity it a fierce foe of mine. So, as you can imagine, walking all the way across town (usually at a bisk pace, since I tended to be running a tad late) in my standard three-inch stilletos was a very sweaty experience. I quickly learned a few tricks of the trade:
*Wear sneakers or flip-slops on the walk
*Carry large shoe bag with stilletos and small wash cloth
*Do not wear slow-drying clothing or clothing that retains pit stains
*Keep deoderant in purse at all times
Once at work, I would not go directly to my cubicle, to the kitchen for coffee or to see my office crush for a morning chat. Instead, I would take a pit-stop (no pun intended) in the bathroom, wet my shoe bag wash cloth and close myself in the handicapped stall. I would then remove all my clothing and pat down my sweaty body. Once I'd air dried and reapplied deoderant, I would put my clothes back on and walk into the cubicle farm looking and feeling significantly more fresh.
This system worked quite well, but some days were just better than others. The following is a true story:
One summer morning, I decided to look extra cute for my office crush - maroon pencil skirt and black (good color for those of us with advanced sweating skills), fitted button-up. I'd even spent the time to blow dry my hair straight and apply eye make-up. I'd packed up my deoderant, black stilettos and wash cloth into my shoe bag, and headed out in my flip flops.
As I walked down the stairs, I noticed our resident Homeless Dude walking out of the vestibule between the outside and inside doors of our building, where he often slept. Nothing out of the ordinary, so I walked through the vestibule and RIGHT THROUGH A PUDDLE OF WARM PEE. Gee, thanks Homeless Dude.
After my morning primping, and my trip back upstairs to wash my feet, I was running pretty late, so I walked even more briskly than usual. Power walking easy-spirit style across 49th street, I felt the sweat start to gather on my scalp (there goes my straight hair), drip down my face (there goes my eye make-up) and gather under my shirt (there goes my careful ironing job).
By the time I was one block away from my building (where I always changed my shoes, heaven forbid anyone I work with see me in flip-flops) I was feeling agitated and disgusting. Eager to get to my handicapped stall for a little spit bath, I slid on my stilletos, ran full-out into my building, and through our Fort Knox security. As I took a leap (like only an ex-ballerina can) into an already full elevator, my right heel got stuck in what the British charmingly refer to as "the gap."
I'd heard wife's tales and urban legends, but I never thought it would actually happen to me -- my heel, my adorable three-inch BCBG stilleto, had broken free from the bottom of my shoe and was firming stuck in the gap, preventing the elevator door from closing. I desperately twsited and pulled at the heel, while the previously mentioned Hulk-style commuters sighed and rolled their eyes at the 23-year old squatting on the elevator floor.
If there were mercy in the world, the story would end there. But no.
I finally made it to the 32nd floor and was so anxious to take refuge in the last stall on the left, that I didn't notice my office crush watching as my rubber flip-flop caught on the slick tile floor and I flew toward reception, landing face-first with shoes and heels flying everywhere.
I did manage to pull myself together that day, but it's struggle I will never forget, and one that reminds me how great it is to live in LA, far away from humidity, vestibule pee and evil office elevators.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Crash and burn
I did it. I had the dreaded conversation.
A couple weeks ago, MML and I were out to dinner and I casually mentioned that my girlfriends had recently debated an interesting topic - dating habits at the point in your life when you've dated enough to know what you're looking for. I explained that there had been two distinct camps; one side felt strongly that you should commit to one person at a time until you realize that person isn't right for you, and the other camp thought that you should date people - maybe one person at a time, if they are extra dreamy - but if a really great guy comes along and asks you out for dinner or coffee, you should go because it's not pragmatic to put blinders on when you are looking to find the best possible life partner. I then asked him for the male perspective on the subject.
He considered me carefully for a full 30 seconds, and then said that because he has dated enough to know what he's looking for, and can recognize those qualities quite quickly, he rarely dates people for very long (specifically no more than a couple dates) unless he is fairly certain it could get serious. But at the point when he knows it could get serious, no, he wouldn't want to date other people.
He then asked which camp I'd been in - a question I knew he would ask, and the reason for bringing up the debate in the first place. Even though I'm not currently dating anyone else, it seemed like a good idea to let him know where I stand on having a boyfriend at this point in my life. So, I told him I thought both sides had an excellent point, but that it doesn't seem to make much sense to reject the possibility that there might be someone else - someone who is a better fit - until you've reached the point in a relationship when you're sure you could spend your life together, and you're engaged to be married. I also told him that when the time is right, I look forward to committing to one person.
The rest of the conversation is a little blurry, but I do remember getting a distinct visual image of train falling off the tracks, rolling down a mountain and exploding in flames. Definitely not one of our better conversations, and of course he was probably thinking, "what the hell is she trying to tell me." It's not so much that I said anything wrong, but I suddenly felt like there was no good way to explain my situation to a guy (And yes, I realize half of you are muttering "I told you so" under your breath).
Since that night there has been a distinct drop off in the frequency of our dates...and our communication in general. At first I tried to find ways to let him know that my feelings for him are real and that I'm taking our relationship seriously, but I didn't say anything to him directly because I thought I was just being sensitive because I'm afraid of getting hurt. But when he continued to be a little distant and a direct conversation became an obvious necessity, bad timing moved in and took up residence - I was in Austin all of last week and he is out of commission this week, buried in some big case at his firm. I know that talking to MML about this directly is the only way to get on the same page, but I can't camp outside his office and wait for him to go to the bathroom just so I can have some resolution. Plus, over time I've learned that when it comes to my romantic endeavors, additional effort (read: crazy acts, such as stalking office bathrooms) rarely elicits the desired outcome.
For now, I'm disappointed (mostly in myself)...and just plain sad. But this situation has made me realize that I really do care about MML and want to be in a relationship with him. Perhaps this will end up being nothing more than a hiccup, perhaps it will be the end of MML, but hopefully it's nothing a little communication (and patience) can't fix. Stay tuned.
A couple weeks ago, MML and I were out to dinner and I casually mentioned that my girlfriends had recently debated an interesting topic - dating habits at the point in your life when you've dated enough to know what you're looking for. I explained that there had been two distinct camps; one side felt strongly that you should commit to one person at a time until you realize that person isn't right for you, and the other camp thought that you should date people - maybe one person at a time, if they are extra dreamy - but if a really great guy comes along and asks you out for dinner or coffee, you should go because it's not pragmatic to put blinders on when you are looking to find the best possible life partner. I then asked him for the male perspective on the subject.
He considered me carefully for a full 30 seconds, and then said that because he has dated enough to know what he's looking for, and can recognize those qualities quite quickly, he rarely dates people for very long (specifically no more than a couple dates) unless he is fairly certain it could get serious. But at the point when he knows it could get serious, no, he wouldn't want to date other people.
He then asked which camp I'd been in - a question I knew he would ask, and the reason for bringing up the debate in the first place. Even though I'm not currently dating anyone else, it seemed like a good idea to let him know where I stand on having a boyfriend at this point in my life. So, I told him I thought both sides had an excellent point, but that it doesn't seem to make much sense to reject the possibility that there might be someone else - someone who is a better fit - until you've reached the point in a relationship when you're sure you could spend your life together, and you're engaged to be married. I also told him that when the time is right, I look forward to committing to one person.
The rest of the conversation is a little blurry, but I do remember getting a distinct visual image of train falling off the tracks, rolling down a mountain and exploding in flames. Definitely not one of our better conversations, and of course he was probably thinking, "what the hell is she trying to tell me." It's not so much that I said anything wrong, but I suddenly felt like there was no good way to explain my situation to a guy (And yes, I realize half of you are muttering "I told you so" under your breath).
Since that night there has been a distinct drop off in the frequency of our dates...and our communication in general. At first I tried to find ways to let him know that my feelings for him are real and that I'm taking our relationship seriously, but I didn't say anything to him directly because I thought I was just being sensitive because I'm afraid of getting hurt. But when he continued to be a little distant and a direct conversation became an obvious necessity, bad timing moved in and took up residence - I was in Austin all of last week and he is out of commission this week, buried in some big case at his firm. I know that talking to MML about this directly is the only way to get on the same page, but I can't camp outside his office and wait for him to go to the bathroom just so I can have some resolution. Plus, over time I've learned that when it comes to my romantic endeavors, additional effort (read: crazy acts, such as stalking office bathrooms) rarely elicits the desired outcome.
For now, I'm disappointed (mostly in myself)...and just plain sad. But this situation has made me realize that I really do care about MML and want to be in a relationship with him. Perhaps this will end up being nothing more than a hiccup, perhaps it will be the end of MML, but hopefully it's nothing a little communication (and patience) can't fix. Stay tuned.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Misunderstood
I rarely feel the need to justify what I write. However, based on the comments and emails I've received regarding my last post, I do want to clarify.
I do not support traditional gender roles. Actually, as I mentioned, I'm in full support of men who cook, clean and want to be Mr. Mom while I go change the world. I do not associate "allowing a man to be a man" with allowing a man to be aggressive, overpowering, controlling or a modern Neanderthal. I do not think women should be anything less than the amazing people that they are. Period.
However, I do think that there is a balance somewhere between making your life's focus having dinner on the table for your husband by 6pm, and taking on the role of man, woman, mother, provider, and life partner. I have noticed my peers - AND MYSELF - rejecting parts of their femininity merely because we were taught that it is weak to let men do traditionally "manly" things like carry groceries or open a jar of pickles. Yet these small gestures are vehicles for men to show women that they can take care of them - something most women secretly want to feel. So why reject these overtures just for the sake of feminism? Not allowing a man to pay for dinner or open the car door isn't teaching him that women are equal to men - it's teaching him to treat us exactly the SAME way he treats men. NO THANKS!
Whatever your own personal balance might be, I think there is something to be said for allowing your partner to be the man in some ways...whatever those ways may be. My point was merely that some of the innate differences between men and women are worth preserving.
I do not support traditional gender roles. Actually, as I mentioned, I'm in full support of men who cook, clean and want to be Mr. Mom while I go change the world. I do not associate "allowing a man to be a man" with allowing a man to be aggressive, overpowering, controlling or a modern Neanderthal. I do not think women should be anything less than the amazing people that they are. Period.
However, I do think that there is a balance somewhere between making your life's focus having dinner on the table for your husband by 6pm, and taking on the role of man, woman, mother, provider, and life partner. I have noticed my peers - AND MYSELF - rejecting parts of their femininity merely because we were taught that it is weak to let men do traditionally "manly" things like carry groceries or open a jar of pickles. Yet these small gestures are vehicles for men to show women that they can take care of them - something most women secretly want to feel. So why reject these overtures just for the sake of feminism? Not allowing a man to pay for dinner or open the car door isn't teaching him that women are equal to men - it's teaching him to treat us exactly the SAME way he treats men. NO THANKS!
Whatever your own personal balance might be, I think there is something to be said for allowing your partner to be the man in some ways...whatever those ways may be. My point was merely that some of the innate differences between men and women are worth preserving.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Letting a man be a man
The more time I spend thinking about how men and women are evolving in the post feminist world, the more I realize that women aren’t just becoming equal to men – we are becoming the same as men. I’m not talking about voting, having high-powered careers or taking on a larger role in politics. I’m talking about how our more masculine characteristics impact our romantic relationships.
I have a good friend who loves to pursue men. She insists that she prefers to play the aggressive role, rather than wait around for men to take action. Aside from my inkling that this preference is born out of fear that if she doesn’t pursue, the guy won’t either, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with this line of thinking. If she genuinely feels more comfortable being the pursuer, more power to her. But I have to wonder, is there room for two men in a heterosexual relationship? Could it be that my friend hasn’t had a lot of success as a pursuer because guys are turned off by characteristics that are innately male? Since my teeth don’t sweat for girly-men, I’d have to assume that a healthy, heterosexual man isn’t having fantasies about a woman who takes on too much of the male role.
Similarly, I have another friend who has struggled to understand why her partner doesn’t have much of a sexual appetite. Having watched my friend’s partner struggle to be the provider, only to be constantly reminded that my friend makes more money, is more educated, thinner, funnier and generally more successful, I’m not surprised that he doesn’t want to add the bedroom to the list of areas where he falls short.
Whether you think I’m off my rocker or onto something brilliant, try my new theory on for size:
As women become accustomed to feeling empowered, we automatically expect men to adjust accordingly. We're balancing work, family and relationships single handedly. Is it really such a wonder that men seem to be floundering to define their role in this new social environment? Are they supposed to be masculine, capable – the provider? Are they supposed to accept that their women can pretty much take care of everything on their own? Can a balance be reached? Can men really be less successful than their female partners and not feel inferior or immasculated? I immediately think of the Academy Award Curse - so many A list actresses are married when they win an academy award, and so few are still married a year later.
It seems pretty clear to me that in some way, we are making men – who are historically known for wanting to feel needed, whether that be as the bread winner, the dog trainer, the babysitter or Mr. Fix It – feel obsolete. What is the result of this displacement? Maybe it's just a coincidence, but it seems to me that the sensitive, overly groomed mextrosexuals of today have replaced the greasers, rockers and other, more masculine, sexually aspirational figures of the past. Cound it be that men have started to balance our masculine characteristics by becoming more feminine? While men who can cook and communicate are welcome, I wonder how far this shift should go?
I certainly don’t think women should start hiding their successes, or jump back into some dreaded gender role just because it will make men feel more manly, but I wonder if we really need to wave our independence and success around like some sort of phallic symbol? Sure, we CAN do it all, but do we have to...or even want to? If we want to preserve a little bit of the archetypes that allow us to feel both ravaged (my personal favorite) and protected (oh come on, admit it), maybe it’s in our best interest to take note of how our autonomy may make men feel a little, well, castrated.
Now, all of this is coming from a woman who - until J-Dogg came along - spent years dating sensitive men and refusing to them do anything for her; including pay for dinner, open doors, change light bulbs or even reach the top shelf. So, in light of my new theory, I’m working on letting MML be the man. It’s funny, but as I remind myself to let him do little things for me, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that he seems to like it…and so do I.
I have a good friend who loves to pursue men. She insists that she prefers to play the aggressive role, rather than wait around for men to take action. Aside from my inkling that this preference is born out of fear that if she doesn’t pursue, the guy won’t either, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with this line of thinking. If she genuinely feels more comfortable being the pursuer, more power to her. But I have to wonder, is there room for two men in a heterosexual relationship? Could it be that my friend hasn’t had a lot of success as a pursuer because guys are turned off by characteristics that are innately male? Since my teeth don’t sweat for girly-men, I’d have to assume that a healthy, heterosexual man isn’t having fantasies about a woman who takes on too much of the male role.
Similarly, I have another friend who has struggled to understand why her partner doesn’t have much of a sexual appetite. Having watched my friend’s partner struggle to be the provider, only to be constantly reminded that my friend makes more money, is more educated, thinner, funnier and generally more successful, I’m not surprised that he doesn’t want to add the bedroom to the list of areas where he falls short.
Whether you think I’m off my rocker or onto something brilliant, try my new theory on for size:
As women become accustomed to feeling empowered, we automatically expect men to adjust accordingly. We're balancing work, family and relationships single handedly. Is it really such a wonder that men seem to be floundering to define their role in this new social environment? Are they supposed to be masculine, capable – the provider? Are they supposed to accept that their women can pretty much take care of everything on their own? Can a balance be reached? Can men really be less successful than their female partners and not feel inferior or immasculated? I immediately think of the Academy Award Curse - so many A list actresses are married when they win an academy award, and so few are still married a year later.
It seems pretty clear to me that in some way, we are making men – who are historically known for wanting to feel needed, whether that be as the bread winner, the dog trainer, the babysitter or Mr. Fix It – feel obsolete. What is the result of this displacement? Maybe it's just a coincidence, but it seems to me that the sensitive, overly groomed mextrosexuals of today have replaced the greasers, rockers and other, more masculine, sexually aspirational figures of the past. Cound it be that men have started to balance our masculine characteristics by becoming more feminine? While men who can cook and communicate are welcome, I wonder how far this shift should go?
I certainly don’t think women should start hiding their successes, or jump back into some dreaded gender role just because it will make men feel more manly, but I wonder if we really need to wave our independence and success around like some sort of phallic symbol? Sure, we CAN do it all, but do we have to...or even want to? If we want to preserve a little bit of the archetypes that allow us to feel both ravaged (my personal favorite) and protected (oh come on, admit it), maybe it’s in our best interest to take note of how our autonomy may make men feel a little, well, castrated.
Now, all of this is coming from a woman who - until J-Dogg came along - spent years dating sensitive men and refusing to them do anything for her; including pay for dinner, open doors, change light bulbs or even reach the top shelf. So, in light of my new theory, I’m working on letting MML be the man. It’s funny, but as I remind myself to let him do little things for me, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that he seems to like it…and so do I.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Seriously, people
Sometimes people send me interesting stories that relate to my never-ending ramblings about men, gender relations and life as a woman. Here are a couple I REALLY needed to share:
Enough to send a lesser woman back home, into bed and under the covers
One of my sorority sisters from college - we'll call her "Pretty and Skinny," or P&S - is a successful single woman rockin New York City. Seriously petite, and super cute, P&S can get away with a lot of clothes that my curves don't allow me to wear. Since they are all the rage, she recently purchased one of those cute little trapeze dresses (see picture below for those of you who don't live for this kind of stuff), and stepped out for a night on the town. She was feeling pretty hot when she walked out of her apartment. She was feeling pretty hot as she waited for the train. She was feeling pretty hot all the way up until she got on the subway and a girl, about the same age, jumped up and immediately OFFERED HER SEAT to P&S.
Horror.
Note to stupid people: if you're not 100 percent sure someone is pregnant, don't make any overt statements or actions suggesting that they are. If you suspect someone might be "with child," simply get up and move to another part of the train, bus or space ship. SERIOUSLY.
http://cdn.overstock.com/images/products/P10757027.jpg
I mock, but if I were him, I might do the exact same thing
My best friend from college, we'll call her BFFC, was recently on a business trip and found herself sitting on the beach in the middle of the night with a male colleague. First, let me just state that this story is probably not going where you think it's going - the man is married (although a little bit skeevy) and BFFC is happily engaged. However, since they both live in the middle of Pennsylvania, they simply shared the desire to take advantage of their close proximity to the beach, regardless of the hour.
As they were sitting there, chatting and enjoying the scenery, BFFC looked down and glimpsed her colleague's bare feet for the first time. THEY WERE FREAKISHLY SMALL. Not "a little on the small side," but "woa, I would never take my shoes off in public." For the rest of the evening, all BFFC could think about was HOW this had POSSIBLY escaped her attention previously.
When they returned to the office and BFFC was able to see her colleague in his work clothes as she normally did, she made it a point to look down and notice his shoes. Mystery solved. His shoes were easily three or four sizes bigger than his feet, and for the first time BFFC noticed that he walked a little funny...and now she knew why.
Enough to send a lesser woman back home, into bed and under the covers
One of my sorority sisters from college - we'll call her "Pretty and Skinny," or P&S - is a successful single woman rockin New York City. Seriously petite, and super cute, P&S can get away with a lot of clothes that my curves don't allow me to wear. Since they are all the rage, she recently purchased one of those cute little trapeze dresses (see picture below for those of you who don't live for this kind of stuff), and stepped out for a night on the town. She was feeling pretty hot when she walked out of her apartment. She was feeling pretty hot as she waited for the train. She was feeling pretty hot all the way up until she got on the subway and a girl, about the same age, jumped up and immediately OFFERED HER SEAT to P&S.
Horror.
Note to stupid people: if you're not 100 percent sure someone is pregnant, don't make any overt statements or actions suggesting that they are. If you suspect someone might be "with child," simply get up and move to another part of the train, bus or space ship. SERIOUSLY.
http://cdn.overstock.com/images/products/P10757027.jpg
I mock, but if I were him, I might do the exact same thing
My best friend from college, we'll call her BFFC, was recently on a business trip and found herself sitting on the beach in the middle of the night with a male colleague. First, let me just state that this story is probably not going where you think it's going - the man is married (although a little bit skeevy) and BFFC is happily engaged. However, since they both live in the middle of Pennsylvania, they simply shared the desire to take advantage of their close proximity to the beach, regardless of the hour.
As they were sitting there, chatting and enjoying the scenery, BFFC looked down and glimpsed her colleague's bare feet for the first time. THEY WERE FREAKISHLY SMALL. Not "a little on the small side," but "woa, I would never take my shoes off in public." For the rest of the evening, all BFFC could think about was HOW this had POSSIBLY escaped her attention previously.
When they returned to the office and BFFC was able to see her colleague in his work clothes as she normally did, she made it a point to look down and notice his shoes. Mystery solved. His shoes were easily three or four sizes bigger than his feet, and for the first time BFFC noticed that he walked a little funny...and now she knew why.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Free falling
While I was in Boston, MML was in Hawaii with his family. He got back last Friday and I’ve seen him five separate times since then:
-Saturday he came to the belated house warming party I threw with my roommates, and not only did he rush to my aid and rescue my puppy (who got so excited from making so many new friends that she jumped over a 3 1/2 foot wall and ran directly into oncoming traffic) from the street while I had a panic attack, but he spent quality time talking to specific friends I’d mentioned – at some point or another – were important to me. Before he left to go home, he asked if he could take me to breakfast in the morning. I agreed. I mean, for heaven’s sake, he saved my baby’s life; the least I could do was let the boy buy me some eggs.
-Sunday morning he came to pick me up, and when he saw that I was cleaning, he jumped right in and helped me and my roommates clean up beer cans and other party remnants. When things looked a little bit less like Animal House, we headed to breakfast and laughed about how we’re getting old and how hangovers hurt a little bit more each time. I laughed about it, but in reality I was still crossed-eyed, and shaking so bad it was all I could do not to drop my fork or barf on the table. Somehow I managed to avoid being the girl who up-chucked in front of the senior citizens at the Original Pancake House, and had an amazing time. When he dropped me off at home, he asked what I was doing later that night. I knew I’d seen a lot of him in the past 24 hours, but I decided to throw caution to the wind and say “nothing.” He suggested we grab some dinner and see a movie. I agreed. I mean, he did help with clean-up duty, it was the least I could do…
-Dinner was perfect, and at one point during the movie, when he leaned over and kissed me, I swear I felt a little something in my tummy.
-On Monday night he called to ask me to have dinner with him on Tuesday, and by this point, I’d be lying by omission if I didn’t admit that I couldn’t wait to see him again. I found myself carefully picking an outfit I knew he’d love (actually, it was inspired by my new BFF, Deanna (yes, as in The Bachelorette). Normal people might not remember this, but I LOVED the white jeans she wore the night she sent both guys home from the two-on-one date). I found myself smiling like an idiot when he told me I looked gorgeous. I found myself alternating between laughing hysterically and enjoying in-depth conversations about everything from condiments (mustard vs. ketchup) to family to business ethics. I found myself wondering how four and a half hours could have flown by so quickly. I knew when MML kissed me goodnight that I’d just been on one of the best dates of my life.
-On Thursday he called me from work in the middle of the day to fill me in on some office drama that he’d been telling me about all week, and before we hung up he asked if my girl roommate and I wanted to meet some of his friends at a local hot spot for a couple of drinks and some good music. I hesitated because, well, I didn’t want to be too available, and this would have been our fifth time hanging out in one week. However, as I’m writing this, I'm on my way to Vegas with my girlfriends for a long weekend of good ‘ol fashioned shenanigans. Given we’ll have a four day separation, I thought seeing MML one more time would be okay. Again, I carefully picked out my outfit and felt myself light up when we walked into the bar and MML made a beeline for me and my girl roommate. We had a great time hanging out and dancing…although, we definitely got caught giving each other a couple of looks that made our friends roll their eyes and make gagging noises.
By the time I kissed MML good night (for a half hour) on Thursday, I knew I was in trouble. We’ve been seeing each other for just about two months and things have steadily moved forward since our first date. If I can control the intense panic rising in my throat, I'll admit that I’m developing real feelings for MML. I know the time is coming when it will be assumed that I’m not dating anyone else, and I’m somehow going to have to explain my position and my logic.
When I decided to be done having boyfriends, I definitely patted myself on the back for what I honestly thought was a stroke of brilliance. I firmly believe that I need to stay strong in my resolve not to have a boyfriend. I’ve dated enough guys to fill a football stadium and I’ve had a couple of significant relationships - I know I’m ready to find a life partner. It made so much sense - if you're looking for a life partner, why in the world would you date one guy at a time? It's much more efficient to keep your options open until you find someone you want to spend your life with and who feels the same way about you. To me, that seems like the logical point to focus on one guy.
When I first started thinking that I'm going to somehow communicate this to MML, I was overwhelmed…and a little scared. How would I make sure he knew that he was becoming incredibly special to me, and that not having a boyfriend is just how I need to do things at this point in my life? How would I make sure he knew that I wasn't going to be sleeping with other guys (once we decide to take that step)? What if this is a deal breaker for him? Although I have no idea how I’m going to do it or what I'm going to say, if he walks away, he probably wasn't in it for the long haul.
ALL that being said, I think an amendment to the dating experiment is in order: In the beginning, the idea was to date pretty much anyone and everyone who asked me out (within reason, I did say “no” to the 50 year old with a pot belly who came up to me, sucked his teeth, and said, “how bout I take your pretty little self out tonight”). But now, I think I should continue getting to know MML and introducing him to my world - without having to go on dates with people who interest me about as much as accounting homework. At this point there is no reason to go on pointless dates. BUT, if and when a B+ or better comes along and asks me out, I’ll go...until I know I'm with someone I want to spend my life with (whether it's MML or someone I've yet to meet). In the meantime, I'm going to focus on allowing myself to fall...EEEK!
-Saturday he came to the belated house warming party I threw with my roommates, and not only did he rush to my aid and rescue my puppy (who got so excited from making so many new friends that she jumped over a 3 1/2 foot wall and ran directly into oncoming traffic) from the street while I had a panic attack, but he spent quality time talking to specific friends I’d mentioned – at some point or another – were important to me. Before he left to go home, he asked if he could take me to breakfast in the morning. I agreed. I mean, for heaven’s sake, he saved my baby’s life; the least I could do was let the boy buy me some eggs.
-Sunday morning he came to pick me up, and when he saw that I was cleaning, he jumped right in and helped me and my roommates clean up beer cans and other party remnants. When things looked a little bit less like Animal House, we headed to breakfast and laughed about how we’re getting old and how hangovers hurt a little bit more each time. I laughed about it, but in reality I was still crossed-eyed, and shaking so bad it was all I could do not to drop my fork or barf on the table. Somehow I managed to avoid being the girl who up-chucked in front of the senior citizens at the Original Pancake House, and had an amazing time. When he dropped me off at home, he asked what I was doing later that night. I knew I’d seen a lot of him in the past 24 hours, but I decided to throw caution to the wind and say “nothing.” He suggested we grab some dinner and see a movie. I agreed. I mean, he did help with clean-up duty, it was the least I could do…
-Dinner was perfect, and at one point during the movie, when he leaned over and kissed me, I swear I felt a little something in my tummy.
-On Monday night he called to ask me to have dinner with him on Tuesday, and by this point, I’d be lying by omission if I didn’t admit that I couldn’t wait to see him again. I found myself carefully picking an outfit I knew he’d love (actually, it was inspired by my new BFF, Deanna (yes, as in The Bachelorette). Normal people might not remember this, but I LOVED the white jeans she wore the night she sent both guys home from the two-on-one date). I found myself smiling like an idiot when he told me I looked gorgeous. I found myself alternating between laughing hysterically and enjoying in-depth conversations about everything from condiments (mustard vs. ketchup) to family to business ethics. I found myself wondering how four and a half hours could have flown by so quickly. I knew when MML kissed me goodnight that I’d just been on one of the best dates of my life.
