All Is Fair…
Everyone likes the story about the tightly-wound Type A personality girl who, against all odds, falls in love with the reckless goofy guy who is soooo not her type.
Remember when mullets on little girls were cool? Yeah, me neither.
The last few months, as I’ve been trip-and-falling through the world of online dating, I’ve been thinking a lot about my agenda within this virtual aggregate of weirdoes and gems. Many times, I’ve said ‘yes’ to a date with a guy who I preemptively knew wasn’t the right fit, long-term. My diplomatic justification for the date was, of course, the good ol’ “you never know” FOMO, an attempt to not be enslaved by my default judgments. But egalitarianism aside, my pre-date battle cry has always been and remains – “If it’s bad, it will probably be a good story”.
For some pretty damn creative catcalls hollered at our editor, Alison, check out her piece here. Hey sugar, lick this!
It’s kind of like playing with snakes. And not metaphorically, you sickos.
There once was a maiden who dreamt of a handsome white knight who would only send her messenger pigeons after the sun has set at the end of the earth (which was flat), having had his fill of sweet ale and wine. You guessed it, that maiden was yours truly and, for many moons, a sure way to keep my interest has been to treat me like crap.
The funny thing about white knights, though, is that they only remain such – so absolutely right for us – only as long as they stay stubbornly blind to this fact. Unlike the, what’s that dirty word, nice guy with whom you know where you stand, this type of guy is always just barely out of reach. Which is why you must have him, obviously. Unfortunately, this sexy, elusive, perpetually on-the horizon factor also means that he is probably a selfish asshole so there has to be some method to the self-destructive madness, right?
“But wanting what you can’t have isn’t exactly a new concept,” you would argue (perhaps over a glass of wine), “and is just as, if not more, pervasive among our penised counterparts”. Word. And I can imagine there are a lot of convenient evolutionary reasons for this – like the need to spread their seed to the highest amount of diverse mates. The lady side of the discourse, however, is a little more muddied. Behold the results of a quick Google search on the subject of “why women like jerks” (often euphemized as “bad boys”). And, yes, this is not unlike the curatorial process I applied to my graduate thesis.
“You want to marry everyone,” my friend said, not without judgment, in response to my latest time-untested infatuation. She wasn’t wrong; not too long ago I’ve received a text from a random number: “If you ever want to discuss engagement rings again, let’s grab a drink”. I have completely embraced the cliché of falling in love in Vegas and I have on my every trip there – by the hour. The truth is that, unlike my savvy, jaded, realistic friends, I never learned to compartmentalize, peg types, consider the situation and accept that the chances of meeting my soul mate at a 4th of July Deadmaus party are slim. In my tipsy mind, you and I will beat the odds – at least until the next weekend.
One of my recent husbands-to-be was tall, blonde and handsome. We danced and we kissed, there was a pool and a DJ and pretty lights and we were young. He graduated from the Naval Academy and told me he is really good on the grill. I impressed him with my knowledge of “crossing the line”. My husband-to-be also turned out to be the bachelor of the bachelor party – as I would learn when he shamelessly accepted my friend request (and continued to sext). He became someone else’s husband the following week but, by then, I’ve had my fix of An Officer and a Gentleman fantasies. Like clockwork.
My first boyfriend.
High(ish) standards since 1994.
Last month I celebrated my 25th birthday – a milestone – as my body promptly reminded me the next morning when I was begging for chicken soup as my last meal on this earth (I’m a vegetarian). So as my ovaries start their slow but sure journey towards shrivel-dom, I thought I’d make a list – some comforting manifesto proving that my entropic quarter-century has, at least, yielded some wisdom. And what’s a more sophisticated criteria to draw from than the tumultuous love life of a 20-something and the sex that follows or, more likely, precedes.
What I came to, instead, is a realization that, while I may know better, I’ve learned very little. So here’s a list of things I know, in theory, and would avoid if I used self-reflection for good, not evil. Indulge me as I tell you what not to do and then, promptly, do it again. There is a word for that…
dahGRAMS
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