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  
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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.

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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