-On Thursday he called me from work in the middle of the day to fill me in on some office drama that he’d been telling me about all week, and before we hung up he asked if my girl roommate and I wanted to meet some of his friends at a local hot spot for a couple of drinks and some good music. I hesitated because, well, I didn’t want to be too available, and this would have been our fifth time hanging out in one week. However, as I’m writing this, I'm on my way to Vegas with my girlfriends for a long weekend of good ‘ol fashioned shenanigans. Given we’ll have a four day separation, I thought seeing MML one more time would be okay. Again, I carefully picked out my outfit and felt myself light up when we walked into the bar and MML made a beeline for me and my girl roommate. We had a great time hanging out and dancing…although, we definitely got caught giving each other a couple of looks that made our friends roll their eyes and make gagging noises.
By the time I kissed MML good night (for a half hour) on Thursday, I knew I was in trouble. We’ve been seeing each other for just about two months and things have steadily moved forward since our first date. If I can control the intense panic rising in my throat, I'll admit that I’m developing real feelings for MML. I know the time is coming when it will be assumed that I’m not dating anyone else, and I’m somehow going to have to explain my position and my logic.
When I decided to be done having boyfriends, I definitely patted myself on the back for what I honestly thought was a stroke of brilliance. I firmly believe that I need to stay strong in my resolve not to have a boyfriend. I’ve dated enough guys to fill a football stadium and I’ve had a couple of significant relationships - I know I’m ready to find a life partner. It made so much sense - if you're looking for a life partner, why in the world would you date one guy at a time? It's much more efficient to keep your options open until you find someone you want to spend your life with and who feels the same way about you. To me, that seems like the logical point to focus on one guy.
When I first started thinking that I'm going to somehow communicate this to MML, I was overwhelmed…and a little scared. How would I make sure he knew that he was becoming incredibly special to me, and that not having a boyfriend is just how I need to do things at this point in my life? How would I make sure he knew that I wasn't going to be sleeping with other guys (once we decide to take that step)? What if this is a deal breaker for him? Although I have no idea how I’m going to do it or what I'm going to say, if he walks away, he probably wasn't in it for the long haul.
ALL that being said, I think an amendment to the dating experiment is in order: In the beginning, the idea was to date pretty much anyone and everyone who asked me out (within reason, I did say “no” to the 50 year old with a pot belly who came up to me, sucked his teeth, and said, “how bout I take your pretty little self out tonight”). But now, I think I should continue getting to know MML and introducing him to my world - without having to go on dates with people who interest me about as much as accounting homework. At this point there is no reason to go on pointless dates. BUT, if and when a B+ or better comes along and asks me out, I’ll go...until I know I'm with someone I want to spend my life with (whether it's MML or someone I've yet to meet). In the meantime, I'm going to focus on allowing myself to fall...EEEK!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Laugh out loud
I'm reading the new Lauren Weisberger (the chick who wrote The Devil Wears Prada) novel, Chasing Harry Winston...which in my opinion, is much better than TDWP. Anyway, there is a scene where the three main characters, all women, are having brunch and laughing about some hair brain bet they've made with each other. The author describes the laughter between the women as "the kind that happens all too rarely after college."
WORD.
That line made me stop reading. Whether or not you went to college or were lucky enough to have the storybook college experience that I'm so grateful for, there is something about life at that particular age. Life before work, deadlines, early mornings, more and more frequent early nights, bills, mortgages, weddings, relationships, pets, babies - why does cracking up with your girl friends seem to get lost in all that?
Some of my best memories are of being silly with my girl friends...and not even always my best friends. In fact, junior year of college I decided against living in my sorority house and became a resident advisor in a Freshman dorm. I did it because I loved being a camp counselor when I was in high school, and because you got your own room and free room and board. I can easily say that it was one of the best experiences of my life. I made 23 new girl friends...little sisters. I remember one particular night during first semester finals, I was writing a 75 page paper on beauty for my nihilism and existence class. The countdown on the dry erase board outside my door said "24 pages to go" and I was on the verge of a meltdown. I wandered out into the hall to see if there were any other procrastinators I could talk to - and as always, there were. Three of my residents were sitting on the floor in the hall wearing PJs and zit cream, with their books and papers spread out everywhere. I slumped down next to them and within minutes we were laughing hysterically about embarrassing moments, campus gossip, hook-ups and our families. I laughed until my face hurt, my sides felt like I'd done a three hour ab workout and I had to keep my legs crossed for fear of peeing my pants.
Maybe it was because we were in college and everyone lives next door, making laughter and companionship more accessible, maybe it was because it was finals and we were all a little slap happy, or maybe it was the result of the only time in your life when you have complete freedom without the wagon full of responsibility that comes with being an adult.
It wasn't a life changing or earth shattering event, but I'll always remember that night. It's a good reminder of a more carefree time in my life and of how fun girls can in the absence of boys and pettiness.
WORD.
That line made me stop reading. Whether or not you went to college or were lucky enough to have the storybook college experience that I'm so grateful for, there is something about life at that particular age. Life before work, deadlines, early mornings, more and more frequent early nights, bills, mortgages, weddings, relationships, pets, babies - why does cracking up with your girl friends seem to get lost in all that?
Some of my best memories are of being silly with my girl friends...and not even always my best friends. In fact, junior year of college I decided against living in my sorority house and became a resident advisor in a Freshman dorm. I did it because I loved being a camp counselor when I was in high school, and because you got your own room and free room and board. I can easily say that it was one of the best experiences of my life. I made 23 new girl friends...little sisters. I remember one particular night during first semester finals, I was writing a 75 page paper on beauty for my nihilism and existence class. The countdown on the dry erase board outside my door said "24 pages to go" and I was on the verge of a meltdown. I wandered out into the hall to see if there were any other procrastinators I could talk to - and as always, there were. Three of my residents were sitting on the floor in the hall wearing PJs and zit cream, with their books and papers spread out everywhere. I slumped down next to them and within minutes we were laughing hysterically about embarrassing moments, campus gossip, hook-ups and our families. I laughed until my face hurt, my sides felt like I'd done a three hour ab workout and I had to keep my legs crossed for fear of peeing my pants.
Maybe it was because we were in college and everyone lives next door, making laughter and companionship more accessible, maybe it was because it was finals and we were all a little slap happy, or maybe it was the result of the only time in your life when you have complete freedom without the wagon full of responsibility that comes with being an adult.
It wasn't a life changing or earth shattering event, but I'll always remember that night. It's a good reminder of a more carefree time in my life and of how fun girls can in the absence of boys and pettiness.
Monday, June 16, 2008
The Audacity
Another thing I love about my BF (we'll call her Beantown) is that she brings out my audacious side - the part of me that could take over the universe if the rest of me weren't such a big, fat, chicken sh*t.
In celebration of her birthday, we went out for a night on the town. Having recently discussed why we should get over our neuroses and appreciate our youth and beauty before gravity forces our boobs into our shoes, Beantown and I decided to get all dolled up and rock the city like "30" was seven years away.
And we did.
In fact, I actually glided up to the bouncer of a club that had a line around the corner, batted my eyelashes, stuck out my boobs (which I never, EVER do) and convinced him that letting me and 20 of my best friends (read: people I met in the back of the line) into his bar would be the best decision he ever made.
Feeling a little bit high from all the audacity, I decided to let my inner kissing slut come out of retirement for a special appearance. One of Beantown's friends, we'll call him Elvis (it was the hair), was out for the big celebration. Two years too young, a smoker, partier and without a doubt, a male slut, Elvis isn't really my type. But alas, he is adorable, charming and I saw no reason to avoid shamelessly flirt with him for the majority of the evening.
So, in Boston, 3,000 miles away from my life, I grabbed Elvis's hand, led him around the corner and kissed him like I was a soap opera actress one kiss away from landing the lead role in a romantic comedy opposite Hugh Grant. The best part? After begging in vain for my phone number and a chance to see me before I left for LA, I was walking with Beantown toward a cab, and Elvis ran out of the bar and called after me at the top of his lungs, "Stteeeeellllllllllaaaaaaaaa!" How do you refuse a guy who quotes Tennesse Williams? Bascially, you don't. So, I walked back to him and gave him one more kiss - much to the delight of the bar hoppers waiting in line.
I swear I couldn't make up this crap if I tried.
In celebration of her birthday, we went out for a night on the town. Having recently discussed why we should get over our neuroses and appreciate our youth and beauty before gravity forces our boobs into our shoes, Beantown and I decided to get all dolled up and rock the city like "30" was seven years away.
And we did.
In fact, I actually glided up to the bouncer of a club that had a line around the corner, batted my eyelashes, stuck out my boobs (which I never, EVER do) and convinced him that letting me and 20 of my best friends (read: people I met in the back of the line) into his bar would be the best decision he ever made.
Feeling a little bit high from all the audacity, I decided to let my inner kissing slut come out of retirement for a special appearance. One of Beantown's friends, we'll call him Elvis (it was the hair), was out for the big celebration. Two years too young, a smoker, partier and without a doubt, a male slut, Elvis isn't really my type. But alas, he is adorable, charming and I saw no reason to avoid shamelessly flirt with him for the majority of the evening.
So, in Boston, 3,000 miles away from my life, I grabbed Elvis's hand, led him around the corner and kissed him like I was a soap opera actress one kiss away from landing the lead role in a romantic comedy opposite Hugh Grant. The best part? After begging in vain for my phone number and a chance to see me before I left for LA, I was walking with Beantown toward a cab, and Elvis ran out of the bar and called after me at the top of his lungs, "Stteeeeellllllllllaaaaaaaaa!" How do you refuse a guy who quotes Tennesse Williams? Bascially, you don't. So, I walked back to him and gave him one more kiss - much to the delight of the bar hoppers waiting in line.
I swear I couldn't make up this crap if I tried.
BFs
I'm in Boston right now, visiting my best friend - a person who feels like home to me. There has been so much joy wrapped up in the past few days, but for some reason I've found that all my emotions are a little more intense. I've been laughing harder and crying harder. But even more than that, I've noticed an overwhelming feeling of acceptance. I don't feel like I have to be anything but exactly what I am. I know that she adores me whether I'm grumpy, silly, pensive or witty. Acceptance like that comes with incredible freedom.
Yesterday I was telling her that I'm disappointed in myself because I've been thinking a lot about J-Dogg. Today would have been our anniversary, and over the past couple of days, I've been missing him...not just a dull ache, but the feeling that someone is using my heart like one of those stress balls they give you during college finals. My best friend didn't lecture me about how important timing is or explain to me (as if I don't already know) why we had to break up and how much better off I'm going to be in the long run. She just listened. Then, all she said was, "love isn't something you can turn off - especially not you. Don't be so hard on yourself for loving someone so much."
It was so simple, but it helped me so much..and it made me wonder, what would the world be like if we could see ourselves through the eyes of our very best friend?
Yesterday I was telling her that I'm disappointed in myself because I've been thinking a lot about J-Dogg. Today would have been our anniversary, and over the past couple of days, I've been missing him...not just a dull ache, but the feeling that someone is using my heart like one of those stress balls they give you during college finals. My best friend didn't lecture me about how important timing is or explain to me (as if I don't already know) why we had to break up and how much better off I'm going to be in the long run. She just listened. Then, all she said was, "love isn't something you can turn off - especially not you. Don't be so hard on yourself for loving someone so much."
It was so simple, but it helped me so much..and it made me wonder, what would the world be like if we could see ourselves through the eyes of our very best friend?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The ick factor
Ickiness is a condition that is responsible for the demise of many potential relationships. Symptoms of ickiness include nausea, claustrophobia and disinterest. The one and only side effect of ickiness is immediate termination of the relationship - studies show that this side effect occurs in 100 percent of cases.
My oldest friends are VERY familiar with the ick factor. Starting back when I was about fifteen, I've used this phrase pretty much every time I started seeing someone new. If a guy had feelings that were equal to or greater than mine, I would immediately find him "icky." It didn't matter if I'd liked him for six months before we started "going out," or if he was the hottest/coolest/most popular guy around. If the ick creeped in, it was over.
I never outgrew ickiness, but I did get much better at disguising it with seemingly legitimate reasons why I didn't like someone: they liked me too much, too soon; they were too old, too young, too pretty, gay - you get the point.
In fact, even when I first started seeing J-Dogg, the ick factor threatened keep us apart. The first time he came over to watch a movie, I was nauseous and I wanted to run out the door, down the street and maybe all the way to Nebraska. So why did J-Dogg end up being different? Well, it's not rocket science - I slept with him. I slept with him WAY before I should have, and while it put me in an incredibly vulnerable position for the remainder of our relationship, it also cemented my feet to the ground long enough for me to fall in love for the first time.
Not to sound too much like a psychology term paper, but THANK GOD for J-Dogg. If I hadn't fallen for him, I might have never stopped running long enough to realize that I CLEARLY have some sort of fear of intimacy. Pretty obvious, huh? I guess sometimes I need to be hit over the head with things before I get it.
So what's the point of telling you this now? Well, as I spend more time with MML, I'm beginning to feel a little bit of the ickiness that's obviously associated with the possibility of getting hurt. Last week he asked me to go to dinner, but I'd already make plans to go out with Surfer Dude, so I had to say no. When I told MML I already had plans, he suggested lunch. Then on Friday, he called me in the late afternoon to see if he could stop by to take a walk with me and the puppy. He contacts me everyday. He always seems excited to see me. He even thinks I look cute in my bright pink terry cloth (with rainbow accents) beach cover-up. But instead of enjoying the attention, I focus on how he is incredibly competitive and got legitimately upset when the girls beat the guys during a recent flip cup tournament. Instead of enjoying the excitement of something new, I focus on his occasionally girly taste in TV shows and music, contemplating if he's manly enough for me.
The problem is that recognizing ickiness as an emotion I don't want to validate, doesn't make it go away. The good news is that I like MML and I'm going to stick around to see if something good could happen between us...even if I have to chain myself to a chair.
My oldest friends are VERY familiar with the ick factor. Starting back when I was about fifteen, I've used this phrase pretty much every time I started seeing someone new. If a guy had feelings that were equal to or greater than mine, I would immediately find him "icky." It didn't matter if I'd liked him for six months before we started "going out," or if he was the hottest/coolest/most popular guy around. If the ick creeped in, it was over.
I never outgrew ickiness, but I did get much better at disguising it with seemingly legitimate reasons why I didn't like someone: they liked me too much, too soon; they were too old, too young, too pretty, gay - you get the point.
In fact, even when I first started seeing J-Dogg, the ick factor threatened keep us apart. The first time he came over to watch a movie, I was nauseous and I wanted to run out the door, down the street and maybe all the way to Nebraska. So why did J-Dogg end up being different? Well, it's not rocket science - I slept with him. I slept with him WAY before I should have, and while it put me in an incredibly vulnerable position for the remainder of our relationship, it also cemented my feet to the ground long enough for me to fall in love for the first time.
Not to sound too much like a psychology term paper, but THANK GOD for J-Dogg. If I hadn't fallen for him, I might have never stopped running long enough to realize that I CLEARLY have some sort of fear of intimacy. Pretty obvious, huh? I guess sometimes I need to be hit over the head with things before I get it.
So what's the point of telling you this now? Well, as I spend more time with MML, I'm beginning to feel a little bit of the ickiness that's obviously associated with the possibility of getting hurt. Last week he asked me to go to dinner, but I'd already make plans to go out with Surfer Dude, so I had to say no. When I told MML I already had plans, he suggested lunch. Then on Friday, he called me in the late afternoon to see if he could stop by to take a walk with me and the puppy. He contacts me everyday. He always seems excited to see me. He even thinks I look cute in my bright pink terry cloth (with rainbow accents) beach cover-up. But instead of enjoying the attention, I focus on how he is incredibly competitive and got legitimately upset when the girls beat the guys during a recent flip cup tournament. Instead of enjoying the excitement of something new, I focus on his occasionally girly taste in TV shows and music, contemplating if he's manly enough for me.
The problem is that recognizing ickiness as an emotion I don't want to validate, doesn't make it go away. The good news is that I like MML and I'm going to stick around to see if something good could happen between us...even if I have to chain myself to a chair.
Friday, June 6, 2008
I don't understand
-Why anyone would think it was okay to disclose on a first date - or on the first five dates - that they have hemorrhoids, herpes and are "very turned on by their date's pheromones?" While this didn't happen to me, it DID happen, and it's just not okay.
-Why I can't resist a tabloid magazine with Jessica Simpson on the cover.
-Why I inspect my incoming wrinkles with intensity and diligence, as if staring at them is going to give them stage fright or something.
-Why celebrities seem to have cornered the market on having twins? It's replacing aid work and adopting children from third-world countries as the new celebrity trend. I remember the good 'ol days when celebrities were only responsible for trends like leg warmers and bangs.....
-Why cheese-dick Ron on the Bachelorette didn't give Deanna his FREAKIN coat when she said she was cold!? Instead, he just stood there, warm and toasty in his suit, and explained why she isn't his type of woman. Hot.
-Why certain members of my childhood group of friends continue to think that marriage/childbearing is a team sport at which I'm the weak link, and therefore pester me with questions like, "When are you going to get married, you've got to catch up." Or, when I explain my dating experiment and that I've started conducting "interviews" to find a life partner, they respond with "it's good to hear that you're finally growing up." Right. Because living a nomadic single life and starting my own business couldn't have given me any valuable life experience...
-Why my guy roommate continues to rise his dishes and then place them just OUTSIDE the dishwasher.
-Why guys think it's okay to call you at the exact time when they want you to come hang out. It's not even the principal of the matter, it's logistics: what if I worked out that day and didn't wash my hair when I took a shower because I didn't think I was going anywhere. If that were the case (and it's often the case), I'd have to re-shower and wash, dry and style my incredibly unmanageable hair. Then, I'd have to find an outfit that says "I'm cute, sexy and spontaneous, but not over dressed," while dealing with the fact that I can't just fall back on jeans and flip-flops because I'm short, and therefore all my cute jeans are long so I can only wear them with my incredibly high heels...which obviously I can't wear if I'm going to achieve my "of course this is what I was wearing when you called, and yes, I'm always this hot" look. I mean, come on, we're looking at a minimum of 45 minutes.
-Why doing ANYTHING other than work is incredibly appealing on a Friday
-Why I can't resist a tabloid magazine with Jessica Simpson on the cover.
-Why I inspect my incoming wrinkles with intensity and diligence, as if staring at them is going to give them stage fright or something.
-Why celebrities seem to have cornered the market on having twins? It's replacing aid work and adopting children from third-world countries as the new celebrity trend. I remember the good 'ol days when celebrities were only responsible for trends like leg warmers and bangs.....
-Why cheese-dick Ron on the Bachelorette didn't give Deanna his FREAKIN coat when she said she was cold!? Instead, he just stood there, warm and toasty in his suit, and explained why she isn't his type of woman. Hot.
-Why certain members of my childhood group of friends continue to think that marriage/childbearing is a team sport at which I'm the weak link, and therefore pester me with questions like, "When are you going to get married, you've got to catch up." Or, when I explain my dating experiment and that I've started conducting "interviews" to find a life partner, they respond with "it's good to hear that you're finally growing up." Right. Because living a nomadic single life and starting my own business couldn't have given me any valuable life experience...
-Why my guy roommate continues to rise his dishes and then place them just OUTSIDE the dishwasher.
-Why guys think it's okay to call you at the exact time when they want you to come hang out. It's not even the principal of the matter, it's logistics: what if I worked out that day and didn't wash my hair when I took a shower because I didn't think I was going anywhere. If that were the case (and it's often the case), I'd have to re-shower and wash, dry and style my incredibly unmanageable hair. Then, I'd have to find an outfit that says "I'm cute, sexy and spontaneous, but not over dressed," while dealing with the fact that I can't just fall back on jeans and flip-flops because I'm short, and therefore all my cute jeans are long so I can only wear them with my incredibly high heels...which obviously I can't wear if I'm going to achieve my "of course this is what I was wearing when you called, and yes, I'm always this hot" look. I mean, come on, we're looking at a minimum of 45 minutes.
-Why doing ANYTHING other than work is incredibly appealing on a Friday
Monday, June 2, 2008
Type-casting
It has been brought to my attention that I've been failing to provide updates on my very active dating life in favor of moaning about J-Dogg. Point taken.
I could spend hours and pages writing about the different guys I've been seeing, and providing you with sarcasm-lined commentary to spice up tales of rather mundane dates. I could tell you about the demise of Colorado, the short-lived flirtation with the pocket-sized volleyball player or the new surfer dude with a penchant for made-up words and theme parties. But the truth is that there is no point in detailing the "filler guys," - the guys I forget I'm seeing until they contact me to set up another date.
Instead, I'll tell you why the past week has jumbled my emotions and challenged my expectations. Remember MML? The fabulous first date? The hot two-hand kiss? The guy with super-fun friends?
I've known since our first date that MML wasn't just going to be some random guy I go to dinner with to further my dating experiment or get over J-Dogg. We've seen each other quite a bit over the past month and I'm always surprised how fun it is to hang out with him. He is interesting, witty, considerate and surprisingly insightful...his dirty blond hair, green eyes and killer smile aren't bad either. We've been to dinners, movies, and to check out local bands. I've spent some quality time getting to know his tight-knit, crazy, and incredibly endearing group of friends. We've talked about the first time we got drunk, our first kiss, what we admire about our parent's relationships (oddly, both sets of parents are still married) and what we'd like to do differently. We've talked about surviving high school, figuring out who we are and deciding what we want most from our lives. He opens doors, takes my hand, randomly kisses my forehead in the middle of a movie and frequently tells me I look amazing. He dotes on my friends and buys them drinks...even if he runs into them when I'm not around. In fact, after explaining that a number of my best friends are splattered across the country, he asked a series of questions, and then smiled and said, "I'm just trying to figure out how many states we're going to have to visit in order for me to meet all the important people."
So what's the problem, right? Maybe the problem is that there is NO problem - what could be scarier than that? I can only assume that my defense mechanisms, out to defend me from big, bad, heart-break, are responsible for any wishy-washy feelings. Regardless of this awareness, I've spent a lot of time thinking about the kind of guy I've always imagined I'd end up with, and coming up with reasons why MML is not that guy.
While I've never had a physical "type", I've always assumed that because I can be intense, a little sensitive and overwhelmingly high energy, I would end up with someone who is generally laid back and even keel. Someone to balance out my more "high maintenance" qualities and appreciate my spunkiness. Beyond being laid back, I've pretty much come to expect that I'll end up with a guy's guy. Someone who will take me camping, would rather get stun-gunned than get a pedicure and who only knows that something is going on between Jessica Simpson and Tony Roma because it [supposedly] caused him to lose a few bucks to his buddies.
MML is certainly not a girly-man, but he does enjoy being the center of attention, cried at The Notebook (excusable since its an incredibly touching movie), would be willing to get a pedicure as long as he was accompanied by a woman, and is self-admittedly moody (though I have yet to experience this phenomenon). In theory, these qualities turn me off, but in reality I find myself attracted to MML. I love his deep voice, I love that his family and friends are a priority in his life, and I love that he seems to appreciate both my feminist and feminine sides. Plus, it's refreshing to date someone who is ready for - and looking foreword to - the next stage in his life.
The type-casting defense mechanism may be out in full force, but I have NO intention of letting theoretical moodiness prevent me from exploring something potentially amazing. MML is not the kind of guy I pictured myself with, but I can't deny that this new feeling of possibility is exhilarating.
I could spend hours and pages writing about the different guys I've been seeing, and providing you with sarcasm-lined commentary to spice up tales of rather mundane dates. I could tell you about the demise of Colorado, the short-lived flirtation with the pocket-sized volleyball player or the new surfer dude with a penchant for made-up words and theme parties. But the truth is that there is no point in detailing the "filler guys," - the guys I forget I'm seeing until they contact me to set up another date.
Instead, I'll tell you why the past week has jumbled my emotions and challenged my expectations. Remember MML? The fabulous first date? The hot two-hand kiss? The guy with super-fun friends?
I've known since our first date that MML wasn't just going to be some random guy I go to dinner with to further my dating experiment or get over J-Dogg. We've seen each other quite a bit over the past month and I'm always surprised how fun it is to hang out with him. He is interesting, witty, considerate and surprisingly insightful...his dirty blond hair, green eyes and killer smile aren't bad either. We've been to dinners, movies, and to check out local bands. I've spent some quality time getting to know his tight-knit, crazy, and incredibly endearing group of friends. We've talked about the first time we got drunk, our first kiss, what we admire about our parent's relationships (oddly, both sets of parents are still married) and what we'd like to do differently. We've talked about surviving high school, figuring out who we are and deciding what we want most from our lives. He opens doors, takes my hand, randomly kisses my forehead in the middle of a movie and frequently tells me I look amazing. He dotes on my friends and buys them drinks...even if he runs into them when I'm not around. In fact, after explaining that a number of my best friends are splattered across the country, he asked a series of questions, and then smiled and said, "I'm just trying to figure out how many states we're going to have to visit in order for me to meet all the important people."
So what's the problem, right? Maybe the problem is that there is NO problem - what could be scarier than that? I can only assume that my defense mechanisms, out to defend me from big, bad, heart-break, are responsible for any wishy-washy feelings. Regardless of this awareness, I've spent a lot of time thinking about the kind of guy I've always imagined I'd end up with, and coming up with reasons why MML is not that guy.
While I've never had a physical "type", I've always assumed that because I can be intense, a little sensitive and overwhelmingly high energy, I would end up with someone who is generally laid back and even keel. Someone to balance out my more "high maintenance" qualities and appreciate my spunkiness. Beyond being laid back, I've pretty much come to expect that I'll end up with a guy's guy. Someone who will take me camping, would rather get stun-gunned than get a pedicure and who only knows that something is going on between Jessica Simpson and Tony Roma because it [supposedly] caused him to lose a few bucks to his buddies.
MML is certainly not a girly-man, but he does enjoy being the center of attention, cried at The Notebook (excusable since its an incredibly touching movie), would be willing to get a pedicure as long as he was accompanied by a woman, and is self-admittedly moody (though I have yet to experience this phenomenon). In theory, these qualities turn me off, but in reality I find myself attracted to MML. I love his deep voice, I love that his family and friends are a priority in his life, and I love that he seems to appreciate both my feminist and feminine sides. Plus, it's refreshing to date someone who is ready for - and looking foreword to - the next stage in his life.
The type-casting defense mechanism may be out in full force, but I have NO intention of letting theoretical moodiness prevent me from exploring something potentially amazing. MML is not the kind of guy I pictured myself with, but I can't deny that this new feeling of possibility is exhilarating.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Something interesting for you poor corporate souls, bored to the point of split-end trimming, trapped in a cube farm with unflattering lighting
A friend of mine sent me the following article from Elle Magazine as it relates to my recent rant about poodles. Although the author of the article - somewhat surprisingly, a male - has a less flattering conclusion regarding poodles (the easier route to take, in my opinion) than I do, he makes some interesting points.
I appreciate poodles because they're comfortable with their femininity (the ones I'm referring to anyway), but I also appreciate a man who is able to identify and appreciate the qualities that make a real woman intoxicating, dynamic...sexy.
http://www.elle.com/featurefullstory/13908/walter-kirn-on-relationships-june-2008-elle.html
I appreciate poodles because they're comfortable with their femininity (the ones I'm referring to anyway), but I also appreciate a man who is able to identify and appreciate the qualities that make a real woman intoxicating, dynamic...sexy.
http://www.elle.com/featurefullstory/13908/walter-kirn-on-relationships-june-2008-elle.html
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Bringing out the big guns
Raise your hand if you've ever broken up with someone and then tortured yourself by continuing to speak to them, see them and maybe even sleep with them under the guise of "being friends" and not wanting to lose someone that was "such a big part of your life," when you were really clinging to the secret, hidden and often subconscious hope that something would miraculously change and you would suddenly be the perfect couple, together forever?
