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Georgia Lowe works in Manhattan and lives in Brooklyn with her husband. She always pronounces "husband" with a southern accent because she hasn't gotten used to saying it yet. She is from Minnesota.
I just had the most delightful, enlightening, and inspiring read and I couldn’t wait to tell you all about it! It’s called Smitten: The Way of the Brilliant Flirt, and it is all about enabling you to shine your inner light so brightly that it becomes a man-attracting beacon. You heard me right. There is so much good, freaking empowering stuff to learn from this book that I recommend it for absolutely everyone. And there are flirtation techniques that are fun for even boring marrieds (I’ve already tried a few on my husband with excellent results). Reading Smitten is like having someone encourage you up the ladder to the high-dive and cheering, “One, two, three!” as you ready to jump into a big pool of self-confidence and flirting savvy.
This is a phrase a massage therapist I know uses to describe the human body: a very cool piece of equipment. When I first heard it, I was skeptical. My body felt more like a site of small disasters. Tight hips, bad balance, a non-negotiable need for eight hours of sleep every night, and a propensity towards sinus infections — these all made me feel a bit like a failure, physically. Like my body was not up to snuff in its capabilities.
Then I read this beautiful piece, in which a father highlights for his young daughter all the things her little body is capable of doing — running, thinking, hugging, smelling flowers. The piece itself is wonderfully written and touching, worth reading on its own merits. But the concept inside it signaled to me a simple, yet massive shift in thought. I was so used to thinking about what my body couldn’t do that I had long stopped being grateful for what it can.
Shortly in the wake of my body-acceptance lighting revolution, an awesome friend who happens to have an awesome car took me to Spa Castle. For those who have not heard of it, much less had the good fortune to go (those not in NYC, or those in NYC with no car, i.e. most people), Spa Castle is a pool/sauna/baths/treatments/Korean food complex in Queens. It is four floors. It has a roof deck. The roof deck has pools on it, and these pools are lined with jets that target different muscles. Stiff neck? There’s a station for that. Tight hamstrings? Check. There is also a lazy river. And a hot tub. Just on the roof.
Inside, there are saunas of varying temperatures and interior decor. There’s a restaurant with delicious bulgogi. There’s a cocktail stand that makes very strong rum cocktails. There’s a fancy spa where you can get private mud wraps. And there are the gender-segregated areas where you can get a body scrub. Right out in the open, with other women getting the same scrub done on a table right next to you. While the entire place is obviously a wonderland, the women’s-only baths, surprisingly, turned out to be my favorite part.
Hi Gagglites! I haven’t seen you in so long! It’s because I was moving to a new apartment — packing up six years worth of accumulated books and objects and clothes (and probably too many kitchen appliances) and unpacking them, with great attempt at design and organization, in the new space. As we settled in, I noticed two things. First, the new apartment has way more storage space than the last one (“I can breathe!” said my standing mixer) and second, it has way, way better lighting.
Of course we knew about the lighting going in. The big ol’ windows were one of the apartment’s best selling points (or “renting points,” I suppose). The plentitude of windows was so convincing that we gave up having a dishwasher so we could bask in the diffuse mid-day light, a decision I have shockingly not regretted once.
But I did not uncover the real treat of the new apartment windows until after my first shower.
“Go for it!” he said. “Flirting is fun. It feels great.”
We were talking about how I have felt vaguely awkward around other men since being in a committed relationship (um, years now). My problems, as described to said husband, were as follows:
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I didn’t want to lead anyone on. I’m no femme fatale, but I’d learned to be a pretty effective flirt after some trial and error. (For me, this generally meant making a well-placed Star Wars reference. Know your audience!)
When I first met my husband, he had just gotten a job that paid him more than double what he’d ever earned before (and almost quadruple what I made at the time). Since he rightfully felt no need to move out of the cheap little apartment he shared with an awesome roommate, he suddenly had a lot of capital to spare. He started doing things like taking three friends to a big-venue concert, or buying himself some spiffy designer duds, or giving twenty bucks to a homeless guy who’s cardboard sign he liked.
When we started dating, the same applied to me. Early on, he invited me on a snowboarding trip and, finding out I had no outdoor winter gear, bought me a whole Roxy outfit in one spree: baggy-cute pants, a jacket with all kinds of pockets, long underwear, mittens, socks. He also paid for the trip.
Perhaps all of us, freed from the constraints of a budget, would lavish gifts and experiences on our loved ones. But as the receiver, I felt weird.
