Tag Archives: Dating

Looking for love…

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At this point, I’m really too busy for dating of any sort and only check my Plenty of Fish account in case the perfect country Catholic boy just happens to message me… and because it’s funny and I love screencapping profiles and messages for Gail.

pof january 12

About Me

1) Must love God and Go to Church
2) Must live some what healthy life style
3) Good communication
4) Likes going to bed fairly early on week days (9ish)
5) Get up fairly early 4-6 ish
6) Like outdoors (camping, fishing, cycling, running)
7) Lounging watching movies, sports,
8) Sex doesn’t have to be crazy just often
First Date
on the fly
Summary:
Must love Jesus… and fucking like wild animals.

“Get your hourglass off my uterus. It’s heavy.”

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A co-worker is having a baby.

I’ve been trying to discreetly discover her age, as if that will give me some indication of my time limit.

I go out and my Gramma asks if I met anyone.

“Get your hourglass off my uterus. It’s heavy.”

She laughs…

because I’m fucking funny.

My brother asked if I ever wanted to get married again and have kids…

as he started his stopwatch.

“I’M TWENTY-FUCKING-FIVE AND IN GRADUATE SCHOOL! SUCK MY VAGINAL LIPS!” I want to yell.

I don’t…

usually.

There’s something about the phrase “vaginal lips” that upsets people.

disgusted

“If you ain’t got two kids by 21, you’re probably gonna die alone.. at least that’s what tradition told you.”

“Tiny little boxes in a row… ain’t what you want, it’s what you know.”

I sing along with the country station.

woman singing

The song wouldn’t be popular were the singer and I the only ones who felt that way.

I’m going to stop feeling like my time is running out…

because it doesn’t have to be get married and have kids.

They aren’t connected moves…

obviously.

I can do babies alone.

One year, I knew I’d miss the fair if I waited for someone to go with me.

No one wanted to go.

So I went alone.

I had a great time.

I saw what I wanted to see.

I skipped what I wanted to skip.

I left when I wanted to leave.

It was awesome.

happy woman

On the last day, Jay and Ward went with me and it was fun then, too.

Babies are the same.

I can live without ever being married again…

but I want babies.

If I hit 30 with no prospects…

I’ll just have them…

and if a boy comes along later, that’s great…

but I’m not risking my chance for family on said hypothetical man.

I told my country, old-fashioned, blue collar dad as much.

tim

“Good. Other women are weak. You don’t need anyone else.”

Go dad.

Go me.

I imagine looking for love will be a lot more fun now.

broken hourglass

Worst Flirting of 2012… Because Dating is Funny

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bad-date21Could you maybe, die away from me?

When 2012 started, I hadn’t been on a date since my divorce. I didn’t date before my marriage, either, so I was 24 and didn’t know what the hell I was doing. That hasn’t changed. I’m just 25, now. I’m terrible at dating and have written several posts on it. Apparently, the men I date suck at it, too, though. Fortunately, I’m no longer racked with nerves, to the point that I think I might actually be sick on said dates, because I’ve been on enough this year to know that the worst case scenario is going to be a really funny story later. I haven’t even written these down. I’ve just remembered, because they’re just so epic that Gail and I constantly quote them.

“There’s no way your marriage was worse than mine.”
One: Why the hell would you want to compare that? That’s the worst first date conversation EVER.
Two: You know almost NOTHING about my marriage… and yes it fucking was.

“I don’t think I’ve read a book since high school.”
FANTASTIC way to hit on a girl who just told you she wants to be a librarian.

“I’m a decent guy. I’ve never cheated on a woman. I’ve never hit a woman.”
Why the FUCK are those things on your mind? Why would you even bring them up? You don’t hit women? That’s your biggest selling point?!?!

“Yeah, you see, I spent four months in military prison. I was over in Iraq and when I came back, I found out my ex-wife had been fuckin’ around on me… so… cuz of her, I had to go to military prison for a while.”
?!?! I’m pretty sure you left out an entirely relevant portion of that story.
I had to quote this one again, though I’ve devoted an entire post to that night.

“You wanna get out of here, don’t you?”
Me: “Nah. I don’t go home with guys I meet in bars.”
“This isn’t a bar. It’s a club.”
Now that you mention semantics, I totally want your venereal disease!

Me: “How’d you get through college if your ADHD was so bad?”
“I slept. They didn’t wake me up, because they knew if they did, I’d just correct all of their work and embarrass them.”
Wow. You aren’t kidding, are you? You actually think you’re more intelligent than all professors ever.

“The worst thing about working there was knowing that I was smarter than everyone.”
Why am I even here? You’re clearly so in love with yourself that my very existence is superfluous.

Me: “I’m really not a romantic person.”
“What, you don’t like foreplay?”
Please never give me a Valentine’s Day gift… like ever.

Me: “My dad just wants my sister to be an engineer because he loves to brag. I don’t even have my master’s yet and he’s constantly telling people I’m 25 with a master’s degree.”
“I bet he doesn’t tell them what it’s in, though.”
Wow. I hope you die alone.

“I ran over a cat on my bike once and I was just pissed, because it fucked up my wheel.”
You don’t care about excruciating cuddly animal death? That is HAWT. Hold my drink while I hike up my dress.

“Really? He’s been buying your drinks all night and you’re just gonna leave?”
Me: “No, it was just the one drink. If it had been more, you know…”
No. I’m lying and mocking you. Not even a chance.

“I actually have a fairly small penis. It’s about three inches.”
One: I didn’t ask. I don’t even know why you brought it up.
Two: You sir, are BAD AT THIS.

“There were 69 people in my graduating class.”
They let eleven year olds into bars?

“I work at Wal-Mart. I fucking hate it.”
Marry me. Marry me, now.

“You’re fucking stupid if you spend less than $2000 on a bicycle.”
Oh my gosh. I am so wet right now.

take me

An Honest Online Dating Profile

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So we all pick and choose… we all gloss over things. But wouldn’t it be funnier if we didn’t? Here’s what my online dating profile would look like were I more forthcoming.

“I’m a 25-year-old divorcee. I may or may not want to get married again, because he broke me. I may or may not want kids, because babies die sometimes. If you want either of these, you might have to badger me until I agree. I’m not even sure I want a relationship, but I know I’m supposed to, so this seemed a good approach.  Clearly, I have enough baggage for two, so you’ll need to keep yours to a minimum.

I’m not a laid back person. At all. I want you to be laid back to balance that out… but not too laid back. You should be good with money and really into your career so that I know you’ll keep a job. I will totally accept someone who works 80 hours per week. You should probably be pretty clean, too, because if you can’t respect that my media is alphabetized by series then title then format, I’ll feel like you don’t respect me, even though I know it’s irrational. Okay. So maybe you shouldn’t be laid back. Maybe you should just be more laid back than I am. The good news, though, is that that’s not hard to accomplish!

