Season Five, Episode One: The Essay (2005-2015)

I turn 30 tomorrow.

I don’t exactly know how I feel about this. I keep wondering where the past ten years have gone, and I simultaneously feel as if I haven’t grown at all and like I am an old woman trapped inside the body of a 29 year old. My twenties were tumultuous to say the least–I became a single mother at 20, I had my heart shattered twice, lost friends who I thought would be around forever, gained new friends who are like family, changed jobs a few times, moved out on my own, struggled with an eating disorder, and am now somewhat content with where I am currently at. I like to think the first decade of your adult life really isn’t even about being an adult. How can you possibly be an adult when you don’t even really know what you want yet in life? I remember when I was in high school, thinking that I had my life all figured out–I wanted to move to NYC, live in a chic itty bitty apartment, bartend at night and go to NYU during the day and major in journalism…write witty and vaguely acerbic fiction based loosely upon my life in the Big Apple, and then somehow make it big as a writer and then singer. Naturally I hadn’t quite learned yet that life typically does not follow the timeline and plans that we create. I got pregnant literally right after prom (I always joke that I got knocked up during prom weekend), became a mom at 19. I tried college, but my head wasn’t in the right place and I didn’t take it seriously. I screwed up my grades and when I tried to go back at 20/21, I couldn’t afford to pay out of pocket and kept changing my mind about my major. Being a glamorous and clever New Yorker went out the window once I had my son. I suddenly was expected to be an adult when I wasn’t even sure I was an adult yet.

But I think being confused and realizing that you can’t live up to all the crazy expectations that we made as kids is a pretty common feeling when you are in your mid-twenties. I still don’t feel like I’ve got my shit together. I’m not good with money. I hate domestic house shit. I don’t fold laundry and put it away. I wash dishes with a clear sense of loathing. I make questionable school lunches. BUT I have a 401(k). Whenever shit goes south, I remind people that hey, I have a 401(k) so I must be adulting at an acceptable level. (It’s not even at the default 3% either, it’s at like 9% so suck it haters.) I’ve only ever had three jobs, which is either a sign that I’m reliable or something, or it’s a sign that I develop Stockholm syndrome pretty quickly. I kind of pay some of my bills on time and I do an okay job at grocery shopping. I buy yogurt that is trendy and hip and very low in sugar but high in protein. I read The New York Times and The Washington Post and talk about current events. I go to the gym and pretend that I like to run, but I really hate it and prefer the stationary bike so that I can watch Amy Schumer and pretend to ride majestically over tall mountain peaks. I sometimes post witty things on Twitter, even though I’m still not completely sure what Twitter is all about. I have a LinkedIn page that I never use but made because I heard it was an adult thing to do.

I wear sweatpants a lot and don’t wear makeup when I’m not at work because I’m not 19-24 anymore and don’t feel like the world is going to end because I did not put mascara on before going to CVS. I pretty much only wear eyeshadow when I make plans to go get drunk–which basically means that I go out with my friends, nurse one or two drinks all night long, and then proceed to make sure none of them kill anyone else or end up in jail. I’m so over hangovers and spending half the day slumped over the toilet bowl or puking in my shower. I’ve developed a general disdain for people that I’m not friends with because I have learned over the past ten years that you don’t have to like everybody, so I limit the list of people I like down to the ones who like me already. Making new friends is exhausting and I like to limit the activities that wear me out physically, emotionally, or mentally. I don’t pretend to like things that I don’t like anymore. I don’t hide my dislike of anything “lite”, “light”, “diet”, or “fat/sugar free”. I like food and I’m going to eat it in all its fatty, sugary, caloric laden glory. I drink whole milk because I like it. I still live for the sprinkled up sugar cookie madness that is the McDonald’s holiday pie every December.