That's what I thought.
If you didn't raise your hand (at least internally), chances are you're lying, are the most well-adjusted and self-aware human being on the planet or you've never been in love. There is something about break-ups that brings out intense fear. A fear that we will never be loved again..."like that." A fear that we will never feel the way about someone else that we did about Mr. X. From the outside (and I would know, I've spent a lot of time, standing on my soap box, dispensing advice from the outside) it's easy to see that this is simply not the case. But inside the agony and nostalgia of a break-up, it's impossible to accept that you will find more. E-V-E-R.
I slept with J-Dogg last week.
I did it because I'm afraid to let go of my feelings for him. I did it because I miss him. I did it because he represents the strong, quiet, manly-man that my repressed feminine side has been daydreaming about. I did it because I wanted to touch him again. I did it because I've been spending a lot of time thinking about gender relations and feminist backlash, and I'm realizing more and more how much responsibility I share in the demise of our relationship. I did it because he was - if I'm totally honest with myself - my first love. But mostly, I did it because I've been talking to him and seeing him intermittently since we broke up...like a complete dumbass.
I don't have any earth-shatteringly brilliant excuses or rationalizations to convince myself or any of you that this was a good idea. In all honesty, it was a horrible idea...and it gets worse. I told J-Dogg that I don't want to be closed to the possibility of us, again, someday.
[Sadly, this is the moment when I usually stop reading the book or watching the movie because I'm so annoyed with the heroine that I simply can't take it anymore...FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.]
It's true, I don't want to be closed to the possibility of J-Dogg, but how am I ever going to sincerely enjoy all the other manly-laid back-camper-hotties that want to date me - and who could potentially be in the same place in their lives as me - if I'm wearing my "I heart J-Dogg" t-shirt?
Soooo, a couple of hours and a very poignant convo with my best later, I decided it was time.
-I erased his home and cell numbers from my phone (luckily, I have a terrible memory and can't always remember my own phone number, so I think this will be an effective move)
-I FINALLY erased his adorable text messages and voice mails...which means I will actually be able to open my phone or check my messages without being reminded of him
-I shoved all of our pictures - and other electronic evidence of our relationship - into a folder on my computer so I won't accidentally-on-purpose look at them
-My phone now sleeps in my girl roommate's room...late-night seems to be my time of weakness
Sometimes there's nothing left to do but bring out the big guns, close your eyes and hope you make it to the other side without accidentally shooting yourself.
That's what I thought.
If you didn't raise your hand (at least internally), chances are you're lying, are the most well-adjusted and self-aware human being on the planet or you've never been in love. There is something about break-ups that brings out intense fear. A fear that we will never be loved again..."like that." A fear that we will never feel the way about someone else that we did about Mr. X. From the outside (and I would know, I've spent a lot of time, standing on my soap box, dispensing advice from the outside) it's easy to see that this is simply not the case. But inside the agony and nostalgia of a break-up, it's impossible to accept that you will find more. E-V-E-R.
I slept with J-Dogg last week.
I did it because I'm afraid to let go of my feelings for him. I did it because I miss him. I did it because he represents the strong, quiet, manly-man that my repressed feminine side has been daydreaming about. I did it because I wanted to touch him again. I did it because I've been spending a lot of time thinking about gender relations and feminist backlash, and I'm realizing more and more how much responsibility I share in the demise of our relationship. I did it because he was - if I'm totally honest with myself - my first love. But mostly, I did it because I've been talking to him and seeing him intermittently since we broke up...like a complete dumbass.
I don't have any earth-shatteringly brilliant excuses or rationalizations to convince myself or any of you that this was a good idea. In all honesty, it was a horrible idea...and it gets worse. I told J-Dogg that I don't want to be closed to the possibility of us, again, someday.
[Sadly, this is the moment when I usually stop reading the book or watching the movie because I'm so annoyed with the heroine that I simply can't take it anymore...FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.]
It's true, I don't want to be closed to the possibility of J-Dogg, but how am I ever going to sincerely enjoy all the other manly-laid back-camper-hotties that want to date me - and who could potentially be in the same place in their lives as me - if I'm wearing my "I heart J-Dogg" t-shirt?
Soooo, a couple of hours and a very poignant convo with my best later, I decided it was time.
-I erased his home and cell numbers from my phone (luckily, I have a terrible memory and can't always remember my own phone number, so I think this will be an effective move)
-I FINALLY erased his adorable text messages and voice mails...which means I will actually be able to open my phone or check my messages without being reminded of him
-I shoved all of our pictures - and other electronic evidence of our relationship - into a folder on my computer so I won't accidentally-on-purpose look at them
-My phone now sleeps in my girl roommate's room...late-night seems to be my time of weakness
Sometimes there's nothing left to do but bring out the big guns, close your eyes and hope you make it to the other side without accidentally shooting yourself.
Monday, May 19, 2008
The poodle problem
I live in an affluent beach town in south Los Angeles - arguably one of the most superficial areas on the PLANET. I've been irked by what I refer to as the "poodle problem" since I moved here from New York almost four years ago. In my world, poodles are girls who are VERY good-looking and VERY nice...but that's about it.
This isn't to say that these women didn't do well in school or don't have successful careers. However, they will talk to you for an hour without saying anything, and occasionally tell stories that don't make sense, have a point or are completely uninteresting. In fact, you might find yourself listening to a poodle tell the same, seriously lacking story more than once. Don't worry, it's not you, poodles don't do this on purpose, they simply can't remember who they've told and who they haven't. This is usually because that particular story is what's happening in their life at the time, and like my old CD player from 1996, it will likely be stuck on "repeat" until something else happens to knock it onto the next track.
Poodles smile a lot and are usually in a good mood - this makes it incredibly difficult to dislike poodles, and often causes a temporary feeling of guilt for wanting to poke your eyes out when you suddenly find yourself stuck in a conversation with one. Poodles can be identified by their thin figures, trendy clothes, expertly applied make-up, perma-smile and blond hair (around here, anyway). Poodles are also pack animals and can be found hanging out together...usually in places where large groups are the most annoying, such as already crowded bar bathrooms, any narrow, public walkway or occasionally, the middle of the street.
There are a lot of poodles in these parts, and every once-in-awhile I'll be struck by a distinct desire to pull the perfectly flat-ironed platinum hairs out of their pretty little heads. In theory, poodles annoy me on principal: I'm a women of self-proclaimed (and therefore debatable) substance, and they are - by definition - not the brightest sparkles on the bedazzled jacket. But lately, I've realized this strong reaction probably suggests more about me than it does about poodles.
Let's be honest, most of these women won't be leading the next feminist parade (although if we're being honest, neither will I), but they are at peace with their femininity - something I aspire to be. These women are smiling because they enjoy being a girl, and they neither fear nor resent the attention they receive because of their femininity. They are - consciously or unconsciously - aware of the power their smile and giggle can have over a guy, and they own it...in fact, they work it. I won't bore you with the details, but even though I'm very much a girly girl, somehow I've developed a resistance toward my feminine side. I've always wanted to be attractive because of my intelligence, humor and wit, not big boobs or fabulously glittery eye shadow (even though I've ostentatiously displayed both from time-to-time over the past ten years). In fact, until recently (probably within two years) I've avoided letting guys open doors for me, give up their seat for me, pay for my dinner, buy me a drink...you get the point.
But lately, I'm realizing that feminism and femininity don't have to be mutually exclusive. I can be a strong woman with her own business and a variety of lofty goals, and still have a blast rocking a hot mini and some delicious shoes with serious toe cleavage on a Saturday night. This realization led to the epiphany that letting a guy open the car door for me isn't going to make me weak...or unequal in some way. In fact, it makes me feel like I'm pretty hot sh*t, and part of being an accidental feminist is appreciating a woman's right to feel desired and pursued. I'm also beginning to notice that the differences between men and women are incredibly attractive. A masculine guy makes me feel more feminine...and I like that. A lot. I'm even beginning to think the reverse is true as well: guys get excited by the prospect of seeing if they have what it takes to make a particular woman happy - if I were a guy, I know I'd rather go for the cute, smiley girl (possibly even a poodle)who is obviously comfortable getting a little attention, than the snarling bombshell who looks bored with it all...
This isn't rocket science, and it's just the tip of the iceberg, but I'm fascinated by this topic and by the self realization it's inspired. At 28 I'm finding peace with being feminine and I'm pretty darn excited about it. I don't think I'll be looking to join any poodle packs in the near future, but much like the dating inspiration I gleaned from the women of the 1950s, I've yet again learned to appreciate something about a group of women I used to judge...if that's not feminism, I don't know what is.
This isn't to say that these women didn't do well in school or don't have successful careers. However, they will talk to you for an hour without saying anything, and occasionally tell stories that don't make sense, have a point or are completely uninteresting. In fact, you might find yourself listening to a poodle tell the same, seriously lacking story more than once. Don't worry, it's not you, poodles don't do this on purpose, they simply can't remember who they've told and who they haven't. This is usually because that particular story is what's happening in their life at the time, and like my old CD player from 1996, it will likely be stuck on "repeat" until something else happens to knock it onto the next track.
Poodles smile a lot and are usually in a good mood - this makes it incredibly difficult to dislike poodles, and often causes a temporary feeling of guilt for wanting to poke your eyes out when you suddenly find yourself stuck in a conversation with one. Poodles can be identified by their thin figures, trendy clothes, expertly applied make-up, perma-smile and blond hair (around here, anyway). Poodles are also pack animals and can be found hanging out together...usually in places where large groups are the most annoying, such as already crowded bar bathrooms, any narrow, public walkway or occasionally, the middle of the street.
There are a lot of poodles in these parts, and every once-in-awhile I'll be struck by a distinct desire to pull the perfectly flat-ironed platinum hairs out of their pretty little heads. In theory, poodles annoy me on principal: I'm a women of self-proclaimed (and therefore debatable) substance, and they are - by definition - not the brightest sparkles on the bedazzled jacket. But lately, I've realized this strong reaction probably suggests more about me than it does about poodles.
Let's be honest, most of these women won't be leading the next feminist parade (although if we're being honest, neither will I), but they are at peace with their femininity - something I aspire to be. These women are smiling because they enjoy being a girl, and they neither fear nor resent the attention they receive because of their femininity. They are - consciously or unconsciously - aware of the power their smile and giggle can have over a guy, and they own it...in fact, they work it. I won't bore you with the details, but even though I'm very much a girly girl, somehow I've developed a resistance toward my feminine side. I've always wanted to be attractive because of my intelligence, humor and wit, not big boobs or fabulously glittery eye shadow (even though I've ostentatiously displayed both from time-to-time over the past ten years). In fact, until recently (probably within two years) I've avoided letting guys open doors for me, give up their seat for me, pay for my dinner, buy me a drink...you get the point.
But lately, I'm realizing that feminism and femininity don't have to be mutually exclusive. I can be a strong woman with her own business and a variety of lofty goals, and still have a blast rocking a hot mini and some delicious shoes with serious toe cleavage on a Saturday night. This realization led to the epiphany that letting a guy open the car door for me isn't going to make me weak...or unequal in some way. In fact, it makes me feel like I'm pretty hot sh*t, and part of being an accidental feminist is appreciating a woman's right to feel desired and pursued. I'm also beginning to notice that the differences between men and women are incredibly attractive. A masculine guy makes me feel more feminine...and I like that. A lot. I'm even beginning to think the reverse is true as well: guys get excited by the prospect of seeing if they have what it takes to make a particular woman happy - if I were a guy, I know I'd rather go for the cute, smiley girl (possibly even a poodle)who is obviously comfortable getting a little attention, than the snarling bombshell who looks bored with it all...
This isn't rocket science, and it's just the tip of the iceberg, but I'm fascinated by this topic and by the self realization it's inspired. At 28 I'm finding peace with being feminine and I'm pretty darn excited about it. I don't think I'll be looking to join any poodle packs in the near future, but much like the dating inspiration I gleaned from the women of the 1950s, I've yet again learned to appreciate something about a group of women I used to judge...if that's not feminism, I don't know what is.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Rockin the dating world
I'd like to say that I've been MIA the past week because I've been rockin the dating world like a pro. Unfortunately, I feel more like I've been rockin the dating world like a drunk celebutant driving an SUV the wrong way on the 405.
Here is a basic recap of last weekend...
A sloooooow start
I went out with Colorado. We went to a nice dinner, got ice cream (I really need to tell him I'm allergic) and saw a movie...it was one of the longest dates of my life. There is NOTHING wrong with Colorado. Like most SLGs, he has a lot of the characteristics I'm looking for - he is genuine, smart, sweet and looks at me like a five year-old staring at the presents under the Christmas tree. So what's the problem? First, he prayed (out loud) at the restaurant, before we ate. Not the end of the world, but the last time I prayed at a restaurant was with a "I'm religious because it's the cool-kid thing to do" guy I went to homecoming with my Sophomore year of high school. I'd already been dangling Colorado above the 'over-the-top religious guy' box, and the community prayer session definitely inched him closer to a boxed fate. Aside from the prayer, our conversation included several mathematical equations and a detailed explanation of the relationship between speed and time. It took him an hour - and what looked like a tremendous amount of internal anguish - to hold my hand during the movie, and even though he lingered at my door for FORTY FIVE MINUTES, he never went in for the kiss. DUDE. Colorado is great, but I need someone who isn't afraid to...ummm...grab the bull by the horns.
Things start to heat up
It was around 4pm on Saturday, and my girl roommate and I were watching the cops arrest our crazy neighbor, when MML texted me to say that he was watching the game at a bar down the street and did I want to come have a drink with him and some of his friends. Ordinarily, I wouldn't want to reinforce making last minute plans so early in the dating process, but since we'd already arranged a date for Tuesday night, I figured it was okay. My girl roommate came with me and we spent the next several hours playing darts, drinking beer and laughing until it hurt with MML's friends. Even though I discovered that I'm the world's WORST dart player, I had a great time flirting with MML. In fact, I didn't think things could get any better, and then he went in for a kiss as I was leaving the bar to head home. Not only was it a good kiss, but it was a "two hands on the face" kiss, which, when executed correctly - as it most certainly was - is unbelievably hot.
And MML takes the lead...
The rapid descent into disaster...
After I left MML, my girl roommate and I headed out with some of our girlfriends. I immediately ran into Colorado at the first bar. It's a little sad to look back on the situation now, because it could have been fine. We could have said a simple "hello," traded some pleasantries and then gone our separate ways. But no. Colorado lingered (yew) and generally didn't get the hint when I mentioned that I was "out with my girlfriends." He just stood on the outskirts of our group...like a cattle dog rounding up the herd. Sigh.
Our group eventually escaped and ended up at our favorite dive bar down the street. Around 1am, I was fighting the urge to knock out a Pamela Anderson look-alike who kept spilling her beer all over me, and I suddenly felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. At the exact same moment, my girl roommate said, "Uh, J-Dogg is right behind you." I turned around and came face-to-chest with J-Dogg.
I wish I could say that even though my heart was pounding, I just said "hi" and walked away. I wish I could say that even though it caught me off guard, I recovered, and immediately removed myself from the situation. Actually, I wish I could say that seeing J-Dogg for the first time in a month didn't have any physical effect on my body at all. Unfortunately, none of these scenarios are true. We stood there for a long time, just staring at each other. I don't even think we started talking for several minutes. I'm sure there was a voice somewhere in my head that was screaming "ABORT, MISSION! GET THE F*CK OUT OF HERE!" But I didn't hear that voice. I didn't hear my girl roommate telling me that my friends were leaving the bar and that I best meet them at the late-night diner in ten minutes or she was going to remove my breasts from my body. I didn't hear Jed filling me in on the latest group gossip...I didn't even hear the bouncer telling us that the bar was closed. I had suddenly become completely deaf.
J-Dogg and I can't talk about anything normal because there is such an enormous elephant in the room, so we just recapped the post mortem from a couple weeks ago. We recapped and made out. Yup, that's right, we made out. We made out as he pushed me up against the brick wall behind the bar. We made out all the way down the alley toward his apartment. We made out as he picked me up and wrapped my legs around his waist. We made out like two high school kids under the bleachers at a football game.
I know you're expecting me to say that I regret making out with J-Dogg, but I don't. I loved every second of it. Of course I realize it was one of the stupidest moves I've made in a long time, but I still don't regret it. I loved feeling his mouth on mine. I loved feeling his arms wrapped around me. I loved feeling our fingers intertwined. I loved feeling his hands touch my face. I loved feeling.
But that isn't the shocking part. The shocking part is that I didn't go to his apartment. I didn't sleep with him. In fact, I left him in the middle of the street and walked back to the late night diner to meet my girl roommate (who'd been calling incessantly for the past hour and a half). J-Dogg can't give me what I want, and the best thing I can do for myself is to never speak to him again. But I fell for him accidentally, and like feminism, the things I feel accidentally, are the things I feel most sincerely.
Here is a basic recap of last weekend...
A sloooooow start
I went out with Colorado. We went to a nice dinner, got ice cream (I really need to tell him I'm allergic) and saw a movie...it was one of the longest dates of my life. There is NOTHING wrong with Colorado. Like most SLGs, he has a lot of the characteristics I'm looking for - he is genuine, smart, sweet and looks at me like a five year-old staring at the presents under the Christmas tree. So what's the problem? First, he prayed (out loud) at the restaurant, before we ate. Not the end of the world, but the last time I prayed at a restaurant was with a "I'm religious because it's the cool-kid thing to do" guy I went to homecoming with my Sophomore year of high school. I'd already been dangling Colorado above the 'over-the-top religious guy' box, and the community prayer session definitely inched him closer to a boxed fate. Aside from the prayer, our conversation included several mathematical equations and a detailed explanation of the relationship between speed and time. It took him an hour - and what looked like a tremendous amount of internal anguish - to hold my hand during the movie, and even though he lingered at my door for FORTY FIVE MINUTES, he never went in for the kiss. DUDE. Colorado is great, but I need someone who isn't afraid to...ummm...grab the bull by the horns.
Things start to heat up
It was around 4pm on Saturday, and my girl roommate and I were watching the cops arrest our crazy neighbor, when MML texted me to say that he was watching the game at a bar down the street and did I want to come have a drink with him and some of his friends. Ordinarily, I wouldn't want to reinforce making last minute plans so early in the dating process, but since we'd already arranged a date for Tuesday night, I figured it was okay. My girl roommate came with me and we spent the next several hours playing darts, drinking beer and laughing until it hurt with MML's friends. Even though I discovered that I'm the world's WORST dart player, I had a great time flirting with MML. In fact, I didn't think things could get any better, and then he went in for a kiss as I was leaving the bar to head home. Not only was it a good kiss, but it was a "two hands on the face" kiss, which, when executed correctly - as it most certainly was - is unbelievably hot.
And MML takes the lead...
The rapid descent into disaster...
After I left MML, my girl roommate and I headed out with some of our girlfriends. I immediately ran into Colorado at the first bar. It's a little sad to look back on the situation now, because it could have been fine. We could have said a simple "hello," traded some pleasantries and then gone our separate ways. But no. Colorado lingered (yew) and generally didn't get the hint when I mentioned that I was "out with my girlfriends." He just stood on the outskirts of our group...like a cattle dog rounding up the herd. Sigh.
Our group eventually escaped and ended up at our favorite dive bar down the street. Around 1am, I was fighting the urge to knock out a Pamela Anderson look-alike who kept spilling her beer all over me, and I suddenly felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. At the exact same moment, my girl roommate said, "Uh, J-Dogg is right behind you." I turned around and came face-to-chest with J-Dogg.
I wish I could say that even though my heart was pounding, I just said "hi" and walked away. I wish I could say that even though it caught me off guard, I recovered, and immediately removed myself from the situation. Actually, I wish I could say that seeing J-Dogg for the first time in a month didn't have any physical effect on my body at all. Unfortunately, none of these scenarios are true. We stood there for a long time, just staring at each other. I don't even think we started talking for several minutes. I'm sure there was a voice somewhere in my head that was screaming "ABORT, MISSION! GET THE F*CK OUT OF HERE!" But I didn't hear that voice. I didn't hear my girl roommate telling me that my friends were leaving the bar and that I best meet them at the late-night diner in ten minutes or she was going to remove my breasts from my body. I didn't hear Jed filling me in on the latest group gossip...I didn't even hear the bouncer telling us that the bar was closed. I had suddenly become completely deaf.
J-Dogg and I can't talk about anything normal because there is such an enormous elephant in the room, so we just recapped the post mortem from a couple weeks ago. We recapped and made out. Yup, that's right, we made out. We made out as he pushed me up against the brick wall behind the bar. We made out all the way down the alley toward his apartment. We made out as he picked me up and wrapped my legs around his waist. We made out like two high school kids under the bleachers at a football game.
I know you're expecting me to say that I regret making out with J-Dogg, but I don't. I loved every second of it. Of course I realize it was one of the stupidest moves I've made in a long time, but I still don't regret it. I loved feeling his mouth on mine. I loved feeling his arms wrapped around me. I loved feeling our fingers intertwined. I loved feeling his hands touch my face. I loved feeling.
But that isn't the shocking part. The shocking part is that I didn't go to his apartment. I didn't sleep with him. In fact, I left him in the middle of the street and walked back to the late night diner to meet my girl roommate (who'd been calling incessantly for the past hour and a half). J-Dogg can't give me what I want, and the best thing I can do for myself is to never speak to him again. But I fell for him accidentally, and like feminism, the things I feel accidentally, are the things I feel most sincerely.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Back in the saddle
I had the best first date of my life on Sunday night.
Only a handful of people reading this will understand how impressive this is, based on numbers alone. I met this cute, blond, medical malpractice lawyer (we'll call him MML) about a year ago, right before I started dating J-Dogg. We have a mutual friend, but we actually met at a bar and hit it off immediately. We didn't see each other again after that, until our mutual friend recently decided to set us up. Knowing that I would never agree to send a preliminary picture to this guy, my friend stole a couple photos of me off my roommate's MySpace page and sent them to MML. A couple days later I got a phone call, and a couple of days after that, we were on a date. Not exactly my ideal set up, but I've never been so happy to have been pimped out in my entire life.
I've always had a way of knowing if a date was going to be good within the first five minutes, and as cheesy as this sounds, the second I opened my front door, I knew we were going to have a blast. We laughed a lot, and talked about work, friends, family and being set up. There were a couple of moments when I caught him staring at me, but not in a "dude, she's hot, I hope she'll sleep with me" kind of way...it was more of a "I feel lucky to be here with her" kind of way, and it definitely made me blush.
When he was driving me home, I was surprised to find that I was disappointed the evening was coming to an end. He walked me to my gate and after I thanked him again for dinner, we had the hottest almost-kiss moment I've had since J-Dogg and I broke up for the first time. MML called yesterday and we made plans to hang out again. Obviously I don't know what's going to happen, but it's really nice to have something to look forward to...
Only a handful of people reading this will understand how impressive this is, based on numbers alone. I met this cute, blond, medical malpractice lawyer (we'll call him MML) about a year ago, right before I started dating J-Dogg. We have a mutual friend, but we actually met at a bar and hit it off immediately. We didn't see each other again after that, until our mutual friend recently decided to set us up. Knowing that I would never agree to send a preliminary picture to this guy, my friend stole a couple photos of me off my roommate's MySpace page and sent them to MML. A couple days later I got a phone call, and a couple of days after that, we were on a date. Not exactly my ideal set up, but I've never been so happy to have been pimped out in my entire life.
I've always had a way of knowing if a date was going to be good within the first five minutes, and as cheesy as this sounds, the second I opened my front door, I knew we were going to have a blast. We laughed a lot, and talked about work, friends, family and being set up. There were a couple of moments when I caught him staring at me, but not in a "dude, she's hot, I hope she'll sleep with me" kind of way...it was more of a "I feel lucky to be here with her" kind of way, and it definitely made me blush.
When he was driving me home, I was surprised to find that I was disappointed the evening was coming to an end. He walked me to my gate and after I thanked him again for dinner, we had the hottest almost-kiss moment I've had since J-Dogg and I broke up for the first time. MML called yesterday and we made plans to hang out again. Obviously I don't know what's going to happen, but it's really nice to have something to look forward to...
A religious experience
The post mortem with J-Dogg was over a week ago now, and I did manage to reschedule my date with Colorado - we went out for ice cream late last week. Overall, Colorado is great. He is an engineer (I must look like a calculus problem or something because engineers seem to flock to me), a health nut and a little bit of an adrenaline junkie (base jumping, motorcycles, etc.). We had a lot to talk about, and in general I was glad I went out with him (although I'd been looking forward to it about as much as a visit to my Gynecologist...but maybe you always dread the first date after a relationship).
Having dated what seems like pretty much every guy in New York and LA, there is very little that can surprise me or throw me off. However, I was sitting there, picking at my ice cream (I was so in love with the cute, 1940s-style idea of an ice cream date, I just couldn't bring myself to tell him that I'm allergic), and suddenly Colorado is telling me that religion is a big part of his life, that he is a devote Christian, but that he is also a scientist and often finds himself looking for solid proof that god exists. This was followed up by a few examples of recent challenges along his journey of faith.
On the basis of content alone, no big deal. I grew up in a religious home and I have complete respect for a person's individual beliefs. In fact, if I really wanted to, I could talk for hours about how the whoas of Sunday school, the innocent, but tangible corruption I experienced at church camp, and my traumatizing tenure as a eight-years-past-her-prime-acolyte because my mom wouldn't let me quit when I reached puberty like other, normal acolytes, shaped my own religious views. But instead, I found myself squirming in my chair - isn't the first date when we talk about how many siblings we have and how Dwight is our favorite character on The Office? Why was I so uncomfortable with this discussion? It wasn't like he was telling me that he likes to surf the Internet for underage boys. After the religion discussion died down, and the conversation found it's way back to the other, more superficial topics, I once again found myself laughing and having a good time.
Later, I wondered what exactly had put me off - was it just too much personal, private information for a first date? Was it because religion has become a taboo date topic amongst our generation...almost a backlash from the trendiness of Christianity when the contemporary-style churches popped up everywhere during the 90s? Or, was I putting people in boxes (for example, "over-the-top Christian guy") in order to weed out prospective guys and protect myself from getting hurt? I don't have an answer to any of these questions, but the bottom line is that Colorado seems like a pretty normal, down-to-earth guy, and he was probably telling me about his religion because it's part of his life - like his job or his enthusiasm for mountain biking. So, in the end, I agreed to go out with Colorado again because 1) this seems to be my issue, not his, 2)it takes more than one interview to know what you're getting yourself into and 3) he has really great arms.
Having dated what seems like pretty much every guy in New York and LA, there is very little that can surprise me or throw me off. However, I was sitting there, picking at my ice cream (I was so in love with the cute, 1940s-style idea of an ice cream date, I just couldn't bring myself to tell him that I'm allergic), and suddenly Colorado is telling me that religion is a big part of his life, that he is a devote Christian, but that he is also a scientist and often finds himself looking for solid proof that god exists. This was followed up by a few examples of recent challenges along his journey of faith.
