19 Things Men Should Never Do Around Women/On Dates

MSN had a post today on 19 Things Men Should Never Do Around Women. I wonder where they came up with 19? Like 10 wasn’t enough, and they just couldn’t come up with the 20th?
Regardless, I found them a little uninspired, generic, and non-applicable. This list included things like "say your mom is your best friend" and "do celebrity impressions". I don't know what men these writers have been hanging around (the writers were probably men), but there are many many worse things men do around women then mimic Steve Carell. Therefore, I’ve compiled a list of 19 true offenses,have happened or arguably could, and most definitely never should:

1. Check your Match.Com emails on your Apple iphone
2. When faced with the question of what to do next after a generic dinner at a chain restaurant, say, “Heavy petting.” (actual real man story)
3. Talk about anything having to do with bathroom activities
4. Rate me on a scale of 1-10, then rate my friends
5. Ask me my bra size/clothing size before we’re in a committed relationship
6. Wear jean shorts
7. Text continually while I’m talking to you
8. Say your last girlfriend was a lingerie model
9. Comment on my weight
10. Talk about how hot 15 year old girls are unless you are under the age of 18
11. Talk about sex in a previous relationship
12. Reveal that you believe women are the lower species
13. Say “moist”
14. Ask us if we’re crabby because it’s “that time of month”
15. Wear jean shorts (this has to be continually re-enforced)
16. Tell me you think I’m hot, even though other people don’t
17. Notice my dramatic haircut a month later while we’re having sex
18. Tell me you used to be homosexual or a woman (I can’t imagine)
19. Hook up with me to have me wake up in the morning to you pleasuring yourself to porn.

I Just Don't Understand These Pick-Up Lines!

I admit that I would be a sad dateless chap if I were a man. Coming up with approaches, pick-up lines and the such that aren't cheesy, annoying or overused would be a horribly difficult thing. Now, I realize that women pick up men as well and we aren't in the 1920's...but I just don't do that. No good at it, never will be, happy most men do the work.

That being said, I still have a very difficult time understanding some of the strategies guys come up with. For instance, once in college I was walking through my favorite bar to check things out, and a man jumped out of nowhere, fondled me, and then told me I had the perfect chest. And he looked at me seriously while doing so! Normally I am quite quick on my feet with comebacks, but this just left me speechless. He then proceeded to the whole pick-up dance, asking my name and stats. Of course I jumped on him and demanded he take me home or lose me forever. Obviously that isn't true, but if that was his true intention-which I believe it was-how in his mind did he think this was the sure way to go about it? Stunning.

Last night I had a happy hour with a few friends (happy Hour in my world lasts until at least 10pm). As the night neared an end, my friend and I did the walk of judgement out of the bar. You know the walk- it's when you leave a single scene bar and everybody checks you out and sizes you up as you leave. Anyway, a guy was sitting at the bar and talking with some girls and guys and reached out and grabbed my arm as I walked by.
"Hi. My name is John." Holding on to my hand, he just smiled at me. His teeth glowed because he was so tan.
"Hi John."
"You're really cute." Staring continues. Huge grin continues.
"Thanks. Bye." And I continued on my way.

Now, part of me thinks this was a good tactic. I mean, the guy saw an opportunity and took it. No bullshit, just straight up telling a girl what he thinks. And he looked really proud of himself. But really, what did he think I was going to do? Sit on his lap and tell him I've been waiting all night for a guy to tell me I'm cute? If I were good at picking people up-which I'm not-I would have stopped the person of interest and said something along the lines of, "I see you're leaving, but I have to admit I find you really cute. Here's my card, maybe we could meet here sometime when you're not leaving?" That might be a successful pick-up.

I'd be interested to hear some other stories...the ugly and the successful. What works? What has been the most ridiculous pick-up experience you've been witness/subject to? And, how do women pick up guys?

The First Date

The first date: conjures up feelings of both dread and anticipation and easily a host of other mixed emotions. Will he be as good-looking as I remember (since I met him after four martinis, details are fuzzy)? Will he be funny? Will we have stuff to talk about? Uh.