You must be taller than me, because it makes me feel dainty.

You must be equal parts country and intellectual. If I’m a better shot than you are and you don’t drive a pick up, you’re not man enough for me. If I rant about how great a book series is, though, you must think it’s cute and in return, be able to rant about science or history at a later date… over sushi. No jokes about my career choice. Ever.

I won’t have sex with you in the near future. My phone may autocorrect ‘can’t’ to ‘cunt’, but having a filthy mouth doesn’t change the fact that I can count on one hand the number of people who’ve seen my vag. You’re not getting any for awhile. I have no more information on the time frame.

Romance freaks me out. Valentine’s Day is lame. Change my oil and we’ll call it even.

I’m conservative in my beliefs and you should be, too. You’re the boy. You pay. You open doors. You call me after the first date if you’re interested in another. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re uninterested or that you would’ve expected me to pee standing up. In return, I won’t do gross boy things that you’d rather pretend girls don’t do. I’ll wear lots of pink. I won’t bait my own hook and I’ll scream like a banshee when I see a bug. You must kill said bug. In general, I’ll do your boy activities and enjoy them if you tell me of them in advance. If I’m in a pretty dress and you get us stuck in the mud, go fuck yourself. I’m not helping. If I knew the day might lead there and wore jeans and ratty tennis shoes, I’ll giggle in the red dirt with you.

I have a degree in Home-Ec, but I don’t cook. I burn Easy Mac 1 in 5 times. I cook like Cher from Mermaids. If you want me to make you dinner, gear up for the most meh sweet potato fries, fruit loops, and peanut buttered bread ever.

You must accept and be accepted by: my best friend, my Gramma, my daddy, my guy friends, and my dog. I will continue to hang out with my boys all alone. I will not ask permission, but I will not have sex with them. You’ll just have to believe me on that one.

So if you message me and I message you back, let’s get together and have coffee sometime. I’ll order the smallest thing they have, because we might not like each other, in which case, I don’t want to owe you anything. You’ll possibly never hear from me again, because of some bullshit reason like the fact that you wore flip-flops and I could see your toe hair or your head was too big. If that is the case, do not expect a response later, when you text to try to sell me something, which has totally fucking happened.

On the off chance that this works out, we met where we met… i.e. we met at Starbuck’s or that one bar, not http://www.”

The Worst Online Dating Approaches Ever

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My older brother was also married at 19 without ever having dated. It’s what we do here. Wecome to the Midwest, y’all. He’s perpetually telling me that dating online is a terrible idea, even though it’s “slim pickins” (no joke, he actually talks like that) out there and that stopwatch he’s got on my uterus is slowly ticking away. I’m twenty-fucking-five and in graduate school. There are plenty of single men who are also too busy chasing their careers to date right now. Suck my big furry dick, big brother. But I don’t say that, because I love my redneck brother and don’t like confrontation. Also, people tend to get uncomfortable when I talk about my big furry dick.*

*I do not actually possess a big furry dick.

On the one hand, it’s super sweet that my brother wants to protect me from another abusive relationship. On the other, he has no idea what the hell he’s talking about. Everyone dates online. There are more people from my high school on Plenty of Fish than there are on Facebook. Online dating is a thing now and that’s great. It’s just another way to meet people and it’s amazing to do so without the “buying me a drink gets you the pleasure of my conversation and nothing more” subtleties required in a bar. I’m not a subtle person. I just go full on down-home girl and snap “I don’t owe you shit!” and then we have to quickly leave the cowboy club. So I’m not disputing that online dating is more than a reasonable way to meet people. However, there are some red flags that immediately turn me off a potential online date. They may be perfectly nice people, but I’ll never know. I’m sure these apply for women as well, but my experience is, of course, with men.

“I couldn’t sober up long enough to make my screen name/take my profile picture.”
I was recently messaging a guy until I realized his screen name was something to the effect of KingCrab69. I hadn’t noticed, because I’m not 12, and unless I’m with my guys who often act like 12-year-old boys, that number doesn’t really stick out all that much anymore. It’s just a number.  It’s not that I don’t appreciate oral sex. It’s just that there’s a time and a place for that discussion and the online dating profile isn’t it.

Similarly, when I looked at the profile picture of another, I saw that the thumbnail hadn’t shown that he was flipping off the camera. It’s not that I’ve never flipped anyone off. I’m pretty sure the last person was W at the movies on Friday and it was totally deserved. I didn’t, however, take a photo and put it online as a way to encourage a man to buy me dinner.

An online dating profile is the chance to briefly express one’s values in life and a little bit of their personality. If every picture has a beer in it, you value beer. If your screen name has “pussy” in it, you value stranger sex. These guys presented themselves as horny and vulgar as a romantic opener. I cringe to think what they’d have been like in person. Save it for your blog, y’all.

Answer the fucking question.
Regardless of the website you’ve chosen, the template is the same. You upload a couple of photos, state your age, give a general statement about your body size, education, job, smoking, drinking, and relationship status. You let prospective dates know whether you have or want children. Then you fill out the “About Me” section to describe yourself in the most flattering terms. It’s cookie cutter identical, but sometimes you give them a credit card number. On free sites and pay sites, however, you always get the guy who refuses to fill any of it out.

“………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..”
“I don’t know how to describe myself. Just message me if you want to know anything.”
“This is fucking stupid. I hate filling these out. Blah, blah, blah. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay. I guess I have to keep typing even though this is totally gay.”

The following conversation actually happened with one of these guys.

“Hey.”
I don’t respond.
“Hey, again. I just realized my profile just talks about how much I hate this site. Haha. Anything you want to know, though, just ask.”
I still don’t respond.
“People on this website are so fucking rude.”

Seriously? You were already asked all of the things that I want to know. You refused to answer. The entire purpose of online dating is the ability to know key points about a person before I waste my time. Are you divored? Do you have kids? Do you think “student” is a profession at 28? Is there a racist joke in your About Me section? Can you spell? Those are the bare minimum items I should know before I’m going to bother responding. I’m not going to try to subtly re-ask everything again, spending two days trading back and forth questions you already had a chance to answer just because you said “Hey.” Online dating is essentially advertising yourself. Not only do you not want to tell me about the product, you want me to beg for information based on a picture, you arrogant ass. I’ll save us both some time and you can just keep your online dating grab bag.

