Back In The Saddle(bags) Again

There are a few things I really like about attending weddings: The look on the bride and groom's faces as they look at each other, the dancing at the reception afterwards, and the ruthless "time of famine and drought"-style drinking involved when the two best words in the English language get together-- Open. Bar. And then there are a few things I really hate about attending weddings: The fact I am ALWAYS over-dressed for the occasion; the feeling of desperation that settles in the air every time all the single women are rounded up onto the dance floor to make that leap for the bouquet; the fact that more and more, I'm attending the weddings of people that I've either grown up with and/or my age. First, it was my childhood best friend. Then, it was the older son of a friend of the family whom I've known since I was...I don't know...BORN. They're both a year or two older than I am, and now nuptially blissed-out, and here I am, still single, and while the motorcycle club I belong to may have a healthy number of prospects, when it comes to ones for my hypothetical wedding bed, there are NONE. Zip. Zero. Ziltch. Nada.

However, I like this show of priorities.

My last relationship involved living together, cleaning together, cooking and drinking together, exercising together (and if you know how much I hate to be seen sweating, you know how much that says about my commitment), and beginning to casually talk about weddings-- what locations we liked. What good theme colors would be. Who the bridesmaids and groomsmen would consist of. It was obviously serious when me, Miss Commitment Issues, started considering floral arrangements and the merits of hand-made wedding favors made by myself and my army of loyal (and handy!) bridesmaids. I could see myself spending the rest of my foreseeable 50-to-70 years with him, and somehow having us both miraculously die of old age and NOT of spousal homicide. It was a special union. He asked me one day if I'd still love him when he had a beer gut and had gone gray and to seed. I told him that I probably wouldn't even notice and still find him sexy, because I'd look like my mother. We laughed. We loved. And we parted.

So it was particularly bitter-sweet this past weekend, as I found myself down in Connecticut, open bar at the ready, single, condoms perennially-prepared in my cute little white clutch, and no single groomsmen to be had. People started asking after my ex. I started drinking more heavily, and eventually excused myself down the hill to the pond, so I could sit and willingly be eaten alive by the mosquitoes rather than have to utter the painful words, "Well, no one special..." one more time.

...And then, I heard the roar of a four-stroke engine.

Riding up the driveway came a refurbished custom Yamaha motorcycle, paint job pristine, chrome gleaming. It's rider was tall, dark, wearing plaid, and seemingly single. I wanted him. I wanted his bike. I was either in love, or very, very emotionally vulnerable and slightly sloshed.

So I did what every girl does when confronted with a really smokin' hot guy-- I watched him. Yes, I just sat there, and looked at him for the better part of an hour. He was pretty. It was easy. But really, I told myself, it wasn't quite enough. On the ride down to CT, I'd picked up the newest issue of Cosmopolitan, and for shits, giggles, and boredom, flipped to the last page and taken the "How Much Game Do You Have?" quiz. I got two points for professing that if I were out at a bar and saw a cute guy, I wouldn't just move into his line of sight and telepathically plead with him to come over and talk to me-- I would walk over and say hey. And you just don't lie to Cosmo. Was I really so sad and single and pathetic that I couldn't even brush the dust on my flirt off and go over and make a go of it? So I slung back my drink, adjusted my cute little summer dress, cursed being single and back in The Game, and grabbed my purse and lady-balls and walked down to where he stood next to his bike.

Now, if there is one very important life lesson I learned three years ago from having to un-Velcro Motorcycle Man of my college years from the thoughts of making me his girlfriend, it is that you DO NOT touch even a man's kickstand without asking his permission first. And thanks to the Northern Deathriders, I've acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge about motorcycles in the last few months. So I sauntered down to him, lightly touched his upper arm to get his attention (and for the hell of being able to touch him), and said, "Excuse me, but what model Yamaha is this?"

He turned around. He smiled. He told me. I told him about my friend's Yamaha. He asked if I was into bikes. I laughed and told him about my old lady status. "I'm more of a 'fetch beer, remind them to flip the burgers, and admire the bikes,' kinda girl," I told him. "Are you one of those girls who will polish her boyfriend's bike?" his friend asked me, leaning in. "No. But I'll tell him when it needs to be done."

Their eyes lit up in a way that told me that the only wedding bells that day had not just been earlier at the church. For the next 20 minutes, we talked bikes, business, and New York City, where he lived. It was like God had delivered me my perfect made-to-order man. The only thing missing to make it more obvious would have been a silver platter, hand-engraved. But after years in the dating trenches, I knew when to cut things off before the stink of desperation cut in and I went from being The Cute Girl Who Knows Her Shit to being The Crazy Girl Who Won't Go Away. Proud of myself for having the guts to approach him, and still buzzing from the intoxicating mix of wine, cute guy, and bike exhaust, I thanked him for talking bikes, shook his hand, and excused myself. I may have been out of the game for awhile, but this cat still knows when to play hard-to-get.