I’m super single and I’m okay with that. I get my needs taken care of, but I’m not actively searching for a gentleman lover (haha I love using that phrase because it just sounds like something an old lady named Edna would use in describing her love life) to fill the void in my empty and meaningless life.  I do feel a bit of a twinge of something when I scroll through my Facebook news feed and see photos of engagement rings and weddings and new babies…but then I remember that I have a 10 year old who is pretty awesome and I don’t ever want to get married, so I drink some wine and go watch a Vine about thug cats. Seriously though, I have learned that men are no longer a priority in my life. I have been single for a good chunk of my twenties, and for the first part of the decade, I remember feeling trapped and panicked and hopeless and lonely because I was alone and all my friends were getting engaged and then married. I felt like maybe I was a failure because I hadn’t met my Prince Charming who would sweep me off my feet and give me my happily ever after. I learned that no one can give you your happily ever after but yourself. I can make myself happy, I don’t need a man to make that emotion possible. I have been unlucky in love, but I have learned some pretty amazing things about myself along the way. I have learned that I am strong, that I have standards for myself, that I am not desperate, and that I have both self-respect and know the value of my self-worth. I have learned that even the most beautiful of men can be pigs, and that people will say and do anything to get what they want from another human being. I have learned that life goes on, you do meet someone else, and you fall in love again–it’s a guaranteed part of life that stays on repeat. I’m in no rush to settle down, I don’t plan on getting married, and I am proud of my independence. If I want that brand new Kate Spade purse, I can go out and buy that new Kate Spade purse. I don’t need to rely on anyone but myself and it’s an amazing feeling.

I feel prettier now than I did ten years ago. I remember reading an article saying that women are at their most beautiful between the ages of like 34-36 or something (it was an old Allure article) and so I’m looking forward to seeing if that’s true. I finally grew into my face, and thanks to me learning about skin care, I finally got this acne nonsense under control. I am more comfortable with my body and it’s curves and my face that is quite the mix of ethnicities. I still have those days though where I look in the mirror and wish that I was exceptionally gorgeous, that my face was a little slimmer, a little more soft, a little more delicate, a little more feminine, that my skin was clear and less oily, that my eyebrows were more fuller and didn‘t betray the over plucked trend that we all followed in the late 1990s and early 2000s. I wish that my nose was more slender when I smiled, that I didn’t have my mother’s strong and vaguely masculine facial structure, that I was the kind of girl that people stopped and stared at because she was that beautiful. But I have also learned that I shouldn’t care, because beauty is overrated. Mixed race kids are beautiful in their own ways because we are a fabulous blending of nationalities–my face is like the goddamn U.N.  And the oily skin that I hate so much is actually helping to slow the ravages of time, so I guess I can learn to hate it less.

All in all, I keep hearing from my old ass friends (love you guys) who have already turned 30 that it’s actually not that bad. They say that their thirties were their best decade so far and that there is less pressure from society for you to be a productive adult because they already assume that either you are good at being a grown up or you’re a lost cause. You become more comfortable in your own skin because you realize that there are people who are going to like you and people who just aren’t, and there’s honestly nothing you can do to change their opinion of you. I’m down with a decade of giving zero fucks after this emotional hot mess of the last ten years! I’m actually pretty happy with who I am and where I’m at, and I can only assume that there’s some room for self-improvement. I don’t need to be sad about not being that super trendy and funny New Yorker who drinks Starbucks in Central Park and writes super successful witty and vaguely acerbic fiction based loosely upon my life in the Big Apple, because I can be that writer from Cleveland who drinks Starbucks at Edgewater Park and writes super successful witty and vaguely acerbic fiction based loosely upon my life in the Big Plum (a nickname I still don’t fully understand). I just need to get off my ass and stop procrastinating.

So…bring it on, 30. I have a 401(k) and I’m ready.

  

(Me at 20 and at 29–literally taken today.)