On the basis of content alone, no big deal. I grew up in a religious home and I have complete respect for a person's individual beliefs. In fact, if I really wanted to, I could talk for hours about how the whoas of Sunday school, the innocent, but tangible corruption I experienced at church camp, and my traumatizing tenure as a eight-years-past-her-prime-acolyte because my mom wouldn't let me quit when I reached puberty like other, normal acolytes, shaped my own religious views. But instead, I found myself squirming in my chair - isn't the first date when we talk about how many siblings we have and how Dwight is our favorite character on The Office? Why was I so uncomfortable with this discussion? It wasn't like he was telling me that he likes to surf the Internet for underage boys. After the religion discussion died down, and the conversation found it's way back to the other, more superficial topics, I once again found myself laughing and having a good time.
Later, I wondered what exactly had put me off - was it just too much personal, private information for a first date? Was it because religion has become a taboo date topic amongst our generation...almost a backlash from the trendiness of Christianity when the contemporary-style churches popped up everywhere during the 90s? Or, was I putting people in boxes (for example, "over-the-top Christian guy") in order to weed out prospective guys and protect myself from getting hurt? I don't have an answer to any of these questions, but the bottom line is that Colorado seems like a pretty normal, down-to-earth guy, and he was probably telling me about his religion because it's part of his life - like his job or his enthusiasm for mountain biking. So, in the end, I agreed to go out with Colorado again because 1) this seems to be my issue, not his, 2)it takes more than one interview to know what you're getting yourself into and 3) he has really great arms.
Monday, May 5, 2008
It's just a damn toothbrush
Last week I was feeling good. I was busy cooking up ways to implement my new plans to conquer the dating world, and I'd even agreed to go out with a very cute guy from Colorado. My first real date since the break-up. This new guy, we'll call him "Colorado Guy," had asked me to get together on Sunday evening for a hike to see the sun set over the ocean. Fun, right? Well, then life got in the way...
On Saturday night I felt like I'd been run over by chicken truck, so I decided to stay in to watch TV and go to bed early. The going to bed early plan was doomed by 9pm when I got the first text message from J-Dogg. I SWEAR I tried to ignore it, but eventually I broke down and responded. We hadn't spoken at all since I'd asked him to go to the grocery store with me a few weeks ago (it's pretty painful to type that now - man does it sound pathetic), and even though I've been doing really well since then, I'm human and I simply couldn't resist. The text message stated that he was out with friends, but that all he wanted was to hang out on the couch and watch a movie with me.
Over the next eight hours of rapid-fire texting and heated phone conversations, we dissected our entire relationship and I felt pretty much every emotion in the book - especially anger and desire. In the end, I successfully resisted his repeated invitations to "get together," but will admit to some seriously steamy phone-flirting and having to call on some hardcore willpower to keep from going to his apartment and curling up next to him. As you may have suspected, we didn't resolve anything and I was left with two hours of sleep, no voice and a very sore throat. No one's fault but my own. However, it did force me to reschedule my rendezvous with Colorado Guy...definitely a step backwards.
J-Dogg said a lot of things that night - including that he thinks about marrying me and having kids with me...someday - but there one thing that has really stayed with me: J-Dogg thinks he showed me "as much love and affection as any fiance would." I loved being with J-Dogg and don't have any anger or resentment toward him now, but this statement FLOORED me. Any guy I agree to spend the next sixty years with will probably want to talk to me nearly every day, and hopefully won't find it so painful to tell me the things I need to hear...that any woman needs to hear.
Since J-Dogg continues to read this blog, I'm sure that he will process this as yet another jab session, but my intention is not to cut him down. Not at all. I still have a lot feelings for J-Dogg, but the Saturday night post mortem on our relationship made it clear to me that I'm responsible for a lot of the pain I felt during in our relationship.
On Saturday night I felt like I'd been run over by chicken truck, so I decided to stay in to watch TV and go to bed early. The going to bed early plan was doomed by 9pm when I got the first text message from J-Dogg. I SWEAR I tried to ignore it, but eventually I broke down and responded. We hadn't spoken at all since I'd asked him to go to the grocery store with me a few weeks ago (it's pretty painful to type that now - man does it sound pathetic), and even though I've been doing really well since then, I'm human and I simply couldn't resist. The text message stated that he was out with friends, but that all he wanted was to hang out on the couch and watch a movie with me.
Over the next eight hours of rapid-fire texting and heated phone conversations, we dissected our entire relationship and I felt pretty much every emotion in the book - especially anger and desire. In the end, I successfully resisted his repeated invitations to "get together," but will admit to some seriously steamy phone-flirting and having to call on some hardcore willpower to keep from going to his apartment and curling up next to him. As you may have suspected, we didn't resolve anything and I was left with two hours of sleep, no voice and a very sore throat. No one's fault but my own. However, it did force me to reschedule my rendezvous with Colorado Guy...definitely a step backwards.
J-Dogg said a lot of things that night - including that he thinks about marrying me and having kids with me...someday - but there one thing that has really stayed with me: J-Dogg thinks he showed me "as much love and affection as any fiance would." I loved being with J-Dogg and don't have any anger or resentment toward him now, but this statement FLOORED me. Any guy I agree to spend the next sixty years with will probably want to talk to me nearly every day, and hopefully won't find it so painful to tell me the things I need to hear...that any woman needs to hear.
Since J-Dogg continues to read this blog, I'm sure that he will process this as yet another jab session, but my intention is not to cut him down. Not at all. I still have a lot feelings for J-Dogg, but the Saturday night post mortem on our relationship made it clear to me that I'm responsible for a lot of the pain I felt during in our relationship.
For instance, back toward the beginning, I was starting to wonder what all women secretly wonder - "where is this going?" However, being an idiot woman - as opposed to a smart women who would have understood that asking this question goes against a man's natural instinct to pursue - I tried to have a conversation with J-Dogg about my feelings. As we all know, he doesn't "do" emotional conversations, so I ended up spilling my guts and getting no verbal reassurance in response. Then, the next time I was over at his apartment, he presented me a pink toothbrush he'd bought for me to keep at his place.
The mental image of J-Dogg purchasing anything pink is incredibly endearing, but looking back, I'm MORTIFIED by the amount of joy I took from that stupid pink toothbrush. I saw it as a gesture of commitment and a sign of his feelings for me. Maybe that's how he intended for me to take it, but he never SAID any of those things...I invented the commitment/feelings story in my head - - something that I definitely can't blame on J-Dogg. For all I knew, the toothbrush merely meant that he liked having sex with me, and was willing to buy me a toothbrush so I would feel comfortable enough to continue having sex with him. Or, maybe he was grossed out by the prospect of me using his toothbrush. Either way, it's just a $2.99 toothbrush, not a commitment. In my opinion, boyfriend medals of honor should not awarded for the purchase of a toothbrush.
Again, my intention is not to take jabs at J-Dogg - I've dedicated an entire post to listing all the adorable things he did, but while I was constantly looking for meaning and wondering what was going to happen weeks and months down the road, J-Dogg was just enjoying having me around...when it was convenient for him. This doesn't (necessarily) make him a bad boyfriend, but it also doesn't make him good fiance or life partner material, at least not for me.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
High Maintenance
I've been asking my friends to pass my blog around to anyone who might be interested in hopes that it will find an even larger audience. Yesterday, it fell on the eyes of a former male colleague and friend (to clarify, he is still a guy, just no longer a colleague). Obviously this blog is intended for women, as the content of most of these posts is controversial in the world of gender relations. However, this particular guy, we'll call him Alvin, has a wife, a daughter and a large number of women friends, so I figured he might be able to stomach the subject matter.
Alvin was not only able to stomach the subject matter, but read the ENTIRE blog in one sitting and then presented me with a lengthy email including his opinion on various topics, and my latest approach to my love life. Most of what he said wasn't surprising at all, but there were a couple things that pushed my fem-button. Alvin stated that "life is too short to put so much pressure on finding a life partner, J-dawg doesn't sound so awful - - you are just a tad high maintenance - - which is OK. The key is that you need to find someone who is willing to "baby" you a bit. Also, guys don't handle pressure or competition very well."
My initial reaction was to feel misunderstood, get defensive and state that:
- Finding a life partner is not the sole focus of my life, it's merely part of my life. I believe I've mentioned this before, and I wasn't just saying it to sound breezy or hide my secret desperation. I'm not desperate, I'm ready for the next step in my life - huge distinction. If I just wanted to be married, trust me, I'd be married by now.
- By changing my perspective and approach to dating, and playing the field, I'm preventing myself from fixating on one guy and ultimately putting less pressure on myself and the guys I choose to spend time with. I will never be waiting by the phone again, and I think that's a good thing...for everyone.
- I don't intend to recite a monologue on the first date about how my eggs are rotting (I heard someone on The Bachelor say this once - I think I'm permanently traumatized and embarrassed for all womankind), and I'm looking to find a husband. But I'm also not going to lie and say I'm just looking to fool around. I figure this will weed out a lot of guys, and I'm fine with that.
- I'm certainly not going to mention the fact that I'm dating other people, unless someone brings it up or things get to a point where it becomes necessary...I'm experimental, not stupid.
- I have NO intention of sleeping with all the guys I date. The physical stuff will inevitably get tricky, but it's something I'll have to deal with when I get to that point.
Finally, this is going to come off as a little snarky, but what do I care if guys don't handle competition well? This is the way things were before 1965, so if men have become a little more, ummm, high maintenance since then, I guess that's their problem - I'm not looking for someone who is going to cry about a little bit of competition anyway.
Once I picked my bruised ego up off the floor and brushed it off, I realized that I was still riled up: how did "high maintenance" become synonymous with a woman who knows how she wants and deserves to be treated? And, is finding someone who will consider the effect their words (or lack thereof) and actions have on me, really the same as finding someone who will BABY me? I'm not looking to be placated.
Also, Alvin clearly did not read that throughout the course of eight or nine months, J-Dogg would regularly go three days without any sort of contact, and at one point actually ended our relationship through his Facebook page. I've NEVER said J-Dogg is a bad guy (or a bad boyfriend) - we all know that I have some pretty strong feelings for him. While these might not be reasons to stop dating someone if you are 22, I'm definitely not 22. The bottom line is that if I'd been getting what I needed emotionally, I sincerely doubt I would have been so "high maintenance" about some phone calls. It was just a tangible example that I used to communicate the fact that I didn't feel like I was a part of J-Dogg's daily life.
The real point here is that just as most men have the same basic needs and desires, so do most women. We all want to feel adored and appreciated in our romantic relationships...whether we are vocal about it or not. It seems that the difference between high maintenance and low maintenance women is commonly attributed to low maintenance women being more laid-back people in general. I happen to be pretty feisty (although I have a very laid back side as well), but I really don't think those personality traits have much - or anything - to do with wanting to be treated in a certain way when it comes to relationships. In fact, even some of the most laid back women I know (I'm thinking of my current girl roommate and a friend I lived with in NYC) still want certain things when it comes to love.
Instead, I think that low maintenance women are better at controlling how they communicate their need for attention. I'm the first to admit that I need a lot of work in this particular area, and I've certainly learned a lot in recent months about how NOT to communicate my needs. In fact, if I had it to do all over, I'd probably handle things with J-Dogg VERY differently. I didn't ever mean to make it sound like the demise of our relationship was all his fault (okay, maybe I did when we first broke up, but I'm beyond that now). However, if I'd done things differently, it may have prolonged a relationship between two people who would inevitably realize that they were in different places in their lives.
Alvin is a great guy and I know that our difference in opinion can mostly be chalked up to the basic differences between men and women, but I just want to give him a shout out and thank him for being cool about my post.
Friday, April 25, 2008
The Last Boyfriend
Now that I’ve decided to stop my kissing slut shenanigans and find someone who won’t make me want to jump out a window after spending 50 consecutive years in their company, I’ve decided to adopt a whole new approach to this dating thing.
The way I see it, having boyfriends is a big, fat waste of my time. Why waste months or years on ONE guy who ultimately doesn't want - or isn't ready - for what I want. This is not a jab at J-Dogg, this is merely an observation. And this observation has led me to decide that I'm done having boyfriends. No more. Finished. Finito. Instead, I’m going to treat my dating life as a series of interviews for the position of my life partner (stop laughing, I have a point). Some guys will only have first interviews, others might get 30 interviews, but I will not commit to dating only one guy at a time. Call me "retro," but I think those 1950s chicks had it right when “going steady” meant you were reasonably certain that you were going to marry that particular guy.
My recent ponderings have brought me to yet another realization: until a certain point of intimacy and commitment in a relationship, a woman’s only real source of leverage is her appeal to other men. Therefore, I'm going to make sure I'm using my feminine wiles to the best of my ability. Instead of hunting for a husband (which just seems pathetic, desperate and blatantly against nature), I’m going to force them to hunt for me. I will not agree to stop dating my other beaus (I really love that word) until I'm relatively sure that I’ve met a guy I can brush my teeth next to for the foreseeable future. So for my friends who read this blog and are used to seeing an endless string of guys parade through my life, I'm back to my old tricks. Except this time I'm not hiding from a serious relationship, I'm holding out for something that is worth my time.
Unconventional? I’m not sure…it seems to me they did it this way before the dawn of free love and sex. I'm telling you, those poodle skirt wearing gals were onto something. Especially in light of my recent musings that guys will only live up to what we expect of them. In this case I'm expecting perusal. Sure, there will be a lot of guys who will be put off by my approach, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there will also be a lot of guys who will find it intriguing and challenging. Well, stayed tuned because my personal version of "The Bachelorette" is pretty much guaranteed to get interesting.
The way I see it, having boyfriends is a big, fat waste of my time. Why waste months or years on ONE guy who ultimately doesn't want - or isn't ready - for what I want. This is not a jab at J-Dogg, this is merely an observation. And this observation has led me to decide that I'm done having boyfriends. No more. Finished. Finito. Instead, I’m going to treat my dating life as a series of interviews for the position of my life partner (stop laughing, I have a point). Some guys will only have first interviews, others might get 30 interviews, but I will not commit to dating only one guy at a time. Call me "retro," but I think those 1950s chicks had it right when “going steady” meant you were reasonably certain that you were going to marry that particular guy.
My recent ponderings have brought me to yet another realization: until a certain point of intimacy and commitment in a relationship, a woman’s only real source of leverage is her appeal to other men. Therefore, I'm going to make sure I'm using my feminine wiles to the best of my ability. Instead of hunting for a husband (which just seems pathetic, desperate and blatantly against nature), I’m going to force them to hunt for me. I will not agree to stop dating my other beaus (I really love that word) until I'm relatively sure that I’ve met a guy I can brush my teeth next to for the foreseeable future. So for my friends who read this blog and are used to seeing an endless string of guys parade through my life, I'm back to my old tricks. Except this time I'm not hiding from a serious relationship, I'm holding out for something that is worth my time.
Unconventional? I’m not sure…it seems to me they did it this way before the dawn of free love and sex. I'm telling you, those poodle skirt wearing gals were onto something. Especially in light of my recent musings that guys will only live up to what we expect of them. In this case I'm expecting perusal. Sure, there will be a lot of guys who will be put off by my approach, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there will also be a lot of guys who will find it intriguing and challenging. Well, stayed tuned because my personal version of "The Bachelorette" is pretty much guaranteed to get interesting.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Feminist backlash
I revel in the fact that women today are somehow balancing families, careers, husbands and yoga four times a week. However, I think as women become stronger and more successful, the line between feminism and male-bashing has become blurred. On TV, in the tabloids, and pretty much everywhere you look, you see men being portrayed as idiots. Common male characters include a cheating asshole, a metrosexual wimp or an over-the-top court jester type. Two great examples are shows I adore - Two and a Half Men and Lipstick Jungle. At the same time we see more and more female action heroes and high powered women who "have it all," and are just using men to meet their carnal needs. I'm not sure if this is art reflecting life or the other way around, but I certainly think its a slippery slope.
What I see happening is as women become more independent we are expecting less from men. They don't have to pay on dates, they don't have to earn sex, they don't have to call us afterward - hell, they don't even have to unlock the damn car door because we've been trained to reach across the car and unlock it for them. Yet, I constantly hear my single friends whining about how it's so hard to find a good man these days, that all men want is to hookup and that romance is dead. Well, DUH. If women participate in the hookup culture that is so prominent, why should guys put in the effort to pursue anything more? We have taken away virtually ALL of their responsibility in dating and then blamed them for living up to the sex crazed, football watching, beer drinking, guitar hero playing caveman we have come to expect them to be.
What I see happening is as women become more independent we are expecting less from men. They don't have to pay on dates, they don't have to earn sex, they don't have to call us afterward - hell, they don't even have to unlock the damn car door because we've been trained to reach across the car and unlock it for them. Yet, I constantly hear my single friends whining about how it's so hard to find a good man these days, that all men want is to hookup and that romance is dead. Well, DUH. If women participate in the hookup culture that is so prominent, why should guys put in the effort to pursue anything more? We have taken away virtually ALL of their responsibility in dating and then blamed them for living up to the sex crazed, football watching, beer drinking, guitar hero playing caveman we have come to expect them to be.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Signs of life
First, I just want to clear something up: I did not have breakup sex with J-Dogg. I definitely thought about it for a solid 24 hours, but ended up only asking him to go to the grocery store with me. Still not a stellar move, but if I was going to have a weak moment, it could have been much worse. When it came down to it, I knew the angel had a much better argument than the devil...I haven't seen or heard from J-Dogg since that night.
I can't say that I don't think about J-Dogg, but I've been thinking about other things - and even other people - a little more. Nothing noteworthy yet, but here are a couple of examples to prove I might be coming back to life:
Hot Stuff
A couple of days after my last interaction with J-Dogg, my guy roommate had a friend from college come stay at our new place. When I first heard that we were going to have a visitor our FIRST weekend in our new place, I wasn't exactly psyched. We had boxes everywhere and the last thing I needed was to worry about protecting yet another person's stuff from my puppy, the potty machine. But the second I laid eyes on Hot Stuff (HS), I probably wouldn't have cared if he ate my emergency chocolate, erased my precious TiVo settings or even set off a bomb in our garage. Even though HS lives in Colorado, is WAY too young for me and has a girlfriend, I had an instant crush on him. He was clearly a Sweet Little Geek (SLG), but he also had that manly demeanor that a lot of SLGs lack. He was adorable, funny, laid back and genuinely nice. HS spent the weekend hanging out, playing with my puppy (major points), helping us unpack and setting our new, totally rad flat screen. There were a couple of touch-and-go moments when he was shirtless and I actually thought I might attack him, but I managed to keep my cool and I really enjoyed getting to know him. Its been a LONG time (well, at least about a year) since I really enjoyed getting to know a guy. On Sunday, the four of us went to brunch before HS had to head back to Colorado, and we were talking about how all of our friends seem to be getting married. HS made a comment about how "if he is lucky, he'll get married one day." My girl roommate and I were just sitting there, mouths open, staring. Here was this cool, cute, down-to-earth guy who didn't have the very common, VERY LAME attitude that relationships and marriage are things men should only enter into by force, and that all women are secretly trying to trick guys into getting hitched. Obviously life in Colorado is different than it is here in LA, but meeting HS reminded me that there are some really great guys out there.
Off limits
A member of my extended group of friends recently became single. This is the kind of guy I usually try not to have feelings for because girls L-O-V-E him. While this may mean I'm jaded, I tend to think those guys aren't worth my time. However, this guy, Mr. Off Limits, is hysterically funny, sweet and so cute that it's almost painful to look at him. Plus, we have a lot in common. The truth of the situation is that 1) due to a variety of circumstances, this guy probably wouldn't ever think of me in a romantic way, 2) he is my age, which probably means he is still too immature for me and 3) we have a number of mutual friends that could make things complicated. Regardless of all of these factors, I was surprised to find that my stomach did a little flip-flop when I heard the news that he had parted from his girlfriend. Definitely feels like things could get interesting soon...
I can't say that I don't think about J-Dogg, but I've been thinking about other things - and even other people - a little more. Nothing noteworthy yet, but here are a couple of examples to prove I might be coming back to life:
Hot Stuff
A couple of days after my last interaction with J-Dogg, my guy roommate had a friend from college come stay at our new place. When I first heard that we were going to have a visitor our FIRST weekend in our new place, I wasn't exactly psyched. We had boxes everywhere and the last thing I needed was to worry about protecting yet another person's stuff from my puppy, the potty machine. But the second I laid eyes on Hot Stuff (HS), I probably wouldn't have cared if he ate my emergency chocolate, erased my precious TiVo settings or even set off a bomb in our garage. Even though HS lives in Colorado, is WAY too young for me and has a girlfriend, I had an instant crush on him. He was clearly a Sweet Little Geek (SLG), but he also had that manly demeanor that a lot of SLGs lack. He was adorable, funny, laid back and genuinely nice. HS spent the weekend hanging out, playing with my puppy (major points), helping us unpack and setting our new, totally rad flat screen. There were a couple of touch-and-go moments when he was shirtless and I actually thought I might attack him, but I managed to keep my cool and I really enjoyed getting to know him. Its been a LONG time (well, at least about a year) since I really enjoyed getting to know a guy. On Sunday, the four of us went to brunch before HS had to head back to Colorado, and we were talking about how all of our friends seem to be getting married. HS made a comment about how "if he is lucky, he'll get married one day." My girl roommate and I were just sitting there, mouths open, staring. Here was this cool, cute, down-to-earth guy who didn't have the very common, VERY LAME attitude that relationships and marriage are things men should only enter into by force, and that all women are secretly trying to trick guys into getting hitched. Obviously life in Colorado is different than it is here in LA, but meeting HS reminded me that there are some really great guys out there.
Off limits
A member of my extended group of friends recently became single. This is the kind of guy I usually try not to have feelings for because girls L-O-V-E him. While this may mean I'm jaded, I tend to think those guys aren't worth my time. However, this guy, Mr. Off Limits, is hysterically funny, sweet and so cute that it's almost painful to look at him. Plus, we have a lot in common. The truth of the situation is that 1) due to a variety of circumstances, this guy probably wouldn't ever think of me in a romantic way, 2) he is my age, which probably means he is still too immature for me and 3) we have a number of mutual friends that could make things complicated. Regardless of all of these factors, I was surprised to find that my stomach did a little flip-flop when I heard the news that he had parted from his girlfriend. Definitely feels like things could get interesting soon...
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Break up sex and moments of clarity
I’m finally living in my new house, with my puppy. Emphasis on "finally." The move means no more staying with my parents, no more paying rent for an apartment in which I haven't lived for three months…and no more living next door to J-Dogg. During the days leading up to my move, I spent a lot of time at my old apartment packing and cleaning, and I saw J-Dogg several times. First, he helped me move some stuff to my new place, and then car problems left him stranded and he had to borrow my car. Seeing each other led to some flirting, text messaging and a couple of offers on his part for me to come over and “cuddle.” I managed to resist temptation, even though I would have loved to crawl into his bed and not miss him for a few hours. Then, a few nights ago I had an incredibly vivid dream about J-Dogg – the kind where you wake up right when you were getting to the good part, so you try desperately to fall back asleep because all you want is to finish the dream. The following day I felt like a Warner Brothers cartoon character – fielding commentary from the miniature devil sitting on my shoulder, heckling the cute little angel who’s been perched on my other shoulder since I got a clue and broke up with J-Dogg.
Angel: You’re not seriously considering break-up sex!?!?!?! You KNOW you’re looking for more than J-Dogg is ready to give – having sex with him will in no way, shape or form help you move on. In fact, it would be like eating a whole cheesecake after a week of dieting. You’ve worked so hard to come this far, then after just a few minutes of bliss (or, J-Dogg’s case, an hour) you’ll be left with only an endless treadmill session to keep you company. Think about it, it’s just not worth the price.
Devil: That might be true, but NEVER in your life have you been so attracted to someone…you can literally feel when the two of you are in the same room. Maybe it doesn’t make sense, maybe it didn't turn out to be true love, but merely standing next to him causes electricity to flow through your veins. And, who knows how long it will be until you have sex with someone new…it could be months or even a year. You’re not over him anyway, so what harm is one little roll in the hay gonna do???
Regretfully, this ended up being the same day when I legitimately needed a favor from J-Dogg. My roommates weren’t home and I was under house arrest because the pup is having serious adjustment issues due to the move (potty in the house, separation anxiety, throwing up, etc.). I’d literally been trapped in the house with no food (dog or human), no shower, no exercise and no human interaction for two full days. I felt like a single mom with a newborn baby. I finally called J-Dogg and asked him if he could come over and watch the puppy while I went for a run and got some dog food. While I was out on my run, one of my roommates came home. We all chatted for a bit, but since I had new puppy back-up, there wasn’t much reason for J-Dogg to stick around. Out of nowhere I had an overwhelming desire to hang out with him…I just wanted to be near him. In a moment of weakness I asked him to keep me company at the grocery store, admitting that I simply missed him and wanted to hang out. His response was a combination of “that’s not my first priority,” “it’s not a good idea," "I thought you were going to be strong?” and “wanna get naked?”
That was the moment. I didn’t realize it at the time because I was blinded by intense pain, fierce anger, blatant fear and, thankfully, resolve, but that was the moment when my heart finally gave up on J-Dogg.
I’m not saying that I’m over it, that I've stopped missing him or that I haven’t thought about him since that night, but in that moment I suddenly knew that:
Angel: You’re not seriously considering break-up sex!?!?!?! You KNOW you’re looking for more than J-Dogg is ready to give – having sex with him will in no way, shape or form help you move on. In fact, it would be like eating a whole cheesecake after a week of dieting. You’ve worked so hard to come this far, then after just a few minutes of bliss (or, J-Dogg’s case, an hour) you’ll be left with only an endless treadmill session to keep you company. Think about it, it’s just not worth the price.
Devil: That might be true, but NEVER in your life have you been so attracted to someone…you can literally feel when the two of you are in the same room. Maybe it doesn’t make sense, maybe it didn't turn out to be true love, but merely standing next to him causes electricity to flow through your veins. And, who knows how long it will be until you have sex with someone new…it could be months or even a year. You’re not over him anyway, so what harm is one little roll in the hay gonna do???
Regretfully, this ended up being the same day when I legitimately needed a favor from J-Dogg. My roommates weren’t home and I was under house arrest because the pup is having serious adjustment issues due to the move (potty in the house, separation anxiety, throwing up, etc.). I’d literally been trapped in the house with no food (dog or human), no shower, no exercise and no human interaction for two full days. I felt like a single mom with a newborn baby. I finally called J-Dogg and asked him if he could come over and watch the puppy while I went for a run and got some dog food. While I was out on my run, one of my roommates came home. We all chatted for a bit, but since I had new puppy back-up, there wasn’t much reason for J-Dogg to stick around. Out of nowhere I had an overwhelming desire to hang out with him…I just wanted to be near him. In a moment of weakness I asked him to keep me company at the grocery store, admitting that I simply missed him and wanted to hang out. His response was a combination of “that’s not my first priority,” “it’s not a good idea," "I thought you were going to be strong?” and “wanna get naked?”
That was the moment. I didn’t realize it at the time because I was blinded by intense pain, fierce anger, blatant fear and, thankfully, resolve, but that was the moment when my heart finally gave up on J-Dogg.
I’m not saying that I’m over it, that I've stopped missing him or that I haven’t thought about him since that night, but in that moment I suddenly knew that:
- I was never going to be a priority for J-Dogg
- I can’t see or talk to J-Dogg for awhile. DUH.
- It's his loss
- I need to go on dates with people who ask me out. Carrying around a torch for J-Dogg is as much of a waste of time as dating him.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
M-word
Somewhere between 1959 and now, it has become taboo for a woman to state, out loud, that she is at a point in her life where she wants to find a partner and get married. It’s a lot like announcing that you have a flesh eating disease that’s incredibly contagious – the crowd clears instantly, and you are left standing alone, assuming that it's not okay to want to get married.