Later that night, he came back and found me before he left. I was sitting at a table, taking a break from the dance floor, when I saw him approaching me from the corner of my eye. I pretended not to notice him until he was right next to me, leaning over my chair. He offered his hand again, saying he was leaving, but thanking me for coming over and talking to him earlier. I took it, shook it, and told him the pleasure was mine, and that anytime he wanted to talk bikes, I was game. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name. But I knew that I felt good about myself, and that this old-hand Single Girl still had some life-- and some game-- in her yet. And who needs an engagement ring or kids when you can flirt with all the hot young bikers with good manners in the world? Exactly.

22. College-educated. Self-employed entrepreneur. Confident. Sarcastic. Single. Fabulous.

XOXO

Attack Of The Pod People.

My childhood best friend is getting married shortly (a June wedding; classic, of course). Despite the fact that we've been largely out of touch for the past few years, my family and I were still invited. My dad bowed out-- weddings aren't exactly his thing-- but my S.O gamely agreed to be my date, anyhow. What startled me the most about these upcoming nuptials wasn't the fact that I actually have a date to a wedding; it wasn't that my childhood best friend, one year older than I, was getting married; it was, rather, the fact that I remember sneaking downstairs for midnight snacks with her in 5th grade, laying on the carpet on our backs in front of the drink cart in my parent's dining room, and planning out her wedding. That's when it hit me as I read her wedding invitation and RSVP card--

We're not playing little-girl games anymore.

And it shows. Lately, I've been feeling a sort of shift in myself and my desires in relationships that I thought was imperceptible to everyone but myself, until in the eyes of my first college roommate, I finally saw reflected a very different vision than the college freshman who used to slink back into our cramped dorm room ashamedly at 2 AM from her forays in the RA’s room, sex hair rampant. I was poised. I was graduating. I was in a functional, happy, mature relationship that was defined by the both of us in accordance of what we wanted, what we needed, and what we were looking for from each other. I was—Jesus Christ—in love. What shocked me most was when she commented after I told her that my current relationship was making me realize how much the past, less-serious relationships I had been in irked me in their undefined, let's-just-see-where-this-takes-us-before-one-or-both-of-us-abruptly-jump-ship, laissez-faire attitudes, "I've seen how you've struggled and been hurt, even when you said you didn't want anything that was serious, because I knew you'd figure it out for yourself, one day."

Me? Actually be one of those girls her likes her relationships done defined with a side of seriousness, going in a positive, delineated fashion? Mais, non!

Mais, oui! As we stood on the corner of Church Street and Main last night, my S.O referred to me in passing to his friend as "my girlfriend." And that's when I realized-- I haven't had a guy call me his "girlfriend" since I was a junior in high school, and that's also the same guy who ended up proposing to me. Since then, I've been "my friend," "the girl I'm seeing," "the girl I'm sleeping with," or just plain "Carissa," but never the "girlfriend." Until now, when I've met the family and keep my pear-and-sugar exfoliating scrub in his shower and have brought him back to my hometown. It makes me wonder if all of this-- the meeting of the families, the mature partnership and cohabitation, the giving of solid, concrete titles, the endeavoring to actually, I don't know, BE TOGETHER-- was what was missing in the rest of my relationships, and thus, why they all ended up failing. While watching an episode of SATC yesterday, it brought up the question: If men and women are like cabs, cruising around with our lights off while we pick up and discard all sorts of people until we finally decide the time is right-- post-college, post-nearly a decade of dating debacles, post-living abroad, and now, pre-friend-in-the-same-age-group's weddings-- are our lights now suddenly on?