Ambiguity.
Okay. The questions were answered… almost. This one most often occurs under “profession.” Sometimes it says “Ask” (see above) and I can only assume that’s to force me to start a conversation. All I’m going to do, however, is move along. Don’t get me wrong. I am, by no means, a gold digger. I take care of myself and don’t even want anyone to take that over. However, my ex-husband flat out refused to get a job. As a result, I need to know, without a doubt, how you pay your bills. I also need to know that it’s through a strong career that you enjoy, but that’s another section. This section is: “How do you pay for dog food?”

Answers I’ve seen:
N/A – How in the fuck is that not applicable? That is mega-super-incredibly applicable to me. Don’t message me.
Life – How do you get paid for that? Also don’t message me.
Sales – This could mean anything from drug dealer, to working a kiosk at the mall, to high-end medical equipment.
Government – Unless you have a picture of yourself weilding a gun in camo, you could be anything from a teacher to an assassin.
Art – You sell art? Make art? Like to pretend you make art? Study art? Write? What do you write? Do you get paid for any of it?
Boss – Are you head of your department? Is this a “like a boss” joke? Is it a video game reference? Have you, indeed, captured Princess Peach?
Management – What do you manage? Subway or a corporate office?
Self-employed – Again, drug dealer? Professional gambler? Do you steal and pawn cell phones? Are you some kind of performer?
Automotive – Do you sell cars? Are you a lube-tech? Mechanic? Do you work as the desk secretary at a Chevy company?
Technician – What the hell kind of technician? Are you a computer technician, a lube technician, a lab technician?
Student – You are 27 years old. Being a student does not pay your bills and I want to know what does. This was your chance to tell me.

None of the above elaborations are particularly bad, other than drug dealer or assassin and that one about stealing cell phones. The point is that you have plenty of characters to be specific about what you do for a living. The guy doesn’t need to post a timeline of his day, but telling me that he’s in medical equipment sales might have gotten a response whereas the ambiguous “sales” got a NEXT!

“Athletic”/LYING
If I order a purple toaster online and get a green toaster, I’m going to be disappointed, not because I hate green, but because it’s not what was advertised.

Honesty is the only way online dating actually works. I’m not criticizing heavy people. I’ve been heavy. However, people expect what’s been advertised. If you’re blurring your appearance, anyone you meet is going to feel they’ve been lied to and you’re going to feel like they don’t appreciate you for who you are. I can only assume the guys who call themselves “athletic” rather than “average”  when they’re actually “Big and Tall” are figuring it takes a lot of muscle to haul that around. That still doesn’t make them atheletic. The same goes for pretty much any false description. I don’t advertise myself as laid-back, because I am not laid back. I’m about as tightly wound as a fucking harp and I know it. He’ll know it, too, if we hit it off and he hears me crying over the 93%. I can’t hide that any more than he can hide his wheelchair. If we’re both upfront about it, neither of us has to have that green toaster moment.

Lectures/A list of Don’t Wants
These profiles are some of my favorites to screencap and send to Gail so we can giggle over them. They often open with some kind of lecture along the lines of

“If you’re looking for a good, sweet guy, maybe you should look where you ditched them in the friends’ zone. Stop being such a stuck up bitch and realize that a good guy isn’t always going to be the most attractive or have the best job.”

Okay. Dude, you just 1) called me a stuck up bitch for not swooning 2) told me you weren’t attractive and 3) admitted you have a shitty job. That was your INTRO. You suck at this. Time to hit the bars and “accidentally” caress the breast of a random girl who doesn’t realize it until it’s too late because she has limited feeling in them from her breast reduction.

Many, many, profiles are just pages of lecturing and ranting about how “all of the girls on here are so shallow” and “maybe you should give a guy a chance since you’re dating online for a reason and you’re probably no prize either.” I’m not exaggerating. I’ve read all of these.

In the same category is the list of Don’t Wants. They usually start with weight. Creating a list of things you don’t want in a partner is the same thing as creating a list of things you will judge them for later. Being insulting about it always makes you look like an ass. If I were 50 pounds lighter (which would be super unhealthy) and I came across the profile of a really cute, successful guy, who included a “No Fat Chicks” paragraph, that would make everything good about him a moot point. The rest of the list just makes you look like you have issues.

“I’m tired of girls who are trying to change me. If you have ex-drama, like to fuck around on me, or baby daddy issues, keep looking.”

You just outlined the problems of your last relationship for me and I don’t even know your first name.

Far too much information.
This one includes both giving and requesting too much information. If your profile page is over 3 paragraphs, I’m not reading it. I’d go study or masturbate to trashy supernatural romance if I were in a reading mood. I don’t need that much info on you. Tell me if you’re close to your family, if you like dogs, and what you do for fun. Then shut-up, because I’m not paying attention anymore.

On a similar note, ask me if I’m close to my family, if I like dogs, and what I do for fun. Do not open with “Why smart pretty lady divorce so young?” It’s not racist if it’s a direct fucking quote. Unlike in my professional life, I understand that I have to bring up the divorce when dating. If anything, I force it and just sort of randomly sputter “I’m divorced”, because I know I’m the type of person who’d get to the third month and not know how to tell him. I get that there are questions and I’m comfortable giving me super P.C. explanation of “Well, he wouldn’t work and it was just really bad in a lot of other ways, too.” We’ll save the “Well, there was this house fire” discussion for later. But both of those are going to have to come after I’ve actually been talking to him for awhile, not before my name, the lunatic.

Finally, there’s the guy who leaps right over honesty to give a short paragraph of the worst dating pitch ever.

worst pitch“Well to start off, I want to put it out there that I am really getting discouraged on this whole online dating thing. Guess that’s the difference between free sites and the expensive ones lol. Oh well, nonetheless, I’m here and looking. I just turned 23 and am inbetween like arrangements, so I do live at home for the time being. I’m currently a property manager at an apartment complex, but I’m really looking to continue school and get a real job. I really think I have a lot to offer, but I’m not the best looking guy, and have a little extra weight and that seems to push some people away because they seem to think it shows I’m lazy, but that’s just not the case. Take a bit to try me out, you’ll see what I mean. I could really get into detail, but we would have a pretty dry conversation if I did that right? At least that’s what most excuses are to stop filling these out lol.”

I live at home. That’s what home is. You live in your parents’ home.

Not over his ex.
If he’s mentioning his ex…

“I don’t need anybody with drama. I had enough of that shit with my ex-wife.”
“I went through a bad break-up and think I’m ready to start dating again.”

He’s not over her. Period.

Compatibility.
This is probably the biggest problem I have with men who approach me online. For one there’s this.

“How are you today, pretty lady?”
“25.”

