How To Stay Single, Or, The New Girl Brings All The Boys To The Yard.

When I moved home, I expected that being a grown-ass woman rooming with her parents was going to be putting a HUGE dent in my dating game, were I to choose to play it again. I forgot to factor in the atmosphere of where, exactly, I was moving back to, literally and metaphorically.

The one thing I'd forgotten about starting new jobs was the fact that working in a mall is kind of like being thrown A.) Back into high school, and B.) To the sharks. Since breaking up, moving back home, and becoming employed elsewhere after years of working for the college, I'd somehow forgotten that when you're a mall-rat employee, you meet LOTS of new people. Not because you're just that cool or that popular...but because everyone wants to find out what the new girl's like.

Well, when the new girl's under the age of 30, single, and is willing to wear 5-inch heels to climb the ladder at work to hang new company posters...well, being the new girl turns some heads. The fact that she doesn't pay rent and eats home-cooked meals isn't considered a deterrent, at all. Unfortunately.

By my second shift, I already had a coworker trying to play matchmaker with me and one of his friends. I had a slew of new Facebook friend requests...all male. I literally had to make the "turn around" hand motion to get some poor young dude working across the hall to go back to his shirt folding when I clicked by on a candy bar run to Kmart before his manager yelled at him. I have gotten more store card apps in the last two weeks from eager, young, impressionable men with birth dates in the '90s than...well, more than I should feel morally ok with.

...Have I mentioned the fact that in my hometown, having all your teeth is a sign of natural beauty? While I may not be a top-model prize in Burlington or, say, Milan-- in Vegas, baby, (all) my straight teeth and 4-pack abs are pulling out all the stops.

But here's the thing-- I'm enjoying being single. After two and a half years of always having some guy around, I actually like being on my own. I mean, sure, the fact that it's getting cold at night without someone else to leech body-heat from is becoming a pain in the ass, and I really miss the company, but as I told a coworker today when she asked me how I was getting by without having sex, considering the fact that I lived with my last boyfriend and consider sex to be a daily-- if not twice or thrice daily-- duty when in relationships, I'm taking a little bit of a respite from it now, thanks. It's nice to not have to shave every other day. My body is thanking me more than it's yelling at me every time a tall, muscular dude who looks like Jason Statham's nephew walks by the storefront. For real. I'm not kidding. And my leg hair has never kept me warmer. Which is good for all those cold nights spent cuddling with my cat at home while watching Netflix and having to keep turning the volume out to drown my parents out.

So, despite all the things that nature and our 21st century society state I should have working against me right now, I've started waving at one of my sweeter admirers every time he passes by, even though I've made it clear to all that NOBODY gets a "friend" request accepted until I've met and talked with you at least twice for a decent amount of time (it helps suss out the creepers from the genuine nice people), no matter how many times you walk by or how many times I wave hello. One of my managers noticed, and asked me how I felt about jumping back into the dating pool. I pulled a face and told her my master plan.

"I figure, if I say to them, 'my last relationship involved living together, him doing the laundry, and talking about weddings; are you ready to jump right in there?' it will scare them away."

So far, the master plan is working. The only thing scarier than a woman with missing teeth in this town is a 22 year old single girl who's looking to play Mr. and Mrs. Buy A House. I mean, I didn't give an underwear model my info. And he looked like this:

What in the unholy Universe would convince me to start dating again NOW?

So who's the smart one now? This (happily single) girl.

XOXO

Conversations With (Marginally More) Hideous Men, Part 2

The other day, I was downtown at Fuda getting Chinese with my neighbors Jamie and Adam after hitting 3 Needs for the end of Duff Hour and getting a little swasty before 6 PM. After my mouth ordered myself special lo mien (the origins of yesterday's lo mien in post,) and the cashew chicken combination platter instead of the special lo mien and the relatively much cheaper fried wontons, and mid-conversation while we were extolling the virtues of eating cold lo mien straight from the carton the next morning (it's seriously my favorite breakfast, and given half a chance with inanimate objects, I might marry it,) an absurdly cute 20-something guy who must be Vermont's answer to Paul Walker appeared at my elbow and offered his two cents with a totally disarming smile.