Season Four, Episode Nine: Popping My Hipster Concert Cherry (A Review of Sorts)

So last Tuesday night I went to the Matt and Kim concert at the House of Blues with one of my friends.  Prior to stepping foot in the venue, I had heard of them a few times and listened to some of their music for literally the very first time on their Pandora station while I got ready for the show.  I decided to go in with an open mind, because I love music and will give anything a listen at least once.

So.  Many.  Hipsters.

I can feel their sardonic judgement.

I can feel their sardonic judgement.

Hipsters in denim.  Hipsters in scarves.  Hipsters wearing fedoras.  Hipsters in plaid.  Buddy Holly glasses.  PBR.  SO.  MUCH.  PBR.  Cardigans.  Chuck Taylors.  Irony everywhere.

AND BEARDS.  HIPSTER BEARDS ABOUNDED.

A hipster beard AND Pabst Blue Ribbon.  It's too much for one image. LOOK AWAY.

A hipster beard AND Pabst Blue Ribbon. It’s too much for one image.
LOOK AWAY.

I enjoy hipsters, for the most part.  I like that they ride bikes and urban beekeep and garden and the uncanny ability they have to go reside in a shitty neighborhood and BAM, almost instant gentrification.  I admire their dedication to microbrews and tattoos and the obscure.  Without them, I would not have Portlandia.  And I love Portlandia.

Without Portlandia, I would have never discovered the fabulous feminist bookstore ladies.

Without Portlandia, I would have never discovered the fabulous feminist bookstore ladies.

But anyway.  There were hipsters, and the sheer number of them in one small venue was mildly overwhelming.  So I went to message my best friend on Facebook Messenger (he is in the Caribbean and cannot use his phone because international rates and stuff), and I HAD NO CONNECTION.  I cursed the House of Blues gods for blocking my 4G and proceeded to take notes in my Notes app of the funny stuff I thought of while the show went on.  After the show (which I really enjoyed), I read over my notes and realized they might make a witty blog post.

So here y’all go.  Matt and Kim, AS IT HAPPENED (four days later):

I hate tall people.

(I am 5’1″ and all short people will understand the hatred that is getting stuck behind anyone who is more than three inches taller than you at a standing room only concert.)

No matter how much you stand on your tiptoes, you can never really quite completely see.

No matter how much you stand on your tiptoes, you can never really quite completely see.

Either my whiteness is coming out and I have no rhythm, or either all the white people around me have no rhythm.

I’m going with all the white people around me because I feel like I can dance.

Sometimes.

Someone control the bros.  They’re getting out of control.

(Shortly after this, a drunken bro was escorted out of the venue for turning up too hard.)

I am the calmest person at this concert.

I don’t know how to dance to hipster music.

Like, is bouncing my leg and nodding my head appropriate?

I feel like it is.

That’s what I’m going with.

Oh hey…they’re covering “Ignition (Remix)”.  I love that song.

That man across the room is wearing the shortest, tightest jorts I have ever seen on a man.

You cannot deny his obvious dedication to a strict squat and lunge exercise routine.

You cannot deny his obvious dedication to a strict squat and lunge exercise routine.

They are seriously like Daisy Dukes.  He’s wearing denim hot pants.

I will not jump, Matt and Kim.  I’m in a room of uncoordinated young white professionals.

I am uncoordinated and the people around me are most likely uncoordinated and full of overpriced Downtown Cleveland beer, so...I'm just going to bob my head to the beat and look interested, okay?

I am uncoordinated and the people around me are most likely uncoordinated and full of overpriced Downtown Cleveland beer, so…I’m just going to bob my head to the beat and look interested, okay?  But you totally do your thing and stand on your drum.  You got this for the both of us.

I have upgraded my dance moves to wiggling my body and shaking my head back and forth.

Seems legit.

This band is pretty great.  I would be friends with these guys.

You guys can be my quirky musician friends who are the constant life of the party and get too loud when they drink.

You guys can be my quirky musician friends who are the constant life of the party and get too loud when they drink.