Numerous times, I have had men in their 40’s and 50’s message me with “age is just a number.” No. It isn’t. Age is a reflection of where you are, where you’ve been, and where you’ve yet to go. When I’m not royally fucked in the head about my failed marriage, I think I’d like to give that a try again. When I’m not reeling over my miscarriage and Gail’s dead eight-month-old, I think I might want to have babies. That’s off the table with a man in his 50’s. We are nowhere near each other in life in general.

The second issue is a little touchier. I am not better than the guy who can’t spell pest control. He’s working and that’s awesome. But what the hell are we going to talk about? I’m going to rant about books and information theory and what? He’s going to tell me about bugs? I’m totally willing to look at this from the flip side as well (who the fuck says ‘flip side’ and where do I get these terms?)  and bring up the post doctoral physics student. He mentions a quark and I don’t even know if I have the right subject for that freaking reference. Common ground is sort of a must.

Meet me at
This is one of the funnier ones and Gail is perpetually lecturing me about how it’s only funny in theory and I should not respond to

“Hi. I like your profile. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

because it really means

“Hi there. I’d love to meet you in a dark alley where no one can hear you scream.”

On the one hand, I don’t want to chat for three weeks before we meet. If we do, I’ll get a picture in my head, he won’t match it, and I’ll freak the fuck out and bolt from a Starbuck’s with a super lame excuse because his hands are so furry, it looks like he’s wearing his September mittens. On the other hand, I’m not meeting him anywhere ever if that’s his first request.

Finally… there’s:

Visa Card Guy

visa card
“i want nice girl she understand me i also understand her with love hi i am happy its my name with sir name my name happy singh sangar (may be many person here only-time pass ,i am no here for this )I also like to food, swim, watch movies, and spend time with family and friends. I prefer the simple things in life and just looking for someone who feels the same way as I do.

First Date

not serious for her………..”

I don’t even have a comment, because I have no idea what this says.

Ask Me About My Genitals

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A student asked if I was still a virgin today. I told him that was completely inappropriate and immediately became very active on my current online dating site via my phone, because when he asked, I thought “Practically.” I’m intensely annoyed with myself for letting a fifteen-year-old get to me, especially when my vagina seems to be their default, such as when a girl announced that I needed to get laid for asking her to turn down her music. I’ve got to stop wearing my “Ask Me About My Genitals” shirt to work.

This time of year is freaking made for couples, in the same way that summer is made for bars and single people. I tend to go through bouts of “I need a boy!” anyway, but name one holiday movie where someone is unattached and it’s awesome. It doesn’t exist. The protagonist is alone and miserable until Colin Firth or that reindeer, Clarice, shows up and all the pieces of their lives suddenly slip into place.

rudolph happyIn the previous scene, he was cutting himself.

As someone who doesn’t much watch television or movies, that’s not really my concern. Real life, however, pressures me to find someone right the fuck now. In the South, everyone my age is married with a baby on the way; and those are the late bloomers. It’s all over Facebook and Wal-Mart and every single family Christmas party that I need to pick up the pace. I can’t talk to any of the women in my family without being asked if there are any boys in my life. It was actually once recommended by my dad’s cousin that I have a one-night stand. Everyone is concerned with my sex life!

The thing is, I don’t want a boy. I mean, I do. No. I mean I don’t. A part of me really wants to date, because I feel like I am ready for another relationship. I’d like to try out sex with someone I don’t hate and who isn’t morbidly obese. I’d like to make-out on the couch like I never did at 16 and gossip about penis size with Gail from more than a hypothetical perspective. Mostly, I’d just like someone to be nice to me while I’m nice to him and we just do sweet things for each other. Forehead kisses and holding hands sound good. On the contrary, I also love my pink Christmas tree and shaving my legs when I feel like it. I enjoy going to movies alone and watching the same episode of Vampire Diaries three times in a row, because I was reading during it and not paying attention. I love my Buffy marathons and littering the living room floor with my latest craft project. I’m not sure if I have gotten enough of this single life, blast-the-audiobook-like-the-rebel-I-am phase. If I start something that really takes off, I risk giving that up.

But… none of that matters. I don’t have time for a relationship. Not right now. I have one more chance at my graduate portfolio and I work two jobs. I barely have room for funny bad dates that I can blog about, let alone an actual relationship with a good guy who places further constraints on my time. As much as I’d like to get stuck with a cute boy I love during Snowmaggedon 2013, cuddling up naked for warmth, it’s not an option. My winter storms have already been reserved for working on my portfolio and job applications. Divorce aside, this just isn’t the time in my life for romance and babies, because I decided to go to graduate school. I’ll have plenty of time for that after I finish and get my career going. In the meantime, my genitals will be fine. I just hope there are some decent guys left in six months. We age so quickly here.

Five Reasons Why I’m Secretly Not Sexy

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I’ve put on my tiniest skirt and cowgirl boots, actually used hairspray, and haven’t accidentally told this cute guy that his job is pretend and his football team sucks. I am on a roll. Regardless, I am just barely pulling off sexy and here’s why:

1. You can’t tell, but I’m dressed like a Rugrats character.
That cute little jean skirt I’m wearing? It’s a skort. That’s right, a skort: the combination skirt/shorts that are usually only found on five-year-olds who don’t want to flash their Dora panties on the jungle gym. No, I didn’t intentionally dress like a Kindergartener to go to the bar. I’m just cheap, it was $3 at Goodwill, and I don’t intend to let a strange man put his hand up my skirt anyway, so he’ll never have to know.

2. Victoria’s What?
The sexiest undergarments I own came from the Hanes store during a BOGO sale and I accidentally dyed one of them some not-a-color in the wash. I also just called my bra an “undergarment.” I work two jobs and I’m in graduate school. No matter how much I’d like to, I can’t afford to buy fancy sex clothes that no one is going to see. My cotton underwear came in a pack of six at Wal-Mart for $8 and I probably didn’t throw them away when the elastic popped. Wearing this skort, I’m likely in a $2 neon green thong, but in that tiny pink lace dress? Chances are good I’m wearing high-rises, because they smooth over my lumps better and are more comfortable than tummy tucker panties. That’s right. I said lumps. The logic here is the same. I’m not going home with a guy in a bar, so no one has to know my underwear has a faded zebra print on it and my bra is the color of dirty dishwater. Not even my socks match. You can’t tell, because of the boots, but I’m wearing one teal sock with black birds on it and one rainbow sock, because I couldn’t find their matches.

