guest post: red flags

Greetings, friends!  Contrary to popular belief, I do actually work at my job sometimes.  And this week has been particularly busy. So when my love-challenged and verbose friend Jon offered to write a guest post for me, I really had no choice but to let him.  Besides, it's kind of refreshing to get a man's point of view.  Enjoy the writing, and I'll be back next week--and probably with a response to all this manly nonsense.  L  
 ---

Today is a good day.  I would go as far as to claim it for myself; today is my day.  12 hours of sleep, laundry, shower, even clipped my nails.  Who could deny me my own day based on those major accomplishments?  Don't even try it.

(click to enlarge)

So here I am: a thirty minute drive from my house, at a favorite coffee shop in Starkville where I can sit and actually hear the sound of my own voice in my head.  My friends don't quite understand why I travel a quarter tank of gas when there is a coffee shop in the town I live.  Well the coffee in town sucks.  Out here in Mississippi, there isn't a Starbucks on every corner.  In fact the closes one is two hours away.  I'll give you a second to think about that.  They think I drive out here to "pick up chicks" (clearly plural) which is an outrageous claim, since I have only men one here (clearly singular, much like my FB relationship status). 

For me, being single is a state of mind where I am open to the adventure and intrigue of meeting someone new.  Here's the problem: there are 6.9 billion people on this planet and 2.2 billion women in the age group of 15-64 (Wikipedia for the win).  If we safely subtract out girls younger than college sophomores [reference half-your-age-plus-seven rule below] and how I'm just not that into cougars over 45, that still leaves a rough estimate of over 1,000,000,000 women.  SO I would think that this is a situation where in order to meet someone of actual worth it's in my best interest to work smarter, not harder.

What I am referring to more specifically is the never-ending quest of cutting through the BS and connecting with people on a deeper level than what most of us experience on a normal Friday night at the bar.  Friday night out with the guys is all I have to work with . It's my once a week reprieve from the boredom of the Deep South.  It's a very limited window of opportunity, as the weeks aren't necessarily filled to the brim with women due to my well though out and calculated choice of profession.  There have GOT to be some of these people of actual worth out there with me on a Friday night... I just have to know where to look, how to dress, what questions I should ask, what answers I should look for in response... So it's a little more complicated than it should be in theory.

What a good part of "working smarter" boils down to is looking for what I think of as warning signs.  "Red flags" might be a more appropriate nomenclature.  Talking with someone new for the first time and they mention how they can't wait to get home to their cats? BOOM- RED FLAG.  Gone are the days of relentless naivety, where you look past the blaringly obvious to find the good inside of every one of the God's happy creatures living on Earth.


Because I don't have time for that.  Three strikes, you are out.  Two if you are wearing sweat pants.  My time is precious.  I only have so much before either someone else claims it as their own (thanks, Air Force) or I run out of it (imagine Morgan Freeman dressed in white).

But if you are so naive or stubborn, that you think everyone deserves an unlimited supply of second chances: let me suggest to you some of the "red flags" that make me take a very serious pause when I am talking/meeting someone new, until I order another shot of bourbon and press relentlessly on anyways.

Cats.  I know I just mentioned it.  But now that I think about it, it has never in my 24 years been a good night when I have seen a cat in or around the house I was staying at.  Has to be the connection between how the owner actively allows the cat to defecate INSIDE their home and my own personal mental image of hygiene.  Houses aren't supposed to smell like that.  Ugh.  I'm getting goose bumps from repressed memories.  If you are a cat owner, just do everyone a favor and fess up immediately.  You'll still have two strikes left.


Age.  Physical age does NOT immediately equate to emotional maturity.  But it can be pretty damn close.  here's a rule of thumb to start with: The Half-Your-Age-Plus-Seven Rule.  Take your age, Romeo.  Divide by two, add seven and see what you get.  Hopefully Juliet is older than the mathematical result.  This is an empirically derived formula which provides the youngest age where you might still have a small chance of finding someone who is the same emotional age as you.  I wrote my final thesis based on this exact formula for Ethics my senior year.  I got an A.  Take my word for it.