Usually I have a pretty good outlook on these things. The way I see it, there are generally two possible outcomes. The date can go swimmingly well, obviously a favorable result. Or, it can go really bad, which I find very humorous. Like the time a guy took me to a cheesy Caribbean restaurant and told me it was time for us to start a serious relationship. In the most polite way I could, I explained I wasn’t really looking for a serious relationship. He freaked and starting telling me he used to date Victoria Secret models. Then when driving me home, he almost ran over an old lady and got pulled over by the cops. Of course he got in a fight with the cops, got arrested, and the cops had to drive me home. Some would maybe be afraid to ever go on a date again, but I find it hilariously funny.

Last evening I had the pleasure of facing another first date. And it was a real date, not the meet for drinks type of thing. He actually picked me up in a car, made reservations at a restaurant and planned after-dinner activities! I was impressed. Things were looking good. Dinner was nice, conversation flowed easily and nobody said anything weird. Stage two of the date brought us to a jazz club, stage three to a bar. I should state at this point in the story that a little bit of alcohol was consumed. I’m sure most Dating Guidelines would say the lady shouldn’t drink more than a couple drinks, just to keep from embarrassment, roofies and bringing up not-first-date-appropriate conversation. I had probably 4-5 drinks. Over 6 hours though! Don’t judge. I’m a seasoned professional.

Anyway, as my date slipped out of our booth to use the restroom (and I noticed his really nice shoes), I reveled in my accomplishment of a good first date. What a triumph! But how odd for me, as nothing normal ever seems to happen to me…

And then suddenly, my ex-boyfriend appeared next to me in the booth. It was like a horrible magic trick, I don’t even know how he got there. Suddenly he was just sitting there, right next to me. Smiling. We chatted about current life, he couldn’t believe I didn’t know it was his birthday, etc. I was still in shock that people could now magically appear in some time travel miracle, so I can’t remember too much. Then of course my date returned from the bathroom. And the ex-boyfriend kept on sitting there. Still smiling. I had to introduce them. Then the ex relented in his cocky way saying “he better let me get back to my date”. I then had to explain to the date who the ex was.

Thus, a new type of date emerged for me last evening. Now dates can be categorized as follows:
1. Really good
2. Really bad, thus really funny
3. Nicole Style (Good with expectedly bizarre occurrences, as nothing normal ever happens to me)

Valentine's Day is a Big Deal

I never knew Valentine’s Day was such a big deal. It was in 4th grade when I got to decorate a pretty box and go to school and collect cards and candy and hopefully a “you’re cute” from a boy. But if you have 4 days straight to be stuck at home with nothing but network television, you’ll be convinced that Valentine’s Day ranks right up there with Christmas. In fact, I’m astonished we don’t have the day off with all its importance. Martha, Rachel Ray, even Matt Lauer have convinced me that I must be preparing and analyzing Valentine’s Day for weeks!

What’s funny is that Valentine’s Day is like Kwanzaa to me…it just doesn’t apply. I watch the countless commercials for chocolates, body lotion, perfume, pasta, digestive products (to help with over indulgence)- all insisting that the big V-Day will be better with their products, and glaze over with irrelevant disinterest. Every daytime show for the entire week (maybe longer) has been instructing me on the rules to a sucessful holiday. The hosts have been proclaiming Happy Valentines day to their guests since Monday! What does that mean exactly? Like, “Happy I hope someone loves you and gives you chocolate and stuffed animals later this week”?

After doing some research on what Valentine’s Day actually is, the results are a little inconclusive. It seems to stem from a poem Chaucer wrote to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II of England to Anne of Bohemia. He was 13 and she 14, so I kinda wonder if their brains were even developed enough to understand love. Another search says that using the language of the law courts for the rituals of courtly love, a "High Court of Love" was established in Paris on Valentine's Day in 1400. The court dealt with love contracts, betrayals, and violence against women. Judges were selected by women on the basis of a poetry reading. How romantic, violence against women.

But at the “heart” of the matter, the U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that approximately 1 billion valentines are sent out worldwide each year. That’s a lot of card buying, a lot of postage buying. So perhaps, when feeling this holiday excludes my participation, I can look at it as Help the Recession Day. I can help America by spending my dwindling dollar on pretty paper products and contribute to a more vibrant economy.

Big Girls Don’t Cry…Until We're Sick

Have you ever seen the Sex in the City where Samantha gets really sick and is in her apartment alone and finally defeats to an all out cry fest? That was me Saturday.

