Category: Datin’

*whimper*

Lucky in Love

The fortune-cookie fortune that rides around in my wallet, occluding my face on my driver’s license photo, says, “Look for the dream that keeps coming back. It is your destiny.” I think I put it there two years ago.

The Independent Weekly ran this horoscope for me a while back:

Even if you’re not sick, you need some medicine. What kind of medicine? The kind that can transform what’s pretty good about your life into something that’s really great; the kind that will super-animate your merely average efforts and blast you free of any lackadaisical attitudes you’ve come to accept as reasonable. This medicine won’t come in the form of a pill or a potion, but rather will be produced by your own body if and when you slip away from your comfort zone and go out to play in the frontier. Be your own doctor, Libra. Break your own trance. Crack your own code. Escape your own mind games.

It’s been on my fridge since May 2008. I moved last year; it must’ve come with me from Hillsborough. I don’t know—sometimes these newsprint divinations, these cookie runes, they speak to me, and I just hang on to them.

As I was tidying up the other day, I found a fortune on a very dusty dresser that said, “You will be lucky in love.”

And I scoffed. I did.

I said something like, “Psh.”

Being 36 and single in this society makes one feel decidedly unlucky in love.

But I really am trying to be more thankful these days, so I thought, OK, what if I take romantic love out of the picture? If I take romantic love out of the picture, I’m a leprechaun-rabbit’s-foot-four-leaf-clover-heads-up-penny in love.

See, there’s my family: my dad, who is my greatest advocate (and provides much amusement); my mom, the offerer of sage advice, even if she doesn’t remember giving it;  my sister/best friend; my brother-in-law, of the Magic Lawnmower Sauce and other timely rescues; my brother, the shifter of paradigms; my sister-in-law, an unsuspecting classmate at Carolina who I badgered for seven years to marry my brother before she finally gave up and did (I must tell that story sometime);  and their progeny, including a nephew I got for Christmas! (When I told a co-worker that, he did a double-take. He thought I said I got an Eff You for Christmas.)

And then my friends, who make every day awesome, who inspire me and make me laugh, who know better than me, who let me stay at their houses even though I can be a disaster of a house-guest, who do silly things with me, who like me despite my being self-absorbed, impatient, and mean-spirited. …I could link/name-check all day. If I didn’t link to you, I’m thinking of you, and if I haven’t yet written about you, there’s a very good chance I just haven’t figured out how to express how dope I think you are. Man, I love you fuckers.

And of course, two of my very favorite people, Violet and Redford, who I love so much it sometimes startles me.

I’m pretty sure all these people and dogs love me back in equal measure, but even if that ain’t the case, I suppose I’m lucky in love regardless.

Lucky in love. Lucky to love. Same difference.

WMMH

I sometimes listen to NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour podcast, and the panel ends the show each week with a round of What’s Making Us Happy. As you can probably intuit from the title, they go around the table and name a thing or two (usually a TV show or concert tour or something) that’s giving their lives a little bit of joy. I’ve had some anxiety and depression and overwhelm in the last week (ran out of one of my amino acids; also, I prefer not working to working, but my job preferred that I go back to work), so I thought I’d try to psych myself out of it by accentuating the positive. Who knows? This might become a regular feature.

Here’s What’s Making Me Happy:

I’m doing really great on my New Year’s resolutions.

To wit, my friend invited me to go shopping (thanks, Michelle!), and I have worn actual clothes when I wanted to wear actual sweats several times. I even took two pairs of pants to a tailor to get them hemmed. That’s, like, some Carrie Bradshaw stuff.

I’ve flossed a time or two and made my bed daily.

I’ve engaged in no Facebook debates. Indeed, I’ve expressed nary a political leaning nor a religious dubiety, even though I wanted to post this cartoon real bad when I saw it:

I repeated things to myself that I said to the beasts (even though it feels embarrassing to say, “I love you, Violet… I also love myself,” even when alone in my house).

I went on a first date with a man and scheduled another with a different man, though the latter had to be postponed. Due to a sick kid. I’m probably going to be a stepmom.

Most importantly, I very much reduced my intake of refined sugar. I had some chocolate mousse on Tuesday and Thursday evenings and a piece of cake and two cookies on Saturday. I didn’t wait until after 7:00pm that day, though. But considering that I got the piece of cake at noon and waited until 4:53 to eat it, I’m calling it a victory. In addition, Sunday included French toast with syrup, which kind of fits in the dessert category, but, really, what’s a brunch buffet without the French toast course?

(Again, this might sound like a lot of sugar to you, but I assure you, for me, it’s a smidgeon.)