Oh…they busted out the fucking smoke machines.  You know shit is serious when they bust out the smoke machines.

Because nothing says shit is getting all kinds of real quite like the crazy smoke from a smoke machine.

Because nothing says shit is getting all kinds of real quite like the crazy smoke from a smoke machine.

Is this hip hop?

Oh shit…I can dance to hip hop.  And dance briefly to the blip of music I shall.

The guy in front of me smells like Beefaroni and stale PBR.

Perhaps he had stored some Beefaroni in there for later.  He might really love Chef Boyardee.

I could only get a shot of the back of his head, but I think that’s all I really needed for you to get the idea.  Perhaps he had stored some Beefaroni in his beard for later. He might really love Chef Boyardee.  I don’t know.  Also, I would totally be friends with the unimpressed concert bouncer security guy.  (And look, Jorts Guy makes a repeat surprise cameo!)

No Kim…I cannot FaceTime someone because I went over my data this month and AT&T charges $10 an extra GB.

Blue eyeshadow just is not flattering on ANYONE.  I don’t care who you are.

Wait wait wait wait…she’s gonna dance on their hands?

Holy shit…she’s dancing on their hands.

Okay…I am downloading their albums from iTunes when I get home.

(Here is an actual music video of Matt and Kim performing “Hey Now”.)

Season Four, Episode Eight: 14/29 Struggles

So I am still talking to said guy, who still does not have a nom de plume.  I really need to give him one.  The fact that I am talking to him still is actually kind of a miracle–not a walking-on-water-in-the-middle-of-a-crazy-storm kind of miracle, but more like a I-ate-like-crap-all-week-and-ran-once-and-somehow-didn’t-gain-weight kind of miracle–simply because I am not good at this.  At what, you may ask?  Talking?  Well…no.  I am rather good at talking.  I am not good at talking to guys that I like.  Or know how to successfully flirt.  Or nab a guy…see how I used the word nab?  I make it sound like I am a police officer who successfully caught a bank robber.  I should twirl my mustache too, while I’m at it.

*twirls mustache*

When I'm not busy nabbing guys, I like to tie young maidens to train tracks.  I'm very early 20th century mustache twirler.

When I’m not busy nabbing guys, I like to tie young maidens to train tracks. I’m very early 20th century mustache twirler.

Ugh.

But anyway, I am still talking to him.  He is still pretty damn hot and funny and delish…and I haven’t done anything too crazy to make him think maybe he shouldn’t continue to talk to me.  So…miracle.  I actually think that he finds me hilarious, which is a win.  When in doubt, let my sense of humor cancel out my awkwardness like FOX cancelled American Idol (too soon?).  I’ve gotten pretty close a few times to doing something completely batshit but I somehow talked myself out of it.  Google is a life saver.  My search engine is full of random keywords that make me sound like a fourteen year old girl.  Who knew that there were so many articles out there in the Interwebs dedicated to making loons like me feel less cray?

Because there is a lot of stuff on the Interwebs to make me feel less cray.

Because there is a lot of stuff on the Interwebs to make me feel less cray.

There is one thing that baffles me(that is a lie…there are a lot of things in the dating world that baffle me, but for sake of keeping this post short, we will pretend that there is only one), and I suppose it baffles me only because I like him, and that is texting.  Why the hell go days without texting someone (me) back?  Especially if you like me/want to get in my pants/potentially more?  I stress about that and I have successfully stopped myself from texting him stuff like “why you no text me back” and flat out asking him if he secretly hates me.  Because I am pretty sure he doesn’t hate me.  He used to text me a lot when we first started talking and it’s trickled down and I’m sure it’s no cause for concern since he is still wonderful in person.  I feel like I have gone back in a time machine and it’s 1999 and I am 14 and I have bad hair and questionable fashion sense and I am all a-giggle and a-fumble over a guy in my class.  I tell myself that I sometimes don’t hear from my best friend for days, and I have known her since I was 7.  I can go days without texting other friends/hearing from other friends, so why do I get all panicky cliffhanger soap star when Unnamed Hot Guy decides to not text me?  The only answer I can think of is because I am secretly still 14 on the inside when it comes to men.