While pop culture knowledge may say that I should now be desperately plotting how to wrangle a man into my marriage bed now that my friends are starting to say their "I do"s, I say "I don't"; I may not be on the fast-track to engagement or marriage (the only thing I like about engagements is the ring, because I adore diamonds, and the only reason I'd really like to get married is to put my Star Wars-themed wedding plans into action; both of which don't quite seem like good enough reasons to do either), but there are some disturbing signs pointing to the fact that I may, quite possibly, be one of those "pod people" types who is actually happy inside of her relationship, just the way it is. You know, those couples who are always together, just happen to end up wearing matching outfits, and constantly use the word "we" all the time? You know, pod people. "We" people. "'We' went here," "'We' did that," people. But then I rolled over this morning, and suddenly realized the novel "Chasing Harry Winston" by Lauren Weisberger was on top of my reading pile, while "The Bridesmaids" was on my Movies-To-See List, and my mother and I had recently debated the choice of my childhood best friend having her reception at The Legion and the S.O and I had ended up in front of the engagement display, comparing tastes, while on a trip to Periwinkles to find him a watch. I started getting suspicious. Maybe I was getting antsy. Meanwhile, in the formulation and brainstorming process of writing this post and getting into the "wedding" frame of mind, I've been trolling countless big-name jeweler sites, ring-watching. (If you don't think it's not a competitive sport for women, guess again.) And until I found this ring on Harry Winston's site, which isn't even an engagement ring, I was rather lackadaisical about the whole thing. Still no real drive to hear wedding bells. Still entirely loathe to put together a guest list (my own personal nightmare). And then, I saw the ring. Imagined what it could look like with a diamond crowning it, instead of a sapphire. Thought about how I could rope my father, a jeweler, into designing and making something similar. And I suddenly got it. The itch. The diamond fever. I realized that every relationship before now was wrong because we weren't on the same page. They were all in the casual lane while secretly, unbeknownst to even myself, I was in the "Skyscraper ring on my left ring finger" lane. I started wondering where I could find decent flower arrangements and a hot pink Gerber daisy bouquet. Then, I caught myself. I almost, unknowingly, without being on guard, let myself slip into the "we" people zone again. The diamond almost got me. While I may be the sort of girl who has rediscovered that she cherishes being called "the girlfriend," I'm still not the sort of girl who thinks picking place settings and napkin fabrics out is a good use of my time, when I could be, I don't know, catching up on all the new episodes of Sons of Anarchy or creating a new, catchy acronym for inappropriate relationships (P.I.W.B: Professor I Would Bang, anyone?). So, while I may be discovering, through my relationships, through my friends, and through myself, what sort of pod person I really am, I'm also still not overly tuned into my biological clock or life plan. It was all the ring. The fucking ring. Weddings. They're still on my "highly skeptical; treat as you would a leper patient" list.

XOXO

Can I See Some Classification?

Lately, my most over-used phrase has been "He's not my boyfriend." As the boy himself pointed out the other night, he gets why when he kisses me in public, people assume I'm his girlfriend, and sometimes it's easier to just not correct them, and I hear that and am all over with agreeing with it-- I let it slide too, when it's not really important. But still, if I have to tell my mother one more time that he is not my boyfriend, and that she needs to stop telling people that I have a boyfriend in favor of telling them that I'm casually seeing someone, there's gonna be a matricide charge. So, A.) because my mother reads my blog, and B.) because I feel like a primer isn't a bad thing if you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about when I say I'm "seeing someone", here's a written guide on the classifications of relationships:

If you think someone is the bee's knees and they might not even know you exist, you're crushing on someone. Conversely, they might know they exist. They might like you, too. But other than talking and hanging out, if no one's made the first move, you're still just crushing on someone.

If you're being blatantly obvious that you're crushing on someone, and they're talking about other girls or other guys and are asking you for advice or help with landing the opposite (or same,) sex, or call you "bro, man, homie," or any other generic, genderless term of affection, you're just friends. You are in the friend-zone. Even if they were stupifyingly drunk, you're probably not getting any. Also, you could just be friends if they're someone that you've never had a single sexual thought about, and the same is true for them about you. Caveat: If you're NOT being blatantly obvious that you're crushing on them, now might be a time to start, because if they DO also like you and you say nothing, you will still get stuck in the friend-zone. Not, as I hope you want to be, in at least the next classification, where sex is involved.

If you're having sex and he's never hinted at or tried moving things out of the bedroom or car or motel room (other than to change location for sex), you're hooking up. Also classified as fucking, or being fuck buddies.

If he takes you out more than twice and drops cash on you, no matter how much or how little it is, and keeps making noise about wanting to keep taking you out and/or treating you-- you're dating. And he's a keeper.

If you're spending time together, going out, sleeping together (both sexually and physically in the same bed), in each other's top 5 contacts lists, and have met the important people in each other's lives-- roommates, friends, parents, etc.-- you're seeing each other. Now, there are two classifications to seeing each other: casually, and exclusively. "Casually" implies that there's been no exclusivity talk or commitment; that if you don't see him a certain number of times in a week, it's cool, and that both of you respect each other's social lives without needing to be in it 24/7. "Exclusively" just means that you had that chat where you said that you only want to be with the other, and you now have an excuse to castrate him with the closest dull yet pointy object if you catch him with another woman after that conversation.

Another word that you can use in place of "seeing each other" is that you're together. He knows that you're together. You know that you're together. Both your friends know that you're together. The people that see you out and about know that you're together. But just like the difference between "casually" and "exclusively" seeing each other, that girl who he's chatting up at work when you're not there might not know that you and he are together. So get it confirmed in conversation if it's going to bug you. Or if it's been a few months that you've been "together." Then, it's just time to shit or get off the pot. While relationships aren't about sprinting through the classifications or steps, they generally do need to progress, though it takes time to get to know someone, and if you'd like to go to the next level with them. Exclusivity is always the next step in the relationship at this point-- it just takes some people longer to work around to it than others. And if he won't give you his exclusivity, or if you're unwilling to stop trying to get with other people, then it's time to end it...