Naturally, the glutenful weekend, together with my job preferring that I get up at the ludicrous hour of 6:00am, has made me one sleepy girl today. But that’s not what we were talking about. We were talking about What’s Making Me Happy.

Now. Let’s talk about What’s Making You Happy.

And Now for a Different Amy Altogether

Everywhere I’ve ever been, there’s always been at least one other Amy. Elementary school: 1, high school: 3, student-run theatre scene at Carolina: 5. That’s right. Long about ’94/’95 (why did I just want to write that ‘niney-fo/niney-fi’?), there were five of us Amys treading the tiny, crappy boards in the basement of Graham Memorial. And I must say, every last one of ’em: awesome. I was honored to be amongst that fine group o’ thespians.

I reconnected a couple years ago with one of these Amys, and I promptly co-opted her as my dating guru. This particular Amy is single as well (inexplicably, IMHO), but she just looks at everything with an eye I wish I had. For example, last night when I shared an article on Facebook called “Why You’re Not Married” and posited that I was reasons 2, 5, and 6, she commented, “this article is so full of shit. i know plenty of married women who are 1-6.”

So, without further ado, for your dating edgumucation, I present to you a post by sometimes commenter, always badass, and now guest-blogger amy a (a.k.a. Shot-of-Tequila-and-a-High-Five).

DATING IN ONE’S 30’S: A GUIDE FOR THOSE WHO DON’T FUCKING HAVE TO DO IT.

1. decide if you want to date a guy or sleep with him. the minute you fool yourself into thinking you can do both right away, you are doomed. dating in your 30’s is NOT, i repeat NOT, a john hughes movie. the dudes do NOT decide they’re really all about you later even though they originally wanted to just have sex with you because they need to get over their ex-wife. mostly, they have no idea they need to get over their ex-wife in the first place. if he is so evolved, BELIEVE HIM when he says he isn’t over her and doesn’t want a relationship. he will still act like he’s in a relationship with you, because he has no idea how to NOT be in one, because he’s been in one for the past ten years, but he is not in one with YOU. he just has no idea how to exist outside of a relationship, so then when he stops being your “boyfriend”, which he swears he wasn’t in the first place, you will be crushed, and he will just start sleeping with college girls, which he should have been doing in the first place and not wasting your damn time.

2. decide if you want to teach a new dog old tricks. basically, do you want to date a younger dude? because they are fucking fun. they have stamina, great outlooks on life, they aren’t divorced, they don’t have kids. they have learned just enough sexually to be really enthusiastic about showing these things to you, and also they love that you don’t care about fucking with the lights on, because their past girlfriends are young enough to think they have body issues they haven’t BEGUN to have and only do it with the lights off. most of them also have never had a proper blow job, so you can imagine the ego boost that is. BUT it’s also really hard to take them seriously. it can make you feel even older than you are. at a certain point, you’re going to turn to this dude with the awesome abs and the “i can change the WORLD!” attitude, and you’re going to think: “for fuck’s sake, you can’t even talk to me about 80’s tv shows without it being a hipster punchline. and i’m sorry, honey…i’m tired, and your ideas aren’t as original as you want them to be.” and then, you will just want to leave him drinking his pbr at the bar, go to the bathroom, and walk out the back door. 

3. decide if you want to try internet dating. BECAUSE WHERE ELSE ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO MEET ANYONE? ahem, sorry, but it’s true. if you really were meeting guys to date at the gym, or through a friend, or through but not at work, or at the grocery store in the produce section, YOU WOULD BE MEETING THEM THERE. but at some point, you gotta just go for broke, admit it ain’t happenin’, and go to the world wide web. there are tons of sites. some of them make you pay, which seems like it would screen out the weirdos, but it doesn’t. they are everywhere. sometimes you do meet someone awesome: for every horror story, there’s someone who meets her future husband/partner. it’s a huge crap shoot, but so is going on any date, really. and i look at it like this: once you go on one date with a dude you’ve met online, if there’s a second date, it doesn’t matter how you met him. could’ve just as easily had a second date with a dude you met at the gym or the deli.

4. decide when you’re going to decide when you’re going to be offended by him not communicating with you, which of course means he’s met someone else or just decided he doesn’t like you, and doesn’t want to see you anymore goddammit why does this always happen when i think i actually like a guy what am i a fucking schoolgirl, i have a life a FULL LIFE, i don’t need you to DEFINE IT FOR ME, i just met you a few weeks ago, and here i am a grown ass woman on pins and needles for a fucking text message because the thought of actually going on more than a few dates with a guy whom i find interesting is something i have not allowed myself to EVEN THINK ABOUT because i just can’t get on that emotional roller coaster AGAIN. sorry. GODDAMMIT.