Women who are verbal about their desire to settle down are often described as needy and desperate, or having no goals or purpose in life. Just look at the poor souls on The Bachelor – even I’m guilty of openly describing many Bachelor contestants as “pathetic.” I think a lot of women – especially smart, successful, independent, urban women – have learned to silence their inner desire to meet the right man and get married. We’ve been taught that the itch to get married is weak, and that it decreases our value as a person (actually, we're taught that it makes us less appealing to men - which is ironic, but a whole other bucket of worms). Well, I’m going to go ahead and call “BULLSHIT” on the whole thing. In fact, as a smart, successful, independent, urban woman, I’m going to go out on a limb and admit something:
I’m ready to find a life partner, and eventually, get married.
Crazy talk, I know. But here’s the thing: just because I’ve realized that I’m finally ready for the next step in life, doesn’t mean I’m going to start running down the street after eligible men, with a t-shirt that states in bright pink letters, “marry me, I’m ready.” There is a HUGE distinction between being ready to find a life partner and being desperate. I also think there is an important distinction between understanding enough about who you are and what you want out of life to be ready for a satisfying and lasting relationship, and being singularly focused on getting married. Just becase I’ve decided it's time to pass the torch on to the next generation of kissing sluts, doesn't mean I’ve suddenly forgotten my goals and interests, or lost my dynamic personality. Finding a life partner will never be the sole focus in my life, but as of today, it's going to be part of my life.
Women who are verbal about their desire to settle down are often described as needy and desperate, or having no goals or purpose in life. Just look at the poor souls on The Bachelor – even I’m guilty of openly describing many Bachelor contestants as “pathetic.” I think a lot of women – especially smart, successful, independent, urban women – have learned to silence their inner desire to meet the right man and get married. We’ve been taught that the itch to get married is weak, and that it decreases our value as a person (actually, we're taught that it makes us less appealing to men - which is ironic, but a whole other bucket of worms). Well, I’m going to go ahead and call “BULLSHIT” on the whole thing. In fact, as a smart, successful, independent, urban woman, I’m going to go out on a limb and admit something:
I’m ready to find a life partner, and eventually, get married.
Crazy talk, I know. But here’s the thing: just because I’ve realized that I’m finally ready for the next step in life, doesn’t mean I’m going to start running down the street after eligible men, with a t-shirt that states in bright pink letters, “marry me, I’m ready.” There is a HUGE distinction between being ready to find a life partner and being desperate. I also think there is an important distinction between understanding enough about who you are and what you want out of life to be ready for a satisfying and lasting relationship, and being singularly focused on getting married. Just becase I’ve decided it's time to pass the torch on to the next generation of kissing sluts, doesn't mean I’ve suddenly forgotten my goals and interests, or lost my dynamic personality. Finding a life partner will never be the sole focus in my life, but as of today, it's going to be part of my life.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Hair
J-Dogg's roommate, Jed (don't worry, this doesn't mean I'm hanging out with J-Dogg), recently recited an original monologue called “it’s manly to have chest and back hair, why should I have to wax or shave it?” Although a reasonable amount of chest hair doesn't bother me at all, I found this spiel particularly interesting since this performance was merely minutes after Jed had regaled our group with a tale of a woman who had a “gnarly bush.” Now, I’m in favor maintaining a well-groomed area, but I’m curious why women are suddenly (within the past five years or so) expected to get rid of ALL of our pubic hair simply because our boyfriends and/or husbands grew up on Internet porn. Guys are so used to seeing women without pubic hair that it has become the gold standard of personal grooming. While I'm generally supportive of the inventions in the realm of waxing and hair removal - especially if it opens the door to more oral sex - I feel like I'm beginning to resemble a Chihuahua. Uncool. I can NOT be the only one who notices that pubic hair definitely prevents chaffing. Call me crazy, but could it be that the hair is there for a reason?
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Sucky offers and SLGs
I know I can't fast forward through the sad parts of life like I do when I'm watching Titanic, but I definitely could've lived without the past few days. However, aside from the constant ache in my heart (I'm not trying to dramatize the situation, that's just how it feels), I've had a very interesting week and a few realizations...
An old friend - a very good-looking, successful Swedish guy (we'll call him Mr. S) - stayed with me over the past weekend. After finishing his MBA a couple weeks ago, Mr. S stopped in to see me on his way around the world and before starting a two-year contract with Samsung in Korea. Mr. S has wonderful social skills (I think my mom still reveling in her "after-glow" from her brief conversation with Mr. S), is sophisticated, well-traveled, interesting and considerate...and although we've never had more than a kiss or two (way back in 2004) he's had a crush on me for the better half of a decade. Much to the surprise of my friends who've met him, I don't have any romantic interest in Mr.S...which is probably part of the reason he likes me so much. Anyway, at some point during his three-day visit he sat me down and asked me to move with him to Korea and give "us" a chance. As Mr. S was sitting in front of me, looking at me with hopeful eyes, I couldn't help but think that his offer kinda sucked. Not only was he asking me to give up my whole life and most of the things that are important to me, he was doing it for a completely selfish and transparent reason - he's afraid that I'll be married by the time he comes back from Korea.
This offer led me to a couple of realizations:
1) Men make offers like this..."move-in with me," move across the country to "see where this is going," come to Korea and "give us a chance." These offers are packaged as romantic, and often give women the idea that these men are making some grand gesture of commitment, when in fact, the guys are often buying time, and avoiding choices or personal sacrifices (like career opportunities or their own lives in some other geographic area). As usual, I'm generalizing. I guess my point is that sometimes these offers seem a little bit like selfishness in a nice, shiny, romantic wrapper.
2) The second realization is that I have a type. I never thought I did, but I do. I definitely don't have a physical type, but I often date men with a lot of the same personality characteristics...and a certain demeanor. The guys I date are typically intelligent, kind, mild-mannered, attentive, a little dorky and usually work in business or engineering. Obviously some of these characteristics are things that I should be looking for, but what suddenly dawned on me is that these guys, these "sweet little geeks (SLG)" as I call them, don't challenge me. They're safe, and to be totally honest, I choose them with my brain, not my heart. Sometimes I'll come home from a date and when my roommate asks me how it went, I'll respond with something like "eh, I could eat him for lunch." Most likely, this means I was on a date with an SLG.
What I didn't fully understand until last night (I was suckered into a date with a very nice, very cute SLG), is that I need something more...a little bit of edge, a little bit of wit, and a certain "manly" demeanor that SLGs just don't have. I don't want to feel like I'm going to have to protect my boyfriend when we're walking down a dark alley. Sure, this sounds archaic, but it's true, and I'm okay with it.
I also realized that this is exactly why I was (am...come on, it's only been a week) so attracted to J-Dogg. He is completely different from any guy I've ever dated. In fact, before we started dating, I tried desperately NOT to be attracted to him, because it didn't make sense...or so I thought at the time. He has most of the characteristics from this list that I actually need, but we see the world, people and relationships very differently. These significant differences caused arguments, but they also made me feel alive and brought out different sides of my personality. Clearly this doesn't change the fact that J-Dogg is still about five years behind me in terms of being ready for a relationship, but I think this realization is going to be helpful in general.
An old friend - a very good-looking, successful Swedish guy (we'll call him Mr. S) - stayed with me over the past weekend. After finishing his MBA a couple weeks ago, Mr. S stopped in to see me on his way around the world and before starting a two-year contract with Samsung in Korea. Mr. S has wonderful social skills (I think my mom still reveling in her "after-glow" from her brief conversation with Mr. S), is sophisticated, well-traveled, interesting and considerate...and although we've never had more than a kiss or two (way back in 2004) he's had a crush on me for the better half of a decade. Much to the surprise of my friends who've met him, I don't have any romantic interest in Mr.S...which is probably part of the reason he likes me so much. Anyway, at some point during his three-day visit he sat me down and asked me to move with him to Korea and give "us" a chance. As Mr. S was sitting in front of me, looking at me with hopeful eyes, I couldn't help but think that his offer kinda sucked. Not only was he asking me to give up my whole life and most of the things that are important to me, he was doing it for a completely selfish and transparent reason - he's afraid that I'll be married by the time he comes back from Korea.
This offer led me to a couple of realizations:
1) Men make offers like this..."move-in with me," move across the country to "see where this is going," come to Korea and "give us a chance." These offers are packaged as romantic, and often give women the idea that these men are making some grand gesture of commitment, when in fact, the guys are often buying time, and avoiding choices or personal sacrifices (like career opportunities or their own lives in some other geographic area). As usual, I'm generalizing. I guess my point is that sometimes these offers seem a little bit like selfishness in a nice, shiny, romantic wrapper.
2) The second realization is that I have a type. I never thought I did, but I do. I definitely don't have a physical type, but I often date men with a lot of the same personality characteristics...and a certain demeanor. The guys I date are typically intelligent, kind, mild-mannered, attentive, a little dorky and usually work in business or engineering. Obviously some of these characteristics are things that I should be looking for, but what suddenly dawned on me is that these guys, these "sweet little geeks (SLG)" as I call them, don't challenge me. They're safe, and to be totally honest, I choose them with my brain, not my heart. Sometimes I'll come home from a date and when my roommate asks me how it went, I'll respond with something like "eh, I could eat him for lunch." Most likely, this means I was on a date with an SLG.
What I didn't fully understand until last night (I was suckered into a date with a very nice, very cute SLG), is that I need something more...a little bit of edge, a little bit of wit, and a certain "manly" demeanor that SLGs just don't have. I don't want to feel like I'm going to have to protect my boyfriend when we're walking down a dark alley. Sure, this sounds archaic, but it's true, and I'm okay with it.
I also realized that this is exactly why I was (am...come on, it's only been a week) so attracted to J-Dogg. He is completely different from any guy I've ever dated. In fact, before we started dating, I tried desperately NOT to be attracted to him, because it didn't make sense...or so I thought at the time. He has most of the characteristics from this list that I actually need, but we see the world, people and relationships very differently. These significant differences caused arguments, but they also made me feel alive and brought out different sides of my personality. Clearly this doesn't change the fact that J-Dogg is still about five years behind me in terms of being ready for a relationship, but I think this realization is going to be helpful in general.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The damn fat lady and her stupid-ass singing
The fat lady has sung - we broke up.
I could tell you that I feel empowered because I was able to see that J-Dogg can't give me what I need, and because I was actually strong enough to do something about it. I could tell you that I'm hopeful for the future and for the possibility of finding someone who will be able to let me into their life. But since most of you have probably had a broken heart, and have mourned the loss of someone you really cared about, you know that's not what I want to say right now. Basically, I just want to wallow in self-pity and cry about how much I'm going to miss J-Dogg. However, I will resist the temptation and just give you a basic run down.
I knew it had to end because we were stuck in a pattern of arguments over one issue. We would have argued for months, years or maybe even decades over the fact that he is a wonderful man, who did a lot of wonderful things, but couldn't allow me to be part of his daily life...and didn't know how to be part of mine. But I'm sad. Really sad. Maybe because I love him and I know I hurt both of us, maybe because he swallowed his pride, got in the car and drove down to my parent's house (where I'm living with my puppy until I move) to see if he could mend whatever it was he did wrong (which I honestly don’t think he understands), and salvage our relationship. He even brought me a chocolate Easter bunny, which we had joked about last week.
Part of me wants to drive up there and be waiting in his apartment when he gets home from work. But the other part of me knows that it won’t change anything…he still won’t understand what I'm asking for. He still won’t consider me before making plans or call me randomly just because he misses me and wants to hear my voice. And I will never understand why he can't do those things simply because they are important to me, and because he loves me. It’s hard to think about all the things that he did right because there are so many...and thinking about them makes me cry. So instead, I have to focus on the fact that it wasn’t going to work...even though we both wanted it to.
But last night, standing outside my parent’s house, hugging goodbye, I was very conscious of the fact that he might be holding me for the last time. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stand there forever, with my face against his chest, smelling his familiar scent and feeling safe in his arms. For nine months he has been the thing I look forward to, a source of joy, laughter, comfort and desire in my life. Even though I know what I'm feeling is temporary and that things are going to get better, right now I can't see how I’ll ever find someone that makes me feel the way he does. Yes, the sadness will go away, but for now, it hurts to breathe.
I could tell you that I feel empowered because I was able to see that J-Dogg can't give me what I need, and because I was actually strong enough to do something about it. I could tell you that I'm hopeful for the future and for the possibility of finding someone who will be able to let me into their life. But since most of you have probably had a broken heart, and have mourned the loss of someone you really cared about, you know that's not what I want to say right now. Basically, I just want to wallow in self-pity and cry about how much I'm going to miss J-Dogg. However, I will resist the temptation and just give you a basic run down.
I knew it had to end because we were stuck in a pattern of arguments over one issue. We would have argued for months, years or maybe even decades over the fact that he is a wonderful man, who did a lot of wonderful things, but couldn't allow me to be part of his daily life...and didn't know how to be part of mine. But I'm sad. Really sad. Maybe because I love him and I know I hurt both of us, maybe because he swallowed his pride, got in the car and drove down to my parent's house (where I'm living with my puppy until I move) to see if he could mend whatever it was he did wrong (which I honestly don’t think he understands), and salvage our relationship. He even brought me a chocolate Easter bunny, which we had joked about last week.
Part of me wants to drive up there and be waiting in his apartment when he gets home from work. But the other part of me knows that it won’t change anything…he still won’t understand what I'm asking for. He still won’t consider me before making plans or call me randomly just because he misses me and wants to hear my voice. And I will never understand why he can't do those things simply because they are important to me, and because he loves me. It’s hard to think about all the things that he did right because there are so many...and thinking about them makes me cry. So instead, I have to focus on the fact that it wasn’t going to work...even though we both wanted it to.
But last night, standing outside my parent’s house, hugging goodbye, I was very conscious of the fact that he might be holding me for the last time. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stand there forever, with my face against his chest, smelling his familiar scent and feeling safe in his arms. For nine months he has been the thing I look forward to, a source of joy, laughter, comfort and desire in my life. Even though I know what I'm feeling is temporary and that things are going to get better, right now I can't see how I’ll ever find someone that makes me feel the way he does. Yes, the sadness will go away, but for now, it hurts to breathe.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
How hard should love be?
I've gotten several questions about my last post - "what caused you to write that posting?" "Did J-Dogg do something to piss you off?" Well, I am upset with J-Dogg, but I've been trying (almost desperately) not to use this blog as a method of communicating with my boyfriend. However, his brother, J-Junior, is currently in town, and I have a guest coming to stay with me the day after Junior leaves. So, there is a possibility that I won't be able to talk to J-Dogg about this stuff for another week and a half. That said, this blog is intended to be an open, honest, real-time forum for my thoughts and feelings about relationships (mine and other people's) and my experiences with being a woman in today's world. Lately, I've been censoring myself more and more when it comes to my relationship because I don't want to use this blog as a communication crutch. But the censorship has to stop. So, even though I know it might cause a fight, I'm going to publish the post I originally wrote on Sunday, before I posted "I hate men today." Here goes...
- - - - - - - -
Relationships are hard - definitely not a news flash. There is compromise, sacrifice and occasionally, hurt feelings. But how hard should it be? At what point should you "take your ball and go home?" I'm not talking about the big reasons like infidelity or abuse, I'm talking about the other stuff, the gray areas.
My current gray area is communication. As you've probably gathered from past posts, J-Dogg is not much of a communicator. Maybe because it feels like something he has to do, since we've had so many arguments about it, but he has no problem going three days without knowing what I'm up to or telling me what he's been doing. I would probably be able to accept this (at least a little better) if it weren't for the fact that he updates his status on Facebook and MySpace religiously with things like: "Patrolling Westwood" or "Working on my tan" or "Drinking with my buddies." In fact, when I had a Facebook account, I knew WAY more about my boyfriend's day-to-day life than I do now. I know J-Dogg would roll his eyes and be violently annoyed if I said this, but girls, I know you'll understand: it makes me feel like his absolute last priority when communicating with me comes after checking his MySpace page and updating his Facebook status.
Another frustration is that when I'm with him, I see that he is CONSTANTLY texting and chatting (via blackberry) with his buddies. I see him responding instantaneously to any number of his friends, but if I send a text, I never know if I'll get the courtesy of a response. Recently a girlfriend (who also happens to be friends with J-Dogg) and I were trying to make plans for a Saturday night and I said, "oh, J-Dogg's at home, let's stop by and see what he and Jed are up to tonight." My friend responded, "No, they aren't home, J-Dogg just texted me that he is at Hennessey's." Awesome. And, it wasn't the first time I'd been embarrassed that several of all our mutual friends talk to J-Dogg more than I do.
So you're probably asking "WHY the HELL do you put up with this?" Well, J-Dogg does SO many things right, I thought it was worth the effort to work on this particular issue. And occasionally, he will surprise me. The other day I found out that he'd spent a good chunk of time looking online for apartments for me (I have to move because of my dog). I was sincerely touched - I usually just assume that I'm not on his mind because I rarely hear from him. Plus, when we are together, I love the way he treats me - he is considerate, affectionate and a lot of fun to be around. Because of these things, I've been trying to accept that just because he doesn't communicate with me, doesn't mean he doesn't care about me or isn't thinking about me (even though that's how it makes me feel).
But I don't know how I feel anymore. It was hard to let him back into my life after the Facebook incident and at the time of reconciliation he swore up, down and backwards that he would never slide back into his old communication habits again. I guess I shouldn't be too shocked to find myself in almost the exact same place I was three months ago (there have been some improvements). The truth is, if you were a stranger, and followed me around for a week, you'd probably think I was single or casually dating someone. If I did hear from J-Dogg, you'd think he was a friend/hook-up. I don't like pretending to be oblivious to the fact that it seems like he doesn't want to talk to me. I feel silly hoping that he is going to start including me in his life on a daily basis, only to be disappointed. These things are eating away at my confidence in this relationship. He isn't holding up his end of the bargain and I'm beginning to think I might not be able to hold up mine...
- - - - - - - -
Relationships are hard - definitely not a news flash. There is compromise, sacrifice and occasionally, hurt feelings. But how hard should it be? At what point should you "take your ball and go home?" I'm not talking about the big reasons like infidelity or abuse, I'm talking about the other stuff, the gray areas.
My current gray area is communication. As you've probably gathered from past posts, J-Dogg is not much of a communicator. Maybe because it feels like something he has to do, since we've had so many arguments about it, but he has no problem going three days without knowing what I'm up to or telling me what he's been doing. I would probably be able to accept this (at least a little better) if it weren't for the fact that he updates his status on Facebook and MySpace religiously with things like: "Patrolling Westwood" or "Working on my tan" or "Drinking with my buddies." In fact, when I had a Facebook account, I knew WAY more about my boyfriend's day-to-day life than I do now. I know J-Dogg would roll his eyes and be violently annoyed if I said this, but girls, I know you'll understand: it makes me feel like his absolute last priority when communicating with me comes after checking his MySpace page and updating his Facebook status.
Another frustration is that when I'm with him, I see that he is CONSTANTLY texting and chatting (via blackberry) with his buddies. I see him responding instantaneously to any number of his friends, but if I send a text, I never know if I'll get the courtesy of a response. Recently a girlfriend (who also happens to be friends with J-Dogg) and I were trying to make plans for a Saturday night and I said, "oh, J-Dogg's at home, let's stop by and see what he and Jed are up to tonight." My friend responded, "No, they aren't home, J-Dogg just texted me that he is at Hennessey's." Awesome. And, it wasn't the first time I'd been embarrassed that several of all our mutual friends talk to J-Dogg more than I do.
So you're probably asking "WHY the HELL do you put up with this?" Well, J-Dogg does SO many things right, I thought it was worth the effort to work on this particular issue. And occasionally, he will surprise me. The other day I found out that he'd spent a good chunk of time looking online for apartments for me (I have to move because of my dog). I was sincerely touched - I usually just assume that I'm not on his mind because I rarely hear from him. Plus, when we are together, I love the way he treats me - he is considerate, affectionate and a lot of fun to be around. Because of these things, I've been trying to accept that just because he doesn't communicate with me, doesn't mean he doesn't care about me or isn't thinking about me (even though that's how it makes me feel).
But I don't know how I feel anymore. It was hard to let him back into my life after the Facebook incident and at the time of reconciliation he swore up, down and backwards that he would never slide back into his old communication habits again. I guess I shouldn't be too shocked to find myself in almost the exact same place I was three months ago (there have been some improvements). The truth is, if you were a stranger, and followed me around for a week, you'd probably think I was single or casually dating someone. If I did hear from J-Dogg, you'd think he was a friend/hook-up. I don't like pretending to be oblivious to the fact that it seems like he doesn't want to talk to me. I feel silly hoping that he is going to start including me in his life on a daily basis, only to be disappointed. These things are eating away at my confidence in this relationship. He isn't holding up his end of the bargain and I'm beginning to think I might not be able to hold up mine...
Sunday, March 23, 2008
I hate men today
On most days of any given year, I’m very pro-testosterone. I love that guys sincerely don’t understand why I can’t leave the house – under any circumstances, short of rapidly spreading fire – in black shoes with a brown purse. I love that guys don’t over analyze things to the point of self mutilation. I love that a couple of guy friends can disagree, throw some punches and then be over it 30 minutes later. I love a good pair of shoulders. I love how guys are fascinated by sports and technology…two things I find mind numbingly dull.
But today, I hate men. I HATE Men’s Health, Playboy and all the other stupid publications that give men a skewed and slightly ridiculous idea of female body standards…not to mention the truly horrible relationship advice. I hate that even if a guy is 45, under it all, he usually has the maturity of a 12 year old. I hate the idea that guys can become bored by having sex with one woman…even if they love her (we really get the shaft on that one). I hate that guys are taught that commitment threatens their manliness and freedom. I hate that guys assume our only end goal must be to trap them and force them to get married. I hate that they blame our emotions on PMS…or being a woman in general. I hate that guys do one good thing and think they are "set" for the next year. I hate that when guys become comfortable in a relationship they become lazy. I hate that when we’re finally ready to pull ourselves together and move on, guys can smell it…like a police dog sniffing out cocaine. AND, I hate that not only do guys innately sense when a woman is ready to move on, but they know EXACTLY what to do and say to keep her around for another few months…or years…until she finally gets a clue.
But today, I hate men. I HATE Men’s Health, Playboy and all the other stupid publications that give men a skewed and slightly ridiculous idea of female body standards…not to mention the truly horrible relationship advice. I hate that even if a guy is 45, under it all, he usually has the maturity of a 12 year old. I hate the idea that guys can become bored by having sex with one woman…even if they love her (we really get the shaft on that one). I hate that guys are taught that commitment threatens their manliness and freedom. I hate that guys assume our only end goal must be to trap them and force them to get married. I hate that they blame our emotions on PMS…or being a woman in general. I hate that guys do one good thing and think they are "set" for the next year. I hate that when guys become comfortable in a relationship they become lazy. I hate that when we’re finally ready to pull ourselves together and move on, guys can smell it…like a police dog sniffing out cocaine. AND, I hate that not only do guys innately sense when a woman is ready to move on, but they know EXACTLY what to do and say to keep her around for another few months…or years…until she finally gets a clue.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Masturbation
A girlfriend of mine recently decided to get a vibrator. Not exactly breaking news...except that she wasn't able to tell her husband about this "exciting" purchase because he would be offended. I have to admit this pushed my fem-button a little bit. Guys masturbate all the time and its almost completely accepted by society - women definitely aren't supposed to be offended by a guy's masturbation habits. BUT, if a woman talks about masturbating, she is pegged as sex-starved (read: single), unsatisfied (read: my husband/boyfriend has a shortcoming of some sort), or some sort of kinky nympho (my personal favorite). In my opinion, there are a lot of reason why a woman might masturbate or buy a vibrator...maybe she has trouble orgasming through intercourse and masturbation is just easier than the mental effort it takes to cum with a partner...or maybe her partner isn't around all the time...or maybe she is single and her "little buddy" is the only action she's getting...or maybe she just thinks a vibrator would be a fun addition to an already terrific sex life. I guess my point is that while I'm very familiar with the delicate nature of the male ego, I don't think women should be punished for having a healthy sexual appetite.
While I'm on the topic of sex, I'm constantly perplexed by the fact that - even though there are about a zillion Men's Health articles on the topic - some guys still don't understand that a woman's body responds differently than a man's. But in talking to my girlfriends, it seems that there are a lot of guys out there who have missed that memo. Here are a couple things I wish I could air-write above the Superbowl stadium next year:
While I'm on the topic of sex, I'm constantly perplexed by the fact that - even though there are about a zillion Men's Health articles on the topic - some guys still don't understand that a woman's body responds differently than a man's. But in talking to my girlfriends, it seems that there are a lot of guys out there who have missed that memo. Here are a couple things I wish I could air-write above the Superbowl stadium next year:
- Don't look at us like we're broken when we can't cum after 30 seconds. I know the women in porn videos can do it, but here's an inside tip: they're faking...and your girlfriend probably is too if she can always cum immediately.
- We can't just look at a picture of Jessica Alba and be ready to "go," so don't skip the foreplay.
- We understand your need to be efficient (although we'd prefer this tendency was limited to yard work and weekend errands), and a quickie every now and then might be just what the doctor ordered, but don't forget that we also like things light, soft and slow.
- Masturbation has NOTHING to do with your penis size or "skills" in the sack, so hop on the masturbation and vibrator bandwagon...who knows, you might enjoy the ride.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
The good stuff
It's been interesting to see how my family and friends respond to the news that I'm back together with J-Dogg. Those closest to the situation (and most familiar with my romantic past) are either happy that we're back together or are just glad that I seem happy. Those who aren't as close to the situation are nervous that I'm wasting my time and/or settling for someone who isn't ready to give me the attention and affection I need and deserve. At first I was really upset that some people didn't seem to understand why I would give J-Dogg another shot - probably because I was scared that I was wasting my time or settling. But here's the thing: maybe it will work out, maybe it won't, but I've already made the decision to give it a chance. All I can do now is sit back and let J-Dogg show me that he is capable of making me happy.