...AKA: break up. You can use the term "break up" to describe what happened with anyone at any point after hooking up-- it's just easier and clearer what you mean that way, rather than saying "we're no longer communicating," which means you could still be fucking, just not talking. (Hey...it happens.) Even if you were just sleeping together, if you're not anymore, if you had a nasty conversation about why you won't be anymore, you broke up.

NO ONE is anyone's boyfriend or girlfriend until the question is raised and the ok is given to refer to them as such. This would mean that you need to either say, "Hey, would it be ok if I called you my boyfriend?" or he says "I'd like you to be my girlfriend." Even if y'all have been dating and sleeping together for two or more months, if you haven't talked about it outright, he ain't yo boyfran, as my friend Caiti would say. In which case, if he does something above and beyond what he needs to do in your current status, you can tell him he's the best "not-boyfriend" ever. Or if you do something above the call of duty for him or his friends, you're allowed to comment on the fact with your friends that it officially made you the best not-girlfriend ever. The "not" is the most important part of this phrase. It shows that you're aware of the fact you don't have this label, yet are perfectly capable of and willing to do the things that would come with it. Strangely, I prefer the title "not-girlfriend" to that of "girlfriend." I think it's because it means I care about someone enough that I'm willing to do what I don't really have to, just because I want to do it. Caveat: Sometimes it's easier not to fight society's previously conceived conventions and try to explain that someone is not your boyfriend. In these cases, either grin and bear it, as we talked about earlier, or correct them if it really irks you that much, or you feel that you need to our should. If you're stuck for a term to correct them with, "significant other" covers it well as a blanket term. A "significant other" is someone who is the most significant other person in your life that you're in a relationship with-- be it a not-boyfriend or not-girlfriend, or a not-quite-yet-fiancée, or your baby-daddy who isn't thinking about making an honest woman out of you yet, but is in your life and supportive.

If you've moved on to seeing each other exclusively, and have had the labels conversation, you're in a serious, committed relationship. You might now be going on vacations together, be invited to each other's family events, thinking of signing a lease together, or he may have started casually browsing the front window displays of jewelry stores. (Note-- this classification is highly age and maturity regulated.)

If you signed a piece of paper together, exchanged rings, and remember saying "I do," I hate to break it to you, but you're married. That is the only time it is appropriate for anyone to call your girl "the wifey."

And now for the toughest term-- a relationship. A "relationship" can be taken a few different ways. You have a relationship with your parents. You have a relationship with your friends. You have a relationship (and probably, some sort of understanding,) with your landlord. And you certainly have a relationship with the person of the opposite or same sex in your life, regardless of the fact if you're just fuck buddies or if you're in a serious, committed relationship. One of my exes explained it this way, and tricked me into a relationship with him in doing so, which was probably the most clever act a man has ever pulled on me as well as the only way a guy could wrangle me into something: "Technically, we've already had relations (read: sex), so whether you like it or not, we're now in a relationship." It's true-- sex changes things between two people. So does him taking you out, even if you haven't slept with each other yet. And if he's spending nights with you, that's another step up the relationship pyramid right there-- not only are you together, but you also have a different relationship as bed partners. (He steals the sheets, you kick, and you're both learning how to deal with the other one while asleep.) So, if you have a different relationship with him that exceeds your friendship, no matter what it is, from sleeping together to being engaged, you're in a relationship with that person. Again, it can be serious or not serious, but dynamics between the two of you have changed.

So...readers...Mom...next time someone asks you what's going on with you and that dude that they're always seeing you with, or if your nosy neighbor who fancies herself a new-age matchmaker asks you if you're in a relationship, you can tell them, "Yes. I'm casually seeing someone, and I really like him." Case closed.

XOXO

Make Wise Decisions

The first man who proposed to me was desperate for a family and cheating on me at the time because he knew that at my young age, kids weren't a paramount desire for me-- going to college was. I thought he was joking-- there was no ring, no bended knee, not even any short but sweet speech about how I made his life better. Just a "What would you think about getting married?" I laughed. To this day, I still laugh. Because life with him would have been laughable, and ended in divorce, tout suite.