This girl is apparently stressed because she has multiple phones/crucial conversations/potential drug deals all going on at once?

This girl is apparently stressed because she has multiple texts/crucial conversations/potential drug deals all going on at once?

29 Year Old Me is trying to play it cool and act completely indifferent.  14 Year Old Me has a mini heart attack when we sit next to each other and our legs touch the entire time.  29 Year Old Me smiles at him when I see him and act like I’m completely chill.  14 Year Old Me freaks the fuck out quietly when someone tells us what a cute couple we make (29 Year Old Me simply smiles because I don’t want to look like I am so into him–being chill is my constant M.O.) and he says he agrees.  14 Year Old Me doesn’t know how to be cool and calm and so 29 Year Old Me is constantly fighting an internal battle with her so that she doesn’t do anything stupid to mess up whatever will happen.  29 Year Old Me isn’t in a rush to get hurt again any time soon.  14 Year Old Me worries that he doesn’t like me.

14 Year Old Me is obviously Angelina because Sun-In.

14 Year Old Me is obviously Angelina because bad bangs and Sun-In.

Well, 14 Year Old Me, put down the Sun-In (seriously, put it down…your hair is orange) and stop panicking and analyzing every damn thing that goes on.  If something comes out of this, awesome.  If something doesn’t come out of this, guess what?  Life goes on.  You still have wine and Netflix and comfy sweatpants and chocolate covered Oreos–he’s the one who will be missing out, not you.  Just smile and be nice to him if it doesn’t go the way you planned.  You’re an adult, and you’re supposed to be calm on the outside and 14 on the inside.  Enjoy talking to him, because it’s fun to talk to guys.  Just stop using Sun-In.  Please.

Let's be completely honest...your hair never once actually looked like this.

Let’s be completely honest…your hair never once actually looked like this.

Season Four, Episode Seven: Panic In Real Time

So I have been talking to a boy–wait, yes, I know that is rather exciting and all that, we will go into that later–that I like for almost the past two months and things have been flirty with a sprinkling of sexy…with the occasional stumble into awkwardness (I would be the one doing the stumbling, of course).  But it has been good.  He’s hot and funny and into me and so hot, but mixed signals abound (because they seem like they always do–yet another post to unravel that mystery) and it doesn’t help that I have this weird combination of distrust and fear and impatience when it comes to all this boy meets girl shit.

Anyway, I texted said guy (I have not come up with a nom de plume for him yet) this afternoon, a breezy and flirty text that was not replied to at all for hours.  I got irritated and decided against my better judgement to compose another text about five hours later to send him regarding the first text.  This is the panic that ensued, captured in live time in a Facebook Messenger conversation with one of my best friends:

Me (7:02 pm):  So…there’s that moment when you’re trying to come up with a text and it’s what you are thinking but not wanting to send…AND THEN YOU ACCIDENTALLY HIT SEND.

(7:02 pm):

So.  Much.  Panic.

Michelle (7:04 pm):  Oh no!!!!

Me (7:05 pm):  Oh no indeed!!!

(7:06 pm):  And you want to text back immediately bc you are embarrassed and mortified but you decide that entertaining an embarrassed apology or explanation would make you look crazy.

(7:06 pm):  And if said recipient of text had responded hours earlier, I wouldn’t have accidentally sent a rough draft text.

(7:08 pm):  So now I sit here feeling like an idiot and not replying bc I’m going to act like “yup, I sent that”.

(7:08 pm):

I'm with you there, Ron.

Michelle (7:08 pm):  Oh man.  That is sucky.

(I’m guessing my panic is amusing because I’m sure it’s not really a big deal but it so is.)

Me (7:09 pm):  And the silence.

