A First Date

Dating again over the last few months has been…a treat.

In general, the dating world right now feels like we’re all just dining at an all-you-can-eat buffet like the ones in Vegas my great-grandparents used to take me to. A person can browse around, undecided, taking a little of this and a little of that, having a bite or two of everything but not finishing anything on their plate and get right back up for another round. They can walk by, paying no mind to one particular dish, and then circle back around for a big ol’ helping when nothing else catches their eye. And later, just when they feel like they’ve finally had their fill, the dessert bar starts calling their name.

That is what every online dating app is to me. A sad Las Vegas dinner buffet, and if you’re very lucky and have very good timing, there might be a couple standout dishes.

I would love to tell you about a few of the dishes I’ve sampled of late, so let’s start with John.*

John invited me to his apartment for wine and cheese. Ordinarily, I would never go to a guy’s place for a first date, but we’re all friends here, so I will be very honest: he sent me his address and when I looked it up, I discovered that his building was AWESOME. Like, it had a pool, and a doggy spa, and a wine cellar, and a garden, and an incredible rooftop with panoramic views of the city.

Also: wine and cheese. I never claimed to be a good person.

My issues with John started as soon as he opened the door.

1. He was shorter than he said he was. I cannot for the life of me understand why guys lie to me about this. Muffin, I am 6′ tall! I will notice.
2. He was also significantly older than the 31 he claimed to be. If he was under 40 years old, I will call him tomorrow and ask him on a second date. I wouldn’t have even minded his age so much if he hadn’t clearly lied about it.

He pours me a glass of wine and I immediately take stock of how sad it is that he gets to live there and I don’t. His crazy gorgeous apartment was in bachelor shambles. The things I could have done with his paycheck in that apartment! Give me one afternoon in West Elm! Just one! We take our glasses out to his balcony, and have a seat overlooking the beautifully landscaped courtyard. (Damn. I’m actually getting a little emotional thinking back on how amazing this apartment was…)

I discover quickly that John and I are not well suited for easy conversation. He is a very quiet, observational, analytical type, and I am…not that. I would ask him question after question and he would respond and then sit in silence. I felt like I was tap dancing furiously in front of him just to keep things moving along, and let me tell you, I took a tap class once in college and it was not cute. I just assume he’s not all that interested, but then he invites me up to the roof and my desire to check out the view wins over my desire to go home to bed.

Later, when we make our way back down to his place, I get ready to leave and he asks me to have one more glass. I agree (again: wine), and have a seat on the couch. And heeeeeere’s where things get interesting. He leans back and asks, “How do you assess chemistry?” I laugh a little and say that I’d never really considered it before. Chemistry to me is something intuitive and I hadn’t attempted to analyze it. He presses me, and starts asking how I would convey my interest in a man across a bar. (My response: “Wellll…generally, my attempts at flirting on purpose tend to have the opposite of the desired effect.”)

So, he says, “Well, I have a way to assess chemistry. It’s very gentlemanly, but it’ll require you to close your eyes.”

“Alright. I’ll bite,” I say, and close my eyes and wait. (When I first told this story to one of my very good friends, this is the moment she yelled, “MEGAN! You NEVER CLOSE YOUR EYES. You could be DEAD right now!!!”)

Suddenly, I feel his hands in my hair, holding my head. He kisses me on my eyebrow, and then my cheek. He kisses the side of my mouth, and then my nose, and then on top of my eyelid. And then he stops.

I open one eye. He’s leaning back, surveying me with such a look of intense self-satisfaction it’s clear he thought that was the smoothest, sexiest thing that has ever happened to me. I bite my cheek to keep from laughing and say, “Oh…wow…” and he POUNCES. Climbs on top of me and starts furiously making out with me. (Actually not a bad kisser, but obvi not amazing enough to cancel out the creep factor.) When he asks me to go to the bedroom, I take that as my cue to leave and go far, far away.

John, ladies and gentlemen. I wanted so badly to like him, you guys. This APARTMENT. I wish you could have seen it. A pool! All summer! It would have been amazing.

IF we’d had any chemistry, of course.

*names have been changed to protect the stupid even though they usually don’t deserve it

Girl, Look at That Body

Let’s talk about body image. Let’s talk about that super fucked up fun house mirror in which we see ourselves.

For many years, I’ve made a very deliberate effort to love myself and my body. When I was very young, I heard the mean things people said about me and went running in the other direction, fingers in my ears, yelling “LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” I ran right to my mother, who told me I was not only drop dead gorgeous, but also smarter and funnier and a better person than basically everyone she knew.

In school, most people either want to be different or they want to be exactly the same. I wanted a little bit of both. Sure, I wanted to have one shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch, just one, but I also thought maybe I would rebel by being comfortable in my own skin. I thought maybe that could be what made me unique – I wouldn’t say the terrible things I’m supposed to say about my body, I wouldn’t diet all the time, I wouldn’t brush off compliments in that way girls are so adept at doing. Instead, I would praise my body’s womanly curves, I would work out when and if I felt like it, I would eat salad when I wanted to and also pizza when I wanted to, and when complimented, I would say, “That’s so nice, thank you!”