Suspicious symptoms had been creeping in for a couple weeks, and I could feel the hard work of my body fighting the mystery off. I really hadn’t suffered from anything (viral or bacterially anyway) all winter- and well, I was feeling pretty cocky. I was sure it had been my clove of roasted garlic & dried fig a day.

Then it hit me. It started with painful breathing during an early AM workout. How annoying- so I cut the cardio to 45 minutes. By 12pm I was in the center of my bed unable to move. My skin hurt, breathing hurt, my eyes hurt, my BONES hurt, my muscles felt like I’d just done the Ironman, and I had a fever so high I was sweating and chilled and drifting into weird consciousness states. It was then that I started to cry. And wow did I cry. I cried harder than I’ve cried in a very long time. Why was I crying exactly? I guess partly because I felt sorry for myself, and partly because I realized how utterly hopeless we can be when our body decides to play mean tricks on us. I suppose another reason was the sheer loneliness of being sick. Once you’re of a certain age, you can’t really complain or get sympathy for being ill…as we’ve all been there/done that. Really the only people you can be a baby with are your significant other (non-existent) or your mom (unfortunately passed away). The absence of cable or movies or magazines or books that aren't deep, heavy novels may have also contributed to the crying. In fact, I'm sure it played a big part.

Yet, just when I thought I was going to die alone in my apartment from dehydration and a fever (how embarrassing), my Grandmother called. Immediately she sensed how ill I was and sympathized and worried about me. Do you have soup? Don’t go work out! Do you even have juice? Then she sent my Dad, who brought with him a stock of drugs so large he looked like he was starting a meth lab, and more food than I've ever had in my posession. And the juice was even low-sugar!

It was the most wonderful thing in the world. It made me realize that those instincts to be nurtured, babied, sympathized with- you never ever grow old of.

Then I started crying when Kanye sang at the Grammy’s. I may be going a little overboard with this crying thing…

Really...I Just Want to Grocery Shop

I love pretty grocery stores.

The beautiful rainbow of dew spritzed fruits and vegetables, well groomed aisles sporting carpet rather than linoleum, an impressive absence of fluorescent lights, the word “organic” scattered throughout. I literally can spend hours in the Monet of markets, thoughtfully contemplating what culinary masterpiece I can create from the plethera of goods. When there I am, deep in critical decision making on whether to go with an Asian Pear or Bosc, and I accidently make the crucial mistake of eye contact with the gentlemen next to me. NEVER make eye contact.
He sees the opportunity, quickly asking, “Do you like cats?”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.” I offer a small smile, but divert my attention back to pear pondering. I am really intent on these pears. He does not give up that easily. Closer in he moves.
“Well, I need to find a home for my cat. You look familiar, have I seen you before? You may have seen me, I was on the news last week. I’m also a professional juggler.”

I’ll spare you gory details of most of the story, but the ending was not pretty. As I continually dodged his questions and made small gestures to suggest I was in a hurry, didn’t want to talk, and was downright not interested, he refused to surrender. I would escape to a new aisle only to find him wandering towards me. How did he find me so quickly? Was he multiplying by the minute? I was being stalked. In a grocery store. I ultimately fled to the top floor and hid for 15 minutes by the vitamins. True story.

And this is just one incident. In the past 3 months I’ve also been offered business cards, given a strawberry Jolly Rancher, and followed in two circles around the imported cheese section in grocery stores. I don’t know what these guys are reading in Maxim, but some people really just want to grocery shop! I am not there to pick up men. If I was wearing a Juicy Couture tracksuit, had on Jessica Simpson hair extensions and asking you to help me carry my basket of chocolate covered strawberries & condoms- I could understand. But the worst part is the insistent denial of the situation. Do you really think I’m playing hard to get while picking out yeast-free bread? Is that sexy?

I really don’t want to have to start renting kids, wearing sweats, or pretending to be schizophrenic at a grocery store to enjoy my time. Please don’t make me. Now, if you’re hopelessly handsome, look like George Clooney and are interested in gourmet cooking- you may casually ask me about exotic mushroom varieties. I may just be interested in that…

Who Was That Girl?