(7:09 pm):  It makes things worse bc I want to fall into a vicious cycle of word vomit to try to explain my way out of the text but that will only back me further into the corner like a lioness.

(I am pretty bummed that I could not find a witty GIF of a lioness backed into a corner.)

Michelle (7:10 pm):  Yeahhhh don’t do that then you’re just gonna look like you’re talking to yourself.

Me (7:11 pm):  Right.  I don’t want to look crazy.

(7:11 pm):  And I’m like “this is why I’m alone, I’m crazy”.

 

So he still hasn’t replied and he probably thinks I’m insane.  Hopefully he finds my crazy endearing.  Ugh.  I’m seriously going to die an old spinster woman who can’t knit or embroider and who is allergic to cats.

At least I’ll always have you, Netflix.  You get me.

You always know me better than everyone else.

You always know me better than everyone else.

Season Three, Episode Nine: Marriage, Unicorns, and Me

Two friends of mine got married today.  I didn’t go to the wedding because I had to work, but also because weddings give me anxiety.

I know, I’m an asshole.

anigif_enhanced-27649-1405358022-16

I’ve always been averse to  marriage.  I guess I just rebelled against the idea that good little girls grew up and got married and had babies and were good wives and mothers and that’s all that society wanted from them.  I was always the girl who was the nonconformist, the one who marched to the beat of her own drum.  I wanted to be respected and to be known for more than being just some guy’s wife.  Mrs. So-And-So, like my own name didn’t matter anymore.  The idea of being a Mr. and Mrs. Blahblahblah and losing the ability to be identified by my own last name freaked me out.

im not lonely

Disney, however, gave me the inner confliction of being someone’s happily-ever-after and so in a way I wanted all that marriage crap.  I wanted to be loved and have someone who wanted to spend the rest of their life with me.  In fact, all the way up until I was 20 I thought that I would fall hopelessly in love with the first guy I fell in love with and he would be The One and I would get married and BAM, happily ever after achieved.  End level, character power up and max score bonus.  Easy peasy, right?

WRONG.

Got my heart broken by my first “love”.  Got knocked up and left to be a single mom.  Got up after a few years of inner healing and got back in the game.  I’ve never been a huge dater and can count my boyfriends on a single hand.  Dating and all the shit that comes with it just never appealed to me.  I guess I’m not the average girl.  I don’t know.  But I do know that I hadn’t found anyone that I wanted to spend the rest of my time on this planet with–and that I wasn’t buying into society’s shit about finding “The One” because it seemed like they thought they found The One and it turned out that they were The One Right Now But Not Really.  You married someone and then got divorced and got married again and repeated the cycle as many times as you fell in love, thought you found your soul mate, fucked up, and started again.  It seemed like a very expensive and painful way to date.  Like a really unnecessary iOS.

love is stupid

And for some reason, I’ve always tended to gravitate towards older guys.  Maybe it’s because my mom and dad are twenty years apart and made it work for the past thirty.  Maybe it’s because I thought perhaps older guys had their shit together.  I’m starting to think that maybe I’m wrong and maybe they’re as impossibly fucked up as the 28 and 29 year old guys that surround me on a daily basis.  Maybe the older guys I dated are just out of the norm and are fucked up–like a defected version of an adult…or maybe as I’m getting older I’m seeing that we never leave behind our younger selves with all our quirks and fucked up-ness and immaturity.  Maybe.  I mean, I dated a guy fifteen years older than me and he’s as fucked up as my friend who just turned 29 last month.  Maybe.