Sorority.  The day my sister told me she was joining a sorority was a very sad day for me.  Since then I've learned to cope, and I still love her nonetheless.  But the point stands that about 80 percent of sorority girls only know how to do one thing: NO, not that.  Get your mind out of the gutter Chatch; this is a classy article.  They only know how to make those stupid hand symbols that stand for something NO ONE cares about (besides the 30-100 brainwashed girls that are "omg bff's foreverz").  Unfortunately for me I can't seem to make myself care about Greek life (and I don't have the required genetics to fake it...), otherwise I would have had WAY more fun down here where this Greek Life madness reigns supreme over any other worthwhile accomplishments.

Bad Game.  If I go out at night with the guys, walk into the bar, and your brand new pair of heels and legs catch my eye because you look fantastic, odds are I will walk up say "Hello."  But we all know this isn't really a "Hello."  It's a convoluted mess of demonstrating sexiness, intelligence, and self-worth.  But now let's say I think you are WAY out my league.  I can't make it past the second sentence and I am choking, struggling to say something that connects...the conversation goes quiet...oh man.  Game over.  But wait.  For some reason you still want my number?  Red flag.  That screams "I'll take what I can get" which unfortunately doesn't come anywhere close to "This person is worth my time."  But since I know you ladies are softies at heart, try this if you still really just must have his number.  Bust his balls.  Make him feel like an asshat for having terrible game at this brief moment in time and he will thank you for it.

Overly aggressive kisser.  The good ol' college handshake:  I'm sure that everyone has their own ratio of tongue A to tongue B in order to qualify as the perfect kiss.  But dare I hypothesize that for most people it is roughly half-and-half.  Violating my mouth by repeatedly trying to jam a tongue in it makes me wonder what exactly you are trying to overcompensate for.  Sometimes less is more, and this is one of those times. 

Can't even see her face.  But that is hot.

Doesn't know how to dance.. and won't try. I'm not talking about the primal pelvic grinding that high school dances were trying to prevent and modern day dive bars are trying to encourage.  I am talking about no-holds-barred "I don't care what you think" dancing.  Think arms and legs flailing about in an attempt to physically manifest the music on the dance floor, and perhaps accidentally elbowing one of the less enthusiastic beings around us.  I have a confession:  I don't officially know how to dance since my mother never sent me to Cotillion lessons as a child (I threw away the signup sheet, ensuring my mother would never find it).  But that doesn't stop me, and it sure as hell shouldn't stop you from going and making a fool out of yourself.  Dance like your sex life depends on it (because it does).

So there are the basics.  There are many more, but I am confident you can surmise my point from this... "abridged" list.  And the caffeine buzz is wearing off.  What is funny is how usually a gut-instinct is directly equivalent to a red flag, but a lot of times for me I won't realize it until after.  Usually right around the time the hangover hits, the revelations hit as well.  Duh.  Gotta love insult to injury.  But here is my hope, that I might share some of these misfortunes in order to save you from your own.  Guy or girl, this is a unisex concept.  But you be the judge.  Good luck, and happy hunting.

Jon

becoming my own reason to smile

I'm kind of an awesome girlfriend.  As previously discussed, I tend to throw myself into relationships headlong and at flank speed.  When Big Blue was interning in London, I sent him awesome care packages with swanky Brooks Brothers ties and spoons that I decorated to say "I miss spooning with you."   I baked like crazy for Tree, and showered him and his housemates with cookies and brownies.  Heck, I moved to Michigan to be with my True Love Voldemort.  And I embarked on a long distance romance and did the girl friend thing via hundreds of cute and funny ecards, plane tickets, and even a personalized comic strip (and yes, you should be jealous-- the comic was pretty amazing).  It's definitely not a lie to say that I get genuine pleasure out of making someone happy.

I've been accused of "trying too hard," but I never felt like there was anything wrong with that.  Is there something wrong with really liking someone, and trying to show that to them?  And I also don't see anything wrong with trying to be my best self for a boyfriend either-- I'm usually better about working out, eating healthy, and trying new fun things so I can be the bestest, Most Perfect Girlfriend ever.  Doesn't sound so bad, does it?

