Bleak

After this weekend, my perspective on the dating scene is quite dim. Friday night, I went out with some girls to a couple bars to celebrate the Irish in me (all 0%). Talking to strange men is all fun and good, but it makes you realize how bleak the prospects are. I danced with one guy (age 22) who really couldn't dance. Didn't click with him. Danced with another guy (age 24) who could dance, but wasn't very visually or intellectually stimulating. Met another guy (age 40) at a bar who only dated Asian and Latina women because he likes "the dark hair dark eyes" thing.

Yes, the prospects looked bleak.

Then Saturday night, I went out with the Guy. I won't delve into details but I'm almost sure my thing/non-relationship with Guy is nearing its end. I am both dreading yet secretly hoping that he never calls me again so that I don't have to go through the pain of ending this non-relationship.

So in these hard times, my mind wanders to my ex, my last great love. He was great in a lot of ways, we shared the same values, and I know he genuinely loved me. Yet the things that turned me off--i.e., that made me fall out of love with him--were his utter lack of conscience and resulting scathing sense of humor.

I enjoy biting wit once in a while. However his humor crossed many lines. It wouldn't surprise me if he made an anti-Semitic joke to a Holocaust survivor. Every time I think about possibly getting back together with him, I think of the times he has hurt me with his insulting comments and so-called jokes. The most recent instances include his joking about my dead father, and glibly calling me a bad daughter who doesn't care about her mother the widow.

In these instances, I hate him. And I hate myself for allowing him to disarm me and for letting myself become emotionally vulnerable to him.

Yesterday he called me to see how I was doing. He remembered my father died about a year ago and wanted to make sure I was okay. The conversation went well, we joked a bit about stuff. At one point, he had misheard something I said and I joked about his older age. Instead of responding, he measuredly said "I will not respond because I am more mature than you." I realized he was holding back the anti-Semitic-joke equivalent and observed, "Ah, it's not that you're more mature. It's that you know a lot of shit is happening in my life and my dad died a year ago. This isn't out of maturity. It's out of pity." I could hear him smile. You can hear a smile on the phone, you know. He said, "Yeah, you're right."

Bleak, bleak, bleak.

I was thinking this morning, maybe there isn't the One, but several Ones. Each of these several Ones alone could make me deliriously happy. I just need to find one of these Ones. I realized however that one could be in Nebraska. The other could be in Florida. One might be in Italy. What are the chances that one of my Ones will be here, in this city? And if he's in this city, what are the chances we'll bump into each other?

I'm afraid I've temporarily lapsed into the very person I did not want to be. The Formerly Optimistic But Now Jaded Romantic. Perhaps an inevitable result of having bleak prospects.

Being "cute"

The great thing about dating a guy with an amazing, flawless body is dating a guy with an amazing, flawless body. The bad thing about it is that if you have a less than amazing, flawless body, any flaw you have becomes magnified tenfold. This phenomenon does wonders for one's body image.

Last night, the Guy and I were just lying around when he pinched my waist, which incidentally isn't a tight, sculpted washboard of muscle. I asked him if he was grabbing my fat. "It's cute," he said. (By the way, "cute" is never a good adjective to use when describing a girl's fat. In fact, there is no good adjective to describe a girl's fat except "nonexistent.")

I looked at his abs and observed, "You have no body fat at all."

"Yes I do," he said. Then he pinched his waist. "See?" he said, "here's my fat." I looked. There was literally nothing but a pinched wedge of skin above his taut stomach.

"That's not fat," I said, "that's skin. You have no body fat."

He kind of laughed it off and hugged my fat, I mean, me.

I know I'm not a tub of lard. But by virtue of being more than mere muscle and skin, I feel like a half tub of lard. Or quarter tub of lard on a good day. By no means does Guy criticize me or even hint that my body needs to change. If anything, he thinks I'm "cute" as I am. I just wouldn't mind him one day trying to pinch my waist and finding nothing to pinch but skin.

One day. Until then, I'll have to settle for being "cute."

Confession of the day

I was in the elevator alone. A man was walking towards the elevator. We made eye contact. The doors slowly started closing. And I didn't hit the button to keep the doors open.

Mr. Man, if you're reading this, I apologize. I have no excuse for closing the elevator doors on you.

Just jump

I've reached that point in my courtship with Younger Guy where I'm starting to get anxious. (What a surprise, I'm getting neurotic.) Even though I jokingly complain about not getting any, I suspect that I can't really *be* with a guy unless I feel like it's real. And the idea of the real thing is scarier than harmless making out.

So Guy wants to spend more time with me, and he "observed" the other day that he was always calling me, not I him. I suppose I am being the hesitant one in this thing. Perhaps a part of me is afraid to get seriously involved with someone if it's not going to work. Every time one of my last serious relationships failed, it kind of chipped away at my romantic optimism; and I don't want to be jaded even more by another failed relationship.