As I’ve mentioned, most people I know are married or engaged (another one just today- congrats!). I am also not a particularly outgoing individual when it comes to the dating scene. You would NEVER see me approaching a man and making a move. I’m seriously like a 6th grader. If I see a guy who I find attractive, I can barely even look at him. It’s not that I’m scared to look at him, because I am not shy, but for some reason I am embarrassed to admit that I feel fondness/attraction/likeness to someone. I know. This makes things difficult. It’s hard being me. Sigh.

Last Friday night I had the rare opportunity to go out with a group of single girls. This was a big treat, a new and unexplored civilization normally only to be seen on television shows. Immediately in their presence, I felt different. Somehow being around these fun, outgoing, gorgeous women made me feel fun, outgoing and gorgeous. Their energy became my energy, and soon I was openly looking at guys and oh-my-god, actually smiling. And I wasn’t embarrassed, afraid, or ashamed. The night was fabulous. By the end of the night I wondered to myself, “Who was that girl?”

How amazing to realize the awakening of a hidden identity. Sometimes we forget in our day-to-day roles the suppressed egos we possess. Daily, weekly and monthly I must be a co-worker, a sister, a daughter, and a friend to people with lives that are much unlike mine. I play up those qualities that are recognized by my social circle (for me quirky & sarcastic girl) and hide others. Thus in this routine, I lose parts of me. I adapt, as humans do, for survival, all the while shedding those qualities that don’t seem to be of use in this life I’ve fallen into.

Funny thing is- I do remember who that girl was. She existed ongoing my freshman and sophomore years of college. I used to think maybe I remembered those as the best years of my life because I was in college, partying all the time and free from the confines I felt growing up. But maybe there was more to that. Maybe it was the best years of my life because I was at my best.

I really liked that girl. I think I’ll let her out a little more…

This is Not An Episode of The Bachelor

I admit enjoying a good episode of The Bachelor once and awhile. Generally it has to be mid-season, as I can’t take the discomfort of watching women who “fall in love” after talking to a man with veneers in .5 seconds. I really can’t take the end episodes where chicks are ready to donate kidneys for a chance at a proposal for a guy they’ve been in a polygamous relationship with for a month. But the episodes where they play dress up and go on dates to Paris and get diamond necklaces- that’s just good fun fantasy. I try and avoid listening to the conversations and just look at the pretty pictures.

Unfortunately, I think this show has had an influence on men. I’m here to tell you: You are NOT on an episode of The Bachelor.

Just today, a friend of mine had an old flame show up at work un-announced. She very skeptically went down to talk to him (in the ultra romantic setting of the lobby), where he threw compliments at her and spoke of missing her and how he needs a great date for the evening and he’ll have his limo come pick her up. Tonight.

I’m sure in his little pinhole of a brain he thought he was being super romantic. Just showing up, offering a grand date to a woman that is supposed to swoon in adoration at the mere chance to escort him for the evening. The fact that she hasn’t talked to him in a year didn’t seem to cross his mind. Or the fact that he’s married. Or his three children waiting at home. Apparently, in this chap’s world, just being Him, in what he imagines is an ultra exceptional existence, is enough.

Um, it’s not. At least not for quality women.

You have loads of money? Good for you! I hope you worked hard for it. You’re chiseled and charming and look like you grew up in a Ralph Lauren add? Congrats, I’m sure it’s easy to get dates. But really dude, stop thinking you’re all that. We are smart enough to know that your embellishments (money, looks, good shoes) are only shiny distracting objects covering up the truth of the matter. We are not all Bachelorettes waiting for the red rose.

So sure, have the limo come pick me up. Then I’ll go and pick up my friends, some champagne, and have a great night. Thanks for the free ride!

Home Base

Remember when measuring the progress of a relationship was ranked by the "base" system? To tell you the truth, I never knew the rules. 1st base was obviously kissing, 2nd was what? Partial nudity? I have no clue. I really never was one for rules and guidelines anyway.

But once you get to be of a certain age, that whole sexual progression starts to feel pretty ridiculous. Thus, new bases have to be invented. For me, personally, I have an issue with letting people into my home too soon. I've actually been called out recently for being "evasive" because I haven't invited a particular person into my home. Now that is a strong statement: evasive. It suggests such dishonesty! Do you think I'm secretly running a smut shop with illegal immigrants? Or hiding my two husbands and cat ranch? I am perfectly normal, nothing to hide. But just like the junior high girl (for some high school) that holds the reign of sexual advancement, I hold the reign of being in complete control of my space until ready to surrender to you. It really makes total and complete sense once you think about it.