Anyway, all this thinking has made me realize that sometimes women (yes, this is another one of my many generalizations) spend WAY too much time analyzing and worrying. It's exhausting and it rarely (okay, never) does any good. I've also noticed that we tend to focus on the negative parts of our romantic relationships. If a guy makes dinner we might be appreciative, but we don't always tell him how much the effort meant to us. Instead, we'll whine about why he didn't pick up the dry cleaning or remember plans we had with friends or family. There are definitely times when I do this with J-Dogg and I've noticed my friends, my mom and other women doing it as well. I'm sure some of you out there not only understand that positive reinforcement is a heck of a lot more powerful than negative reinforcement, but are actually able to put this fact into practice. I'm definitely a work in progress, but I'm hoping that this realization will help me remember to appreciate the little things. In the spirit of recognizing "the good stuff," here are some things that I appreciate about J-Dogg:
*Giving me long massages without expecting one in return
*Making me laugh (like only Jim Carey can ;-)
*Foreplay
*Always asking me what I feel like eating, watching and doing, but being able to make plans if I'm not in the mood to have an opinion
*Planning things for us to do together without any prompting from me
*Telling me about work and sharing his long-term career goals
*Buying me a pink toothbrush to keep at his apartment
*Offering to pack our campsite or take the dog out for a walk while I continue to sleep
*Surprise kisses, touches and other random acts of affection
*Missing me...and letting me know by telling me or picking me up at baggage claim instead of on the curb outside the terminal
*Silly presents like Harry Potter figurines
*Remembering a song I mentioned was one of my all-time favorites and randomly choosing it on the Jukebox when we are out with friends
*Introducing me to high school or college friends
*Pulling me close on the couch, initiating bedtime cuddling and generally making me feel like he wants to be close to me
*Commenting on my "slammin" body
*Supporting my dreams...and believing that I have what it takes to make them come true
*Trying not to check out other girls when I'm around
*Pink roses
*Foreplay
*Buying brown sugar pop tarts at the store because he knows that they are my number one favorite food
*Participating in my road-trip and shower sing along concerts
*Saying "I can do that" to my requests
*Being patient and understanding with my occasional, and often illogical, emotional outbursts
*Contacting me almost everyday just because its important to me
*Listening to - and being interested in - my stories
*Waking up in the middle of the night and walking me to the campsite bathroom in 30 degree weather because I'm scared of the mystery critter that was trying to get inside our tent all night
*Foreplay
*Making plans for the future, like planning trips and talking about when I will get to meet important people in his life
*Leaving a pumpkin with a heart carved into the front and a bouquet of flowers inside on my doorstep...just because
Anyway, all this thinking has made me realize that sometimes women (yes, this is another one of my many generalizations) spend WAY too much time analyzing and worrying. It's exhausting and it rarely (okay, never) does any good. I've also noticed that we tend to focus on the negative parts of our romantic relationships. If a guy makes dinner we might be appreciative, but we don't always tell him how much the effort meant to us. Instead, we'll whine about why he didn't pick up the dry cleaning or remember plans we had with friends or family. There are definitely times when I do this with J-Dogg and I've noticed my friends, my mom and other women doing it as well. I'm sure some of you out there not only understand that positive reinforcement is a heck of a lot more powerful than negative reinforcement, but are actually able to put this fact into practice. I'm definitely a work in progress, but I'm hoping that this realization will help me remember to appreciate the little things. In the spirit of recognizing "the good stuff," here are some things that I appreciate about J-Dogg:
*Giving me long massages without expecting one in return
*Making me laugh (like only Jim Carey can ;-)
*Foreplay
*Always asking me what I feel like eating, watching and doing, but being able to make plans if I'm not in the mood to have an opinion
*Planning things for us to do together without any prompting from me
*Telling me about work and sharing his long-term career goals
*Buying me a pink toothbrush to keep at his apartment
*Offering to pack our campsite or take the dog out for a walk while I continue to sleep
*Surprise kisses, touches and other random acts of affection
*Missing me...and letting me know by telling me or picking me up at baggage claim instead of on the curb outside the terminal
*Silly presents like Harry Potter figurines
*Remembering a song I mentioned was one of my all-time favorites and randomly choosing it on the Jukebox when we are out with friends
*Introducing me to high school or college friends
*Pulling me close on the couch, initiating bedtime cuddling and generally making me feel like he wants to be close to me
*Commenting on my "slammin" body
*Supporting my dreams...and believing that I have what it takes to make them come true
*Trying not to check out other girls when I'm around
*Pink roses
*Foreplay
*Buying brown sugar pop tarts at the store because he knows that they are my number one favorite food
*Participating in my road-trip and shower sing along concerts
*Saying "I can do that" to my requests
*Being patient and understanding with my occasional, and often illogical, emotional outbursts
*Contacting me almost everyday just because its important to me
*Listening to - and being interested in - my stories
*Waking up in the middle of the night and walking me to the campsite bathroom in 30 degree weather because I'm scared of the mystery critter that was trying to get inside our tent all night
*Foreplay
*Making plans for the future, like planning trips and talking about when I will get to meet important people in his life
*Leaving a pumpkin with a heart carved into the front and a bouquet of flowers inside on my doorstep...just because
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Truth or Something like it: #3
Contraception is a necessary evil - emphasis on the EVIL
Raise your hand if you've ever had a problem with contraception. If you're having momentary amnesia, let me remind you: for the unfortunate majority of us, the pill makes you so crazy that you husband/boyfriend/partner/roommate/cat are scared to come within 6 feet of you the week before your "period." Then, there are the lucky ladies who develop what I like to call the "hormone mustache." This is the very chic, very obvious skin discoloration caused by the synthetic hormones in your body. Conveniently, its usually located on your FACE. Oh, and let's not forget that they don't tell you the efficacy of the pill decreases SIGNIFICANTLY if you don't take the damn things at the same time everyday. I mean, come on, it's hard enough not to end up taking it with wine at 9pm because you almost totally forgot...again.
Condoms. Let's have a moment of silence for the invention of the condom. Amen. However, they're annoying...I mean, you actually have to have them one hand when you want to "do the dirty."
I know a lot of people are scared of IUDs, or have no idea what they are. I honestly thought they were going to be my salvation (and there were a lot of reasons to think this), but apparently I'm not a good candidate for either type of IUD. I can't get the one with hormones because I don't "tolerate" hormones well, and my period is already heavy enough to inspire ark building, so the non-hormonal IUD isn't "recommended" either. I would feel like a contraception reject, except that I have so many friends who have battled with contraception for so long that abstinence and a long life in a small apartment with lots of cats, suddenly doesn't seem quite so bad.
After going through most of the above in my search for one contraception that might actually allow me to have sex without ending up in the delivery room nine months later, I had the following experience:
I was pretty pumped when I read about the Today Sponge. You can put it in hours before sex, so you don't have to run off to the bathroom in the middle of getting it on. Plus, you can leave it in for hours afterward, so I thought I'd just remove it in the mornings. Sounds genius.
As a responsible and educated consumer, I read the instructions about seven times before inserting the Today Sponge. I got the sponge wet, massaged it to activate the spermicide, and inserted it exactly according to the instructions. Everything seemed fine...minus the more than slightly embarrassing phenomenon of spermicide leakage (lucky for you, I'm not in the mood to elaborate). Everything went according to plan until I tried to remove it the next morning. You were supposed to be able to reach up, put your finger through the elastic band on the backside of the sponge, and gently pull it out. Well, I couldn't find the elastic band for the life of me. I was literally grabbing around inside of myself, searching for the darn thing. Hours, a mirror, a flashlight, six phone calls to my best friend and many tears later, I realized I was going to have to get it removed professionally.
The next problem was that I had a very important meeting the next morning - a meeting I could NOT miss - which meant that I was going to have to wait until afterward to go to the doctor. You aren't supposed to leave the sponge in for more than 24 hours, but from the time I inserted it, almost 48 hours had passed. Fuuuuuuuck. I told my MALE doctor what had happened, and he informed me that they see a lot of "stuck sponges (I'll have to remember to check with the local urgent care the next time I decide to have a contraceptive adventure). He told me that the sponge had maneuvered its way up to a point where it would have physically been impossible for me to remove it myself. In addition, because it had been in for so long, it had started to dissolve, so he had to remove the pieces (quite painfully) one-by-one. Once the horror of removal was over, the doctor told me that because it had been in for so long, the spermicide had infected the area...especially since I had scratched myself raw trying to remove the *&%^$#& thing. So, $300, 48 hours and some serious emotional trauma later, my Today Sponge saga was over.
I had high hopes for the Today Sponge, but I definitely would not recommend it to any woman. Ever. The moral of my story is that I LOVE contraception, I am a HUGE fan of not having babies when you don't want them. However, the abstinence band wagon is lookin' pretty comfy...and, since men don't have to deal with periods, cramps, bloating, birth or skinny jeans (well, most men), I think they should have to endure the next contraceptive contraption or potion "they" dream up. Just a thought...
Raise your hand if you've ever had a problem with contraception. If you're having momentary amnesia, let me remind you: for the unfortunate majority of us, the pill makes you so crazy that you husband/boyfriend/partner/roommate/cat are scared to come within 6 feet of you the week before your "period." Then, there are the lucky ladies who develop what I like to call the "hormone mustache." This is the very chic, very obvious skin discoloration caused by the synthetic hormones in your body. Conveniently, its usually located on your FACE. Oh, and let's not forget that they don't tell you the efficacy of the pill decreases SIGNIFICANTLY if you don't take the damn things at the same time everyday. I mean, come on, it's hard enough not to end up taking it with wine at 9pm because you almost totally forgot...again.
Condoms. Let's have a moment of silence for the invention of the condom. Amen. However, they're annoying...I mean, you actually have to have them one hand when you want to "do the dirty."
I know a lot of people are scared of IUDs, or have no idea what they are. I honestly thought they were going to be my salvation (and there were a lot of reasons to think this), but apparently I'm not a good candidate for either type of IUD. I can't get the one with hormones because I don't "tolerate" hormones well, and my period is already heavy enough to inspire ark building, so the non-hormonal IUD isn't "recommended" either. I would feel like a contraception reject, except that I have so many friends who have battled with contraception for so long that abstinence and a long life in a small apartment with lots of cats, suddenly doesn't seem quite so bad.
After going through most of the above in my search for one contraception that might actually allow me to have sex without ending up in the delivery room nine months later, I had the following experience:
I was pretty pumped when I read about the Today Sponge. You can put it in hours before sex, so you don't have to run off to the bathroom in the middle of getting it on. Plus, you can leave it in for hours afterward, so I thought I'd just remove it in the mornings. Sounds genius.
As a responsible and educated consumer, I read the instructions about seven times before inserting the Today Sponge. I got the sponge wet, massaged it to activate the spermicide, and inserted it exactly according to the instructions. Everything seemed fine...minus the more than slightly embarrassing phenomenon of spermicide leakage (lucky for you, I'm not in the mood to elaborate). Everything went according to plan until I tried to remove it the next morning. You were supposed to be able to reach up, put your finger through the elastic band on the backside of the sponge, and gently pull it out. Well, I couldn't find the elastic band for the life of me. I was literally grabbing around inside of myself, searching for the darn thing. Hours, a mirror, a flashlight, six phone calls to my best friend and many tears later, I realized I was going to have to get it removed professionally.
The next problem was that I had a very important meeting the next morning - a meeting I could NOT miss - which meant that I was going to have to wait until afterward to go to the doctor. You aren't supposed to leave the sponge in for more than 24 hours, but from the time I inserted it, almost 48 hours had passed. Fuuuuuuuck. I told my MALE doctor what had happened, and he informed me that they see a lot of "stuck sponges (I'll have to remember to check with the local urgent care the next time I decide to have a contraceptive adventure). He told me that the sponge had maneuvered its way up to a point where it would have physically been impossible for me to remove it myself. In addition, because it had been in for so long, it had started to dissolve, so he had to remove the pieces (quite painfully) one-by-one. Once the horror of removal was over, the doctor told me that because it had been in for so long, the spermicide had infected the area...especially since I had scratched myself raw trying to remove the *&%^$#& thing. So, $300, 48 hours and some serious emotional trauma later, my Today Sponge saga was over.
I had high hopes for the Today Sponge, but I definitely would not recommend it to any woman. Ever. The moral of my story is that I LOVE contraception, I am a HUGE fan of not having babies when you don't want them. However, the abstinence band wagon is lookin' pretty comfy...and, since men don't have to deal with periods, cramps, bloating, birth or skinny jeans (well, most men), I think they should have to endure the next contraceptive contraption or potion "they" dream up. Just a thought...
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Second chance sucker
After I elbowed J-Dogg in the stomach, we didn't speak for another week. When he showed up at my door again, I was almost too busy thinking about the fact that I'd eaten onion dip for lunch, hadn't washed my hair in two days and was wearing old sweats that featured chic bleach stains and holes, to notice that my neighbor-who-doesn't-talk-a-lot-but-makes-my-tummy-go-mushy was about to string together more sentences than he had in the past decade. It went a little bit like this:
"I know I f*cked up. I know I really f*cked up and I'm sorry. In fact, I've never been so sorry about something and I want to explain what happened. When we started getting together, I didn't expect to fall in love with you, and I certainly didn't expect you to fall in love with me. I've been keeping you at arms length, but I didn't realize I was doing it. My last relationship ended suddenly and she broke my heart. I know this isn't the great tragedy of the world, but when you wrote me that letter, I guess I was thinking, "she is going to dump me, I better get out now before she breaks my heart too." I realize I handled it wrong, but I was frustrated and I didn't know what else to do. Here's the thing: I miss you and I've missed you so much over the past couple of weeks that I could never take you for granted again. In order to show you that I'm serious, I need another chance."
I'm not sure at what point during his speech that my knees started to tremble, but they did. We went back-and-forth for awhile and I told him that I was scared that if I gave him another shot, in two months we would be right back where we were before. I told him that while I didn't handle things very well either (I may have forgotten to mention to you all, that my infamous letter was a little ill-timed, a tad dramatic and probably could have been handled in person), I meant what I'd said in my letter. His response was that he wasn't going to be stupid enough to make the same mistakes again.
I've had more dating experience than almost anyone I know, yet I'd never been in that situation before. I'd never had someone I care about, someone I WANTED to be with, standing in front of me, asking me for a second chance. Did I believe in second chances? Did I know deep down that it wasn't going to work? If that was the case, would it be worth going through the pain of breaking up with him AGAIN? Could he really be different? I'd always mentally rolled my eyes at books that described a confused and overwhelmed heroine as "reeling," but at that moment it was an appropriate word.
Luckily, our discussion had already made me a half hour late to meet some old friends for happy hour. I told him that I had to think about it and I left.
Before I'd even turned my car off our street, I was dialing my mom and relaying the enter scene. I heard myself tell her that I knew J-Dogg was sincere, that he wasn't smooth enough to come up with that stuff without being sincere. I told her that I thought when you really love someone you aren't supposed to be able to hurt them like that. Then I asked if this was one of those situations where its "Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me." My mom surprised me. She said that when people love each other, sometimes they hurt each other more than anyone else. She said that when two people really care, they have the most power and the most to lose. She told me that she hadn't seen me care about someone like this and that she thought a second chance was probably worth the risk.
I was floored.
Out of all my friends, my sister and my roommate, I definitely thought my mom would be the one to throw this idea in the trash before it had even been opened. SHE WAS THE ONE WHO MADE ME A FEMINIST IN THE FIRST PLACE. I suddenly felt like I'd been given permission to give J-Dogg another shot. Not because it was my mom, but because I was so worried that what I knew I wanted, would be the "wrong" thing to do.
It didn't happen right away, and I'm still not sure what I feel, but since that night, J-Dogg has expressed his remorse in various ways. Communication. Flowers. There have even been several of those small, but incredibly meaningful gestures, like volunteering to watch "Annie Hall." I guess we'll see...
"I know I f*cked up. I know I really f*cked up and I'm sorry. In fact, I've never been so sorry about something and I want to explain what happened. When we started getting together, I didn't expect to fall in love with you, and I certainly didn't expect you to fall in love with me. I've been keeping you at arms length, but I didn't realize I was doing it. My last relationship ended suddenly and she broke my heart. I know this isn't the great tragedy of the world, but when you wrote me that letter, I guess I was thinking, "she is going to dump me, I better get out now before she breaks my heart too." I realize I handled it wrong, but I was frustrated and I didn't know what else to do. Here's the thing: I miss you and I've missed you so much over the past couple of weeks that I could never take you for granted again. In order to show you that I'm serious, I need another chance."
I'm not sure at what point during his speech that my knees started to tremble, but they did. We went back-and-forth for awhile and I told him that I was scared that if I gave him another shot, in two months we would be right back where we were before. I told him that while I didn't handle things very well either (I may have forgotten to mention to you all, that my infamous letter was a little ill-timed, a tad dramatic and probably could have been handled in person), I meant what I'd said in my letter. His response was that he wasn't going to be stupid enough to make the same mistakes again.
I've had more dating experience than almost anyone I know, yet I'd never been in that situation before. I'd never had someone I care about, someone I WANTED to be with, standing in front of me, asking me for a second chance. Did I believe in second chances? Did I know deep down that it wasn't going to work? If that was the case, would it be worth going through the pain of breaking up with him AGAIN? Could he really be different? I'd always mentally rolled my eyes at books that described a confused and overwhelmed heroine as "reeling," but at that moment it was an appropriate word.
Luckily, our discussion had already made me a half hour late to meet some old friends for happy hour. I told him that I had to think about it and I left.
Before I'd even turned my car off our street, I was dialing my mom and relaying the enter scene. I heard myself tell her that I knew J-Dogg was sincere, that he wasn't smooth enough to come up with that stuff without being sincere. I told her that I thought when you really love someone you aren't supposed to be able to hurt them like that. Then I asked if this was one of those situations where its "Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me." My mom surprised me. She said that when people love each other, sometimes they hurt each other more than anyone else. She said that when two people really care, they have the most power and the most to lose. She told me that she hadn't seen me care about someone like this and that she thought a second chance was probably worth the risk.
I was floored.
Out of all my friends, my sister and my roommate, I definitely thought my mom would be the one to throw this idea in the trash before it had even been opened. SHE WAS THE ONE WHO MADE ME A FEMINIST IN THE FIRST PLACE. I suddenly felt like I'd been given permission to give J-Dogg another shot. Not because it was my mom, but because I was so worried that what I knew I wanted, would be the "wrong" thing to do.
It didn't happen right away, and I'm still not sure what I feel, but since that night, J-Dogg has expressed his remorse in various ways. Communication. Flowers. There have even been several of those small, but incredibly meaningful gestures, like volunteering to watch "Annie Hall." I guess we'll see...
Monday, February 18, 2008
Beauty and Brains - What's with the Player Haters?
My older sister looks like someone who would have a fairy godmother and little birds to help her get dressed in the morning. She has blond hair, big blue eyes and a dainty little figure. But her looks are far from her best feature - she is funny, down-to-earth and coincidentally, brilliant. She graduated high school with a 4.89 GPA, was a National Merit Scholar, went on to an Ivy League college, and then to medical school. She recently finished her specialty training in rheumatology (jigga, what???) and is now a practicing physician in Orange County.
Don't get me wrong, I'm the first to admit that my sister is far from perfect, but my point is that if you saw her from across the bar or coffee shop, it wouldn't occur to you that she should probably be in a think tank somewhere. She is the perfect example of "beauty and brains."
During my sister's residency at a busy county hospital in Los Angeles, it was often difficult to convince patients that she was in fact the physician, not the nurse. At 5'3, about 115 pounds and with a face that looks more late teens than early thirties, she certainly didn't have the built-in credibility of the older, male physicians. While some of us would give our left pinky to have my sister's problems, it often forced her to be less friendly and social than the other residents. In order to be taken seriously, she often had to hide her personality.
We all thought her credibility issues would end after she finished her formal training and joined a respected internal medicine group in Orange County. But the other night over dinner, my sister started telling me a story about another physician in her group, let's call him Dr. Duh. Dr. Duh is an older man and one of the original members of the group. He is also a primary care physician, so he often has to refer rheumatology patients to my sister.
Welllllll, it turns out that while Dr. Duh is telling his patients about my sister, he refers to her as the new rheumatologist, who is "as cute as a button." This may sound innocent enough, but if your primary care physician was referring you to a specialist, would you want them to be described as “capable” or “cute as a button?” Talk about a credibility-buster.
The worst part is that there isn’t much my sister can do to correct the situation. If she calls him out, will he resent her? If he is trying to get a reaction, saying something to him could reaffirm this inappropriate and highly unprofessional behavior. Plus, she is the new kid on the block, and causing problems could jeopardize her relationship with the whole physician group.
Every accidental feminist bone in my body wants to tell Dr. Duh exactly what I think of his “cute little joke, which probably matches his cute little penis.” But the truth is I’ll never get that chance, and I’d probably be out one excellent sister if I did say anything like that. Regardless, whether Dr. Duh has a problem with women physicians in general, or just the cute ones, as far as I’m concerned, he is nothing but a big, fat player hater.
Don't get me wrong, I'm the first to admit that my sister is far from perfect, but my point is that if you saw her from across the bar or coffee shop, it wouldn't occur to you that she should probably be in a think tank somewhere. She is the perfect example of "beauty and brains."
During my sister's residency at a busy county hospital in Los Angeles, it was often difficult to convince patients that she was in fact the physician, not the nurse. At 5'3, about 115 pounds and with a face that looks more late teens than early thirties, she certainly didn't have the built-in credibility of the older, male physicians. While some of us would give our left pinky to have my sister's problems, it often forced her to be less friendly and social than the other residents. In order to be taken seriously, she often had to hide her personality.
We all thought her credibility issues would end after she finished her formal training and joined a respected internal medicine group in Orange County. But the other night over dinner, my sister started telling me a story about another physician in her group, let's call him Dr. Duh. Dr. Duh is an older man and one of the original members of the group. He is also a primary care physician, so he often has to refer rheumatology patients to my sister.
Welllllll, it turns out that while Dr. Duh is telling his patients about my sister, he refers to her as the new rheumatologist, who is "as cute as a button." This may sound innocent enough, but if your primary care physician was referring you to a specialist, would you want them to be described as “capable” or “cute as a button?” Talk about a credibility-buster.
The worst part is that there isn’t much my sister can do to correct the situation. If she calls him out, will he resent her? If he is trying to get a reaction, saying something to him could reaffirm this inappropriate and highly unprofessional behavior. Plus, she is the new kid on the block, and causing problems could jeopardize her relationship with the whole physician group.
Every accidental feminist bone in my body wants to tell Dr. Duh exactly what I think of his “cute little joke, which probably matches his cute little penis.” But the truth is I’ll never get that chance, and I’d probably be out one excellent sister if I did say anything like that. Regardless, whether Dr. Duh has a problem with women physicians in general, or just the cute ones, as far as I’m concerned, he is nothing but a big, fat player hater.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The Facebook Bandit Strikes Again
For those of you that read this blog on a regular basis, you know that I was recently dumped by my boyfriend of seven months...via Facebook. Then, to ensure I wasn't confused about the status of our relationship, he left all my belongings on my doorstep. I didn't hear from him again.
To distract myself from the annoying, but unavoidable pain of getting over someone, I focused on expanding the content of this blog and bugging all my friends to come up with suggestions about how I could make it better. I even successfully auditioned for a salsa performance team in LA, and accepted an invitation to fly to Chicago and attend a fancy-schmancy charity ball as the date of very hot MBA student. I was convinced that if I kept busy, I wouldn't notice how much I missed J-Dogg, and I wouldn't think about how he just walked away from me without so much as a look over his shoulder. Cuz that plan ALWAYS works...
Well, 'the plan' was going fine - or at least I wanted to believe it was going fine - until I received the fateful text message. After two and a half weeks, he finally made contact. A few minutes after the text he was at my doorstep...to talk. Standing only inches away from J-Dogg, with a variety of emotions surging through my body, I knew that beyond the anger and hurt, 'the plan' hadn't dimmed my affection or attraction.
He explained (note: explained, not apologized) that while he had handled things poorly (understatement of the century), my letter made him feel like I didn't trust him. He had a point.
I didn't worry about him cheating on me with another woman, but his inconsistant communication and wandering eye made me doubt his feelings. It's an age old truth - negative comments or actions are about 200 percent stronger than the positive ones. He spent three days dealing with a recent life-drama I'd experienced, but then he didn't respond when I tried to schedule time for us...or when I texted to say "goodnight." While the former built my trust, the latter knocked it back down again.
We didn't resolve anything, but our conversation wasn't horrible. When we parted, he texted me almost immediately. Even though I knew I was embarking on a slippery slope, we went back and forth for a bit and I asked if I could borrow the Entourage DVDs we'd been watching before the break up. He agreed and I walked the 30 feet to his apartment to pick them up. It felt so normal, so comforting to open the door to his apartment and greet him. I wanted nothing more than to cuddle up next to him on the couch and watch a movie. The DVDs were in his room, and although I was sure I was going to start crying in the three seconds it took him to reach up and grab them off his shelf, I managed to shuffle to the door before completely losing control.
I'd barely made it down the stairs outside his apartment when I heard him open the door and call after me. A few seconds later he was grabbing my hand, spinning me around and kissing me.
ShitFuckDamn.
My body immediately surrendered to his kiss. It was one of those crucial moments where I had the opportunity to be strong, but I didn't take it. I had a split second to show him that it would take a lot more than a kiss for me to open myself up to him again. But of course I didn't take that opportunity because what I really wanted was for him to keep kissing me forever.
The kiss ended and I quickly started walking away before any words could be spoken. I practically ran back to my apartment, but I didn't go in, I just stood outside the door. I stood there thinking about how angry I was at myself for letting him kiss me. I thought about how angry I was at him for not realizing how badly he hurt me, or what a fool he made out of me - and our relationship - by ending things the way he did. Did he not realize how disrespectful it was? I tried to calm down, but there were too many thoughts and feelings...
The next thing I knew, I was marching back to his door and pounding. I knew he was probably already in bed and I certainly wanted to make sure he heard me. He opened the door and I said, "I have something to say." From there it's a bit of a blur...I think I mentioned how it was unfair for him to assume that he has ANY right to kiss me after what he did to me...that he lost that right about the same time he changed his F-ING relationship status to "single." I'm not sure what else came out of my mouth, but it was reminiscent of the first time I got drunk off hard lemonade...I felt a little sick, and then suddenly everything came pouring out. In closing I told him that I was trying to move on. His response? "If you're moving on, why are you here now, fighting with me?"
SHITFUCKDAMN. He had a good point. Again.
I didn't want him to make any good point. It was my turn - and my RIGHT - to be angry. So I fired back with the reliable, "well you broke up with me via Facebook, so I never really got a chance to tell you my thoughts on the situation. Clearly I should go."
As I turned to walk out, he put his hand on the door and leaned against it...positioning me between the door and his face. Part of me wanted to scream at him for being such an idiot for breaking up with me...and part of me wanted him to rip my clothes off. I tried to open the door, but he is a foot taller than me and about 100 pounds heavier...it wasn't going to happen. So with all of my strength (my roommate and sister will both attest to the fact that I'm freakishly strong for my size), I elbowed him in the stomach. When he stepped back in surprise, I ripped the door open, and spit "coming here was a moment of weakness, but I can assure you it won't happen again." He slammed the door behind me so hard that the entire building shook.
I know I stepped on my whole point about his immaturity the second I waged physical war on his ribs. I certainly have my faults, and I don't always go about things the right way, but I would never have been able to do something as heartless as dumping him via online social network. Heck, I'll bet the principal, the prom queen and everyone in home room knew we broke up before I did.
I'd wanted to make peace with him. I thought that if we talked, I might get some closure and stop missing him so much. Moving on really does seem like my only option, but I can't resist thinking of all the romantic things he could do to try and win me back over the next couple weeks...especially because it's both Valentine's Day and my birthday. Part of me hopes he'll suddenly grow up, grow a pair and show me that he loves me. But the other part of me knows it's a lost hope because for him its about pride, about not admiting that he made a mistake, about keeping the upper hand. He's a smart guy and I'm sure that eventually he'll figure out that those things don't really matter, but unfortunately he probably won't realize what he had until someone else has come along...someone who has no problem telling me, showing me and reminding me how they feel.
To distract myself from the annoying, but unavoidable pain of getting over someone, I focused on expanding the content of this blog and bugging all my friends to come up with suggestions about how I could make it better. I even successfully auditioned for a salsa performance team in LA, and accepted an invitation to fly to Chicago and attend a fancy-schmancy charity ball as the date of very hot MBA student. I was convinced that if I kept busy, I wouldn't notice how much I missed J-Dogg, and I wouldn't think about how he just walked away from me without so much as a look over his shoulder. Cuz that plan ALWAYS works...
Well, 'the plan' was going fine - or at least I wanted to believe it was going fine - until I received the fateful text message. After two and a half weeks, he finally made contact. A few minutes after the text he was at my doorstep...to talk. Standing only inches away from J-Dogg, with a variety of emotions surging through my body, I knew that beyond the anger and hurt, 'the plan' hadn't dimmed my affection or attraction.