I always tell everyone, "You never know unless you try." So I should try, right? Why the heck am I scared? I'm not afraid of commitment. I want a relationship. I guess what frightens me is the thought of being hurt in the end, and losing just a little bit more of my hopefulness.

But maybe nothing great is ever accomplished until someone closes her eyes, makes a leap of faith, and just hopes for the best.

Correcting the politically incorrect

I know two girls. Both are intelligent and were raised in large cities with large minority populations. So it surprises me that two smart city girls could make semi-ignorant remarks. Now, because both are my friends and are kind in every other way, I cannot correct their ignorant remarks by yelling at them, "You're so racist!" It's insulting, counterproductive and antagonizing.

Their comments aren't blatant racist like "I hate race X." But they're more subtle. Some examples:

"I don't date blacks and Hindus." People are entitled to their racial preferences I suppose. But by "Hindus," she meant all South Asians.

"So J needs to go to synagogue. What time does his church start?" Um. Church is for Christians.

"All these Middle Eastern guys like me. Why, the other day, this Indian guy came up to me and asked me out!" India is in South Asia, not the Middle East.

So how to correct the politically incorrect?

As to the first comment, I was genuinely curious, so I asked, "So you don't date those of the Hindu faith? Or do you mean South Asians?" She responded, "Um, I guess South Asians. But most of them are Hindu..."

How do you correct someone tactfully without making them feel like they're being attacked? The media, politics, and general human relations demonstrate that attacking people by labeling them "bigot" or "racist" isn't exactly the best way to convert them into racial tolerance. But staying silent seems to enable the ignorance. Perhaps I will take the feigned curiosity approach, like "Don't Christians go to church, not Jews? Not sure..."

We'll see.

Just a tip

I was looking in the mirror when day when I saw a bruise on my neck. It didn't hurt at all. And it didn't rub off. It was then I realized that Younger Guy had given me a hickey. A hickey. I haven't had a hickey since I was 18 (coincidentally, from another 23-year-old. Maybe it's a 23-year-old-thing).

Given that I had an important meeting today, I had to wear one of my suits, none of which had turtlenecks.

Ladies, if you wish to mask your love bites, I strongly recommend Physicians Formula concealer in Yellow. The yellow neutralizes the magenta/purplish color. That, or tell your guy not to give you hickeys.

Another tip from me to you.

Winning a no win situation

Fellas, you are in a no win situation if you are asked any of the following questions by your female significant other:

o Do I look fat? (Variants: Does this make my [insert body part] look fat? Do I look fat in this [insert clothing type]?)

o If you could hook up with any of my girlfriends, who would it be?

o Guess how much I weigh!

o If you could change one [or two or three] things about me, what would it [or they] be?

Should you respond in any way other than "Hun, you are perfect in every possible way. Because you are so perfect, you are the only person I can possibly love," be prepared to run or else have your balls chopped off.

Just a tip from me to you.

The red shoe

The first thing he was saw the red shoe. It was perfectly red and perfectly shiny and it dangled from a girl's perfectly ivory foot.

The girl was sitting on a wooden bench, writing something into her PDA. She wore a slim red dress that just grazed the backs of her knees. Knee gave way to calf. Calf gave way to ankle. Ankle gave way to foot, that foot with the red shoe.

He could try talking to her. But what kind of man picks up a woman at a train station? He studied her face. She wasn't remarkable looking. But attractive enough. Even her lips were red.

Okay, if she drops that shoe, I will talk to her, he thought to himself. Though the shoe teetered, it seemed unlikely to fall from the foot. In a way, he was relieved.

Then all of a sudden, someone screamed a sneeze. It was emitted by one of those old women whom he suspected had so little attention at home that the only way she could garner attention was to startle as many people and secure as many "Bless you"'s as possible with an ultrasonic scream. He would have hated this wretched women had not at that precise moment the red shoe fell.

He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and stood up. She was reaching for the shoe when he walked towards her and stood in front of her. "Hi," he said. She looked up.

"Hi," she said, grasping onto her shoe.

"Are you taking the train on track 7?" he asked.

"Yep," she said.

"It looks like it's running a bit late today. Do you have any idea what's going on? "

"Not a clue," she said. She slipped the shoe onto her foot. Then she smiled and added, "I guess all we can do is wait for it then."

"Yeah," he said, sitting down, "I guess so."

News flash

There's a great weight loss plan that works. It consists of exercising and reducing fat and sugar from one's balanced diet. It really works!

For some reason, people don't get this. They binge on chocolate and bacon, and then yearn for that diet pill they see on TV during a commercial break for Jerry Springer.