I was pretty good at it most of the time and being a theatre major helped. My bizarre little community was full of loving weirdos who adore the things that make us different from one another. We loved being affectionate with one another and we loved brazen nudity for nudity’s sake. It was at a small college in a very chaste and conservative town in Western Colorado that I became most comfortable with my nakedness. When a very good friend started painting again and asked me to pose nude for her, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. The finished product made my breasts look like sunflowers and my tummy look so soft and welcoming and I fell a little more in love with myself. Then I posed nude for a figure drawing class full of art majors and fainted spread eagle in front of all of them and I fell a little bit OUT of love with myself, but we can talk about that another time.

However, talking the talk is not always walking the walk. The things I say about myself out loud are not always the things I think about myself. Loving yourself in today’s world is a revolutionary act and it takes WORK. In an hour, I can go from thinking Why the hell hasn’t anyone asked me to be a professional model yet? to catching my reflection at a weird angle and feeling suddenly like a busted can of biscuits. I can go from the gym, where I feel strong and unstoppable, to coming up winded off the subway stairs and feeling like I’m maybe the least athletic person on the planet.

Several years ago, I started working out more than I ever had before. Unfortunately, it started because someone I loved very much said something very unkind to me, but I soon found an outlet in the gym I didn’t know I needed. For a long time, I resented that my new found love of fitness was rooted in something that had wounded me so deeply, but I was also almost thankful that something, anything had led me to this world. Taking care of my health was a new way of loving my body and all that it is capable of doing.

Body image is an awfully big topic for such a tiny little blog post, so I hope you’ll stick around as I work through what it means to take care of my body – whether it’s with a good workout or a good cupcake – while always taking a moment to appreciate my body and what a damn fine job it does of keeping me alive.

About Last Night

In approximately one month, I will be 29 years old. A year after that, I will be 30. Those are pretty grown up ages, I think. It would be reasonable to assume that I have at least a basic handle on being an adult. I feed myself, I get my teeth cleaned twice a year, I exercise, I write thank you notes, I pay all my bills on time, and I never ask my parents for money (but, like, I obviously love it when they give it to me anyway). So, yes, it would be reasonable to assume that I am an adult who is capable of making smart decisions. It would be reasonable, but it would also be incorrect.

As evidence, you need look no further than my phone the day after a casual Saturday brunch with friends. It must have been so great to be an adult making shitty decisions before the rise of cell phones. See, when you drink so many glasses of sangria and then follow it with enough mystery gin cocktails that you start doing and saying embarrassing things, your brain usually goes black in an effort to preserve your dignity. So when you wake up the next day, and your mouth is dry and your head is pounding and you try to recall what the hell happened the night before, your brain is basically saying, “Nope. Nothing to see here. Move along. Just trust me on this.” And your body continues to make you think you’re dying in an effort to prevent you from drinking toxic quantities of alcohol ever again. It’s an imperfect process, but it’s science, and it’s been working moderately well for centuries.

NOW, however, I’m forced to confront my stupidity in the form of text messages, pictures, facebook messages, and in my call log. And since we’re all good friends here, I’ll let you have a peek at the highlights. Lucky, lucky you.

Without further ado…A Timeline of Brunch as Seen Through Megan’s Phone:

2:00pm – Meet friends at Cuba. Choose “unlimited cocktail” option. Note that this is supposed to last only 90 minutes.
5:00pm – Pay and head down the block to The Malt House.
5:29pm – Guy from Tinder texts: “Plan for tonight?” Respond: “I’m brunch drunk. Couldn’t possibly meet someone new.”
5:36pm – FaceTime mom.
5:39pm – FaceTime very good friend from high school.
5:41pm – Miss a call from very good friend from high school.
5:42pm – FaceTime very good friend from high school. Again.
5:45pm – Text selfie with the words “Come to The Malt House!” to several friends.
5:48pm – Text friend who is babysitting: “STOP IT THE KIDS WILL BE FINE BUT WE NEED YOU.”
5:51pm – FaceTime one of the recipients of the selfie.
5:53pm – Facebook message friend: “J wouldn’t give me your phone number but that is crazy I am a very reasonable human being.”
5:56pm – Armed with friend’s number now, text: “YOU NEED US MORE THAN YOU NEED A NAP WE WILL GIVE YOU ENERGY AND LIFE AND ALCOHOL”
6:13pm – Group text mom, sister, cousin: “Come play with me I’m brunch druuuuunnkkkkkk Hellloooooo”
6:51pm – Text friend: “I miss you so much. Come here now. NOW.”
8:14pm – Taxi back to best friend’s place while she sleeps on your lap.
8:18pm – Call coworker #1.
8:19pm – Call coworker #2.
8:25pm – Call coworker #1. Again.
8:54pm – Order large half cheese, half pepperoni pizza.
8:58pm – FaceTime mom. Again.
9:07pm – FaceTime sister.
9:58pm – FaceTime sister. Again.
9:59pm – FaceTime cousin.
10:00pm – FaceTime different very good friend from high school.
10:05pm – Call friend you were just at brunch with.
10:06pm – Call friend’s husband.
10:07pm – Text friend and friend’s husband: “You didn’t pick up.”
10:07pm – FaceTime cousin. Again.
10:18pm – FaceTime best friend’s mother.
10:22pm – Call very good friend in Colorado.
10:38pm – FaceTime sister. Again.
10:48pm – Call dad.
11:00pm – Pass out.