He explained (note: explained, not apologized) that while he had handled things poorly (understatement of the century), my letter made him feel like I didn't trust him. He had a point.
I didn't worry about him cheating on me with another woman, but his inconsistant communication and wandering eye made me doubt his feelings. It's an age old truth - negative comments or actions are about 200 percent stronger than the positive ones. He spent three days dealing with a recent life-drama I'd experienced, but then he didn't respond when I tried to schedule time for us...or when I texted to say "goodnight." While the former built my trust, the latter knocked it back down again.
We didn't resolve anything, but our conversation wasn't horrible. When we parted, he texted me almost immediately. Even though I knew I was embarking on a slippery slope, we went back and forth for a bit and I asked if I could borrow the Entourage DVDs we'd been watching before the break up. He agreed and I walked the 30 feet to his apartment to pick them up. It felt so normal, so comforting to open the door to his apartment and greet him. I wanted nothing more than to cuddle up next to him on the couch and watch a movie. The DVDs were in his room, and although I was sure I was going to start crying in the three seconds it took him to reach up and grab them off his shelf, I managed to shuffle to the door before completely losing control.
I'd barely made it down the stairs outside his apartment when I heard him open the door and call after me. A few seconds later he was grabbing my hand, spinning me around and kissing me.
ShitFuckDamn.
My body immediately surrendered to his kiss. It was one of those crucial moments where I had the opportunity to be strong, but I didn't take it. I had a split second to show him that it would take a lot more than a kiss for me to open myself up to him again. But of course I didn't take that opportunity because what I really wanted was for him to keep kissing me forever.
The kiss ended and I quickly started walking away before any words could be spoken. I practically ran back to my apartment, but I didn't go in, I just stood outside the door. I stood there thinking about how angry I was at myself for letting him kiss me. I thought about how angry I was at him for not realizing how badly he hurt me, or what a fool he made out of me - and our relationship - by ending things the way he did. Did he not realize how disrespectful it was? I tried to calm down, but there were too many thoughts and feelings...
The next thing I knew, I was marching back to his door and pounding. I knew he was probably already in bed and I certainly wanted to make sure he heard me. He opened the door and I said, "I have something to say." From there it's a bit of a blur...I think I mentioned how it was unfair for him to assume that he has ANY right to kiss me after what he did to me...that he lost that right about the same time he changed his F-ING relationship status to "single." I'm not sure what else came out of my mouth, but it was reminiscent of the first time I got drunk off hard lemonade...I felt a little sick, and then suddenly everything came pouring out. In closing I told him that I was trying to move on. His response? "If you're moving on, why are you here now, fighting with me?"
SHITFUCKDAMN. He had a good point. Again.
I didn't want him to make any good point. It was my turn - and my RIGHT - to be angry. So I fired back with the reliable, "well you broke up with me via Facebook, so I never really got a chance to tell you my thoughts on the situation. Clearly I should go."
As I turned to walk out, he put his hand on the door and leaned against it...positioning me between the door and his face. Part of me wanted to scream at him for being such an idiot for breaking up with me...and part of me wanted him to rip my clothes off. I tried to open the door, but he is a foot taller than me and about 100 pounds heavier...it wasn't going to happen. So with all of my strength (my roommate and sister will both attest to the fact that I'm freakishly strong for my size), I elbowed him in the stomach. When he stepped back in surprise, I ripped the door open, and spit "coming here was a moment of weakness, but I can assure you it won't happen again." He slammed the door behind me so hard that the entire building shook.
I know I stepped on my whole point about his immaturity the second I waged physical war on his ribs. I certainly have my faults, and I don't always go about things the right way, but I would never have been able to do something as heartless as dumping him via online social network. Heck, I'll bet the principal, the prom queen and everyone in home room knew we broke up before I did.
I'd wanted to make peace with him. I thought that if we talked, I might get some closure and stop missing him so much. Moving on really does seem like my only option, but I can't resist thinking of all the romantic things he could do to try and win me back over the next couple weeks...especially because it's both Valentine's Day and my birthday. Part of me hopes he'll suddenly grow up, grow a pair and show me that he loves me. But the other part of me knows it's a lost hope because for him its about pride, about not admiting that he made a mistake, about keeping the upper hand. He's a smart guy and I'm sure that eventually he'll figure out that those things don't really matter, but unfortunately he probably won't realize what he had until someone else has come along...someone who has no problem telling me, showing me and reminding me how they feel.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Inappropriate "THO"
You have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know that men find nipples that are, "at attention," sintillating. So, if it's a picture in Hustler, fiiiiiine. But I just can't come up with a good reason for female store maniquins to have erect nippes - especially if females are the target consumer. My friend was recently shopping for a thermal snowboarding shirt online, and the maniquins all had erect nipples. She made a comment about the maniquins being "cold," and sent a link to her husband...he didn't get the joke. Check it out for yourself:
What exactly are they trying to sell? And to to whom? When I'm shopping, I certainly don't think to myself, "oh wow, that top looks so cute with hard nipples - I should definitely buy it for the next time I'm too lazy to carry my jacket when I go out."
Is this intended to appeal to some subconscious need women have to feel sexy? Is it supposed to appeal to men that are shopping for their wives or girlfriends? Is it a stupid joke that the undoubtedly male maniquin-makers play because their job sucks? I'm truly perplxed...and very tempted to create a line of obviously "excited" male maniquins and place them in men's clothing stores. Something tells me this wouldn't be met with the same calmness as the erect nipples...
What exactly are they trying to sell? And to to whom? When I'm shopping, I certainly don't think to myself, "oh wow, that top looks so cute with hard nipples - I should definitely buy it for the next time I'm too lazy to carry my jacket when I go out."
Is this intended to appeal to some subconscious need women have to feel sexy? Is it supposed to appeal to men that are shopping for their wives or girlfriends? Is it a stupid joke that the undoubtedly male maniquin-makers play because their job sucks? I'm truly perplxed...and very tempted to create a line of obviously "excited" male maniquins and place them in men's clothing stores. Something tells me this wouldn't be met with the same calmness as the erect nipples...
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Confessions of a kissing slut
Although I haven't had many serious relationships or sexual partners, I've spent most of the past decade kissing people.
From college and my post-college days in New York, to my late twenties in Los Angeles, I've dated boy scouts (both literally and figuratively), cops, druggies, bartenders, colleagues, a couple reality show cast-asides, stock brokers, neighbors, professional athletes, surfers, an NFL coach and a CNN reporter. And in-between these romantic escapades - whether it was a good-night kiss after a dinner date, or just a few stolen kisses in a dark corner of some bar (yes, I've been that girl) - I've kissed hundreds of others.
Instead of getting sentimental or reflective about the life-lessons I've learned from these guys, I've decided to confess that:
-I've faked orgasms throughout the course of an entire relationship
-I've stalked people via IM and through my roommate's MySpace account
-I've gone to the bathroom during dinner and never returned
-I've been dumped via Facebook (this is my new favorite)
-I've discounted someone simply because they:
*were too short
*were too good-looking (gotta watch out for the hot ones)
*wore hiking boots with tapered jeans
*wore man jewelry, had a male roommate who was a professional ballroom dancer, and used the phrase "male-bondage" to describe Friday night plans
*didn't think I was funny
*told me to dress in a specific way
*liked me too much, too soon
*didn't immediately believe that the sun shines out of my...uh, elbow
-I've accidently picked up a call from a guy I didn't want to talk to, and instead of being polite, I just repeated, "hello?" "hello?" "hello?" into the phone as if the connection went bad.
-I've literally laid on the ground of the New York City subway (in a work skirt and heels)to avoid someone I'd recently blown off
-I've spent an hour showering, picking out a cute outfit and doing my make-up, just to accidentally-on-purpose walk by some guy for two seconds
-I kept a log of everyone I've kissed until I had too many entries like: "guy from bar in East Village", "guy with lots of slobber" or "hot guy, definitely foreign, definitely didn't speak English"
-I've made a hook-up's toilet overflow and had to run around the apartment looking for towels in the middle of the night
-I've dated an unrequited love from Junior High...who ended up throwing a temper tantrum and sitting cross-legged in the middle of Houston street (VERY busy street in NYC) all because he got drunk and lost his wallet
-I've been chased down the street by a fully naked man
-I've been such a pathetic puddle of tears, that my roommate has had to sit with me for hours on the bathroom floor, stroking my hair...all for some stupid guy who wasn't worth it in the first place
-I've walked up to a cutie in a bar and blatantly said, "hi, you need my phone number so you can call me and take me out to dinner"
From college and my post-college days in New York, to my late twenties in Los Angeles, I've dated boy scouts (both literally and figuratively), cops, druggies, bartenders, colleagues, a couple reality show cast-asides, stock brokers, neighbors, professional athletes, surfers, an NFL coach and a CNN reporter. And in-between these romantic escapades - whether it was a good-night kiss after a dinner date, or just a few stolen kisses in a dark corner of some bar (yes, I've been that girl) - I've kissed hundreds of others.
Instead of getting sentimental or reflective about the life-lessons I've learned from these guys, I've decided to confess that:
-I've faked orgasms throughout the course of an entire relationship
-I've stalked people via IM and through my roommate's MySpace account
-I've gone to the bathroom during dinner and never returned
-I've been dumped via Facebook (this is my new favorite)
-I've discounted someone simply because they:
*were too short
*were too good-looking (gotta watch out for the hot ones)
*wore hiking boots with tapered jeans
*wore man jewelry, had a male roommate who was a professional ballroom dancer, and used the phrase "male-bondage" to describe Friday night plans
*didn't think I was funny
*told me to dress in a specific way
*liked me too much, too soon
*didn't immediately believe that the sun shines out of my...uh, elbow
-I've accidently picked up a call from a guy I didn't want to talk to, and instead of being polite, I just repeated, "hello?" "hello?" "hello?" into the phone as if the connection went bad.
-I've literally laid on the ground of the New York City subway (in a work skirt and heels)to avoid someone I'd recently blown off
-I've spent an hour showering, picking out a cute outfit and doing my make-up, just to accidentally-on-purpose walk by some guy for two seconds
-I kept a log of everyone I've kissed until I had too many entries like: "guy from bar in East Village", "guy with lots of slobber" or "hot guy, definitely foreign, definitely didn't speak English"
-I've made a hook-up's toilet overflow and had to run around the apartment looking for towels in the middle of the night
-I've dated an unrequited love from Junior High...who ended up throwing a temper tantrum and sitting cross-legged in the middle of Houston street (VERY busy street in NYC) all because he got drunk and lost his wallet
-I've been chased down the street by a fully naked man
-I've been such a pathetic puddle of tears, that my roommate has had to sit with me for hours on the bathroom floor, stroking my hair...all for some stupid guy who wasn't worth it in the first place
-I've walked up to a cutie in a bar and blatantly said, "hi, you need my phone number so you can call me and take me out to dinner"
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Timeline Phenomenon
I’ve always mocked – internally, if not otherwise – those women who list off the ages at which they PLAN to meet someone, be married and have kids. Ever since the first time I heard a friend, acquaintance or crazed ‘Bachelor’ contestant, talk about timelines, I’ve been resistant to the idea. But recently I’ve been faced with a different phenomenon: reality.
One of my best friends may or may not need to get out of her two year marriage. Beyond the immediate pain and gravity of a decision like this, she is faced with the reality of the timeline phenomenon. Yes, it seems like you are devaluing yourself as a human being, to base your life decisions on your exponentially depleting youth, and for how long you will be able to have children. Although I certainly do not support basing your life on an idea that seems reminiscent of the 1950’s, I’m suddenly realizing that this timeline hoopla isn’t much of a phenomenon at all.
As I listen to my friend struggle with the biggest decision of her 28 years, I hear her state that she loves her husband, that all relationships are hard and that getting out feels like giving up – yet these are not deciding factors, but simply bullet points on an incredibly intense pro/con list. The other side includes things like an already sexless marriage, and a partner who seems paralyzed by her success and vivacity.
We have no time machine, no way to see the future, and while choosing a life partner is the biggest decision of your life, leaving one isn’t far behind. What if, after five years of dating and two years of marriage, it turns out that he is incapable of being the loving, tender and supportive man that she previously thought? Is she wasting her “good years” (ack, I know…that phrase is blasphemy) on a relationship that may lead her ten years down the road, where wrinkles will be more than a premature obsession, and her romantic options will certainly be fewer? Does she stay, and try to work it out because we’ve always said marriage is something we only planned to do once, no matter what. Or, does she join the growing population of divorcees, before her time to be young, hot and marketable is over.
It sounds sick, but there is a certain inevitability associated with this situation. I’ve always fought tooth and nail against those who wonder why I haven’t yet settled down, found a “good man” and gotten married. Aside from the obvious reasons (like the fact that I’ve never meet someone worth marrying), I have no intention of settling. A lifetime can be a very long time – I’m pretty determined to find someone whose company I sincerely enjoy. However, in ten years, I won’t be so cute, little, tight, etc. While I hope these youthful traits will be replaced with wisdom, humor and life experience, it would be naïve to assume that anyone worth having will be able to see straight to my soul.
The truth is that youth and beauty are overvalued in our society and your market value does, in fact, decrease over time.
I want to believe that safe in my mid-thirties, I will look back on my twenties as a time when I found myself, figured out my career, met a man and began to settle down. However, as my twenties move from a seemingly infinite saga to a chapter of my past, the timeline phenomenon moves off the shelf of pre-feminist ideas and into the overflowing bucket of scary realities.
One of my best friends may or may not need to get out of her two year marriage. Beyond the immediate pain and gravity of a decision like this, she is faced with the reality of the timeline phenomenon. Yes, it seems like you are devaluing yourself as a human being, to base your life decisions on your exponentially depleting youth, and for how long you will be able to have children. Although I certainly do not support basing your life on an idea that seems reminiscent of the 1950’s, I’m suddenly realizing that this timeline hoopla isn’t much of a phenomenon at all.
As I listen to my friend struggle with the biggest decision of her 28 years, I hear her state that she loves her husband, that all relationships are hard and that getting out feels like giving up – yet these are not deciding factors, but simply bullet points on an incredibly intense pro/con list. The other side includes things like an already sexless marriage, and a partner who seems paralyzed by her success and vivacity.
We have no time machine, no way to see the future, and while choosing a life partner is the biggest decision of your life, leaving one isn’t far behind. What if, after five years of dating and two years of marriage, it turns out that he is incapable of being the loving, tender and supportive man that she previously thought? Is she wasting her “good years” (ack, I know…that phrase is blasphemy) on a relationship that may lead her ten years down the road, where wrinkles will be more than a premature obsession, and her romantic options will certainly be fewer? Does she stay, and try to work it out because we’ve always said marriage is something we only planned to do once, no matter what. Or, does she join the growing population of divorcees, before her time to be young, hot and marketable is over.
It sounds sick, but there is a certain inevitability associated with this situation. I’ve always fought tooth and nail against those who wonder why I haven’t yet settled down, found a “good man” and gotten married. Aside from the obvious reasons (like the fact that I’ve never meet someone worth marrying), I have no intention of settling. A lifetime can be a very long time – I’m pretty determined to find someone whose company I sincerely enjoy. However, in ten years, I won’t be so cute, little, tight, etc. While I hope these youthful traits will be replaced with wisdom, humor and life experience, it would be naïve to assume that anyone worth having will be able to see straight to my soul.
The truth is that youth and beauty are overvalued in our society and your market value does, in fact, decrease over time.
I want to believe that safe in my mid-thirties, I will look back on my twenties as a time when I found myself, figured out my career, met a man and began to settle down. However, as my twenties move from a seemingly infinite saga to a chapter of my past, the timeline phenomenon moves off the shelf of pre-feminist ideas and into the overflowing bucket of scary realities.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
The Ex-Files
I was recently dumped in a truly horrific fashion, by someone that a lot of people in my life didn't believe deserved me in the first place. Therefore, I would like to dedicate this entry to a few of my many tales from the blood and tear covered battle-field of singlehood. These tales may sound unbelievable, but I assure you, they are strictly non-fiction.
The Pee-er: No, its not what you think. This exciting experience happened my freshman year of college. A very cute guy from my dorm came to my room to pick me up for a first date. As we were walking down the main street in our college town, he suddenly said, "dude, I have to pee." Before I could suggest the gas station a couple blocks down, he had unzipped his pants, whipped "it" out, and started peeing into the street. Non-fiction, I swear.
First time's a charm: My first boyfriend was a guy I met while counseling at a summer camp with my best friend at the time, Bertha. We both fell for fellow counselor, Bubba, immediately. After the summer, Bubba began writing me letters, expressing his romantic intentions. I confronted Bertha and told her that I liked him, but could walk away if it would impact our friendship. She gave me permission, and I happily dated Bubba for the next six months...until I found out (via hand-written letter from Bubba) that Bertha and Bubba had been cheating on me for over a month. They have been married since we were 19 and are currently expecting their first child. Rad.
Hands off: While living in New York City after college, I got into salsa dancing. While I was out dancing one night, I met an overwhelmingly sexy Latin man. Not only did he salsa dance like someone from So You Think You Can Dance, he was a professional soccer player, and by far the most gorgeous hunk of man I'd ever seen. We dated for a couple weeks and although the strong cultural differences were obvious, for the most part, I was having a great 'ol time. One night, we were in a cab on the way home from a date, and I was feeling a little nervous - we had gotten to the point where I needed to decide if a good-night kiss should be the end of the night. Anyway, one of my many charming flaws is that I chew on the skin around my finger nails when I'm nervous. Well, I must have been chomping away, because out of the blue, Raul slapped (hard!) my hand out of my mouth and exclaimed - with so much emotion, you would have thought I'd just publicly denounced his penis - that "women should have beautiful hands!!" At the next stop light, I simply handed the cab driver some money and got out of the cab. Bad habit or not, to chomp or not to chomp is my decision.
The licker: After moving back to California from NYC, I met a LAPD detective who was witty and cute. After a brief coffee-date, I agreed to go out to dinner. We had a great time, and I was already thinking about the second date when he dropped me off at my door. I sensed that he was moving in for a kiss, and I decided to let it happen. But instead of just kissing me, he started to sniff around my face and neck - a behavior I can only assume he picked up from the K-9 unit. Before I could pull away and assess the situation, he opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue and licked me from my chin to my eye-brows. I certainly hope he finds that special woman who enjoys the same treatment from her man as she does from her dog.
Facebook, the new post-it note: My most recent trauma was actually another LAPD cop (funny, the only two cops I've ever dated should both make this very selective blog posting) who lives a few doors down. Quiet, prematurely bald at 26 and incredibly fair-skinned (almost glow-in-the dark), he wasn't exactly my type. However, I've grown increasingly tired of the pretty-boy metrosexuals that abound in LA, so his manly physique and American flag tattoo intrigued me.
I never really intended to get serious with my neighbor (let's call him J-Dogg), but before I knew it, I was falling in love with the Mr. Clean look-alike who doesn't talk much. He was surprisingly funny and romantic, and within a few months we were having nightly sleep-overs and he was making the trek down to Orange County to meet my family and childhood friends.
There were definitely warning signs that J-Dogg was a little immature for the type of relationship I've been ready for since I entered my late twenties. He would randomly go three days without contacting me (this was in addition to the fact that most of our correspondence was done via text message, which was already worrisome), and thought I was over-reacting when I voiced concern over the fact that my relatively serious boyfriend had a major compulsion to ogle other women when we were together(I'm not talking about the accidental once-over of a passing hottie, but literally doing double and triple takes of the tall blond jogging down the street. My rule has always been: Look at whatever you want on your own time, but when I'm around, at least pretend there isn't another woman you could want more).
After seven months, I was concerned that I'd given my heart to someone who wasn't ready, or willing, to take care of it - I felt like I had to push for things that should come naturally. Finally, after a few horribly uncomfortable conversations that made me feel needy for wanting to speak to my boyfriend on a daily basis, I decided to write him a letter. I explained that I wanted to be with him, but that I needed to know what he was thinking and feeling. I told him that I felt like it was time to take things to the next level (e.g. speaking regularly and considering each other when scheduling our time off). I closed by saying that I would take a step back and wait for him to approach me.
I waited. And waited. Then, since he is an active member of the Facebook and MySpace generation, I decided to check his Facebook page to see if he was alive. Well, imagine my surprise when I saw that he had changed his relationship status to "single" and his mood to "irritated." Huh. Then, in case I didn't already feel like Carrie Bradshaw in the SITC episode where she gets dumped via post-it note, later that day, I arrived at my apartment to find my belongs (PJs, face wash, etc) in a bag on my door-step.
Wow.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sad, but I would also be lying if I said I wasn't incredibly grateful to the dating gods for getting me out of that relationship before I ended up with someone who was capable of dumping me via electronic post-it note.
The Pee-er: No, its not what you think. This exciting experience happened my freshman year of college. A very cute guy from my dorm came to my room to pick me up for a first date. As we were walking down the main street in our college town, he suddenly said, "dude, I have to pee." Before I could suggest the gas station a couple blocks down, he had unzipped his pants, whipped "it" out, and started peeing into the street. Non-fiction, I swear.
First time's a charm: My first boyfriend was a guy I met while counseling at a summer camp with my best friend at the time, Bertha. We both fell for fellow counselor, Bubba, immediately. After the summer, Bubba began writing me letters, expressing his romantic intentions. I confronted Bertha and told her that I liked him, but could walk away if it would impact our friendship. She gave me permission, and I happily dated Bubba for the next six months...until I found out (via hand-written letter from Bubba) that Bertha and Bubba had been cheating on me for over a month. They have been married since we were 19 and are currently expecting their first child. Rad.
Hands off: While living in New York City after college, I got into salsa dancing. While I was out dancing one night, I met an overwhelmingly sexy Latin man. Not only did he salsa dance like someone from So You Think You Can Dance, he was a professional soccer player, and by far the most gorgeous hunk of man I'd ever seen. We dated for a couple weeks and although the strong cultural differences were obvious, for the most part, I was having a great 'ol time. One night, we were in a cab on the way home from a date, and I was feeling a little nervous - we had gotten to the point where I needed to decide if a good-night kiss should be the end of the night. Anyway, one of my many charming flaws is that I chew on the skin around my finger nails when I'm nervous. Well, I must have been chomping away, because out of the blue, Raul slapped (hard!) my hand out of my mouth and exclaimed - with so much emotion, you would have thought I'd just publicly denounced his penis - that "women should have beautiful hands!!" At the next stop light, I simply handed the cab driver some money and got out of the cab. Bad habit or not, to chomp or not to chomp is my decision.
The licker: After moving back to California from NYC, I met a LAPD detective who was witty and cute. After a brief coffee-date, I agreed to go out to dinner. We had a great time, and I was already thinking about the second date when he dropped me off at my door. I sensed that he was moving in for a kiss, and I decided to let it happen. But instead of just kissing me, he started to sniff around my face and neck - a behavior I can only assume he picked up from the K-9 unit. Before I could pull away and assess the situation, he opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue and licked me from my chin to my eye-brows. I certainly hope he finds that special woman who enjoys the same treatment from her man as she does from her dog.
Facebook, the new post-it note: My most recent trauma was actually another LAPD cop (funny, the only two cops I've ever dated should both make this very selective blog posting) who lives a few doors down. Quiet, prematurely bald at 26 and incredibly fair-skinned (almost glow-in-the dark), he wasn't exactly my type. However, I've grown increasingly tired of the pretty-boy metrosexuals that abound in LA, so his manly physique and American flag tattoo intrigued me.
I never really intended to get serious with my neighbor (let's call him J-Dogg), but before I knew it, I was falling in love with the Mr. Clean look-alike who doesn't talk much. He was surprisingly funny and romantic, and within a few months we were having nightly sleep-overs and he was making the trek down to Orange County to meet my family and childhood friends.
There were definitely warning signs that J-Dogg was a little immature for the type of relationship I've been ready for since I entered my late twenties. He would randomly go three days without contacting me (this was in addition to the fact that most of our correspondence was done via text message, which was already worrisome), and thought I was over-reacting when I voiced concern over the fact that my relatively serious boyfriend had a major compulsion to ogle other women when we were together(I'm not talking about the accidental once-over of a passing hottie, but literally doing double and triple takes of the tall blond jogging down the street. My rule has always been: Look at whatever you want on your own time, but when I'm around, at least pretend there isn't another woman you could want more).
After seven months, I was concerned that I'd given my heart to someone who wasn't ready, or willing, to take care of it - I felt like I had to push for things that should come naturally. Finally, after a few horribly uncomfortable conversations that made me feel needy for wanting to speak to my boyfriend on a daily basis, I decided to write him a letter. I explained that I wanted to be with him, but that I needed to know what he was thinking and feeling. I told him that I felt like it was time to take things to the next level (e.g. speaking regularly and considering each other when scheduling our time off). I closed by saying that I would take a step back and wait for him to approach me.
I waited. And waited. Then, since he is an active member of the Facebook and MySpace generation, I decided to check his Facebook page to see if he was alive. Well, imagine my surprise when I saw that he had changed his relationship status to "single" and his mood to "irritated." Huh. Then, in case I didn't already feel like Carrie Bradshaw in the SITC episode where she gets dumped via post-it note, later that day, I arrived at my apartment to find my belongs (PJs, face wash, etc) in a bag on my door-step.
Wow.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sad, but I would also be lying if I said I wasn't incredibly grateful to the dating gods for getting me out of that relationship before I ended up with someone who was capable of dumping me via electronic post-it note.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The stick-it-out gene
Sometimes I wonder why women seem to have a natural instinct to stick-it-out in a relationship when they aren’t getting the love, affection and respect they need or want. Maybe we think the man will change because they love us, or maybe we think we’ll “get over it,” but the truth is, men rarely change and we never get over it.
Is our instinct to stick around a learned behavior, or have women always been programmed to settle?
Even if you’re one of those amazingly strong women who never stays in a relationship one second longer than she should, at some point, we’ve all been tempted. Maybe you were tempted because you feared that particular person was the only one who could ever love you. Maybe your biological clock was ticking so loudly, that you were SURE other people could hear it. Maybe you were tempted because it was hard enough trusting that person, and you weren’t sure you would be able do it again with someone new. Or maybe, the man was simply hot.
Obviously, there is a major distinction between taking crap and compromising - but I’m not talking about compromising. I’m talking about the beautiful newlywed who hasn’t had sex in six months because her new husband hasn’t felt like it, or the young woman who is so desparate to get married, that she swears to her new boyfriend that she’ll wait while he goes to jail for six months. I have no explanation as to why there are times when we can’t seem to give up on men. But every once-in-awhile, I wonder if by sticking around, we are teaching men to give only as much as it takes to get us to stay.
Is our instinct to stick around a learned behavior, or have women always been programmed to settle?
Even if you’re one of those amazingly strong women who never stays in a relationship one second longer than she should, at some point, we’ve all been tempted. Maybe you were tempted because you feared that particular person was the only one who could ever love you. Maybe your biological clock was ticking so loudly, that you were SURE other people could hear it. Maybe you were tempted because it was hard enough trusting that person, and you weren’t sure you would be able do it again with someone new. Or maybe, the man was simply hot.