A co-worker of mine, who has a dating life that includes more new suitors in one week than I've had my entire life, astonishes me at how many men she brings back to her home. It actually gives me tiny little panic attacks anytime she mentions it. A first date and you brought him back to your house? A second date and you cooked dinner for him? Are you absolutely insane? The collection of pheromones that have entered your home in the past month is bound to send a system into whack. It may even cause ovarian tumors…too many men scents in one home.
(please note- this coworker is merely a trusting & hospitable woman. She is otherwise a sweet, moral girl, so get your mind out of the gutter)

My home is the one thing that's only mine. I own this space. I own the air and the ambiance and the feeling. Once I let you into this space, you infect (or compliment) the aura with your presence. I lose control over the entire situation. How long will you stay? What if I want you to leave in 20 minutes and you stay for an hour? This is a big deal. I feel extreme comfort in knowing I can leave at any time I want when I'm at your place. Not that I'm going to bolt out the door without warning. Although, I did once leave a future boyfriend's house in the middle of the night without telling him, but come on- I was only 19 at the time- I'm allowed to do that once.

You see, I'm actually just being extremely mature. When I finally let you into my home, you'll know I've let you in- physically and symbolically. I'm no space slut.

Lets go back to your place and you can explain the old base system to me…

Things No Twenty Something Should Attend/Do/Use

1. Parties where you’re supposed to buy something and have to sit around and eat things out of crock pots and are lured in by the promise of free wine (Pampered Chef, Tastefully Simple, Purse Parties, etc.) If I want to buy something, I will go to the store and buy it. If I want to drink before, after or during the purchase, I will make the proper arrangements.

2. Crock Pots. They are just wrong, so wrong; I could write the next great American essay paralleling the downfall of society with the rise of crock pots. If you have 6 children, then ok, use one. If you are in a wheel chair, then ok, use one.

3. Showers for your pets. Wedding & baby showers are enough, are you trying to kill me?

(have no worries, this will be an ongoing post, as there are millions to add to this list. Please email me with any recommendations to be added)

Revealing the Great Guy Friend Scam

We hang out. We get drinks on a Sunday afternoon. We talk about sports, men, women and which vodka is the best. We have that no-bullshit type of relationship where I don’t have to worry about hurting your feelings. We can go a few weeks without talking and everything picks up effortlessly where we left off. I don’t have to look particularly gorgeous around you, because you aren’t judging my fashion sense and I don’t have to worry about losing you to the girl with big boobs and permanent eyeliner. This is what makes our relationship a beautiful thing! It’s not a girlfriend, not a boyfriend, not a gay friend, but a guy friend.

Can’t you just leave it alone in its’ natural and perfect state?

Despite my love for this type of camaraderie, I’ve dealt with my share of problems. It seems the system is flawed. As there seems to always be an ultimate ending where “feelings” rear their ugly heads into the mix and cause all kinds of sensitivities that aren’t supposed to happen in this perfect world. I can recall at least four instances where a guy friend has turned on me. He’ll lure me in for years- sometimes up to ten years- with promises of uncompromised dedication to straight up friendship. And then suddenly, in the most unsuspecting moment, he’ll casually hit me with the one of the following:

“You should let me take you on a date sometime. A real date.”
“I want to be more than friends.”
“I’m in love with you.” (an extreme case)

I silently scream inside as I smile nervously with my beer midway to my mouth. Why are you doing this to me? Why do you have to ruin the one perfect relationship I have? You selfish bastard.

I think I speak for most women when I say this: If we are attracted to you and if we've contemplated going out of the friendship zone, you'll know! It's our genetic predisposition to try and lure in as many mates as possible. If we have not done this, than we just want to hang in the pack with you.

Now can we go back to drinking and forget any of this ever happened?