The second man who proposed to me was drunk. Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk. It was at my cousin's wedding, and we'd be talking for an hour, and everyone knows how weddings make people. When he proposed that I become Mrs. Joey Valentino, since I had the class, the brains, the looks, and the connections that he was looking for in a wife, I very gently told him to reconsider in the morning, when he was sober. One tells men used to hearing "yes" due to their family connections to reconsider things very gently. On one hand, I could be sitting in a manse in Red Bank right now, wearing Dior and sipping on Patron, or on the other hand, I could actually be getting on with my life in the real world. But I'm not going to lie-- right around when the time of the month comes to pay the bills, I start to really miss Joey.

The third man to use the words "I'd" "marry" and "you" together in a sentence was one of my best guy friends, after he saw that this was something I'd want my groom and his groomsmen to do in our Star Wars-themed wedding. He was obviously kidding, and it was obviously not really a marriage proposal. It was the best one that I'd gotten yet.

Make wise decisions when it comes to the rest of your life, ladies. There's a difference between being in love with someone and being in love with the idea of love. The wisest women I know have turned down their first 2 proposals. Extremely wise mothers of some of my friends turned down the first 2 proposals of their future husbands and fathers of their children, just to make sure they were serious, or because they felt that as a man, they weren't ready yet for marriage. It takes a while to find out what you're really looking for in a mate, and the best way to do that is to be faced with the idea of spending the rest of your life with someone, and realizing you don't want to for this reason, and that reason, and because they hold their fork like this. Be young; be wise; be single-- don't get married or even engaged until the third time is at least more than a charm.

XOXO

The State Of Heaven On Union: Thoughts I'm Too Sick And Exhausted To Flesh Into Real Posts

I made one shady judgement call, and all I got was this stupid cold. Well, among with a few other things, but mostly, this stupid cold. Even my immune system is immune to some things. Fuck.

I'm never more on the fence about relationships than when I'm sick. First of all, I'm a huge baby about it, so I'm really glad no one romantically involved with me is usually around to see me in the same tank top and jeans for 3 days straight (after wearing said tank top to bed two nights in a row,) and whimpering softly like a hit puppy while rolling around on my bed amongst the used tissues.

On the other hand, I've decided that you really have to love and be committed to someone to want to be around them when they're sick. I mean, Jesus Christ, it's a marriage vow, for fuck's sake. But it still doesn't mean it's any sort of pleasant business. Case in point: I normally run an abnormally low body temperature around 96.8 degrees, but when I'm running a fever, I physically burn up while mentally registering that I'm chilled to the bone. And me and my sweaty/chilled body just want to be clooooooose to yoooooooou. Ick.

Times it's good to be single: Check. Because though I'm all about warning people when I'm sick so that they can keep their distance (unlike some, apparently), being with someone who doesn't want to be close to you when you're at your most degrading and disgusting (short of food poisoning, Montezuma' and the Chinese from last night's revenge, or childbirth,) is like being with a man who takes a shower after having sex with you. And doesn't invite you along.

...That's never actually happened to me, but it sounded really dramatic.

This is for all of you women out there who have not been invited along for after-sex showers. And all of you like mucous-addled poor souls out there. Being sick sucks. If anyone has good movies, extra body heat, or some Chinese Hot & Sour soup to deliver to this sad little address, I'd be indebted forever. Grazie mille.

XOXO

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

Men By The Numbers

I know I just wrote a post on which I professed that people are not just "numbers", but it got me thinking about my numbers-- not just the number of partners I've had, but the more esoteric things about my relationships. How many of them do I still talk to? How many could I still recognize just by their voice? How much do they know about me? How much time did we spend together? What sort of time was it-- just time for sex, or are they people I spent afternoons or nights or meals or awkward moments with?

I got down to it and compiled some numbers. In an over-arching, long-term hope for things, I'd love to know other people's numbers like this, so we could all start compiling a database of what is normal, what's quirky, what's sweet, what's not, and what real relationships sex lives in the 21st century are really like, dispelling urban myths, and talking openly and honestly. How awesome would that be? And so, I give you...

Men By The Numbers:

Only 1 man knows how I brush my teeth.

Only 2 know where I'm ticklish. (If they remember.)

Only 5 men know how I share (or don't share) a bed. Only 3 of those men actually know what I look like when I'm asleep. Of those 3, only 1 has spent hours around me while I haven't been wearing glasses. And a fun fact: the average number of sexual partners for heterosexual men is 7; for heterosexual women, it's 4. I like being above average.

Only 1 ex and my closest guy friends know what my living space looks like. I tend to be overly mysterious and protective about it.

Only 1 man other than my father has ever cooked for me. Only 2 men I'd been seeing have ever paid for my food. Only 4 have offered. None know how I like my eggs. Only 1 knows how I take my coffee.

I've only had to supply the condom once. ...But I've had to make a point of it twice. 2 guys asked if I was on birth control. Good guys!

4 times I've bought men clothing only to have it crash and burn soon thereafter. Lesson? No more buying men clothing.