"I'm a chopstick person myself, but I bet you only use two fingers when you eat it."

He was right, and he was cute, but I was in the process of wrestling with myself before making an...interesting...phone call, and was a little drunk and scattered. We flirted a bit while Jamie and Adam receded and did the engaged-people equivalent of giggling and goading on match-making. But I was distracted, and cut off the sweet-talking pretty shortly, leaving him awkwardly standing next to me with nothing to do, so he looked around, locked in on the establishment owner's children playing at a nearby table, and went over to kibitz with them.

Sometimes men are so transparent you can literally see the cartoon character speech bubble floating over their head: "Now she'll see how great I am with kids, because don't all girls dig dudes who like babies?"

Well. I never want to birth my own, but yeah, I can appreciate a guy who doesn't make children run screaming, and I can also appreciate a guy who puts a lot of effort into winning me over more. Unfortunately, his order (and time) was up, and as I pointed it out to him, he commented off-hand, "Oh, it's not for me. I'm just the delivery guy." Short of calling all the independent delivery services in Burlington and saying, "Excuse me, do you have a driver who looks like Paul Walker's younger brother, with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, lots of leg hair, blue sneakers, and a small earring? And how might I find him?", I gave up on him as soon as he walked out the door wishing me a good night and I got my hands on (and in,) my lo mien.

Back at the apartment, eating on the back porch, Adam asked why I'd put my wall up about Delivery Dude. "I'm not looking for anything right now," I told him while twirling my noodles.

"Maybe he's not looking for anything either," he responded, and I swear to god I felt my lip curl in a silent "Eww."

"Not my style," I told him.

Adam's more or less appalled by my dry spell streak, but I have this theory about how when you're not feeling wanted, or after the end of something emotionally taxing, your libido goes on strike. And then I tend to just forget about it. For the most part. And I'm picky about ending it.

Case In Point: Last Friday night, Emily and I went out for a Girl's Night. In the middle of Ake's

Place, I laid the gauntlet down-- "Our goal for the night is a phone number or a free drink. May the best woman win." We shook on it and drank to it, and apparently stumbled upon the magical sports bar secret, because not 20 minutes after finding a table at 3 Needs (yes, it's my favorite bar), Emily came back from the bar giggling. "There's two guys up there, and I just got a phone number." They came to sit with us, and soon numbers were exchanged all around, (along with me telling the drunker one that Emily was from "Amish country, but she believes in electricity!") and they were eying our drinks. "I'd offer to get you another beer, but you already have one."

"Is that a promise?" I asked. He agreed, we shook on it, I pounded the half of my bottle left, and true to his word, he got me another one, insisting I belly up to the bar with him and snaking a polite arm around my waist. Italy taught me a lot of good life skills, one of which being the foresight to see in which direction men are thinking, and halt it in action. Unfortunately, while in Italy, telling someone you're engaged (because having a boyfriend doesn't mean bullshit to them,) only elicits the mildly more respectful response of (and I quote from numerous Italian men,) "Where is your man? America is very far away," but here in the good ol' U.S of A, it's easier to stop a speeding train. I asked our beer-buying gentleman where he lived, and promptly responded with, "Oh! That's near where the guy I'm seeing lives! He lives on _______ Street!"

Lesson #1 in bar and club safety for women: If someone's coming on to you who you're not interested in, yet you don't want to totally discount them because they're a nice and gracious person, make up a boyfriend, and sprinkle tid-bits about him liberally through the conversation. "He lives (here)." "He took me (there)." "Last night, we went and saw (this)." "He's out with his guys tonight, so we're having Girl's Night." And the killer: "I think you two would really get along."

"You're cute, but you're difficult," he told me later as we walked to Mr. Mike's. I snorted, and told him, "You don't know the half of it. I'm sure my exes would agree with you. I'm making that my new tag-line."

He bought us pizza, and insisted on walking us home even though it was on the complete opposite side of town from where he lived. On the front porch, I gave him a quick and perfunctory hug, thanked him, wished him a good night, and then shut the door on him and tripped lightly up the stairs and passed out in bed. Alone.