3. I have no idea what I’m doing.
At any point in the night, I’m lucky if I haven’t just blurted out “How tall are you?” because the apparent truth is “not very.” It’s not that I’m trying to be an ass. It’s just that I’ve been dating for less than a year and I’m not that subtle anyway. I’m not only completely clueless as to what I’m doing in this bar, though; I’m about as experienced in bed as I am at spelunking. I don’t even know what spelunking is if that says anything at all. Yes, I was married for four and half years, but we only had sex for three of them… and rarely. When we did, it was always the exact same thing, in the exact same order, and for a very short period of time. The last time I actually had sex was early 2010 and it was extremely unpleasant. That was almost three years ago. Holy shit, I haven’t had sex in three years… and I’ve never had good sex. Sure, I know how to please myself, but even if we get to the fourteenth or so date it would take for sexual activity to be involved, I’m not so sure I even remember what hole it goes in anymore. I can count the number of people I’ve kissed on one hand and half of those don’t even count. I wouldn’t know what to do with my bits or his bits. In general, I’ve got all the downsides of virginity and none of its untainted perks.

4. I’m kind of afraid of him. 
Gailis perpetually trying to either instill in me a gut-wrenching paranoia about men or get me to give the one-eyed maintenance man a chance so we can double date. This compels me to talk to just about everyone who approaches me while simultaneously thinking “It’s okay. I own guns.” It’s not just an issue of physical safety, though Gail might have me believe “What are you drinking?” really means “Will it cover the taste of the pills in my pocket?” If I don’t just stop speaking to this man, I have to risk actual vulnerability or one day even :gasp: trust. Even on the most basic level, that’s horrifying. So, as I cross my booted legs in front of me, it’s really to keep him from leaning in more closely. It’s also no coincidence that my body is mostly turned away from him during a dance. Nor is it natural to hold my drink by the rim with my palm over the top as I keep backing up to stand by best friend instead of this stranger. I’m not playing hard to get. I just have deep-seated emotional traumas for which I refuse to seek help.. and that is haaaawt.


Fuck, Gail. You’re so paranoid. It’s just lime seasoning.

5. He’s not getting laid anyway.
Hypothetically (because this has never happened), maybe he’s cute and didn’t open with “Hey, there. I’ve never hit a woman” (that has). He’s got a big boy job and he even made me laugh. He wants to hear about my job and doesn’t ask “So, why do you need a master’s degree for that?” He’s got real points where they count… but, for all of the aforementioned reasons and then some, I’m still not going home with him. For one, I’m in a fucking skort and my dishwater bra. It’s also been years since anyone’s seen my breast reduction scars or heard the sounds I make during sex. As a side effect of my marriage, I can’t even sleep alone without my purse next to me and regularly wake up in a panic anyway. Like I’m going to be that exposed with even the nicest stranger ever. I also used to weigh 260 pounds and it takes a lot to go from “that fat chick” to “the girl who gave me head at the cowboy bar.” I really don’t care what people do with their own bodies. It makes no difference to me whether or not your vagina has been broken in if you’re a consenting adult. I, however, am far too inexperienced and insecure because of it to be naked with another person in the room. Gail mentioned that if I went to a movie with Engineer, he’d hold my hand and I freaked the fuck out. So, it’s pretty safe to say that I am doing nothing with a man in a bar that I couldn’t tell my daddy about later.

I could probably theme this entire blog around learning to date at an age when everyone else knows what they’re doing, though I’m not really into the idea of a theme that’s any more specific than That Librarian Who Says Fuck A Lot. The fact remains, that in any given situation where a guy thinks I’m fuckable, all he’s got to do is scratch the surface. At this point, I think I should probably shoot for my social awkwardness to be considered endearing, rather than sexy.

Crawfish and Smarmy

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I have previously written about how much I suck at dating. The post “Beginning Dating… at Age 25” was all about how I date like a socially awkward stereotypical man… who’s an asshole. I’m new to this. People just don’t expect me to be. While I’ve never had a successful date (define: has a follow-up), I have managed to have some really funny disastrous experiences. I’ll share my favorite.

Gail and I decided to meet at a local bar to watch the basketball playoffs in late spring. I’d worn a cute little sundress and cowgirl boots and she’d worn not-much dress and heels. This was not some fancy bar. The air was filled with smoke and the sound of cracking pool balls, the menus were sticky, and they were playing a freaking basketball game. So we were sending completely intentional signals, as this was before she ruined our fun by getting a boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong. We were there to see the game. Thank goodness I like sports, or I’d never meet men. However, if we happened to get some free drinks out of it, then so be it.

cheers

From the beginning of the night, our efforts had proven successful. That man really didn’t need to grab my leg and apologize so profusely for bumping into me. “Yes, someone is sitting here and I don’t need you and your buddy to grab a bucket of beers and join me.” That sort of thing. Eventually, a cute Cajun man who sounded like the newest popular Pixar character came to speak to us, his friend in tow. The Cajun man offered to buy us drinks and I didn’t want him to spend much money on me, so I asked for a beer. He seemed confused (and not that bright), so Gail rolled her eyes at me and told him to get us both a Sprite with peach schnapps. The bartender delivered the drinks, so there was no concern in actually drinking them. I’d probably have done so anyway, since “Hey, it’s still the suburbs,” but that’s likely why Gail tells me I’m too stupid to go out alone. “Naive” would be the nicer term, since she fancies herself the sweet one and all.

When it came time for introductions, the bar was loud, because we were winning the game. The Cajun man told me his name. At first I didn’t hear him. I asked twice for him to repeat it, before he pantomimed spelling it out to a girl who wants to be a young adult librarian one day.

R-U-E.

“Oh! RUE! As in…” quick glance to see Gail wide-eyed and shaking her head “… Rue.”

Hellz yeah. The dress was short. He wasn’t there for the eloquence. However, I did avoid making a Hunger Games reference to a cute drunk guy in a bar. Score one for… well, Gail.

Meanwhile, Gail was being assaulted… I mean wooed… by Sales.*  Sales was a chubby guy with over-gelled hair and Wal-Mart dress clothes, who’d have been cute if those things weren’t so obvious. He seemed confused as to how to appeal to women and complimented Gail’s heels way too many times for a guy claiming straight. As the night went on, we realized he was just really, really, drunk. There’s no other reason a man would say “So, you never told me where you worked” twelve times in an evening. Sales eventually earned the nickname “Smarmy”, because I use outdated language and that freaking fit.

*Men get nicknames until they matter and when I make them, they are always based on their careers, if only to prove they have them.

While Gail told Smarmy what she did for a living for the eleventeenth time, I sat back to back with her and continued talking to Rue. He was nice enough, he bought me a drink, and that’s kind of why we were at the bar. Now, I don’t do this sort of thing super often, but I’m pretty sure when asked if you have any tattoos in a bar, you’re supposed to reveal a sexy kitten just over your butt crack. I think it’s supposed to be sexy that you have a tattoo there, not the kitten picture itself. It’s probably not necessary to clarify that, as I’m not sure what would make a kitten sexy.