Number of times I've been in love: 3. Out of those times, 1 ended after a bloody and prolonged death, 1 will be eternal, and 1 fell out-of-love with pragmatism and change. Number of times I have said those three words out-loud: Never.

Number of times I've been proposed to: 2. Number of proposals I accepted: None.

Number of relationships I've had since I started dating at the age of 16: 9. Practice makes perfect.

Number of those 9 relationships that lasted over a month: 2. 1: Abysmal and too apathetic to end it sooner. The other: A hell of a learning experience. Number of relationships that lasted over 6 months: None.

Number of times a man has surprised me: Once.

Number of men who have up and died on me: 1.

Number of times I've been left: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. TOO MANY TO COUNT. Number of times I've been the dumper: 2. Most commonly heard excuse: "I think we need to take a break." "Breaks" never happen, FYI. "Breaks" never un-break. Breaks are The End.

Most commonly-cited reason for me ending things with a guy: "I know about her." Number of times I've been cheated on: 3. 1 actually admitted it to me-- thank you. Number of times I picked the other woman out of the crowd: All 3 times. It's an odd and sad gift. Number of men I've cheated on: 2.

Number of exes I've stayed in close contact with: 2.

Most common denominator among the men I've been with: Dark hair.

Favorite type of the opposite sex: Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes. Did you know? People with blue or green eyes are more biologically attracted to other blue or green eyed people because the chances of their offspring being born with brown eyes is a great indicator of either A.) A stray recessive gene, or B.) Unfaithfulness. It's natural pre-natal planning.

Most common letter of first name of men I've dated: A tie between Rs and As.

What I notice first in the opposite sex: Height. Hands. Arms. Eyes. Facial structure. Hairline. Smile.

Who made the first move: Always them. It's a girl's job to make sure that her interest is known. It's a man's job to act on it from there.

What I will remember automatically about every man I've been with until I die: The way they smell, and the sound of their voice. Other odd things I'll remember: Body language quirks, laughs, and bad habits.

Pet-peeves about men I've repeatedly ground my teeth about: Snoring. When asked "How are you," having them answer, but not ask how I am in return. Leaving without saying goodbye. Holding utensils like a barbarian. Breaking plans.

What I appreciate most in a guy: Intellect, and the ability to both dish it out and take it. Bickering is sexay.

I have never believed a man other than my father when told I'm beautiful. ...Though I am susceptible to compliments about my character.

Most commonly-dated ethnicity: Italian. Number of men I was with while in Italy: 0. Irony.

The Good: 4 men have inspired me to write. The Bad: 2 yielded pretty weak stuff. The Best: 2 gave me the roots of the best poetry I've ever written, and 1 gave me looooooots of blog fodder. So you have him to thank.

I've been with more men over 5'10" than under. I've been with 4 over 6 feet in height. I like 'em tall.

I also like them older, though I have been with 2 younger.

4 were musicians. 3 were party-happy. 6 were artistic. 1 was another writer. 1 was a lay-about. 3 had criminal records. At one time, my bio line could have read, "If you have blue eyes, a criminal record, and a weed problem, you'll love me!" 3 of them fit that exact description. Surprisingly, only 1 of those 3 makes my list of Top 2 Disappointments. The other member of that list just confounds me.

The longest I've ever been able to stay interested in 1 man: Over 6 months. Once. The shortest I stayed with 1 man: 2 weeks.

Of those men, I still think of 1 every. single. day.

And the person who may know me best: 1 of those men. What he still doesn't know: Volumes more.

XOXO

The End Of Men?

This month, The Atlantic featured an eye-catching cover with a wilting men's gender symbol proclaiming the article, "The End of Men." Being in a currently man-less stint, I was intrigued. Dating makes me just want to die, so was there some miraculous way that I could just...get around it?

Let's examine how our world has changed in favor of women in the last few decades:

- For every 2 men who get a college degree, 3 women do. Women now are earning 60% of all bachelor AND master's degrees, about half of all law and medical degrees, and 42% of all M.B.A.s.

- In the 1970s, biologist Ronald Ericsson found a way to determine and customize the sex of children. Since then, when Ericsson looked into the results of his technology in the '90s, he discovered couples were requesting more girls than boys. In some clinics, the ratio was 2 to 1, and a newer sperm selection method called MicroSort is seeing a request for girls that runs about 75%. Ericsson says of his surprising findings, "Women live longer than men. They do better in this economy. More of 'em graduate from college. They go into space and do everything that men do, and sometimes they do it a whole lot better. I mean, hell, get out of the way-- these females are going to leave us males in the dust."

- In 2006, the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development devised the Gender, Institutions and Development Database, which measures economic and political power of women in 162 countries and found that the greater the power of women, the greater the country's economic success.

