“….I realized what a terrific person she was and how much fun it was just knowing her and I thought of that old joke, you know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, ‘Doc, uh, my brother’s crazy, he thinks he’s a chicken,’ and uh, the doctor says, ‘well why don’t you turn him in?’ And the guy says, ‘I would, but I need the eggs.’ Well, I guess that’s pretty much now how I feel about relationships. You know, they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but uh, I guess we keep going through it…because…most of us need the eggs.” ~ A line from Woody Allen’s ‘Annie Hall’ and a picture from Bravo’s ‘Seemingly Real Housewives of SomeCityOrTownNear-ishToWhereYouLive,’
Posts tagged dating
Caught the season premiere of “The Bachelorette” last evening. The producers have really outdone themselves this time, scouring our vast country for an elite group of devilishly handsome guys who may or may not be legally retarded. These potential suitors made sure to put their best foot in their mouth forward and Emily really appreciated it. (Or at least I think she did. It’s very hard to tell since her botoxed forehead and eyes refuse to show any emotion other than “surprised fear.”) As I watched, I jotted down some helpful tips for any fella looking for love on a nationally televised reality show, so this is all in chronological order. (This post also syncs up perfectly to “Dark Side of the Moon.” Push play NOW!)
One of my best lady friends just ended things with her boyfriend. She’s like a little sister to me. We’ve got the kind of relationship wherein I regularly call her Gutterslut or Troll, since she’s 3’2”, then hold her back by pushing on her forehead while her tiny Tyrannosaurus arms swing angrily in the empty space between us.
Guttertroll fell for a boy who she felt a connection with like never before but it wasn’t a happy ending and she got her teensy little heart crushed. She’s still in the throes of the split, but she’s getting better. The crying-at-all-hours-of-the-day phase seems to have ended. Progress.* Watching her go through this makes me sad. And the want to impart words of wisdom for dealing with a breakup is at an all-time high. So here are my tips and thoughts for coping with such a period of all-encompassing despair.
*By the by, if you want to give Trollcheese words of encouragement - or mock her Yahoo email address – her blog is over here.
A friend, newly transplanted to New York, was lamenting about her latest dickweasel of a suitor (She doesn’t have great taste in men.) I asked where they met. She named a popular nightclub in Chelsea and said he worked there, prompting the rest of us around the dinner table to emit a low groan. As she stared, taken aback, someone offered her particularly sage advice: “Don’t date guys who work in clubs.”
That’s because the men who staff New York’s nightlife venues – elite or otherwise – can be neatly filed into basic categories. And none of them are acceptable for romantical material. In no particular order, here are the male archetypes at play inside the club.
For a while, I pseudo-dated a girl who lives in another country. Nothing was ever defined in terms of labeling the situation, though I find her to be a fantastic person and vice-versa. For a while, it was good, but entering into a long distance relationship wasn’t something I was ready for. And continuing on with our current back and forth was doing more harm to both of us than good. She rarely comes to NYC, but she did this week. She asked to hang out and I lied about being out of town, so as not to fall back into our comfortable cycle and hurting us both even further. After coming to my apartment unannounced to catch me in my lie, I kicked her out. I met her for a chat today in order for both of us to gain some closure. After the chat, Hercules and I got real about the situation.
Hercules: When is The Talk?
Me: Just ended. Man. She looked so sad. I feel like I’m doing the wrong thing. Gah.
Hercules: What would the right thing be?
Me: I have no idea. She claims just to want a night out with drinks and dancing. She wants to be friends. But can’t articulate what that means to her.
Me: The irony is so biting. I’m lonely. All I want is a girlfriend. Here is a girl who is literally willing to worship the ground I walk on, but I’m turning her down.
Last night, I sat alone on the couch in my underwear, ordered Italian food (they forgot the meatballs. Assholes.), drank some beers and several scotches while watching two straight hours of Real Housewives of Orange County. As my time with Alexis ended – my favorite due to her complete lack of intelligence - and I thumbed through my DVR list wondering how I’d pass the rest of the night, the same depressing thought scurried through my brain yet again: This isn’t where I thought I’d be at 30 years old.