Single Does Not = Desperate

I’m single. For the most part. Usually I have a couple things going on, but usually they aren’t completely normal. I’m sure I’ll get into that later. And it usually takes a solid 6 months for me to grant boyfriend status. But I don’t have anyone to water my plants for me (which is why I have no plants) or complain about my job to or be my back-up stay in plan for Saturday night. Thus, I am single.

Single does not = desperate. They should teach that in math.

I actually,gasp, do not mind being single. I’ve come to the age where I know what I like/love and am comfortable with it. I’m more than willing to wait an unforeseen amount of time to get that…whatever or whoever it may be. So, I might ask, why aren’t you comfortable with it?

At a gathering a few months back a dear friend of mine (she really is one of the sweetest women alive) looked to me across the room and said, “I know a single guy! He’s a recovering meth addict, but he’s really nice.” Uh, did I miss something here? Let me run and quick look in the mirror and make sure my teeth are all intact and I’m not scratching my face off. Oh good, face appears normal. I may be single, but I certainly don’t think I am so bad off that I must go to recovering addict meetings to find eligible men. Really, thanks but no thanks.

And your friend Joe Shmo (shout out to Peeps)? The one that you’ve tried to set-up with each single friend you’ve ever had for the last 15 years? I don’t want to go out with him either. Just because he is Single and I am Single, does not mean we automatically are a match. If you really really search your brain and remember those fuzzy days when you were single, you’ll remember that the equation to finding love was a little more complex.

Don’t think I am ungrateful- as I do enjoy being set-up. I've had some great dates being set-up, and some have turned into great relationships. In fact, ideally I find my next great relationship as a recommendation from a close friend. But please, leave the recovering drug-alchohol-sex-food-Nintendo Wii addicts to like minded girls.

Or, are you trying to tell me something? Maybe I'm missing the hint...

30 is the New 50

My sister and her husband are planning to take a long deserved trip away from their house of children, dishes, laundry, and brightly colored plastic objects. Being young parents of three children under the age of five, they've kind of lost touch of culture and happenings around them. Unless it's printed on a Perkins menu, they don't really know about it.

My sister wondered out loud..."Where should we go?"

The possibilities! Visions filled my head of strolling down Paris's cobblestone streets, or walking the white sand beaches of Greece, or sipping wine in the Sonoma Valley. Better yet- a wild long weekend trip in New York City, reclaiming a youth lost in the Diaper Genie. How wonderful it will be for them to sneak away and recall the two crazy college students that fell for each other over $1.00 captain cokes and shots of kamikaze in the middle of Iowa.

Then she told me she wanted to go to Disney World. So they could see it before they brought the kids. Disbelief, horror and a little despair flooded my face.

They've spent 1,825 days surrounded by loud noises, scary sounding music, even scarier looking toys and virtually no adult interaction. They are in turn going to take the .3% of days allotted to them to splurge on whatever experiences and sensory diversion they wish to divulge...on a vacation filled with loud noises, scary sounding music, and even scarier looking toys that have been transformed into HUMAN FORM.

I don't get it. I just don't get it.

Things I SHOULD Do

My father called me today to talk to me about two things.
#1) I didn’t inform him K was engaged. I informed him that everyone I know is engaged, therefore it'd be more news to tell him who isn't
#2) It’s time for me to buy a house

He went on to tell me that “I’ll never get a house so cheap” and that “interest rates are so low” and yes, definitely, I must buy a house now. Call the realtor! I told him that I didn’t think I wanted to buy a house, to which his reply was that he’d start looking for one for me. Apparently he didn’t hear me.

Why are there so many things I “should” do?

I understand that owning a home is a financial security blanket for the future, that many believe renting to be throwing your money away, etc. In fact I owned a home when I was 21, so I am familiar with the benefits. I am also familiar with the drawbacks, particularly when I had to sell it to move across the country.

But what I understand more is that I have no idea what I am doing with my future. I’m at a critical point in my career where it may be wise to move on and build some new skills. I think about going to get my Masters. I can leave my apartment for 2 weeks and not worry about anything. If someone asked me to be a personal chef on a private cruise ship in the Greek Isles- I’d leave in an instant! I hardly have enough time to keep up my laundry, let alone maintain a home. I don’t know how to fix anything, and really don’t want to know. I have an extreme fear of being poor. This is who I am, and this is the way my life is. Not to mention lack of $$$ would cause my drinking habit to dramatically diminish, which wouldn’t be fun for anyone.

