into the wild

It's a peculiar world out there, for those of us single gals and guys. I've been in the dating world in and out for the past fifteen years, and believe me when I tell you, the times are now different.

Forget the friend of a friend you might accidentally meet on a night out and hit it off. By thirty, you've met practically all of your friends' friends. And their new friends are all married couples, so of course there's no potential there.

Forget the seeing a cute guy sitting at the bar and asking him for a lighter to catch his attention. The last time I did that, it turned out I approached a total loser/creep/psycho who spent the rest of the night stalking me, sitting (alone) on the table next to ours staring at me for more than an hour, not taking no (many, many nos) for an answer.

Forget making eye contact with a complete stranger at ladies night (a trendy Dubai thing to do mid-week, where ladies can basically get very drunk for free), followed by the smile to invite him to talk to you. I fell completely under his charm for a good hour; until his friend told my friend that he is actually engaged and getting married in 6 months.

No, now it's all about the apps. How much you know of technology and how good you are at it. Flirting on social media, that's a thing. There's a wave on Instagram I recently experienced: one follows, you check out his pictures, maybe follow back. You get a like, you give a like. A person can look through your pictures and decide they like your personality (or at least, your Instapersonality) they may take the leap and send you a private message. You may even answer.

Then of course there are the actual dating apps. Or sex apps, still unclear who uses them for what. Apparently Tinder is now passé, kind of trashy. Happn is the newer, more classy version I hear. I'm yet to try it out, though I feel like I'm all app-ed out. I'm guessing the principle is the same. You basically get hundreds of guys putting their best pictures forward (the topless one, the petting a large animal one, the holding nephews and nieces one) or those who try to remain mysterious by only sharing a faraway picture so that you can't see much more than a silhouette... you swipe left and right (left a lot more than right) and strike up a conversation (as dry and textbook as they come) and you try your best to find some kind of connection even though the entire setup doesn't help you out at all --it's a lot of work and a lot of energy, for not much return. Sometimes they'll call you "baby" after a two sentence exchange and you wonder what on earth you've done wrong in your life to be in that position at that moment.

And then... then: There's the odd time when one of those many encounters materializes into an actual date. A real live date, a drink or a dinner, a face to face with a stranger usually subdued by one or four drinks, to help you through that awkward hour where you're trying to get to know a stranger. And it can be bad. Or even worse, it can be okay. He's nice enough that even though he took you to the completely wrong place, can't tell you an interesting story to save his life or make you feel anything but awkward politeness, you hang in there. And then you have to spend the next 3 weeks trying to politely, awkwardly, reject every other attempt he makes at asking you out again, until he finally gets the hint.

So the other night, I was talking about this to... my dad. Last person on earth I would ever talk to about my dating life. Because knowing my dad, he'll try to set me up with every eligible bachelor he comes across. And then I thought for a minute, that it might not be such a bad idea after all. I am, it seems, pretty old-school about the whole "how to meet someone" thing. And yes, I choose organically above technology any day. And having my father set me up is the one thing I haven't tried yet. So... I wonder how that will go.

speak your mind, woman

There's something I've been learning to do this year that's changed the way I am in a relationship, and that is: say what I mean.

It might seem odd for a man to read that. Say what you mean? You mean you lie in a relationship?

No. I don't lie. But us women, we have this tendency to not say what mean. We think we're saying it (with our tone, with our body language, with our eyes, etc.) but men tend to just hear the words coming out of our mouth.

Let's take this for example:

Thursday Night, 8pm.

Guy "You know what, I don't feel like going. Just go without me."

Girl "Oh. Ok. [Pause] Fine." Loud expiration through the nose.

Guy "Are you upset?"

Girl "No. [Yes] Why would I be upset? [Of course I'm upset you idiot. You just ditched me last minute and now I have to go alone and everyone is going to ask me where you are and I would really enjoy it a lot more if you come with me and why the hell can't you make an effort for me, I would go if it was the other way around.]

Guy "Great then. Have fun!"

They hang up the phone. Now here's what happens: Guy thinks Girl is perfectly fine* with him not going [more on that later], orders a burger, watches Lord of the Rings or a Football match, and doesn't think about it twice. Girl, on the other hand, gets dressed and goes out, all the while starting to simmer negative thoughts [I can't believe he just ditched me to stay home and watch Basketball, he never wants to spend time with me, I always have to beg him to come out, why is football more important than me...] She's out, trying to have a good time but ends up complaining about Guy who didn't come, checks her phone every ten minutes expecting an apology message, gets even more furious because she doesn't get one. By the end of the night, she's so angry she calls him throwing a million accusations his way and he doesn't know what hit him. They fight, go to bed angry, and no one really knows why.

Now, here's the truth*: Guy probably (I'm giving some the benefit of the doubt, depending on the situation) knows that Girl is upset for him not accompanying her. he could hear it in her tone, but chooses to ignore it because, hey, she said she was fine. If she was upset she should've just said so. Here's a hint Girls: Just say so. He wont have an excuse for not knowing you're upset if you say you're upset. Guys always say they "can't read out minds." Fine. Tell them what you're thinking then!

Here's how the conversation could have gone:

Guy "You know what, I don't feel like going. Just go without me."

Girl "Oh. Ok. [Pause] Fine." Loud expiration through the nose.

Guy "Are you upset?"

Girl "Yes. Why is staying at home more important than coming out with me?"

Guy "Sorry babe, I just really don't feel like going out tonight. I'm tired and all I want to do is sit back and watch TV. If you finish early, come over and join me on the couch."

Girl "Fine. Though I'm really not happy to be going alone."

Guy "I'll make it up to you. Promise."

Girl smiles even though she doesn't want to. Guy hears it. She goes, has fun, doesn't obsess about why Guy didn't come and maybe ends up joining him later for a little cuddling.

Basically overall a much better situation.

Sometimes we think we're avoiding a fight by not saying what we mean, but the truth is we're just putting it off until we explode and he doesn't get it. Even if you do get into a fight, it will be much easier to resolve on the spot and just move on.

Moral of this story: Women, speak your mind.

the girl who reads

I don't usually do this --well I've never done this, but this is my blog and I can do what I want. My friend sent me this text, and I want to share it. I loved it, and I figure if you're reading my blog and you like what I write, you will most likely appreciate it too. Now my friend thought it was really funny. And I thought it was really sad. I cried, even.
The girl who reads vs. the girl who doesn't. I currently have seven books by my bed, and I'm reading four of them. I read.

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl 
by Charles Warnke. Charles Warnke is a 21 year-old writer based out of Berkeley, California.

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.