What I've been realizing over the past few weeks, is that it is kind of a problem.  Going cold turkey on all the doting is hard -- what am I supposed to do with all of this time I used to spend illustrating comic strips and sending ecards?  It's tempting to rebound so that I can redirect all of this energy, but it seems that no matter how awful I think SPF Ghost is, there is no one who is as good as him.  So I've been letting the extra energy fizzle into the atmosphere, and I've spent all that extra time online shopping and perfecting the art of Draw Something. 

Why it's taken this long to dawn on me, I'm not sure, but I finally realized:  All that extra love?  I should be showering myself in it!  [I can hear the collective "Duh" echoing across the country right now.]  So starting now, I'm going to spoil and dote on myself.  And I'm going to better me, for me-- not some stoopid boyfriend.  My preliminary list of things to do includes:  actually training for my marathon, eating my fruits and veggies, writing more, applying for grad school this year, getting a passport, and most important:  learning to feel safe in my own arms, and becoming my own reason to smile.

L

PS:  The Rules must be starting to sink in.  This is definitely Rule #1.

why you shouldn't wear sweatpants grocery shopping

In the past few years, I've evolved into somewhat of a non-sweatpants-wearing creature.  Gone are the glorious days of undergrad, when I wore sweatpants pretty much all day, every day -- from 6am crew practice to leaving the library at night.  I now choose to look nice and be presentable a majority of the time, and I threw out my scrubby sweats and replaced them with J. Crew minnie pants. I kept a handful of yoga pants and leggings, and I own exactly one pair of real, bonafide sweatpants, that typically are worn exclusively in the confines of my apartment, or over my soccer shorts to soccer games during the winter.  And once, I wore them to the grocery store.

[Let me make something clear:  I really hate grocery shopping.  And I make a big effort to avoid it-- sometimes I'll even send my roommate with a couple dollar bills and ask him to pick up essentials (diet coke) for me so I can make it by just a few more days.  Getting in my car, turning the engine on, remembering that I haven't put gas in my car for over a month, going to the gas station to gas up, driving the whole 1.8 miles down Main Street to the store, finding a cart, navigating the aisles, price comparisons, waiting in line, driving the car back home... it's just too much for a fragile soul like mine.]

So Once Upon A Time, on a dark and stormy night, I was hungover and tired and desperately needed to grocery shop.  I was wearing the heinous sweatpants, and faced with the horror of another trip to Busch's, I took a risk and jammed my feet into my Uggs, thinking to myself "Celebrities wear their sweats in public all the time." I hopped into my car and after the requisite gas stop, I arrived at the grocery store.  And it's while I'm comparing the prices of Progresso Soups that I see Notre Dame Mark: a Really Really Cute Tall who ran in college, had a good job and a nice condo, and took me on nice dates.  But when he wanted to be my boyfriend, I couldn't commit and I panicked, and stopped answering his calls and blocked him on Facebook in a Very Mature and Sober Moment.

I looked at Notre Dame Mark, who was checking out the canned tomatoes, and almost said hello when I have the sinking realization that a) I am far too embarrassed about the de-friending incident to ever speak to him again and b) I am in the sweatpants.  Thinking he hadn't seen me yet, I fled the aisle and headed for the wine section.  Problem:   He did see me.  And he followed me to the wine to say hi--apparently, my immaturity is charming to some.  I somehow made it through a stiff and awkward conversation, all the while hoping to melt into a puddle on the ground.

Turns out, talking to an "ex" for the first time in months when you are in sweat pants and he is in designer jeans isn't so fun.  It could have been so different if I could have hidden behind a cute outfit, instead of shrinking in shame.  Instead, it was basically the Worst Grocery Shopping Trip Ever. So I have to admit, The Rules are right.  Dress to impress, because you never know when you'll meet someone (even if it isn't The One).  I now vow to wear lipstick at the gym, and I'm considering the nose job.  Next on my list: mastering Rule #2:  Don't Talk to a Man First (and Don't Ask Him to Dance).  Wish me luck--I'm headed to Rick's tonight to practice it!