- Women own over 40% of the private businesses in China, where a red Ferrari is their new status symbol as a successful female entrepreneur. (May we institute this fad in the U.S, please?)

- In 1950, about 1 in 20 men of prime working age wasn't working; today, the ratio is at 1 in 5, the highest ever recorded. This, in part, is due to our economic position-- the crash killed millions of man-dominated jobs, mostly of the working or blue-collar class. White collar economy values "raw intellectual horsepower," which men and women tend to have in equal amounts, while also requiring "communication skills and social intelligence," which according to many studies are areas in which women have a slight edge over their male counterparts.

- This leads to risk/benefit selection between the sexes. Leadership talents include being aggressive and competitive, which are swayed more toward men's natural dispositions. But psychological study research has painted a broader picture of what constitutes a good natural leader; in lab studies that simulate negotiations, men and women are equally assertive and competitive, but where men tend to assert themselves in a slightly controlling manner, women tend to take into account the rights of others, say psychologists Alice Eagly and Linda Carli, authors of the 2007 book "Through the Labyrinth." Researchers have also started looking into the relationship between testosterone and excessive risk, leading them to wonder if because of their biological make-up, men are more likely to make reckless decisions. The picture that emerges from this research is completely counter-intuitive to the way we've thought of the genders for ages: men on the side of irrational and over-emotional, and women as cool and level-headed. Blame it on the testosterone?

So, do I think women still need men?

Yup. Without a doubt. I'll cash my 2 cents' in as saying "absolutely." There are some things that you just cannot or should not do by yourself. I can be as pro-feminism as they come, and yet I still acknowledge there are some things than men can do better than women, hence, the need for them-- coupled with our desire for them. (However, "drive better" is not one of those things.)

Granted, there are some things about men that we could stand to do without. As Joan Rivers said, "Do remember that men are like mattress salesmen-- they'll say anything to get you into their beds." Joan Rivers knows a thing or two. I just had the unfortunate luck to be shopping for both at the same time. In the end, the mattress salesmen ended up having the safer investment, even though the mattress itself took a week in coming (longer than any man I've ever been with,) and has yet to actually be assembled and used.

From a completely selfish and stilted side, I sleep with a body pillow named George because of the fact that I am so pitifully loathe to sleep alone, and need something to throw an arm or a leg to drape over and have something at my back in the night. A nice anecdote that further cements my thinking on this matter, George got his name because there was a time in my life in which my roommates couldn't keep the Men du Jour straight and threatened to fill a whole Costco-sized "Hello, My Name Is ______" name tag roll with "George" so they would never need to learn another Tom, Dick, or Harry Dick's name again, just to be inundated with another a week later. (For awhile, men were my kinda-slightly-more grown-up Pokemon-- I believed I had to catch them all without also catching the Hep. This is why I may be a little more prone to being soft on the cads that I seem to pick up-- a feeling of sluttish camaraderie at the same time you want to pull at your hair and moan, "Why do I do this to myself?!") Men may drive you crazy, but as my reluctance to sleep alone points out, there's just something about having one there that can calm the female beast.

But that objectifying of men leads to the belief that they're disposable, which they're not. First-generation college-educated white women-- that's me, right there-- constitute a new type of middle class, where marriage is increasingly rare. What does that mean for me? True, marriage is not at the top of my list of desires and life-goals, but to see that fact there, so black and white and stark, makes me wonder about my chances, given the fact I might want to make it a chance.

Increasing numbers of women unable to find men with a similar education or income end up forgoing marriage. in 1970, 84% of women ages 30-44 were married; now only 60% are. Ashley Burress, a student body president at the University of Missouri at Kansas City, stated, "In 2012, I will be Dr. Burress. ...I would like to date, but I'm putting myself in a really small pool." One female senior in college supposedly remarked, "Guys are the new ball and chain."

It's not like men are going anywhere-- they're not. But finding ones who share your educational and emotional leanings is getting harder and harder. Think about the recent portrayals of men-- unemployed, romantically-challenged young dudes feature predominantly in Judd Apatow's films as perpetually adolescent. Noah Baumbach's charmless misanthrope of Greenberg has nearly zero chance of finding a woman who will tolerate, let alone love, him. "We call each other 'man,'" a line in Greenberg goes, "but it's a joke. It's like imitating other people." And where are we in a world when even the American male novelist has lost his mojo and can't even rely on sex as a way for his characters to assert their macho-ness?

That same macho-ness may be exactly what women still-- emotionally, if we don't need them financially or reproductively-- need men for. Though it may be terribly clichéd, there are some jars I can't open, some shelves I can reach, and some sore shoulders that are best massaged by someone else. Yes, I have a roommate who is more than capable of all of these things, and I have always been able to kill my own creepy, crawly spiders, but it's the gesture that remains. I am at my best and most charming and feminine and sweet when a man is around. I like that girl who comes out to play, because as the statistics above show, most days, I'm a power-wielding, income-earning, college-dominating, self-nurturing woman. Who, if I am entering a bracket of such low marriage expectations, is supposed to take care of me?