Obviously, there is a major distinction between taking crap and compromising - but I’m not talking about compromising. I’m talking about the beautiful newlywed who hasn’t had sex in six months because her new husband hasn’t felt like it, or the young woman who is so desparate to get married, that she swears to her new boyfriend that she’ll wait while he goes to jail for six months. I have no explanation as to why there are times when we can’t seem to give up on men. But every once-in-awhile, I wonder if by sticking around, we are teaching men to give only as much as it takes to get us to stay.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Darn double-edged sword: Just because I'm feminist-ish, doesn't mean I don't want you to hold the door open for me
My boyfriend found my blog. While I would ordinarily love to share my writing with him, there are certain things that I don’t think he needs to know…like my thoughts on his roommate, Jed. Although he has sworn he won't read TAF anymore, now that the feminist card is out there, there are times when I feel like he is trying to use it against me.
For instance, I was recently upset because he didn’t call me when I thought he should have. His response was something along the lines of, “this day and age, a woman can call a guy too.” Ummmmm, so NOT the point. Just because I think women should be respected and treated as intellectual equals, doesn’t mean that the rules of persual shouldn't be left as nature intended them. The last thing I want is for my strength and feminism to be misinterpreted in this way.
I love it when J-Dogg opens the door for me, helps me with my coat, carries my bag, lets me know he is thinking about me, and generally makes me feel like the gentler sex. For me, gentler doesn’t mean weaker. In fact, I love it when he takes control sometimes. Being a strong, independent woman can be exhausting, and it feels nice when he takes care of me.
For instance, I was recently upset because he didn’t call me when I thought he should have. His response was something along the lines of, “this day and age, a woman can call a guy too.” Ummmmm, so NOT the point. Just because I think women should be respected and treated as intellectual equals, doesn’t mean that the rules of persual shouldn't be left as nature intended them. The last thing I want is for my strength and feminism to be misinterpreted in this way.
I love it when J-Dogg opens the door for me, helps me with my coat, carries my bag, lets me know he is thinking about me, and generally makes me feel like the gentler sex. For me, gentler doesn’t mean weaker. In fact, I love it when he takes control sometimes. Being a strong, independent woman can be exhausting, and it feels nice when he takes care of me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Sex
My boyfriend once called me a nympho. After I left in the middle of the night (full of rage and with my tail between my legs) and didn't speak to him for a day and a half, we somehow got past it...or he did.
But here's the thing: if you're a woman and you like sex, you're a slut, or a nympho. If you're a man and you like to have a lot of sex, you're healthy, a stud even. I know it's a boring old double standard, but I like sex and I don't think I should have to feel like I have some sort of disorder because of it. So there.
But here's the thing: if you're a woman and you like sex, you're a slut, or a nympho. If you're a man and you like to have a lot of sex, you're healthy, a stud even. I know it's a boring old double standard, but I like sex and I don't think I should have to feel like I have some sort of disorder because of it. So there.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Truth or something like it: # 2
Truth #2: Calling someone else fat will not make you thinner.
I first heard these wise words from the Yoda of life-meaning herself, Lindsay Lohan. It was during the narration of a delicious little film called Mean Girls.
Okay, obviously I never really thought that calling someone else fat could make me thinner. It has more to do with that small feeling of satisfaction when you realize that you are thinner than the cute girl your ex-boyfriend is talking to at the bar. It's the same small satisfaction that you get when you actually relay this information to your best friend during an evening de-brief session, therefore confirming that is in fact true, and that he really did make the worst mistake of his life when he stopped dating you.
Now, I wish this small, satisfaction-esque feeling actually did result in some magical body transformation, but alas, it does not. And wait, it gets worse:
-If you eat the entire bag of Frito's by yourself in one sitting, but your roommate/boyfriend/life-partner/dog isn't home, the calories still count.
-One pig-out day will not make you fat. When you reach nine, considering cutting yourself off.
-Drinking diet soda instead of regular does not counteract the calories from the extra chocolate chip cookies
-Just because it's free doesn't mean it is calorie-free. This goes for business meeting food, food that is given to you as a gift or food that is stolen from the plate of your dinner partner/sibling/colleague when they aren't looking.
-Being in a different state or zip code does not make food fat, calorie or carb free. Same goes for road trips and vacations.
Again, I know its not like we actually believe this stuff, but the powers of rationalization can be amazing. Here is one tip that has been proven to make you thinner:
-Eat less, move more
I first heard these wise words from the Yoda of life-meaning herself, Lindsay Lohan. It was during the narration of a delicious little film called Mean Girls.
Okay, obviously I never really thought that calling someone else fat could make me thinner. It has more to do with that small feeling of satisfaction when you realize that you are thinner than the cute girl your ex-boyfriend is talking to at the bar. It's the same small satisfaction that you get when you actually relay this information to your best friend during an evening de-brief session, therefore confirming that is in fact true, and that he really did make the worst mistake of his life when he stopped dating you.
Now, I wish this small, satisfaction-esque feeling actually did result in some magical body transformation, but alas, it does not. And wait, it gets worse:
-If you eat the entire bag of Frito's by yourself in one sitting, but your roommate/boyfriend/life-partner/dog isn't home, the calories still count.
-One pig-out day will not make you fat. When you reach nine, considering cutting yourself off.
-Drinking diet soda instead of regular does not counteract the calories from the extra chocolate chip cookies
-Just because it's free doesn't mean it is calorie-free. This goes for business meeting food, food that is given to you as a gift or food that is stolen from the plate of your dinner partner/sibling/colleague when they aren't looking.
-Being in a different state or zip code does not make food fat, calorie or carb free. Same goes for road trips and vacations.
Again, I know its not like we actually believe this stuff, but the powers of rationalization can be amazing. Here is one tip that has been proven to make you thinner:
-Eat less, move more
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Introducing the fem-button
"Show me a beautiful woman and I'll show you a man who is tired of sleeping with her."
Someone said that to me today, and I don't know if I'll ever recover. Like I said, the whole feminist thing isn't intentional. However, I keep getting hit with stimulus that push my "fem-button." For instance, I've been reading (mostly in sophisticated publications such as US Weekly) about a new Hollywood school of thought: apparently it's now a widely accepted "truth" that men are not "programmed" to be monogamous. As if it's just the way they were born, like being gay or having green eyes.
Also, it came to my attention the last time I made the trek down-town to go to my hairdresser, that there are billboards all over Los Angeles advertising a Web site where married people can go to meet someone with whom to have an affair. Yowza. I honestly thought the ads (which feature a man seductively kissing a woman's neck...I think she might even be biting her lip. seriously.) were for some new romance novel or soap opera. I have to wonder, if you're single, are you allowed to use the site? Would a single person have to LIE and say they were married if they wanted to meet someone on the site? It would be comical if it weren't so disturbing.
Then, I was mindlessly flipping through a recent issue of Men's Health and I came across an article that discussed, quite matter-of-factly, how guys get tired of looking at and having sex with their girlfriends - "no matter how much they love them." The article went on to state that men want to experience a different body type, or know how a different woman would feel or respond during sex. The wondering isn't a crime, but the article dared to go one step further to suggest that, because of this inherent male need, more and more couples are having open relationships. I won't even go down the path of defining a need (think water, food and shelter). But I will mention that I'm curious to know how the women in these relationships really feel (not what they say, but what they actually think and feel). Sure, it might sound fun to suddenly be able to do more than harmlessly flirt with the gorgeous guy who works at the gym, but it has been my experience that no matter how secure, interesting, intelligent or beautiful a woman is, if she knows that her boyfriend or husband even thinks another, specific woman is hot, she will torture herself. "She is blonde, I'm brunette. I guess he likes blondes better." "She has long legs and a slender, athletic build; I'm petite and curvy." "She has huge fake boobs. Damn her." We can't help it, it's just the way were "programmed."
I would never suggest that being monogamous is easy, or that men are the only ones who cheat or get tempted to cheat. But when did monogamy become so...unglamorous? This new attitude sounds like an excuse. A "get out of jail free" card for people - especially men - not to be monogamous. "But babe, I had to sleep with her, I'm just not programmed to be monogamous." I hate to sound so old-fashioned, but there used to be a time when cheating was considered wrong, and a woman reserved the right to be angry - or even leave - if a man dared to stray. I realize I might be over-simplifying the issue, but some things aren't meant to be complicated. Besides, if we keep feeding men the idea that it's NORMAL for them to cheat, what the heck do you THINK they are going to do?!?!
Someone said that to me today, and I don't know if I'll ever recover. Like I said, the whole feminist thing isn't intentional. However, I keep getting hit with stimulus that push my "fem-button." For instance, I've been reading (mostly in sophisticated publications such as US Weekly) about a new Hollywood school of thought: apparently it's now a widely accepted "truth" that men are not "programmed" to be monogamous. As if it's just the way they were born, like being gay or having green eyes.
Also, it came to my attention the last time I made the trek down-town to go to my hairdresser, that there are billboards all over Los Angeles advertising a Web site where married people can go to meet someone with whom to have an affair. Yowza. I honestly thought the ads (which feature a man seductively kissing a woman's neck...I think she might even be biting her lip. seriously.) were for some new romance novel or soap opera. I have to wonder, if you're single, are you allowed to use the site? Would a single person have to LIE and say they were married if they wanted to meet someone on the site? It would be comical if it weren't so disturbing.
Then, I was mindlessly flipping through a recent issue of Men's Health and I came across an article that discussed, quite matter-of-factly, how guys get tired of looking at and having sex with their girlfriends - "no matter how much they love them." The article went on to state that men want to experience a different body type, or know how a different woman would feel or respond during sex. The wondering isn't a crime, but the article dared to go one step further to suggest that, because of this inherent male need, more and more couples are having open relationships. I won't even go down the path of defining a need (think water, food and shelter). But I will mention that I'm curious to know how the women in these relationships really feel (not what they say, but what they actually think and feel). Sure, it might sound fun to suddenly be able to do more than harmlessly flirt with the gorgeous guy who works at the gym, but it has been my experience that no matter how secure, interesting, intelligent or beautiful a woman is, if she knows that her boyfriend or husband even thinks another, specific woman is hot, she will torture herself. "She is blonde, I'm brunette. I guess he likes blondes better." "She has long legs and a slender, athletic build; I'm petite and curvy." "She has huge fake boobs. Damn her." We can't help it, it's just the way were "programmed."
I would never suggest that being monogamous is easy, or that men are the only ones who cheat or get tempted to cheat. But when did monogamy become so...unglamorous? This new attitude sounds like an excuse. A "get out of jail free" card for people - especially men - not to be monogamous. "But babe, I had to sleep with her, I'm just not programmed to be monogamous." I hate to sound so old-fashioned, but there used to be a time when cheating was considered wrong, and a woman reserved the right to be angry - or even leave - if a man dared to stray. I realize I might be over-simplifying the issue, but some things aren't meant to be complicated. Besides, if we keep feeding men the idea that it's NORMAL for them to cheat, what the heck do you THINK they are going to do?!?!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
I'm not one of those women
You know the ones I’m talking about. Those women who seem to have it all together when it comes to men. The ones that never seem to struggle with whether to call a guy after several days of not hearing from them. The ones that never blame their lower stomach pudge or unrelenting arm jiggle for the lost interest of a man. The ones that don’t have to struggle to act aloof and mysterious. The ones who have probably never wondered if they’ll ever find someone, or if they’re destined to be ‘fun aunt [insert your name here]’ for the rest of their lives. These are the women who don’t secretly get upset when they walk past a group of construction workers without so much as a hoot or whistle.
I’m not one of those women.
I’m the woman who has been known to trace the path of her lover’s hand over her body, just to gauge how much fat he just felt. I’m the woman who has had full-out internal battles over whether she should call her new boyfriend at 12 am because she knows she should wait until he calls her first, but also wants to feel his arms around her while she falls asleep. I'm the woman who just had a very hard time admitting that she wants to feel her boyfriend's arms around her when she falls asleep. I’m the woman who knows that, as an one of this generation’s enlightened 20-somethings (I fully intend to use that ambiguous phrase for as long as I possibly can), you aren't supposed to fixate on the fact that everyone around you is getting married and having babies. You're not supposed to think about all the bridesmaid dresses you have to buy and all the showers, engagement parties and weddings you'll have to attend ALONE. You're not supposed to flinch as you field an endless line of questions about why a “pretty, successful girl like you doesn't have a boyfriend?” I’m the woman who will answer internally, “ummmm, I DON’T KNOW. What do you really expect me to say to that, stupid-face: Oh, well I would be in a relationship if it weren't for my [insert the name of some awful, disfiguring, contagious disease]. Now, please excuse me while I go get drunk" to these malicious questioners, while externally rambling about the endless string of men she is dating, and explaining how her life has never been more fulfilling since she passed up a Vice President position at an international communications firm to start her own business. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I’m the woman who wants to appear to others like she has it all together when it comes to men.
I’m not one of those women.
I’m the woman who has been known to trace the path of her lover’s hand over her body, just to gauge how much fat he just felt. I’m the woman who has had full-out internal battles over whether she should call her new boyfriend at 12 am because she knows she should wait until he calls her first, but also wants to feel his arms around her while she falls asleep. I'm the woman who just had a very hard time admitting that she wants to feel her boyfriend's arms around her when she falls asleep. I’m the woman who knows that, as an one of this generation’s enlightened 20-somethings (I fully intend to use that ambiguous phrase for as long as I possibly can), you aren't supposed to fixate on the fact that everyone around you is getting married and having babies. You're not supposed to think about all the bridesmaid dresses you have to buy and all the showers, engagement parties and weddings you'll have to attend ALONE. You're not supposed to flinch as you field an endless line of questions about why a “pretty, successful girl like you doesn't have a boyfriend?” I’m the woman who will answer internally, “ummmm, I DON’T KNOW. What do you really expect me to say to that, stupid-face: Oh, well I would be in a relationship if it weren't for my [insert the name of some awful, disfiguring, contagious disease]. Now, please excuse me while I go get drunk" to these malicious questioners, while externally rambling about the endless string of men she is dating, and explaining how her life has never been more fulfilling since she passed up a Vice President position at an international communications firm to start her own business. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I’m the woman who wants to appear to others like she has it all together when it comes to men.
Truth, or something like it: #1
Truth #1: The more you understand something, the harder it becomes to dislike it.
In my short and unrepresentative experience, I have found that this phrase applies to politics, religion and especially, people. While working in New York after college, I sat across the “cubical-farm” from a young woman who, on a good day, could be described as cantankerous. Months later I discovered that I was not the only one who had recognized this perpetual PMS – a colleague of mine had already deemed this woman the “Pain Train.” It would be difficult to understand how perfectly this name fit without having had the distinct experience of interacting with the Pain Train (PT). If someone complained about having a bad day, PT was quick to explain why her day had been worse. If someone had pulled an all-nighter, PT had a story about how she had pulled three all-nighters in a row. If someone was explaining his or her break-up woes, PT had endured Chinese water torture while eating Lima beans and being forced to pet a opossum, the last time she had been dumped. I will admit to ruthlessly negative thoughts about PT…I even went so far as to re-tell “PT tales” to my roommates, during our nightly debrief sessions. Although this was admittedly cruel, the woman did give me a lot of ammunition - she got run over by a hot dog cart while crossing Lexington Avenue and touted the fashion forwardness of her Velcro “easy spirits.” PT is also the woman who – even though your back is turned and you are striking your keyboard with more force than you use during cardio kickboxing to demonstrate the fact that you are CLEARLY working – will continue to tell you her story about how she hasn’t had a date in seven years because men are intimidated by her. There was never a time when I would have used the word "hate," but I definitely didn’t want PT to be the one that I was stuck with on a desert island, should that hypothetical circumstance ever come to fruition.
When I first learned that I was going to be working directly with PT, I felt dread. The kind you feel on Sunday night after a wonderful weekend. When I first participated in a meeting with her, I was sure that my worst fears were going to be realized. PT had an anecdote for everything and was “too swamped” (she had been in the office until 11:00 p.m. the night before, you know) to take on any more projects.
We had probably been working together for a month or two when it happened. Our supervisor entered the farm, casually asking for some ideas to support a new project that we were pitching to a client. I was new to the team and anxious to claim my stake as the resident creative genius, so I desperately racked my brain for something truly unique and awe-inspiring. Unfortunately, my brilliance must have been off reading the entertainment section of Yahoo!News, because I ended up stumbling over my words and offering what could only be described as a generic idea. Much to my dismay, PT stepped up to the plate and batted one out of the park. It pains me to admit this, even now, but her idea was sassy and completely in line with our target audience. The surprise of this otherwise un-noteworthy incident was that our supervisor wasn’t drooling over PT’s legitimately fantastic idea. In fact, she didn’t acknowledge that PT had spoken…or that she was even in the room. Chalk it up as one of those post-college, real life lessons, but it suddenly occurred to me that life is not always fair…even when it's you who is getting the better end of the deal.
It wasn’t an immediate transformation on my part (these character makeovers can take time), but eventually I stopped shoving my headphones in my ears – with or without music playing – when PT walked into my cubical vicinity. I even started to take interest in the train’s sordid, and undoubtedly only half true, love debacles. I also learned that PT was born into the middle of a very large, outspoken family. I learned that even though she is allergic to milk (which, for your information, is apparently very different from being lactose intolerant), she still eats ice cream from time-to-time, because it’s a “quality of life issue.” With sincere, but slightly lacking social skills, and more than a few extra pounds on her frame, eventually I realized that although she may not have ever endured water torture or any other physical abuse, PT definitely knew what it was like to fight for a little attention. In addition, she worked in an industry infamous for boasting a plethora of pretty, twenty-something women. After giving myself an attitude adjustment and many mid-conversation pep talks, I realized that if you held eye contact with PT and actually listened to her stories, they seemed to end more quickly and with fewer re-run episodes. It seemed so obvious, but all she really needed was to be acknowledged.
I can’t say that my growth of character was not without drawbacks (if PT ever does marry the exotic Swedish god from summer camp, I will mostly likely be forced to wear lavender taffeta gown and throw her a themed bridal shower), but I did gain a little humility and a lot of perspective.
In my short and unrepresentative experience, I have found that this phrase applies to politics, religion and especially, people. While working in New York after college, I sat across the “cubical-farm” from a young woman who, on a good day, could be described as cantankerous. Months later I discovered that I was not the only one who had recognized this perpetual PMS – a colleague of mine had already deemed this woman the “Pain Train.” It would be difficult to understand how perfectly this name fit without having had the distinct experience of interacting with the Pain Train (PT). If someone complained about having a bad day, PT was quick to explain why her day had been worse. If someone had pulled an all-nighter, PT had a story about how she had pulled three all-nighters in a row. If someone was explaining his or her break-up woes, PT had endured Chinese water torture while eating Lima beans and being forced to pet a opossum, the last time she had been dumped. I will admit to ruthlessly negative thoughts about PT…I even went so far as to re-tell “PT tales” to my roommates, during our nightly debrief sessions. Although this was admittedly cruel, the woman did give me a lot of ammunition - she got run over by a hot dog cart while crossing Lexington Avenue and touted the fashion forwardness of her Velcro “easy spirits.” PT is also the woman who – even though your back is turned and you are striking your keyboard with more force than you use during cardio kickboxing to demonstrate the fact that you are CLEARLY working – will continue to tell you her story about how she hasn’t had a date in seven years because men are intimidated by her. There was never a time when I would have used the word "hate," but I definitely didn’t want PT to be the one that I was stuck with on a desert island, should that hypothetical circumstance ever come to fruition.
When I first learned that I was going to be working directly with PT, I felt dread. The kind you feel on Sunday night after a wonderful weekend. When I first participated in a meeting with her, I was sure that my worst fears were going to be realized. PT had an anecdote for everything and was “too swamped” (she had been in the office until 11:00 p.m. the night before, you know) to take on any more projects.
We had probably been working together for a month or two when it happened. Our supervisor entered the farm, casually asking for some ideas to support a new project that we were pitching to a client. I was new to the team and anxious to claim my stake as the resident creative genius, so I desperately racked my brain for something truly unique and awe-inspiring. Unfortunately, my brilliance must have been off reading the entertainment section of Yahoo!News, because I ended up stumbling over my words and offering what could only be described as a generic idea. Much to my dismay, PT stepped up to the plate and batted one out of the park. It pains me to admit this, even now, but her idea was sassy and completely in line with our target audience. The surprise of this otherwise un-noteworthy incident was that our supervisor wasn’t drooling over PT’s legitimately fantastic idea. In fact, she didn’t acknowledge that PT had spoken…or that she was even in the room. Chalk it up as one of those post-college, real life lessons, but it suddenly occurred to me that life is not always fair…even when it's you who is getting the better end of the deal.
It wasn’t an immediate transformation on my part (these character makeovers can take time), but eventually I stopped shoving my headphones in my ears – with or without music playing – when PT walked into my cubical vicinity. I even started to take interest in the train’s sordid, and undoubtedly only half true, love debacles. I also learned that PT was born into the middle of a very large, outspoken family. I learned that even though she is allergic to milk (which, for your information, is apparently very different from being lactose intolerant), she still eats ice cream from time-to-time, because it’s a “quality of life issue.” With sincere, but slightly lacking social skills, and more than a few extra pounds on her frame, eventually I realized that although she may not have ever endured water torture or any other physical abuse, PT definitely knew what it was like to fight for a little attention. In addition, she worked in an industry infamous for boasting a plethora of pretty, twenty-something women. After giving myself an attitude adjustment and many mid-conversation pep talks, I realized that if you held eye contact with PT and actually listened to her stories, they seemed to end more quickly and with fewer re-run episodes. It seemed so obvious, but all she really needed was to be acknowledged.
I can’t say that my growth of character was not without drawbacks (if PT ever does marry the exotic Swedish god from summer camp, I will mostly likely be forced to wear lavender taffeta gown and throw her a themed bridal shower), but I did gain a little humility and a lot of perspective.
The Accidental Feminist
Until this very moment I've pretty much refused to admit that I’m a feminist. Why? Because it’s just not trendy anymore. I'm pretty darn mainstream: I love watching The Real World, and I don't grow out my armpit hair, burn my bras or hate men. Our apathetic generation has pretty much turned against caring about or standing for anything. We're supposed to care more about “who wears it best” and why “stars are just like US,” than why 20-something girls are suddenly making out with each other “girls gone wild” style at the local pub.
Obviously I care whether Jen is really over Brad, and who is going out with whom in Hollywood. But I also care that the new beauty standards for women couldn't even occur in nature. While I've never been anywhere near waif-ish, I'm certainly not fat. However, while standing on the uptown 6 train platform one day while living in New York, a SHORT, FAT, BALD businessman walked up to me and stated that I was "15 pounds away from being one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen." I honestly believe he thought it was a compliment. At first I was upset (read: felt like crying and not eating for the rest of my life), but the more time and space that comes between me and this incident, the more ironic it seems.
Anyway, this particular rant is dedicated to rage I recently felt toward my boyfriend’s roommate. We were watching some late-night show – probably Conan or Leno, and there was an interview with Patricia Heaton. Now, I tried not to like Everyone Loves Raymond, because there was little for me to relate to on that show. I’m single, young, not ready for a family and I live an urban life. However, after a few sessions of watching the show while on the elliptical at the gym (all the other TVs were sports, so I was stuck), and almost FALLING off my machine because I was laughing so hard (out loud, mind you), I finally admitted that Patricia Heaton is one cool, funny chick.
Anyway, my boyfriend’s roommate, lets call him Jed, started to talk about how “haggard” and “old” Patricia looked. He went on to state that it's "so sad that women get uglier with time, while men get more attractive." I tried to ignore him, I swear. I wasn’t going to say anything because obviously he was trying to press my buttons, but ARE WE KIDDING? Before I could stop myself, I was telling Jed that Patricia looked her age, and yes the lighting was unfortunate, but he was merely used to looking at the airbrushed women in his Men’s Health or Playboy, and that he has no idea what real women – ones who might actually considering sleeping with him – look like or want from a man. I added, though I knew I should stop, that if he didn’t go around expecting every woman to look and act like the women on TV, he might not be single and hooking up with his white-trash neighbor who is twice his age, and has rather disturbing bedroom habits. Yikes.
I guess my point - which will always be lost on Jed - is that while wrinkles, age spots and stretch marks are serious stuff, I can name a zillion women who have gotten more incredible with time. I hesitate to say “beautiful” because as a product of our cruel society, I do find youthful, sun-kissed skin and shinny hair to be part of what I find beautiful. But there is something very sexy about a woman as she gets older. Maybe it's because she sincerely starts to care less about what people think, and with this...comfort, comes wisdom that just doesn't look the same on a man (call it karma). For me, a lot of women become more exciting as they grow older, more interesting and diverse. Whether it be taking up a crazy hobby - like playing the drums, riding motorcycles or making their own bread - or making sacrifices to provide for and raise their family, women have an innate spirit and strength that radiates from the inside out. Patricia Heaton is a perfect example. Everyone recognizes Ray Romano for being the life source of ‘Everyone loves Raymond.’ But if you’ve watched even one episode, you know that it’s Patricia’s sarcasm, wit and honesty that make the show a hit.
Obviously I care whether Jen is really over Brad, and who is going out with whom in Hollywood. But I also care that the new beauty standards for women couldn't even occur in nature. While I've never been anywhere near waif-ish, I'm certainly not fat. However, while standing on the uptown 6 train platform one day while living in New York, a SHORT, FAT, BALD businessman walked up to me and stated that I was "15 pounds away from being one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen." I honestly believe he thought it was a compliment. At first I was upset (read: felt like crying and not eating for the rest of my life), but the more time and space that comes between me and this incident, the more ironic it seems.
Anyway, this particular rant is dedicated to rage I recently felt toward my boyfriend’s roommate. We were watching some late-night show – probably Conan or Leno, and there was an interview with Patricia Heaton. Now, I tried not to like Everyone Loves Raymond, because there was little for me to relate to on that show. I’m single, young, not ready for a family and I live an urban life. However, after a few sessions of watching the show while on the elliptical at the gym (all the other TVs were sports, so I was stuck), and almost FALLING off my machine because I was laughing so hard (out loud, mind you), I finally admitted that Patricia Heaton is one cool, funny chick.
Anyway, my boyfriend’s roommate, lets call him Jed, started to talk about how “haggard” and “old” Patricia looked. He went on to state that it's "so sad that women get uglier with time, while men get more attractive." I tried to ignore him, I swear. I wasn’t going to say anything because obviously he was trying to press my buttons, but ARE WE KIDDING? Before I could stop myself, I was telling Jed that Patricia looked her age, and yes the lighting was unfortunate, but he was merely used to looking at the airbrushed women in his Men’s Health or Playboy, and that he has no idea what real women – ones who might actually considering sleeping with him – look like or want from a man. I added, though I knew I should stop, that if he didn’t go around expecting every woman to look and act like the women on TV, he might not be single and hooking up with his white-trash neighbor who is twice his age, and has rather disturbing bedroom habits. Yikes.
I guess my point - which will always be lost on Jed - is that while wrinkles, age spots and stretch marks are serious stuff, I can name a zillion women who have gotten more incredible with time. I hesitate to say “beautiful” because as a product of our cruel society, I do find youthful, sun-kissed skin and shinny hair to be part of what I find beautiful. But there is something very sexy about a woman as she gets older. Maybe it's because she sincerely starts to care less about what people think, and with this...comfort, comes wisdom that just doesn't look the same on a man (call it karma). For me, a lot of women become more exciting as they grow older, more interesting and diverse. Whether it be taking up a crazy hobby - like playing the drums, riding motorcycles or making their own bread - or making sacrifices to provide for and raise their family, women have an innate spirit and strength that radiates from the inside out. Patricia Heaton is a perfect example. Everyone recognizes Ray Romano for being the life source of ‘Everyone loves Raymond.’ But if you’ve watched even one episode, you know that it’s Patricia’s sarcasm, wit and honesty that make the show a hit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