Weddings make me sad because they make me realize that I can’t keep it together in the way that society expects me to.  I can’t keep a boyfriend, and the last guy I dated had me over the moon and completely and totally head-over-heels…like I finally saw myself maybe marrying someone.  And what happens?  Oh, you know…he just goes back to the ex-wife he was never really over who really really resembles me–and she lives a state away and he lives eight streets from me.  I make them want someone six hundred miles away.  Just the typical, usual, fucked up shit that happens in my life.  If it wasn’t so comical, I think I would be really sad a lot of the time.  Weddings make me think that maybe I’m just not capable of finding someone who wants to be with me and doesn’t use me as a pale imitation of The One that they never fully let go of.  I think I make them want to go back to the The One They Never Fully Let Go Of.  And then they put a ring on it again and spend the rest of their lives with that stupid person, while I sit around pretending I’m okay even though I’m secretly, quietly wondering what the hell is wrong with me.  Le sigh.

anigif_enhanced-31541-1405358255-12

I had a player at the casino today say, “You’re so nice.  Why don’t you have a ring on your finger?”  Well, Random Nice Player Guy, I am nice.  I’m pretty damn awesome.  But being nice and being awesome doesn’t mean that I need to enter into an expensive and potentially lifetime agreement with a guy, you know?  I don’t think a band of precious metal and a rock measures my worth as a human being.  I’d like to have a guy come up to me and be like, “You are pretty and funny and smart and awesome and wonderful and quirky and you are perfect just the way you are and I would be honored if you would like to share your awesome life with me.”  Just.  Like.  That.  No crazy baggage or brokenness or hangups or issues or fucked up-ness.  Just a great awesome guy who is hot and funny and smart and isn’t hung up on their last girlfriend or ex-wife or someone they dated ten years ago.  Maybe that guy doesn’t exist.  He sounds a lot like a unicorn.  Covered in hot pink glitter.

Yup.

Yup.

Weddings make me measure up my own failures as a human being with an imperfect heart and I don’t like the way I feel when I think about marriage or weddings…it makes me feel inadequate and unable to relate.  I guess I’m pretty certain I’m just going to end up alone, a spinster lady who can’t knit or sew and is allergic to cats.

anigif_enhanced-10355-1405356483-5

Congrats to my two friends.  I wish them many years of happiness and that this is the only marriage they participate in.  Have tons of kids and cookies and anniversaries and grow old together and all that sappy wonderful jazz that they talk about a lot in greeting cardsGood luck!

tumblr_mkjc3gyz5K1qe9yexo2_500

Season Three, Episode Seven: Tinderless Nights (TSCBL#1)

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I made a list of things that I wanted to accomplish as a single lady. A badass single lady.

But nowhere near as badass as this.

But nowhere near as badass as this.

But anyway, the first thing I decided to tackle (mainly because it seemed quite possibly the easiest thing to get accomplished) was #4 on the list.

4. Be moderately successful or even slightly successful at this online dating stuff.

Exactly.

Exactly.

Anyway, I have always felt that online dating (such as Match and eHarmony and Plenty of Fish) is for life losers. I personally do not think that I am a life loser, but hell, those people in those commercials look so happy and what the hell, I should get to be happy. Right? Right.

So I decided to try this online dating shit back in November because I obviously suck something terrible at the normal route of dating. I made a profile on Match and on eHarmony, and I learned something about myself right off the bat.

I am incredibly shallow. Yes, my last boyfriend was overweight, but he carried it well and had a good looking face. That offset the chubbiness. But you can’t have a jacked up face or be plain or be fat or awkward looking or any/all of that in various possible combinations/at the same time. I can’t be having any of that. I mean, I think I’m pretty.

That face.

That face.

I totally deserve a hot guy who is almost as awesome as me. And that man has to exist somewhere in the annals of online dating.

Or so I thought.

