Dudes Are Confusing

In dating and in life, I make an effort to be very clear. Clear about who I am, what I like, what I don’t like, what I want, and who I want. I don’t have any desire to play what anyone could call “games.” I don’t have a lot of closely held secrets and most of the time I actually overshare a bit. I am honest, but I try not to be “brutally honest,” which I’ve always thought basically translates into being an unapologetic asshole.

So yeah. I value clarity and honesty. If my last few months of dating have taught me anything at all, it’s that I might be alone in this.

I am ALWAYS CONFUSED now. Everyone is SO confusing. So few people are upfront about what they want, what they’re looking for, who they are even, and it is super unhelpful.

This summer, I was fresh out of a relationship and there was no way I was ready to jump back into anything serious. I wanted casual. I wanted fun. I wanted no strings. I wanted new faces and new conversation and margaritas outside.  Surprise surprise: guys were very okay with this.

It’s only when I sat back, got a little honest with myself, and realized that while I don’t feel the need to desperately seek it out, I am open again to something more meaningful, that things took a turn for the baffling. My expectations shifted, and that, as we all know, is a recipe for disaster.

I’ve taken to being far more selective about the guys I go on dates with (although, as some of you have pointed out, now that I have a blog, I have a kind of journalistic obligation to go on shitty dates and write about them) and I check in with myself on the regular to see how I’m feeling about a given situation.

A couple weeks ago, I went on a date with an actor. The Actor, we’ll call him. It took almost three weeks from when he sent the first message to actually meet, and it speaks to how cute he is that we even met at all. I tend to lose interest (and feel like I’m not sufficiently OF interest) if there’s too much back and forth.

When we finally met (At 10:30pm! Waaaayyyy past my bedtime. Told you he was cute.), I knew that I liked him almost immediately because I was a total spaz and a half. I was hot and sweaty from rushing over there, and stumbled over my first few words, talking manically, and giggling nervously. I would not say I’m the most calm, cool, and collected individual on this planet, but I can typically keep my chill on a first date. Not so much here. My behavior was in stark contrast to his relaxed demeanor and he seemed to be amused by my spastic energy.

We had a great date. He just seemed like such a genuine, good person. It was refreshing. We shared a bottle of wine and talked for what turned out to be a very long time. Two of my best friends happened to be at the same restaurant and can speak to how much I was enjoying myself. (I have a loud laugh.)

Hours later, he offered to take me home in a cab. When we got to my corner, he helped me out and kissed me and it was good enough that as I climbed up my stoop, I could feel myself smiling and my cheeks get hot. I haven’t had a lot of dates recently that have made me feel all fluttery and I welcomed the return of girlish butterflies.

When I climbed into bed 15 minutes later, I saw a text from him: “Had a lovely time with you…sleep tight!” In the age of Tinder and ghosting, a text good night is a big freaking deal. It’s just so considerate, I could have swooned!

The next day: “Hi there…how is your Friday treating you thus far?”

YES! Alright alright alright, this is going well. We text a little more that day and then the next and he writes: “Can I be in touch on Monday once I know my schedule for next week better? When are you free?”

Monday rolls around and sure enough, I see his name light up my phone. Unfortunately, a coworker had a death in the family and he said he’d been working more than he had anticipated. He said he’d reach out later in the week, but I was honestly just too floored that he actually texted when he said he would to even mind. I told him that was fine, of course, and that I was looking forward to seeing him. “Thank you…me too,” he wrote.

Fast forward to Thursday night and I ask how he’s holding up. He writes back late enough that I don’t get it until I wake up on Friday morning. He’s apologetic and I tell him not to stress, I know his week’s been crazy. He says, “May I be in touch once things even out here a little bit?” This is now the second time he’s phrased it in this way and it’s starting to sound a little bit like, “Hey, please stop texting me! I’ll let you know when/if we can get together.”

So I just say, “Sure :)” and he says, “Thanks” and now it’s been two weeks and I’ve not heard another word from him.

What. The. Hell.

Ghosting, while frustrating, I understand. There are no mixed signals in silence. Okay…you are not texting me back, you clearly did not enjoy yourself with me, we are done.

This shit. All the contact he initiated, the polite Midwestern way he kept his word and always responded to every text, the flirty way he said he was looking forward to kissing me again. And then…nothing?

Ghosting has gotten an awfully bad rap these days, but I think I would prefer that to halfhearted attempts to…what? Let me down easy? What do you guys think? If you’re being rejected, would you prefer:

1. To be ghosted
2. To be straight up told, “Sorry, I’m not interested.”
3. To be led to believe things went well and THEN get ghosted

 

 

29

I’m 29 years old.

Whoa. I am in the last year of my twenties.

28 was a very big year. A lot happened during 28. A lot of wonderful things and some straight up devastating things, too.

I ended a relationship with a man I loved deeply because, despite what I had assumed for many years, it became clear that we weren’t it for each other.