[5. text message vs. phone calls. a brief synopsis: dude, nobody calls anybody anymore. seriously, let’s just admit it. you call your family and you call your friends you’ve had since before texting. anyone else, you text. a good male friend of mine,  whom i’ve only known about a year and a half, announced that he knows i’m upset and really need to talk because it is then and only then that the phone actually RINGS instead of DINGS (by the way, he does the same thing). so…..texting is what happens with dating as well, until you get to the point where you’ve been dating a while and you move into the phone call status…usually that means boyfriend. even then, texting will usually rule the day. and it is nice to get those “hi! how’s your day so far?” texts. it’s sweet. like a post-it on the mirror.]

6. decide when you’re going to talk about kids. his kids. cause you don’t have any.  the big difference in dating in your 30’s vs. 20’s is the kids situation: do you have any? does he have any? do you want more or any at all? does he? by the time you’re in your mid 30’s, the answers to all these questions are usually immediate, firm, and unwavering. no more “well, if i meet the right guy…” or “i MAYBE could be a stepmom…” NO. you know. you know if you care and if you don’t. and he does too. so THAT is nice. at least it’s something solid that you can base dating further or not on. cause if a guy wants to have kids, we’re not going to make it. if a dude already has a kid, i’m cool with that. if a dude already has a kid who is close to college age, or doesn’t have nor want them at all, BINGO.

7. decide when you’re going to get tested. yep. usually this happens when you both decide you’re not going to use condoms anymore. i’m a hypochondriac, so i get tested for everythingunderthesun every year anyway. you’d be surprised at the dudes that don’t. or can’t remember the last time they got tested. and oh geez: the guys who were in long-term monogamous relationships (marriage or otherwise) who are now having to use condoms for the first time in YEARS. yeah, you can imagine how fun that is. you feel like a total hooker. or actually, no. cause the point of a hooker is to not use condoms? i don’t know. all i know is i am on team condom, and it’s interesting how many guys don’t care if you don’t insist. scary.

8. decide when you’re going to tell your family you’re dating someone. ohfortheloveofgod. seriously, it’s almost embarrassing. they have watched you get on that bicycle so many times, and every time it looks like you may make it to the end of the block, and round the corner out of sight…. BAM. nope. you’re on the pavement because of some stupid rock or twig named “crazy ex-wife” or “ohmygod you have a parole officer?!” or “serious anger management issues”. so you stop telling them about all the bike rides you go on. because most just last a pedal or two. and you really just hate the look on their faces when you get up after taking that nasty spill AGAIN.  they just look so….sad. or disappointed. or something. 

…..this was the amazon preview of this dating guide. but i’m sure you can gather what the rest of the book is like. basically, dating in your 30’s is well, let’s put it this way: everyone who is dating in their 30’s never thought they would be dating in their 30’s. those who are divorced didn’t ever see themselves dating again, because they didn’t ever see themselves divorced. those of us who’ve never been married didn’t expect to not be married “by now”, or for those of us who don’t really want to get married necessarily, didn’t think they wouldn’t be in a serious relationship. so, it’s just a bunch of us, kinda standing around, checking each other out, and trying not to get too excited, but trying not to be too defeated, either.

Don’t Make Me Get a Sperm Donor

Just read a story called “Many Women Underestimate Fertility Clock’s Clang” on NPR. The gist: Because you’re 36 <bing>, you’re most likely going to be a spinster <bong>. You hit 40? Forget about it <clang-ang-ang-ang>.

So here it is: I want to have your babies. Why? Because you’re awesome. You’re smart. You have a job. You get along with your family. You drink in moderation. You’re not super-religious. You may not be an Adonis, but you exercise and try to eat healthily, and I find your unconventional visage just delightful to look at.

Most of all, I want to bear your progeny because I find you hilarious. I don’t know, something about the things you say, I just laugh and laugh, and I know that our synergy of humor is what’s going to get us through that night seven years from now when the littler kid can’t stop shitting the bed and the other, inexplicably, decides on that moment to contemplate the meaning of death. “What about Redford? Is he going to die?… Wait, what about ME? I don’t wanna die!”

Oh man. That night’s going to be so terrible. Thank god we can joke about it.

Why should you want to be my baby daddy?

Look at that rack.

In the spirit of full disclosure, it’s not quite that phenomenal without significant structural supports, but it’ll feed your spawn, and in the meantime, enjoy!