So why, exactly, should I be buying a home? So when I’m 40 years old I have the potential to make $20,000? What about all the opportunities I could miss out on? Those are priceless in my mind.

I think what I "should" do is decide for myself what I should and shouldn’t do to maximize my own happiness.

Text Messaging: The Rise and Fall of the Real Relationship

I do not expect men to come toss stones at my window while reciting love poems under a moonlit sky. I do, however, think that picking up the phone and muttering a few sentences in a communicative effort would be a pleasing addition to the meandering webs of dating.

When did text messaging become the modern means of courtship?

There is a man I rendezvous with that only corresponds by text messaging. Sometimes it’s a simple “how are you doing” and sometimes it’s two or three pagers. I’m not kidding, he’ll have so much to tell me that he takes the time to text out a message that must be sent in three installments. Wouldn’t it be quicker to-I don’t know-pick up the phone? Am I that threatening of a person that voice-to-voice contact seems too fearful to bear? Of course I’ve wondered if he’s hiding something, like a wife, but at this point all other evidence suggests that extremely unlikely unless she lives in another country or is locked in mini storage somewhere. To be fair, I’m not quite sure he owns a phone. He’s foreign and carries around some mini-computer everywhere…

But besides my own circumstance, it appears text dating is an epidemic. Texting is a godsend to man whores- they can late night text all they want without fear of rejection or retaliation. They can sneak themselves back into the hearts of women they conveniently lost touch with 3 weeks ago. They can send out mass texts to every woman they’ve ever met and pick and choose from who responds. All of these examples are true stories.

As a fair human I give texting a little credit, hence the “rise” part of my theory. Text messaging allows one to feel more comfortable perhaps with initial communication. Perhaps some relationships would never come to fruition without that halfway step of texting- more personal then an email, but not as daunting as a phone call. Put two really shy people together and give them a couple of Motorola Razors, and my-oh-my some sparks could fly.

In a begrudging fashion I’ve accepted text messaging into my life. Quite nice when running late to send a note or to update loved ones on the progress of a surgery or reminder of an important date. But to build a relationship? No thanks. I’d rather arrange to meet under the town hall clock every other Friday and have real conversations.

But, maybe that explains why I’m single.

The Disillusion of It All

I really thought, well, that things would be different.

My whole life I couldn’t wait to be in my mid-twenties. Even through what many reminisce as the glory days of high school I knew that something brilliant awaited me. I was ready and willing to endure teen angst for that shining beacon of my twenties. Oh, how grand my twenties would be. Finally I’d effortlessly inhibit The Perfect Body (because by then hormones and all that stuff would have itself figured out), my hair would be the sophisticated and glamorous cut I’d be mature enough to upkeep, and I’d be a hard working and successful professional with a smart & equally perfect male mate of his early thirties (or late thirties, but with men you always have to subtract five years in order to get real life age). It’d be like the Cover Girl commercials say- easy and breezy and beautiful!

Let me tell you something: Here I am, smack dab in my twenties, and my life does not feel like a Cover Girl commercial. Not. At. All. I am in constant battle with my hair, I’ve been working hard long hours (really, usually 45-60 a week) at the same company for four years and I still make less than the average stripper. And for some reason people keep calling me Victoria, which is not my name. I’ve had a string of boyfriends, man interests and mini encounters that tell a story better than most soap operas. Usually not the scenes with satin sheets and rose petals. The tragedies I’ve incurred in the past few years would make you weep while you hurl sage at me in hopes my bad aura doesn’t seep into your pores. My apartment rarely heats above 50 degrees, my eye has been twitching for 3 months now, and I once woke up in a closet because I accidentally overdosed on the Ambien I have to take every night to deal with my horrible rotten no good very bad terrible twenties.

Whew. I feel a little better now. Focus. There is a purpose to all of this self-indulgent despair. I am not a complete narcissist, and have come to believe that I am probably not the only one suffering aimlessly through her twenties. That girl over there with the perfectly puffed ponytail and Seven jeans? She’s in her twenties too! And she probably has something bad going on. And she just might get a kick or a snicker out of reading about my issues and opinions. Or she might conclude I’m insane, but that would be entertaining, therefore still beneficial to all.