Bob

Bob was obsessed. He didn't mean to be. He just was.

Bob went on two dates with Jane. She was the perfect girl. Pretty, smart, and fun. After their second date, Jane didn't return his call. He called again asking her to call him back. Nothing. He tried calling from a different number. When she picked up and said "Hello?" he said "Hi it's Bob." She promptly hung up. After that, she never picked up any of his calls. Different phones, blocked numbers, private numbers--it made no difference. The most of Jane he ever got was her sweet voice on her voicemail greeting.

He decided to try a different tactic. It was harmless really. Still, as he parked his car outside of her apartment building, he felt a little guilty. Why? he asked himself. It was a free country. He could park his car anywhere he wanted. What did it matter that he chose to park his car outside of her apartment, waiting for her to come home from work?

Finally he saw Jane walking towards her apartment. With another guy.

Maybe it's her brother, he thought to himself. He watched as she turned to the guy and kiss him lingeringly on the lips. Maybe not, he thought. He watched the pair enter her apartment building and disappear.

Bob turned on his car engine and drove away discreetly. When he got home, he logged onto his computer and surfed the web for Jane, searching for anything mentioning her name. He found her personal webpage. Her blog. Her profile on her company's website. Each of these he devoured. From then on, he visited each of these sites and relished them every day after work and twice a day on weekends.

Obsessed. He was obsessed. But he didn't mean to be. He just was.

Dangit

My neurosis is my greatest muse on blogger.

I have a semi-big thing going on tomorrow. I've been preparing for it for the past few days. I told Younger Guy about it on our last date and he gave me some tips and consoled me.

So today, I had this secret hope that he'd call me tonight to wish me luck. I knew it probably wouldn't happen, given that we just went on a date only 48 hours ago. But there's nothing wrong with harboring one silly wish.

So I'm sitting here at my computer, when I whip out my phone and see "Missed Call: Younger Guy." A mere ten minutes ago. And he didn't leave a message. I was so bummed I missed his call.

With the advent of caller ID, what is the etiquette involved in seeing a missed call? Call them back? Or assume that if they did not leave a message or page, they don't want you to call them back? I was tempted but decided against calling him back with a "Oh I saw you called" line. That struck me as being a little psycho and needy. And nothing scares a guy off more than Psycho Needy Chick.

So I'm just sitting here. Kicking myself for missing the call. Wishing he'd call again. But knowing he probably won't. My fear of being Psycho Needy Chick outweighs my desire to call him. Maybe not by much, but just enough.

A break

This guy sitting at a computer near me is watching porn. You don't have to look at his screen to know what's getting him off (in public no less). He's wearing headphones plugged into the computer, and they're turned up so loud, you can hear this woman's voice moaning and screaming "Oh yes," "Oh God," and the like.

Some guys take cigarette breaks. I guess this guy takes porn breaks.

Gym nation

The gym is such an interesting microcosm. Mirrors are everywhere. Open wide spaces. People looking at themselves. People looking at each other. And more yet, people looking at other people looking at themselves. It's kind of like the prisons Foucault talks about one of his books, where the prisoner comports his behavior based on his perception that someone is always watching him, even if no one in fact is. The idea of being watched causes a person to act very differently.

Visible flab, light weights, cellulite are all shamed in a gym. Perhaps shame is the mechanism that motivates people to work out more. That, or vanity.

And as I am literally forced to look at other people working out or stretching, I am confronted with the vision of women with flawless, sculpted bodies. It's odd that though I'm aware of the gym's voyeuristic atmosphere and glorified vanity, I still can't help but want to have that perfect toned body.

Retraction

I hereby retract any and all preconceived notions I had about dating younger guys. After my date with Younger Guy last night, I have been converted.

In other words, the date went very, very well.

We went to a pool hall where we had a couple drinks and shot a couple games of pool. All the while, we had great conversation. He was so comfortable to be around, so easy to talk to, and so unpretentious. It was fun to joke around and banter with him.

Afterwards, he drove me home. He stopped outside of my apartment and we said our good night's and I-had-a-great-time's. Then he leaned over and kissed me. Finally, my 29,348,932,843-year long period of no male contact ends! We made out/mauled each other for the next two hours. It was fun, except for his stubble which scraped me a bit. (Incidentally, how do you politely suggest to a guy you just started dating to shave?)

The thing about kissing him was, it was so comfortable, it felt like I was kissing someone I had already been dating for ages. And the kissing alternated between grab-him-by-the-collar kissing and soft, reverent kissing. It was very nice.

After we came up for air, he asked me out this weekend, and I of course said yes. I'm pretty excited. I can't believe I almost passed up the chance to even call him just because of his age. So I guess some cliches are true; that yes, age is just a number.