I listened to people telling me I was strong and brave for making such a hard call and every time someone said it, I thought to myself, Hear that? You are strong. You are brave. 

I threw myself into my friends’ arms and realized once more what I’ve always known: I have, hands down, the BEST group of people to laugh with, cry with, and get embarrassingly drunk with.

I went to therapy for the first time in my life and it. was. wonderful.

I relished in strong female relationships at work, learning from and growing with some of the fiercest, smartest, funniest, most fearless and supportive women I know.

I went on my first family vacation in a decade and did absolutely nothing on a pristine island with the greatest loves of my life.

I spent the most amazing few days with my baby sister, cuddling and eating everything in New York City.

I continued to challenge myself physically. I completed not one, but two Spartan Sprint obstacle course races. I ran a 7:47 mile – my fastest ever.

I learned I have hip dysplasia, like an Australian Shepherd.

I went on an awful lot of dates. Not too many awful dates, though, so that’s good!

I started writing again.

I spent my birthday with just myself and it was really, really good. I felt love from every corner of the universe pulsing through my phone. I can’t wait to start another year living this life, gathering more stories to share with you.

And We’re Done Here

Amazingly, every so often, I receive a message on a dating app that doesn’t make me want to drop my phone in the toilet.

I recently got a message that said only “Bugboobs,” so you can imagine my excitement and girlish hope when a message is even remotely genuine enough to prompt a response.

But because we are talking about online dating, dear reader, you can rest assured that there are still a million and one ways to fuck up the conversation even if you nailed the first message.

Here are just a few of the quickest ways to make me say, “Aaaaand I’m out.” (Yes, these are all real. Sadly, painfully, hilariously real.)

1. “Before I call, I’m going to let you know I’m going through a divorce.”

Let me stop you right there, sir. While I applaud your forthrightness, truly, I don’t want a single piece of that. The key here is that he says, “I’m going through a divorce,” not “I am divorced.” I can wait, thanks.

2. “Those are some very juicy boobies.”

I am actually a grown woman and these are my breasts. You, however, seem to be a small child. We are done here.

3. “I would happily trade tastefully explicit photos.”

Oh, would you?! Would you really?! Shocker. Listen, you can phrase it as politely as you want, I am not going to send you naked pictures of myself. I don’t know when men started assuming that they have the right to my naked image before putting in even the slightest bit of effort, but I happen to be an old fashioned girl, and you’re only going to be the lucky recipient of my best work after a date, a little flattery, and a lot of gin. And, most importantly: it has to be my idea.

4. Send me a dick pic.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I do not want to see your penis until I’ve seen it in real life and have made it clear that I enjoyed seeing it and would like to continue seeing it.

Do. Not. Send. Women. Unsolicited. Dick. Pics. Write that down.  I’ll wait.

5. “I recently had a lady friend tell me something about her and her dog. I don’t want to freak you out, but I didn’t judge her when she told me. I’m curious if you ever tried it.”

…I just. I can’t. There’s really nowhere to go from here.

The Peruvian

Let’s go on another date, shall we?

This story starts way back in 2009, before I met my ex. I had just joined okcupid for the first time and was adamant that I wasn’t really interested in anything serious. Marriage?! Commitment?! Babies?! Who wants any of that?! (I did, obviously. Props to my best friend for nodding along and pretending she believed me.)

So anyway, I was going on a LOT of dates. I was saying yes to pretty much anyone who asked (I made this same mistake again earlier this summer) and it was like a second job. There were some weeks I had dates almost every night and it was exhausting, but also thrilling, because I was a late bloomer. As in, like, I almost didn’t bloom at all.

That’s maybe a slight exaggeration, but when you don’t go on your first true date until you’re 22 years old, you start to worry that there’s the distinct possibility that something is very very wrong with you. (Also, my first date was a guy I met through craiglist. I should definitely be dead right now.)

Now here I was, all worn out from SO many dates, and feeling like my time had finally come. I was fresh to New York City, I had my first credit card, and my okcupid inbox was overflowing. My life was fucking incredible. I didn’t really take any of the dates seriously and figured that best case scenario I’d get a free drink and a second date, worst case scenario I’d get a great story out of it.

Which is where the Peruvian comes in.

He was tall and cute and worked in film production, so I figured he would probably help make me famous. We met at a dimly lit bar in Alphabet City and he was wearing dark jeans and a white t-shirt and Chuck Taylors and I was soooo into it. It was just a solid, good date. The drinks were tasty (and never empty for too long) and as the night went on, we leaned closer and closer to each other until I was dangerously close to falling off my bar stool.

He suggested a thumb war as a not-so-subtle excuse to hold my hand and I let him win easily because I feel like a first date is maybe not the ideal setting to introduce men to my competitive streak. Now we’re holding hands and talking quietly and I’m feeling all flushed and fluttery.