I know, guys. I know.

It’s a Match!

I’m single.

There was a period of time during which I genuinely thought I would never again say those words, but here we are, and six months later, I feel like I can say it’s not been nearly as awful as I thought it would be.

That’s only a little bit of a lie. SOME of it has been on another fucking level of awful, but some of it has been empowering and full of self-discovery and some much-needed quiet time alone.

It’s also been full of online dating.

You see, Tinder did not exist the last time I was single, so downloading it to my phone was one of the first things I did after I stopped sobbing uncontrollably. I basically thought it was a game (I was not far off there) and I craved the power of swiping left and the easy validation of a match.

I sat alone in my best friend’s bed, picked a couple of my most flattering selfies, set my desired age range to 28-36, and started swiping. I moved very slowly at first, tapping everyone’s pictures to see if they’d written a short bio (did they list their height?) and to browse through the rest of their pictures. Cautiously, I swiped right for the first time. A match! Oh my God! He liked me! I might not die alone! Mom! There’s still hope!

Encouraged, I sped up. It did occur to me briefly to be bothered by how insanely superficial it all was. I thought back to all the boys I had crushed hard on throughout the years. Would I have swiped right for them? Maybe not, but they were all kind and funny and smart and full of charm and some unknowable quality that made me pine for them with the kind of devotion you can only get from a slightly chubby girl who had yet to discover the power of tweezing her eyebrows and could never figure out her proper bra size. How could I possibly get a sense of any of these things while thumbing through the masses on an app famous for one night stands?

But that first night, I matched with every single guy I swiped right for and I have never felt more desirable in my ENTIRE LIFE. I no longer cared about those sad, ugly boys I rejected. You guys! I am the most gorgeous single woman in New York City! Everybody loves my coy smirk and my concise bio and probably also that picture of me in that green bikini where you can see too much of my boobs!

And then! My first message! A little back and forth before: “Sounds like we could both use a massage. Why don’t you come over and help me relax?”

ABORT ABORT. NOT READY. NO THANK YOU.

Here She Goes

I don’t know when exactly it is that you’re allowed to start writing about yourself and can expect people to want to read anything at all you have to say, but I think I’ll start now. I’ve been exercising my vanity via short, quippy facebook statuses for years now and most of my friends still talk to me, so maybe there’s something there!

I generally tend to assume that my incessant need to share my own thoughts must be super annoying, but I have no shame in admitting that I am endlessly giddy upon learning that some friend or even minor acquaintance looks forward to my musings. I am also a little uncomfortable and confused, but mostly giddy and flattered. And until facebook makes it possible to learn who among your so-called friends has hidden your statuses from their newsfeed, I intend to live in blissful over-sharing ignorance.

I’ve never considered myself to be a particularly funny person, especially when in the company of people I myself find laugh out loud funny. When I’m with someone whose humor and wit and capacity for banter I admire, I mostly feel like I’ve lost all brainpower and have become a slack jawed idiot who just. Can’t. Keep. Up.

And yet, despite all that, I really love very little more than making people laugh. Times when I make my best friend dissolve into silent laughter – whether intentionally or because I’ve just tripped over a crack in the sidewalk while walking beside her and tried to pretend like nothing happened – are among the most satisfying experiences of my life. I am mostly accidentally funny and am therefore rarely aware that I’ve been funny until it’s over, but damn, it feels good.

I was 12 years old when my Grandma DiAnn passed away and it was a pretty brutal time for my family. She was beautiful and feisty and loving and way, way too young. Her illness was unexpected and quick and deeply unfair. After her funeral, there was a gathering at her house and she had apparently been very clear that she didn’t want it to be some depressing affair full of sad casseroles, but rather a celebration of the life she lived and the people she loved. Which basically meant that everyone got shitty drunk. During a lull in conversation, I remember glancing around at everyone’s pained expressions, and breaking the silence with some silly crack about taking the opportunity to get wasted because they would all be too drunk to notice. And they laughed. Real laughter, not polite laughter so the awkward preteen wouldn’t be embarrassed, but real, grateful laughter from the pits of their stomachs. And I know I said they were all drunk, but still.

So now I’m going to write. And I hope that a lot of it will be at least quietly amusing, but maybe some of it won’t be. Friends whose opinions of me are way higher than I deserve have been inflating my ego for quite some time by telling me I should start a blog, but I’ve always felt paralyzed because I don’t have a very clear idea of what I’d like to write about. Fitness? Online dating? Food and the many joys of cooking it and eating it? Boozy brunches? My job as Mayor of small people? Things that make me sad or angry sometimes? Yes, probably. All of the above.

I hope you like it. Please don’t tell me if you don’t.