I thought it was weird that I felt weird. I had been pretty spoiled growing up, and I’d never really gotten over wanting to be a princess. Even four years at a progressive liberal arts college hadn’t broken me of a serious penchant for rom-coms and secret-but-persistent dreams of living a life of luxury. It seemed at first, with this relationship, that I’d stumbled into both. Suddenly I got to go to nice bars and drink nice drinks and order three courses at fancy restaurants — all with a wonderful guy. Suddenly I had Tiffany jewelry and a dress from Anthropologie. I wasn’t very good at snowboarding (I was TERRIBLE at snowboarding), but I was good at drinking wine in a cozy lodge or lounging in the hot tub.
Ah, the notorious Valentine’s day. I used to love it, Horatio. Next to Christmas, I’d say it was my favorite which, for a five-year-old, is pretty impressive. The trick was that my parents celebrated Valentine’s Day as an awesome family holiday.
I don’t think they understood the kind of social experiment they were taking on. The romantic trappings of the day just weren’t important to them. They only wanted to celebrate love. You know in Girls when Lena Dunham’s TV parents fly her back home so they can celebrate their wedding anniversary with their “favorite person”? That’s my parents.
You’d think, being raised with such a happy-go-lucky attitude about the holiday, I’d avoid some of the pitfalls the it holds for others. But you can’t go home again.
Every February fourteenth, my mom would braid my hair into a heart-shape. I would dress in something pink or red or occasionally purple that also had hearts on it (don’t worry, I had plenty to choose from). At school, I took great pride in distributing the valentines my mom and I had crafted earlier (one year, the greatest year, involved splatter-painting). The teachers had gotten hip to the possibilities of cruelty and a strict rule stated that if you brought valentines in for anyone, you had to bring them for the whole class. It was probably, looking back, the day of the year I worried least about being disliked. The thrill of a classmate approaching my desk to drop a card into the pocket I’d made out of paper plates and yarn was never diminished by the knowledge that everyone else got one, too.
Nothing creepy about this guerrilla/gorilla love animal, right?
If you’re following Girls, chances are that Hannah’s now-ex-boyfriend, Adam Sackler, has won you over. And if you’re caught up, you know that in this season’s second episode, “I Get Ideas,” he emailed her an entire album of breakup songs and let himself into her apartment with a spare key, even though she had said in the previous episode that she never wanted to talk to him again.
Grace Devoll, who writes the Girls recaps for this site, has a great, measured approach to the wacky goings on in the show, and a keen eye for detail. Over at Vulture, however, they’re a little more swayed by the Adam Sackler method. And it’s bringing up an interesting question: what is the line between romantic and stalker?
Please join me in this little ditty to celebrate the 40th anniversary of my favorite Supreme Court decision, and to help educate the 41% of Americans under 30 who don’t know what the case was about.
Hugo Schwzyer wrote a great piece for Jezebel recently called No One is Entitled to Sex: Why We Should Mock the Nice Guys of OkCupid. It is fantastic. You should read it. You read it? Great.
Now, take a look at this brilliant and depressing piece that David Wong wrote for Cracked.com: 5 Ways Modern Men are Trained to Hate Women. It’s from almost a year ago. Notice any similarities?
Holyshit, they’re right! Too many men feel entitled to women/sex! Too many men see what they’re entitled to as one thing: women/sex. No wonder we have a rape problem.
As massive a cultural issue as this is, I’m thrilled that people are writing about it. I’m thrilled that men are writing about it. Maybe this is the beginning of a trend of helpful self-awareness on the part of men? And then they could learn how to be actual nice guys and everything would be fixed?
Oh, no, wait. No it wouldn’t.
I used to be extremely social. The number of plans and friends I had regularly exhausted me. It exhausted my husband, too, back when he was still my boyfriend. He didn’t understand it, didn’t socialize much, didn’t care. That struck me as just plain terrible.
So I kept at it, a social addict. I argued and modeled my theories ad nauseum: the responsibility to keep up with people, the importance of planning, the joys of gift-giving, etc. I wanted him on my team, and I wanted to justify my manic-like behavior.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
Things to Kiss on NYE in Lieu of a Significant Other
Menorah
Back of your forearm — bonus points for a hickey
Bowl of ice cream
Total stranger avec festive accoutrement (paper hat, noisemaker, sparkler)
Vintage poster of Jon Bon Jovi