We leave and start walking back to the train station, but hormones unsurprisingly take over and we wind up making out against a wall on some dark block in the East Village. Like ya do. Things start out well enough but quickly take a turn.

You know how sexy it is when you’re kissing someone and they nibble lightly on your lip? Give it a playful little tug? Well, imagine that, but instead of it being a light nibble, the person is actually biting you. Like, fully chomping down on your lip and acting like they’re going to twist it off and run away with it.

That’s what the Peruvian is doing to me. He’s chewing on my face. He is gnawing on my upper lip so hard that I shove him away, tell him it hurts, and then promptly allow him to continue making out with me because I am 22, drunk, and super stupid. (Remember how I went on a date with a guy I met on craigslist?)

This carries on for a while, but eventually I go home and do not take him with me. (Yay! One point for Young Megs!) The next day is Halloween and I wake up with a bruised fat lip. I got a FAT LIP from making out with the Peruvian.

Fast forward to this year. I’m back on okcupid after a brutal breakup, not yet actually going out with anyone, but enjoying the small ego boost I get from every new message. One day, I get one that says, “hey there, hows your evening going?” (Clearly written as I received it. I would never forget the apostrophe.)

And it’s HIM. The Peruvian. What are the chances?! He’s using a shortened version of his name, but I am 100% certain it’s him right away. I respond, “Your name is ____, right? Pretty sure we went on a date like five or six years ago. You gave me a fat lip when we made out…”

He responds, “Haha, I thought that was you. Couldn’t really tell”

And a half hour later, “what would you say if i were to ask you for drinks?”

Welcome back to online dating, Megs. Be careful out there.

Everything Makes Me Cry

I’m an incredibly emotional person.

This is no secret to most who know me. To know me is to see me cry when I’m sad, when I’m happy, and when I’m confused by my emotions. I cry when I’m too tired and too hungry and too overjoyed and too overwhelmed.

I am Kristen Bell meeting a sloth every day of my life.

Do you ever feel like your body is betraying you? That’s how I feel basically every time I start to cry. No matter how hard I try to keep my shit together, I can’t control it 99% of the time and I’m typically pretty embarrassed that it’s happening.

Music is a common culprit when it comes to me getting awkwardly weepy out of nowhere. I don’t consider myself to be an especially patriotic person, but without fail, I cry every single time I hear “The Star-Spangled Banner” or “God Bless America.” I’m not religious, but a beautifully sung hymn will without fail throw me over the edge. A gorgeous, soaring voice will give me goosebumps quickly followed by a catch in my throat and then I know I’m done for. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been watching some random music video with friends only to have someone look my way and say, “Wait. Are you crying right now?!”

When one of my best friends got married and asked me to be in her bridal party, I was thrilled. Then she asked me if I’d like to give a toast either at the rehearsal dinner or the reception and I chose rehearsal dinner without hesitation because I knew I would be weeping and there was less chance of being professionally photographed then than at the wedding. Sure enough, I barely got a sentence in before I started sob slurring my words. I cry at all weddings, no matter how well I know the couple, so when I’m crazy obsessed with the bride and groom? Forget it.

Youtube is not a safe place for me. Once when I was babysitting, after the kids were in bed, I started watching videos of people telling their parents they were pregnant. That somehow led to videos of marriage proposals and then that somehow led to videos of people being reunited with long lost loved ones. That of course inevitably led to videos of soldiers coming home and surprising their families and suddenly, it was three hours later and I was destroyed. I texted the mom something along the lines of: “Listen, I need to warn you: I just watched a lot of youtube videos and I’ve been crying pretty hysterically. My neck is wet and my eyes are already puffy. I didn’t want you to freak out when you got home. The kids are fine, I’m fine, I’m just an idiot.”

I’ve also cried at work. A lot, actually. I know you’re not supposed to, and in many circles, it’s looked down upon when women cry in the workplace, but thankfully I work at a company where I’m surrounded by kids under five years old, so at any given time, I’m usually only one of, like, ten other criers in the building. It’s easy to blend in.

Other things that have made me cry recently:

A video of a man proposing to his girlfriend in the middle of the NYC Marathon.

Viola Davis’ Emmy acceptance speech.

The season 5 proposal scene in Parks and Recreation.

“Hello” by Adele. Obviously.

A crazy cute baby kissing her mama’s face in a class I observed at work.

That scene in The Affair when Alison and Cole spoon and start tenderly kissing.

The end of Ruby by Cynthia Bond.

An article in Glamour about women with breast cancer.

A phone call with my mom that went a little something like this: “I know you’re tired and overwhelmed and stressed, but listen to all the fun things I’m planning for when you come home at Christmas because it’ll make you happy. Are you ready?!”

The Dogist’s instagram feed.

(And as I was writing this, “Hello” came on the Adele Pandora station and I started crying again. That woman, you guys!)

What makes you cry?