Well, not quite. Nicco has cemented his nighttime abode as my pillow, and wakes me up in the morning by stoking my head with his little paw and preening my hair, which is really alarming sometimes when you're dreaming about Bourdain or Shemar Moore and wake up to someone fondling your head. But at least he never leaves the toilet seat up.

XOXO

P.S-- I recounted that bar story to a guy that one of my friends is dating, and the look of sheer terror that came across his face as I described how women will make up boyfriends so we don't have to flat-out turn you down was telling, yet hilarious. I guess the lid has now been throughly blown off of that one.

NOT Waiting For It

Because I'm so flat-broke, instead of my monthly girl-fest Secret Single Behavior of buying the new issues of Glamour and Cosmopolitan and slowly spending an afternoon reading them somewhere quiet with a coffee and regaining my sanity, I've been trolling their online sites to read for free, instead. Not quiet as relaxing, as I've always preferred the tangible, but it does lend something new to the experience: reader's comments.

At the bottom of "16 Sneaky Acts of Seduction," on Glamour.com, an 18 year old reader said that she felt really behind still being a virgin when other "kids my age are already having babies & stuff. i do sometimes wonder how it would feel lk to be sexualy active," and asked the other readers if she should continue waiting to have sex until she finds the right guy, or if she should "just have fun or whatever?"

In my honest opinion, if you're not having fun in life, then you're doing something wrong. And I don't think she's missing out on "having babies & stuff" at the age of 18-- that's a huge fun-dampener. But the other reader's results to her questions were of a resounding "wait for it" lean. Not to diminish their reasons, which include:

"...Your first time is hardly ever good. It hurts and you might bleed a lot,"

"If you just have fun it has it's cons. You might get attached and he doesn't want a relationship. Or you think he's one person and find out he's another. He could just use you for sex. You could be lied to and find out he has an std,"

"I think sex is so much better when you have a connection with the person. Girls like to cuddle. Girls get more attached than guys, so if you get a guy who doesn't care about you, it will be emotionally stressful,"

Or, my personal favorite, the 25 year old virgin who is getting married to her fiancee who started dating her trying to win a bet with his friends about who would have sex first back in high school. He obviously lost that one, and I really cringe to think about waiting for and then marrying the sort of guy who made a BET about getting laid, because that just screams of a relationship that is built to last and come to fruition in a marriage.

But why does there never seem to be someone saying the opposite and telling these girls that not "waiting for it" doesn't mean you're a slut-bucket who's going straight to hell in a handbasket and will never find a man who respects them?

I'm now 21 and have slept with 5 men. I've had good sex, I've had bad sex, I've had weird sex, and I've had great sex. I'd had lots of sex, and I've had really long dry spells, too. Personally, I've never regretted any of it, even given the fact that the dude I lost my virginity to was probably the worst choice in the world. Like, I couldn't have picked any better (or worse?) if I had run "How Do You Not Fit The Qualifications?" interviews for the job. (This was also the guy I couldn't be bothered to muster up the energy to break up with, if it tells you anything about our entire un-apathetic union.) But I was 16, I was sick of it, and I just wanted to get it over with. I partially chose him because he was available, and he was older, which I assumed would mean he had more experience with sex than I did. "The first time" wasn't a huge deal to me. Yeah, it did hurt, but I really hate when women try to convince other women that you are going to bleed like Old Faithful and not be able to walk for a week. Coming from my point of view, another one of those "How Are You So Not Right For This?" qualifications that my first boyfriend met was that he was basically packing a third leg. Not so great the first time, but it got much better afterwards. And I could walk just fine, thanks.

So, to re-cap thus-far, for you vestigial virgins out there: Yes, it will be uncomfortable the first few times. There may be bleeding. There may be soreness. It may be really freaking awkward. NO first-time-having-sex you will EVER have with someone new will ever be spectacular-- you don't know how the other works, how your bodies mesh, or what makes each other tick.