One of those days

For some inexplicable reason, every so often a person will wake up in a shitty mood. The rest of the day is then clouded by shittiness. Like most humans, the person will want to be upbeat. Yet on these shitty days, it literally takes physical and mental effort to "make" onself upbeat. Then the person becomes resentful because it takes so much goddamn effort to be happy and gets pissed on top of feeling shitty. So the anger and the thick heaviness of a bad mood mingle and accumulate throughout the day, with occasional reminders to one's self that one ought to be grateful because there are starving people in Africa. (For some reason, this fact has never successfully guilted the person into being happy.)

So the day is just one of those days. Shitty.

Expiration dating

Younger Guy called me back last night. We exchanged the usual "How was your day's" before he finally asked me out. He was actually going out of town this weekend, but wanted to call back before it was too long. I thought that was proactive and considerate. We plan on shooting pool next week. When I warned him of my poor shooting skills, he replied "Don't worry, I'll teach you some moves." The irony. Especially after my last post on Younger Guys.

At any rate, I suspect that I am expiration dating, i.e. dating someone knowing full well there's an end in sight. I could never understand people who dated people knowing there was absolutely no future with them (e.g. Boy wants marriage, Girl doesn't. Boy wants kids, Girl doesn't). I suppose it's too early to say there's absolutely no way I'd end up with Younger Guy. I probably have these doubts because of his age, which again, I know I should approach with an open mind. As always, we'll see what happens.

Fun games

The artful game of phone tag is perhaps one of the few games we play as adults. I however know none of the rules and the rules I do know I can barely execute. For example, I know that when a guy asks for a girl's number, he must wait three days before calling her. This tactic allows him to appear both interested yet not desperate.

On day three, the guy calls. If the guy gets the girl's machine, he leaves her a message. Then the girl inevitably hears the message. At this point, I am at a loss. Should I call back that evening? Or wait one day? Two days? A girlfriend and guyfriend both advised that I wait 48 hours before returning Younger Guy's call because (1) he made me wait three days, so why not make him wait two? (2) I don't want to look too eager, and (3) it's kind of lame to make plans for the weekend so early in the week.

Games are fun, aren't they?

So pursuant to my friends' suggestion, I waited 48 torturous hours (actually 51 torturous hours) before returning Younger Guy's call last night. I got his voicemail. I left a message. He did not return my call that night.

What makes the games fantastically painful is the uncertainty. Did he lose interest already? Does he even remember who I am? What if he's annoyed that I played this tactic of waiting-two-days-before-calling-him-back? And the questions go on. Such questions put a girl on edge. Every time the phone rings or her call-waiting beeps, her heart races, she looks at the caller ID or answers the phone, and is ultimately let down.

What makes the game even more ridiculous is that all of this analysis occurs before anyone knows anything about the other.

Games are so much fun!

Inside the dollhouse

The girl sat in her chair, waiting for something to just happen. She knew nothing would happen. But she waited nonetheless. She was alive, of that she was sure. Yet everything seemed sort of dead. The radio was on. The fan spun. The radiator sighed.

There was something stirring inside of her, something that needed to change. She felt stagnant. Move, it said to her. Move or die.

Instead she sat there, drinking ginger ale and thinking about the day ahead of her. There were still things to look forward to. People to entertain her. Events to dress up for. People and events were the spice to the bland diet of her daily life. She created drama in her mind for the sake of it. Kind of like a child with a doll and a dollhouse. Pieces of plastic and cardboard transformed into a person and a home with a story.

Maybe she was the doll in the dollhouse. Everything was plastic and not real.

That's depressing, she thought to herself. She knew some things had to be real. Love, for example. Where it resided was another question. Friendships were real. Family. Ambitions.

All was not lost, she assured herself. Still though, as she sat at her desk, she felt like something had to change. Everything was a pattern waiting to be broken, waiting to be mended into something else. Into something new.

Little details

It's odd how the most insignificant details on a man can suddenly render him irresistible. The stiff crease of the collar of his dresshirt. The way he holds a ballpoint pen right before he writes something down. The way his eyebrows crease when he reads the paper. The classic suspenders over his shoulders and down his back. The way he laughs. The way he says your name.

Yes, it's been a while.

Still yellow

I know that some white Americans, when they first see me, think "immigrant." That is, until they hear me speak or see the way I carry myself. It is perhaps ironic that when my immigrant relatives or peers see me, they think "white American," precisely because of the way I speak or carry myself. I remember my older cousin express shock when she saw I knew how to use chopsticks. Some immigrant peers were surprised when I mentioned I enjoyed food of my ethnicity. And I constantly amaze my immigrant relatives and peers with my ability to handle foods that have more than one speck of red pepper in it, that I in fact love spicy food and probably can't go a day without having something spicy to eat.

I know I'm "white" but dang, I'm still yellow.