Also, I’m smart and fun. Ask my friends. Then again, if you ask anybody’s friends, they’re probably not going to say, “He’s kinda dull. And surly.” But seriously, I’m smart and fun.

So what’s my damage? Why am I 36 and never married? It might have something to do with fear. Not fear of commitment, necessarily, but fear of committing to a bad thing. Or, more, fear of committing to something that starts out good and turns bad and then just living with it because it’s easier than changing myself or my circumstances…

I guess that’s just fear of commitment, isn’t it? OK, well, I don’t have time for that crap anymore. I’ll make a pact if you will that we’ll make it good or we’ll make it done and speak fondly of each other after the fact.

(In addition, I’ll tell you, I have an ugly little habit of withdrawing when I’m stuck or scared or mad—totally unintentional, and I never even realize it’s happening until way after. But I’m working on it! And now you know about it, so when you see it, you can be like, “Hey, where you going?” And I’ll apologize and we can have make-up sex. NB: I reserve the right to pout for 2-6 hours before the make-up sex.)

Listen, I really don’t want to be a single parent. Like, not at all. But I’m just crazy enough to do it. I will fucking go to a sperm bank and read their bullshit profiles and choose some jizz that’s purportedly from Johnny Depp’s doppelgänger but probably really from a Danny DeVito look-alike, and the donor won’t even be funny like him, so I’ll have no It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia shtick to look forward to once the little bastard can talk.

Don’t make me do it.

[Ed. note: I was trying to write a new online dating profile, and this happened.]

Feeling Old

I met a boy today—total cutie-pie; dark hair; stand-up comedian by trade except when he’s working on a small farm(!!); and at one point he said to me that he was sore because he’d done “this ballet barre workout” yesterday. Ha ha! How awesome is that?

When he mentioned he was 26, I was thinking, well, that’s not so bad—he’s only four years younger than me.

About two blissful seconds went by before I remembered that I’m not 30. I’m 30-six. Ten years older than cutie-pie. When I started college, he was in third grade.

And guess what, a friend of mine’s 30th birthday celebration is tonight. Yay for him. He could reasonably date cutie-pie, except that he’s straight and in a relationship.

Anyway, his party doesn’t start until 10:00pm. Listen, I can stay out until 10:00pm, but I don’t think I can go out at 10:00pm anymore.

Excuse me while I turn my hearing aid off and count the liver spots on my hands.

(No shit, I’m getting liver spots on my hands.)

I Am a Bad Citizen

I didn’t vote today. Instead, I drove to Carrboro because I thought Oprah Winfrey might find me my soul mate. There’s a lot that’s stupid about that statement.

What happens is, I get an email from a friend mid-day that says the Oprah Winfrey Network is developing a dating show, and they’re accepting applications from 2:00 to 5:00 at this restaurant in Carrboro. I’ve been ruminating on the fact that I’m technically a spinster, and I don’t know, I’m thinking, “Nothing else has worked, so maybe I try a little reality television…?”

So I get there, and they hand me a 27-page form to fill out. Twenty-seven pages. And they tell me a producer will be putting together a little bit of footage. I start filling out the form, but the first page says “YOUR TOWN: CARRBORO” and asks for my address. And I’m thinking, my town is Bull City, y’all, so I shuffle over to the hostess and say, “Do I have to be a resident of Carrboro to do this?”

She says, “Hmm… I don’t know… Do you love Carrboro?”

And I go, “Sure.” But really I’m thinking, it’s aight. I mean, there’s some good restaurants and a gargantuan dog park I used to go to all the time when I worked in Chapel Hill, and it’s walkable. But it’s no Durham.

And as I keep filling out this tome, it becomes clear that this is just the audition for the town. Questions like, What makes your town unique? and Who is the town gossip? and Where do people go on dates in your town? The network wants to find a town in which to make love happen. They’ll accomplish this goal by shipping in various matchmakers and dispatching them amongst the participants.

The producer asks if I’m ready for my on-camera interview, and truth be told, at this point, I’m having some reservations about the whole deal. But I’d driven all the way over there and even applied mascara and lipstick on a Tuesday, in the middle of the afternoon, and OK, whatever.

What’s your type? I don’t really have a type, I say, but funny, smart, preferably stronger than me.

Have you tried online dating? Ahem. Yes. Yes I have.

What does love mean to you? It means fighting for each other and for the two of you as a couple. Platitudes platitudes.

What would you bring to a relationship? Blah stupid loyalty blah fun blah.

I drove away feeling perturbed and disappointed in myself and discouraged. So then I went to CrossFit and lifted heavy things over my head, and I felt better. PR on my push press: 110 pounds.

I’m still an asshole for not voting though.