Women still, and will always, at least want, if not need, a man in the picture. We keep dating and putting ourselves out there against the odds, because, at the end of the day, it's nice to go home to someone. It's nice to know that you have the ability to make a "What are you up to?" call. It's nice to have someone other than a down comforter or a body pillow keep you warm at night. At its most base, there are only so many solo-gasms you can have before it's just not fun anymore. And at its best, having a partner brings out a new side of you. The side that isn't a blossoming CEO by day, but the side of you that is still a girl who has needs and a desire for companionship and intimacy.

XOXO

Repeat Mistakes

I’m getting to that age where it’s perfectly acceptable to sit around with my girl friends and discuss marriage. And that’s scary. I would like to freeze time right here, please.

Earlier tonight, five of us were sitting around the dining room table in our apartment discussing the fact that now that we’re in our twenties, the search for the Eternal Happy Ending, or, at least, a 2-point Engagement Ring and Iron-Clad Pre-Nup, is on. Though some of us aren’t actively looking, or some of us, in fact, aren’t looking for that storybook ending at all, we all could agree on one thing: Being with men is getting scary. It’s a total Goldilocks syndrome for your twenties: you’re scared out of your wits if you’re perfectly happy with them and see it ending all rosy and blissful, but you’re also scared shitless if it doesn’t seem like you’re getting anywhere with them.

“It’s so weird to think that the next person we’re with could be our potential future husband.”

“But I feel like every guy I date is just getting farther and farther away from who I would want to marry.”

“That’s why I like Sex and the City. Carrie didn’t get married until she was sure he was The One.”

“That’s the inherent flaw,” I interjected, having been over this thought a few times before. “Making the same mistakes over and over again isn’t called ‘failure’. It’s called ‘dating’.”

Two weeks ago, I downloaded the episode of SATC in which Carrie first says “I love you” to Mr. Big. When he doesn’t return the statement, she proclaims to the Ladies Who Brunch crew that unless he antes up within a week, she’ll have to end their relationship. When I watched it, I was initially floored. How could a woman end a relationship right after she admits to something like that? Isn’t that kind of the equivalent to Indian-giving or saying, “Oops, just kidding”? Isn’t that a bit quick to retract all those big emotions?

I get it now. You can say what you want and what you feel, but there are some things that you have to do because in the end, keeping yourself and your dignity is worth even more than anyone else is to you.

Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Maybe it’s because I’m not good at sharing my feelings, or, in fact—sharing. Maybe it’s because I’ve been screwed over one too many times. But during my two day hike in Cinque Terra, I did a lot of thinking, because other than focusing on screaming calf muscles or the fact that my smoking has finally caught up with my respitory system, I had a lot of time to mull it over, and over, and over again. There’s nothing quite like being alone in nature with your thoughts. Coming back to Florence and civilization clinched it for me.

I’ve always been preoccupied with looking out for Number One first, something that I lost sight of in Italy, of all places. It’s not selfishness—it’s self-health-ness. My eternal problem is that I give and I give and I give and forgive and forgive and forgive, until the point where I’m not happy with myself, my lot in life, or what a push-over I’ve become. I am willing to do a lot for other people. But I’m done with the competing to prove it. The only thing I am not willing to do is sacrifice myself, or that maybe-unpromised Happy Ending in whatever form. I am young, and I am alive, and I am in Italy—quite possibly the Land of Love. If there is nothing else to love, there is always the sights and the sounds and the smells and the newness of living here for three months, which is not something I’m ever going to be able to get back. While there will always be some things you can work at, there are others that are fleeting and fresh and will never appear again. So it shouldn’t be squandered under dark clouds of doubt and regret and indecision and unhappiness. I’m not going to keep counting down the days until I leave. I am going to live instead for the Now and the Here and the Why Not? And if you want to squander, you can live however you wish.

If I can get out relatively unscathed, with my dignity still attached, then I’ll keep moving on and making my mistakes. As Passion Pit says in their song “Little Secrets” (on heavy repeat on my iPod), “Let this be our little secret; no one needs to know how I’m feeling.” There is no feeling quite like finally making up your mind. I feel lighter and more content with life than I have in months.

So maybe your twenties aren’t for being afraid of what’s ahead. Maybe your twenties are for wild abandon and enjoyment; late nights; new things; drinking and smoking too much; discovering yourself and new places; making up your mind, and brief moments of clarity and maturity. Maybe, as Carrie discovered, there is time later to go back and mend bridges if want be.

XOXO