I had assumed my bachelor days would have ceased by now. That a bubbly voice would be there to chide me whenever I hovered over the kitchen sink, devouring dinner directly from the pot. That I’d have a girlfriend so intellectually well-rounded, we’d exchange witty barbs about foreign policy before diving into serious matters, such as whether or not Courtney from The Bachelor was actually attractive. I’m slightly exaggerating here, but I did at least envision having a special someone so engrained in my life that the necessity of wearing pants at night would be more of a given. If only so that the lucky lady had something to remove later on.
As it stands, the last carnal encounter I had occurred in 2011. The admission “Well, I haven’t had sex this year…,” actually left my lips the other evening amid the company of close friends, all of whom are nauseatingly happy in their various serious relationships.
Instant messaging with a date for later tonight.
Me: Just want you to know how special you are to me because I’m canceling my viewing party of the Bachelor for our date tonight.
Me: #TheMoreYouKnow
Her: I feel half awfully special but half concerned that you have a weekly Bachelor viewing party…
Me: Answers like that make me like you more. It’s technically a party of one. Basically, I sit around and yell at the TV. But it’s still in my Google calendar…
Her: Ha haaaaa
Me: I trust you’re laughing with me and not at me.
With an ex-fling.
Me: We are at an impasse.
Her: This is true. What do we do about this?
Me: Send me a picture of your nipple. I will do the same.
Her: That is not fair trade.
Me: Nip for nip? How is it unfair?
Her: Because seeing a guy’s nipple is like seeing a guy’s sideburn.
Me: No it’s not. Or else we’d have nipples on the sides of our faces.
Her: If we’re both still single in five years, can we have some sort of suicide pact? I want to go out in a bang, and not with an army of smelly cats.
Me: No. But I’ll definitely kill you. And just continue on with my life.
Her: Fair.
Walking into my first speed-dating event, if I had to sum up atmosphere in one word, it would’ve been, “A room largely full of awkward people.” If you gave me an additional word, I would’ve added, “Holy fuck, some of them look downright painful.” Time would eventually prove this hypothesis largely true, but we’d already paid, put on clean underwear and shown up. Might as well give the nervous-looking ladies a shot.
Poseidon, DayWalkerTalker and I were each given a number upon check-in that corresponded to the table we’d start at. After four minutes, the fellow leading the evening would slam a tiny gong and the gentlemen would rotate one number up. I was assigned number one, with number two and three going to Poseidon and DayWalkerTalker respectively. Both of these bastards jumped with delight at the notion that they would be meeting each girl before me.
What that unfortunate ordering really meant was that each time I’d sit down at a new table, the girl already was displaying a look ranging from suspicion to sheer terror. After allowing me to say hello, she would immediately inquire about some outrageous lie one of my preceding friends had kindly spun.
Tell a buddy’s new girlfriend that you’re single and the look you’re issued is similar to that of someone who’s just found a lost puppy. A mixture of pity and sadness washes over her face momentarily only to be replaced by a steeled gaze of determination. She’ll shortly commence rattling off a list of her single friends, all of who are “simply perfect for you,” and follow it all up with an authoritative, “I can fix this.”
Ah, yes. “Fix this.” Repair my singleness. Because my love life is so obviously broken and in immediate need of your assistance. Would you like to be the OnStar of my romantical journeys? “Mr. Sothenshe, I’m detecting that your date ended disastrously and you’re now alone and sad. Is this accurate?” Well…yes. “We’re so sorry to hear that, sir. I’ve gone ahead and dispatched a 6’2” model with a degree in French Literature from Yale to cheer you up.” …That’s better than this pint of Ben and Jerry’s, so thank you. “No problem, sir. Remember that you’re a good person and that bitch of a succubus didn’t deserve you. Have a good night!”
Me: What’re you going to be for Halloween?
Her: Single; which means I’ll be drunk and depressed and have slightly more mascara streaking down my face than normal.
“I want my relationship to be just like Titanic, Avatar and Just Married.”
Anonymous