Rue: “So do you have any tattoos?”
Me: “Just one, on my foot. It’s an ankh.”
Rue: “A what?”
Me: “An ankh? It’s like a cross with a loop on it. It’s an Egyptian symbol for life. Do you have any?”
– At this point, he turns around and proceeds to take his shirt off. –
Rue: “I’m from Louisiana, so my buddies call me Crawfish.” he said in his poorly executed True Blood accent “See?”

See? was rhetorical, as it was impossible to miss that beneath said shirt was a full back piece of a rainbow-colored crawfish. I shit you not. I didn’t even know what a crawfish looked like until this moment in time and I must say, I would not want a picture of one on my back.

As I laughed at Crawfish Rue’s tattoo, which he luckily took to be flirting, Smarmy continued to sell himself to Gail… poorly. Greaser hair and $12 dress pants aside, I am pretty sure that this man got all of his dating skills from the Dell Computer Sales Manual. “Make sure to say the customer’s name at least three times during the transaction, so as to create the illusion of a personal relationship. Establish physical contact in a 2-1 ratio with this name.” He probably called Gail “Abigail” at least 50 times that night. Every other time he did so, he would gesture with an open palm and barely touch her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. Over and over and over again, while talking about what a great guy Crawfish Rue was. “He is the best guy you’ll ever meet.” He also repeatedly said “I know this sounds like a line, but it’s not.” Dude, it sounds like a line because you’ve worded it exactly that way fourteen times. Eventually, he decided to teach her to play pool in the most condescending Little Lady manner I ever did see, which was amusing for me, as Gail spends about 23 hours a day wearing her Plumed Feminist Hat.*

*This hat is metaphorical.

While Gail learned that the skinny end of the pool stick is supposed to hit the ball, Rue began to tell me his story.

Rue: “I’m originally from Texas and I’m moving back there tomorrow. I have a kid there.”
Me: “Oh, that’s great! You’ll get to be closer.”
Rue: “Not really. He’s a little asshole.”
Me: “Uh… how old is he?”
Rue: “Four. He’s just a little asshole. He does whatever he wants.”
Me: “Oh… well, maybe you’ll get to fix that when you’re closer.”
Rue: “Nah. I’m not allowed within a hundred feet of him.”
Me: “Oh… um… I’m sorry.”
Rue: “Yeah, you see, I spent four months in military prison. I was over in Iraq and when I came back, I found out my ex-wife had been fuckin’ around on me… so… cuz of her, I had to go to military prison for a while.”

At the risk of sound redundant: What the fucking fuck? I am pretty sure you left a substantial and enitrely relevant chunk out of that story, Crawfish Rue. Now, I am not a subtle person. It’s just not in me. I was a little tipsy and this guy just told me about his completely unprovoked stint in military prison. By this point, Gail’s pool lessons had ceased and she was back to back with me again. I turned and semi-shouted in a panic, “GAIL!”

Gail: laughing “He just called me goose.” This refered to my nicknaming Gail’s little girl Goose.”
Me: a touch hysterical and probably in a loud enough stage-whisper for Crawfish Rue to hear “Military prison!”
Gail: “He called me goose?”
Me: “Military! Prison!”
Gail: “You want to go play pool?”

It was this night, actually, that Gail and I decided we needed a “He’s creeping me out” code word. Fortunately, Smarmy and she went on another couple of dates before she never heard from him again when she didn’t put out.

Me: “How’s Sales?” she’d gotten pissy about the totally accurate and completely PG Smarmy nickname
Gail: “He’s good. He wants me to go to Boston with him.”
Me: silence “You’re kidding, right?”
Gail: “What? No. Why?”
Me: “Boston? Massachusetts?”
Gail: “No. Boston, the band.”

We recently found ourselves in a bar where an older man was caressing my shoulder far too much (define: at all). I randomly started shouting about Massachusetts and Gail fucking forgot. Eye roll.

Beginning Dating… At Age 25

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Many a romantic comedy centers around a sarcastic, humorously judgemental, male character who finds something trivial wrong with every single woman he dates and breaks up with her in the shittiest way. In fact, that was the sole basis of the character Chandler for the first six seasons of Friends. Eventually, however, someone (usually a hot chick) shows them the error of their ways and wins their heart. I can only hope that, as the female embodiment of this male stereotype, that is indeed the case (not a hot chick).


Me. I’ve done a little something with my hair since then.

In an attempt to analyze this behavior, 2012 is the year I’ve recapped, because 2012 is the only year in which I’ve dated. Married at 19, to the first boy I kissed, I am exceptionally inexperienced for a 25 year old. I can, literally, count the number of people I have kissed on one hand. I don’t know how to do this. It’s not like there’s a guide that I’m not too embarrassed to read. So I just have to go with my instincts… which suck. I wasn’t kidding when I advised my best friend to break the news of her rape to her out-of-state boyfriend via snail-mail.


The barber-shop quartet was mostly a joke.

At this very moment, I should be on a date at IHOP with Engineer. (All dates are called by their job titles, perhaps because my ex-husband never had one.) Obviously, I am instead writing a blog. Sooo… what happened to Engineer? I think to understand my dating present, I must explain my dating past, (post 4.5 year marriage.)

The dates of 2012 have gone, in order, from Combat Brian to Air Traffic Controller to Bartender to Landman to Law Enforcement to Analyst to Engineer. The following are my initial sarcastic claims to what was wrong with those whom I rejected.

Combat Brian: wore silver board shorts and flip-flops (are you fucking kidding me?) and had a comb-over at age 30.

Air Traffic Controller: had oddly placed ears and texted too damned often for anyone without a vagina

Law Enforcement: was 4 foot 9 inches tall (5’6″ in actuality)

Analyst: introduced himself as ‘Doc’, because someone called him that seven years ago and nicknames are neat-o.

Each of these things truly bothered me and were my original reasons for denying a second date. Gail couldn’t believe I’d actually turn a man down because of his shorts (I could see my reflection in them, I swear) and a comb over. The entire discussions were near identical to the aforementioned Chandler’s frustration with a woman who’s head was “like a satellite dish”. Are these real and legitimate reasons for not being with someone? Am I actually a person who would refuse to see a man again because of his ears? Is that even a thing?

Thank God, himself, the answer to the above questions is no. I’m not shallow enough to stop talking to a man because he’s only a half inch taller than me if he’s a great guy. I’m not going to shoot someone down over a silly nickname. I, however, am going to only notice the annoying surface things until I’ve ranted enough, while defending myself to Gail, to get to the deeper core of what was wrong with these guys. The superficial crap was funny and I can’t deal with adult emotions, as I’ve expressed in previous blogs. Thankfully (I guess?), each man had some true flaw.