Yes, you may get attached to Mr. Lying, Usurious, Herpes-Laden Committmaphobe. Unfortunately, our brains have some pretty fucked-up wiring when it comes to sex and emotions, and you can never really account for who you have a connection with. (Case in point, I've had some remarkable connections with flings, while dead connection lines with committed boyfriends.) But next time you meet a lying, usurious, herp-infested player, you get smarter, and (hopefully) pass him by for someone else. Yes, it's going to be emotionally stressful, but it's all part of life and learning. You learn, your taste and judgement in men gets better, are you're more likely to end up picking someone who actually is the right person for you than pinning all your hopes and hymen on someone you don't really know deeply or intimately right out of the gate. I've come a long way since my Couldn't-Be-Bothered first boyfriend. I've learned a lot about men, and myself, and it really has changed and shaped me. If I had stuck it out and waited for Mr. Right to fall into my lap, I'd be relationship- and emotionally-stunted when he finally came around, and probably fumble him right out of my life.

And, not all girls like to cuddle. Jesus, stop with this assumption, and please, give me some space at night.

Who knows if the guy you think is Mr. Right Wedding Bells right NOW is going to be Mr. Right Forever and Always LATER? Divorce rates in the U.S are over 50%, so the chances are halved that the man you lose you virginity to, IN MARRIAGE, could very possibly not be the man you die beside and are buried next to, a la "The Notebook." Romance really has no place in the relationship between sex and marriage. Please stop reading Nicholas Sparks and start reading "Dating, Mating, and Manhandling."

Maybe I could be so blase about it because I knew it wasn't the guy that I'd be marrying, and, in fact, maybe a large part of my decision was the fact I was (and still am) pretty sure I never did want to get married. Since then, not once, not ever have I regretted losing my virginity, either at all, or to a different man then the ones I've loved. Maybe I'm just a shameless new-age hussy, but the other thing that I can't wrap my head around is that waiting for marriage is basically like buying the car without seeing if it starts or runs first. Sex is IMPORTANT. You're never going to be happy in a relation where the sex is bad, especially if it's marriage. Frankly, the only thing that the sex I've had has convinced me of is the fact that whenever I sleep with someone new, I'm thankful for my previous experiences, as they've given me the tips, tricks, and sanity to deal with pretty much whatever is thrown my way.

So maybe that makes me a slut. If it does, well then, this slut is going to be ludicrously happy having good sex for the rest of her life, and if you get stuck in a sex-less marriage because you waited for "The One" and now you're unhappy and feel cheated and want to divorce him, send me a postcard and let me know how that's going for you, ok? Great. Thanks.

XOXO

Celibacy and the City

A friend of mine told me the other night that she made the conscious choice to be celibate for the last year after she took a long and hard look at her hook-up history and felt less than pleased.

"Hey, that's cool," I told her, to which she scoffed.

"Oh yeah, Miss Sex-Blogger?"

I can't fault anyone for thinking that I'm pro-sex-- for sure, I am-- but it's more about her deciding to do something, and less about the fact that it's about not having sex. Right now, I'm going through the process of deciding what I want this summer to be all about, and I've come up with something that is just as interesting as her choice to be celibate:

I want to wake up every morning with expanding possibilities. I want to not be afraid to play. I want to stay loose. I want to keep things casual. I want to not let the past affect my future. I want to soak up the sand and lake's water equally. I want to not have to miss you any more. I want to be civil and someone who you'd want to miss. I want to be young. I want to be allowed to do as I please. I want to come and go and not have answer to anyone. I want to sleep the best I ever have. I want to go to concerts and movies and hiking and camping and sailing and road trips and swimming and expand. I want to become more professionally-proactive than before. I want to be able to change as often as the summer breezes. I want to not be figured out. I want to be allowed to just be.

And here's what I don't want, although it's exactly what everyone seems to think I should want: I don't want to date.

And I don't want to be tied down.

Maybe that's the root of the problem-- I came back thinking that's exactly what I wanted, and was too stunned to react with any sort of aplomb when I started to having sneaking suspicions that that's exactly what I actually don't want right now.

Would Carrie think wanting to be single is acceptable? I think yes, absolutely. People are fighting and clawing to get into relationships-- I want nothing more than to NOT be in one right now, taking a break and cooling down. What about you? What do you want this summer? Are you waiting to get into the "In" door, or are you running for the "Exit"? For now, the only man getting the right side of my bed is Nicco. The kitten.

XOXO