Well…optimistically talked myself into thinking. Because I am a bit of a realist and I think that online dating is just strange. But whatever. My friends told me that it’s not weird anymore and that people do it because they have hectic schedules and life is all digital and interconnected in the fucking global village and all that technobabble. I decided to keep an open mind and try to talk to some guys who seemed cute. So I tried the free shit first, but you can’t read messages or look at people’s pictures when it’s free, and as I brought up in the previous paragraphs, I am pretty fucking shallow. So I paid the stupid but cheapest possible fee that I could. Match offers a month to month option for like $36 (or something–I don’t feel like looking it up) and that’s kind of less desperate feeling than eHarmony, who only lets you get a full year for different payment options. That made me feel lame in all sorts of ways. Paying to look at people who probably either felt as awkward and lame as I did or were actually excited and optimistic about online dating because they had exhausted every other possible option. Ugh.

I should have listened to you, Lemon.

I should have listened to you, Lemon.

But I kept an open mind. Even through all the weird messages from the socially awkward creeper sorts who looked like they were socially awkward creepers in high school and the weird guys who “liked” my pictures and the icebreaker things that consist of random questions and stuff. I was kind of desperate to find someone wonderful to get my mind off my ex, who I still missed terribly. So I kept an open mind and told myself that I would find someone. Someone worthwhile. Someone hot and funny and not a weird creeper.

I kept up with this for two months. (I stopped the first time in December because it was a complete failure in my opinion. I started up again in January because I thought it was maybe worth another try.)

And then I found this guy on Match who was possibly the Holy Grail of online dating. He was hot. He was funny. He didn’t seem like a weirdo creeper. So I messaged him and we talked and then he said something that struck me as somewhat odd, but it was a legit question: Did I want something serious or just something casual? I chose to say that I wasn’t sure and that you couldn’t really know what you wanted until you met that person and could gauge the potential chemistry. Boom. Solid answer. Get me ready for The Bachelor now.

Actually...no.  Fuck that shit.  That's like every single shitty dating site wrapped into one douchebag guy.  No grazie.

Actually…no. Fuck that shit. That’s like every single shitty dating site wrapped into one douchebag guy. No grazie.

He was all like “yeah that’s right, you can’t know until you meet someone” and I was like hmm…maybe this guy is legit? So I traded numbers with him and we texted and then…I get this little textular bomb: I’m just looking for a hookup.

Of course he was. Because of course. That would have tied in nicely with The Single Chick Bucket List #3: Have a random hookup/one night stand. But for some reason, that felt wrong. I didn’t want a stupid hookup situation. I very politely told him that I was past that phase of my life (because I am) and I wished him the best and that was that. I deleted his number and I stopped talking to him. I’m sure I could have kept slogging through the endless profiles and photos until I found “The One”, but shit. It’s not worth it. I don’t have the time for that and I couldn’t shake the inherent feeling that I have that it’s not really for me. It’s not. I hate dating, but I think I hate online dating even more.

So I deactivated my Match profile and cancelled my membership. I took that as a sign. I also took it as a sign that The Guy had the same name as my ex but spelled differently and he turned out to be a cretin. Shocker. I can’t delete my eHarmony one until November, so I just don’t go on it and I have all the emails from Match and eHarmony directed into my trash. I guess I will suffer through the stupid traditional way of dating…but not right now. This online dating thing reminded me that maybe I’m not ready to jump into the pool of quicksand that is dating and relationships and heartbreak. I have way too much going on for a boyfriend. I have a list of life things to get through and a dad who is super sick with cancer and a wonderfully fabulous nine year old and a brand new shift at work and a fledgling social life and I just don’t want that boyfriend aspect. I still somewhat want that boyfriend aspect with my ex, who has pretty much become less than a stranger to me and as sad and as pathetic as that seems…it’s true. And it’s not fair to anyone for me to pursue a relationship when I’m still kind of broken up over him. I will have my Netflix and my son and my family and friends and that’s fine for now.

I would much rather watch Mad Men in my sweats than deal with the awkwardness of pimping myself out per se to awkward men online. And I had to pay for it!!!

I would much rather watch Mad Men in my sweats than deal with the awkwardness of pimping myself out per se to awkward men online.
And I had to pay for it!!!

So…

4. Be moderately successful or even slightly successful at this online dating stuff.