Combat Brian – told me my marriage was a bouncy castle (the actual wording was “There is no way your marriage was worse than mine.”)

Air Traffic Controller – told me I was an idiot if I bought a bicycle under $2,000 and tried to convince me there was no God… also told a story about being pissed off when he ran over a cat and it messed up his bike wheel

Bartender – was leading me on as some sort of validation of self and claimed he didn’t mean it that way

Landman – wasn’t interested, but didn’t say so until after texting me for three days after the initial date (eye roll)

Law Enforcement – had completely lost faith in people due to his title and thought there was no improvement for anyone… used my phone number to solicit some kind of workout plan several weeks later

Analyst – expressed controversial political and parenting beliefs that were the exact opposite of mine… on the first date

Engineer – keep reading

I’ve included those who’ve rejected me, as it’s only fair.

So, I’ve had rational reasons for ending all communications. They weren’t for me. I wasn’t for them. That’s okay.  The issue I’m still working on, however, really is not with the men. Every first and only date has a deal breaker by definition, even if that’s just the famous “he’s just not that into you” and that’s fine. I’ve gotten fairly good at taking rejection in the last year. In fact, I’ve come to the point where a large percentage of a man’s appeal for me, lies in my appeal for him. If he’s not interested anymore, then I’m not either, because what’s more of a waste of every one’s time and emotions? I’m good at taking rejection. The issue lies in my ability to reject. These are how the following men were rejected by me.

Combat Brian – I talked myself out of a disappearing bathroom break, but randomly said “We should probably free up her table” and more or less bolted from the restaurant. He stopped at his car, clearly wanting to have that moment where you linger and chat. I hugged him and said “I’ll text you.” He never heard from me again. He may think I’m dead. In my defense, this was my first date since my divorce.

Air Traffic Controller – I talked to him for a couple of days before the incessant texting got on my nerves and I ceased responding, even after “You wanna get together again” and “Did you die?” I received a text a few weeks later when I went into Chick-fil-a that said “Want to sit with me?” He was screwing with me and was just amused to see the girl who blew him off and I awkwardly said I’d been busy with school when he asked what happened to me. He got the point.

Law Enforcement – At the time, it was the best Nah date ever. We talked. We laughed. Neither of us ever mentioned seeing each other again. I didn’t text him and he didn’t text me.. until three weeks later, explaining that he just wasn’t feeling it. Most people seem to think that was him saving face when I didn’t contact him. I think it may have been so I would be more receptive to whatever he was selling. Who knows? I thought I did okay in this one.

Analyst – I’d shaken his plush claw without cringing and we sat in Starbuck’s and talked. I grew increasingly uncomfortable and unattracted to him as the date progressed. He explained his terrible parenting ideas and told me I was doing my job wrong. I heard about his idiotic political beliefs and I was just done. Finally, breath of fresh air, I felt enough time must have passed to explain that I had to go to Saturday Mass at 5:00. As he checked his watch, I realized… it was 4:06 and the church was just down the street. I have this problem where I pretty much decide that if I can’t make something better, I may as well make it worse. So, I said “Yeah, I’ve got to go to confession, too. It was nice meeting you” and fled. It’s not an exaggeration. He wasn’t even out of his chair yet. I just wanted to be not there so badly, I didn’t even consider etiquette. Etiquette, however, would’ve involved another fluffy handshake and I’m okay with having missed that. I am not exaggerating here. The man had to have had fur on the pads of his fingers. He must have been some kind of shapeshifter. It’s much hotter in paranormal romance.*

*I am totally exaggerating, though he had very hairy hands.

I honestly hope that my skills at rejecting will improve over time. I express this not from an IHOP with Engineer however, so here is the most recent dating sample I am able to break apart and analyze most accurately.

Engineer was 25, kind of cute, had ADHD and liked to say so… a lot. He talked about how he hated bars…  and music… and television… and movies… and how this made him more sophisticated than the average guy. He told about how after college, he couldn’t find an engineering job and worked as a janitor. I admire that. I work hard to support myself and believe everyone should. Then he explained that it was frustrating to do so, because he was smarter than everyone working there. (Really? He was a recent college graduate with no engineering experience of which to speak and he was smarter than all of the engineers in his home state?) Then he paused to exclaim that the bottom of the light bulb above us was shiny and he had to touch it, in case I forgot he had ADHD and liked to say so. At that point, I asked how he was able to get through school if it was such an issue and he explained that his professors allowed him to sleep through class, because if they woke him up, he’d correct all of their work and embarrass them.

I am dead fucking serious.

At the time, despite the above charm, I thought he was alright. He was upbeat, had a big boy job, saved his money, and expressed similar political values to mine. He was mostly polite. Then he shot himself in the foot… with a torpedo. I explained that my sister was interested in engineering, not because she wanted to be an engineer, but because my dad was pushing her toward it. I said my dad loved bragging rights and constantly tells people I’m 25 with a Masters degree. I was going to finish with “I don’t even have it yet”, when he interrupted me to joke “But he doesn’t say what in, right?”

In hindsight: FUCK. OFF. I have worked my ass off for my degree and he is not better than I am because his bachelor’s is in engineering and I am not spending an entire relationship arguing that. No fucking way.

The date ended soon thereafter, because I actually did have homework to do. My frustration, however, did not set in for a few days. There just weren’t many trivial complaints from Engineer, save for his annoying neck cracking and his intentional quirkiness (which Gail and I refer to as “Hamburger Phone” in a Juno reference). However, judgementally analyzing meaningless crap seems to be a pivotal part of discovering the whoppers.

Gail: imitating me “He clearly hasn’t clipped his fingernails in weeks. P.S. There was blood under them.”

That is DEAD ON from someone who knows me just that well.

Gail constantly tells me I have to give guys more of a chance if I don’t want to die alone, so I left Engineer thinking “Well, we don’t really have anything in common and he’s kind of annoying, but… eh. I’d go out with him again.”

Then I spent a few days thinking him over.

On Wednesday (first date was Sunday) I received a text message asking what I was doing. I responded and asked the same. “Hot dogs. Enough said?” was his response. That is text message word salad as far as I’m concerned, but whatever, I’d conceded to a bit of Hamburger Phone. He then began to brag about how little T.V. he watches. Originally, I’d admired that. People watch too much T.V. and I think that’s a waste. Sometimes, though, T.V. is fun and there is nothing wrong with that. Not watching it does not put you on any pedestal. The television conversation led to him asking if I’d like to watch Arrow with him every week when he does slum it with all of us mindless drones. I avoided an answer, since I’d already agreed to a second date tonight and didn’t want any further commitment yet. Then, yesterday morning, he asked if we could spend the whole day together instead. Upon receiving this message, all I could think is BACK OFF. I just fucking met you. Calm the hell down.