L

giving the milk away for free

Ever hooked up with a guy, only to have him blow you off later?  Not the greatest feeling. Plus, you have this mental image of a grandmother peering over her glasses at you and wagging her finger, saying "Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?"  It's the first dating rule you ever learn (usually in conjunction with that awkward Birds and Bees talk).  In the past couple of years, though, I've given up on dating games and rules.  It seemed kind of silly -- if I like you, and you like me, why are we pretending not to like each other?  Why not talk all day, and I'll text you first and hang up last?  So instead of doing the nimble dance that is dating, I've thrown myself into relationships head first and at full throttle.  Obviously that hasn't been working out too well.

Because the "milk" doesn't have to be sexual.  The milk that I've been giving out for free?  My heart.  I wear my heart on my sleeve and make it super obvious that I like someone.  I shower the object of my affection with flirting and attention and pour all of my sparkle into the endeavor.  But then I end up in situations where I'm giving more than I'm getting, or I'm just left in the dust. So now I'm realizing that there are rules for a reason.  They make you show restraint, and put up a little shield of protection until both parties involved are on the same level.

I'm determined to stop giving away the milk for free, and start playing hard[er] to get.  I've turned to the experts, and downloaded The Rules: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right to my Kindle Reader App.  I'm a little hesitant to put my faith in a book that advises me to get a nose job in the first chapter, but these are Time-Tested Secrets-- surely they must be on to something!  Starting now, I'm a rules-following girl (and I'll be sure to let you know how it's going).  So far I've only read to Rule #1, and I'm acing it so far...Rule #1:  be a creature unlike any other!

L

PS:  I got a haircut, so no more ponytails for me!  I have adjusted my doodles accordingly.

are you a reacher or a settler?

So here I am, thrown back into the uneasy world of singledom [again].  For anyone who still reads this, my singleness just means more fodder for my blog.  Yippee!  But for me, being single means accepting the reality that I could die alone.  For someone who wants a husband and adorable quarter-Asian kids someday, this is Really Depressing.  But as I was telling a friend just the other day, there's something even scarier than dying alone:  Settling for less, just so that you don't have to die alone.  This of course led to the How I Met Your Mother theory of reaching and settling:  That in every relationship, there is a "reacher", and a "settler." In my vast dating experience, I've played both roles.  This is how it goes:

Scenario 1:  The Settler.  Settling is a good way to get a good dose of temporary happiness, because even with a less than desirable mate, you've found some relief from the stress of being single.  Now for some, just being coupled is enough to be happy.  For me, the settling has been a bit more calculated.  [SPOILER: You may not like me after reading this.]  Historically, when I've settled, I have enjoyed the position of power I get in the relationship.  I call the shots, I always get my way, and I don't live in fear of being dumped-- because when you're the settler, you get to be the dumper.  And this is all good and dandy, until you start getting text messages that say "Sorry I suck at hitting on you, I think you're the coolest, but you're so far outta my league," or you kiss somebody else and your boo barely blinks an eye.  Or something else happens that makes you realize that compliance and fawning are not love, and they are certainly not attractive or satisfying.

Scenario 2:  The Reacher.  Reaching is awesome.  There's this constant elated feeling of "ZOMG can you believe someone so attractive/interesting/awesome/cool/smart/ahh!! is into me?!?!?!"  Plus, you're trying to prove to yourself, and to Mr. Settler, that you are worthy of his attention and affection.  So there's self-improvement:  working out more, dressing better, doing cool things to keep up with his level of cool, reading up on topics so you can keep up with their interests.  The problem?  You start craving validation, proof that your efforts aren't in vain, and they still like you.  And you're so busy trying to prove that you're "good enough" for your partner that you never stop to ask if he is good enough for you.  You're so busy reaching for that happy feeling that you don't realize that as the "reacher" you are actually settling-- settling for less attention and affection than you deserve, settling for someone who probably doesn't deserve you in the first place, and settling for a dissatisfying relationship.  Because you can't be 100% happy if in the back of your mind you don't think you're good enough.

So me?  I'm searching for Scenario 3.  The perfect balance, where both partners are reaching and settling.  Except it's not called reaching and settling -- it's called compromise and compatibility.   And to get to that point, I'll have to find the self-acceptance and self-esteem to not have the urge to settle, and the maturity to know how to be 100% satisfied. 

And if that fails me, you can find me in Scenario 4, where I move in with Kiwi and we become old knitting cat ladies together.  You're never alone if you have a sister!

L