I explained that I was working during the day, so just the date would have to do. We were going to go see Wreck It Ralph and I’d dreaded it from the time I said yes, but couldn’t pinpoint why. Everything seemed too small. Then I began the over-analysis I am so known for and I realized the true issues. We have nothing in common. At all. He hates everything and I don’t. The fact that I like the occasional comic book movie is NOT foundation enough for a relationship. It’d be like Leonard and Penny, only he’s not nice and I’m not hot and this isn’t prime time, so it doesn’t work AT ALL. That’s reason enough to end it here without taking into account his whopping superiority complex and the fact that he is annoying as fuck. Best case scenario, I date him for a few weeks before flipping out one night and yelling “You hate EVERYTHING but yourself” or declare “For someone with ADHD, you are ironically singularly focused on telling me about it 37 times a day.” So I’m going to skip that.

As I’ve explained, I have plenty of grounds for cutting ties with Engineer. But I’ve yet to master how to do it. Last night he texted and asked if I still wanted to see the movie since it was so short. I responded saying I’d prefer to do it another night, because of my homework. I haven’t heard from him since. A part of me hopes that I get the chance to say “I’m sorry. I just don’t think we have anything in common. I’d rather not.” Another part of me hopes to avoid that opportunity in case I don’t take it and just stop responding to him as I have every other man I’ve turned down and desperately clings to the fantasy that this is just the end of it. I am quickly learning, however, that no one can EVER end things smoothly. I’m really quite comfortable with the stereotypical male Not Calling that women hate. If he doesn’t call, I know he’s not interested. What’s wrong with that? It’s far better than receiving an “I’m just not feeling it” speech and absolutely better than giving one. I imagine, on some level, I will always date like a sitcom man. In fact, I dread the day I actually have to break up with someone. I’m a little afraid it’ll be on a cake.

The 10 Best Things About Not Being in a Bad Relationship

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Married: 19
Hypothesized that he had no soul: 20
Divorced: 23

Yup. I’m just that stubborn.

The hot pink Christmas tree outranks everything else.

Sometimes you find yourself alone and bleeding a lot, because you decided that you should hold the onion while slicing it to save the time you’d have spent getting the cutting board. Other times you have to call maintenance to change a danged light bulb because you can’t get the fixture down. Rarely, you bolt from a Starbuck’s explaining that you’re late for 5:00 Mass, ignoring the fact that it’s 4:06 and you’re a half mile from the church, because that date would’ve gone so much better had he just not spoken. Despite these cliché chick flick opening scenes, though, being single is really fucking awesome in a way that can only be understood when you’ve been really fucking miserably attached. I don’t mean in a free-to-get-VD way, as we’ve all seen from Carrie Bradshaw and company, but rather the little things no one ever mentions, such as…

1. Your money isn’t just your money, rather your everything is your everything.
If you want to blow your next paycheck on a crossbow or a Fossil purse, you can. There’s no missing $20 from your wallet or unexplained charges on your card. No one ate all of your corndogs or pawned your video camera. You’re not being recommended Star Trek XXXII on Netflix because someone’s been five-starring shit you hate. If you don’t have any clean dishes, it’s because you haven’t done them. You get to go to whomever’s house you want on Christmas Eve, because it’s your family. The bathroom is pink and brown because you fucking like it.

2. You entertain yourself however you like.
When I was 12 years old, I watched Roswell on repeat and I can do that all over again today. If I want to have a Vampire Diaries marathon, I can. I don’t even have to go to bed at a specific time or turn down the volume. If I want to listen to an audio book, I don’t need headphones because I’m the only one who likes it. I don’t have to listen to a video game when I’m trying to read. If I want complete silence while I crochet for seven hours… done.

3. Bad dates are sometimes really funny.
Dating is often the scariest part for the divorcees I’ve spoken to, particularly those who married young and never really tried it in the first place. Here in the Midwest, that’s a LOT of divorcees and I was no different. I’m not going to lie, here. Dating can be disastrous and that’s really the only assessment I have since my divorce was finalized. Frankly though, and with no exaggeration, short of date-rape (maybe even not) any bad date would be preferable to some of the harder days of my marriage. Attitude is really key here. At first, I found bad dates disheartening and called my best friend in a panic each time because “I’m going to die alone!” Now I just call giggling because the guy introduced himself as “Doc”, told me I was wrong about my job, and immediately stated his controversial political beliefs. Even the most awkward situation is a reminder that I am here, not two years ago and this is guaranteed to be a funny story later. If the bad dates are that good, the good ones are going to be even better.

4. You know it got done.
Sure, I have to have my best guy pal change my oil, but I know, without a doubt, that the oil got changed. I’m referring to the oil in the car that once had it’s engine replaced because my ex-husband insisted he’d changed it, even after the mechanic produced the original Suzuki filter that was on when the vehicle was purchased over nine months earlier. I have internetaccess to write this, because I paid my cable bill. If someone knocked on my door tomorrow morning, no part of me would fear eviction, because I paid the rent. There is a freezer full of food, because I went grocery shopping. Doing things yourself is another of the scariest parts of a divorce, especially the things you’ve never done, like filing your taxes. However, even if you do it wrong and burn the Hamburger Helper because you got yelled at whenever you cooked before, you’re taking care of yourself and your life all on your own. Never again will I feel like the only reason I’m with someone is because I’m afraid I can’t be without them. Never again will I wonder when the dog ate last, because I’ve been working two jobs all week. I will rely on me.

5. Compromise isn’t a thing.
 I understand that even a healthy relationship may one day involve me sitting through a baseball game without complaint, though this is preferable only to counting sand. My point, though, is that being single rocks. If I want to watch Santa Clause Conquers the Martians, The Worst Witch, and Logan’s Run, while eating Tootie Frooties and sweet potato fries for dinner, no one gets veto rights. The movie on the big screen sucks and your significant other is sitting beside you. You’re not sure if he’s enjoying it or not, but you don’t complain just in case. You either a) finish the movie and find he loved it and now you have to listen to the recap or b) he hated it too and neither of you will ever get those two hours back. The movie sucks and your purse is the only thing sitting beside you? You leave, grab dinner and a drink on the way home, and then later do your nails in your underwear. If you hate comic book movies, you never watch them. If you want to stay out all night, you do. There’s no checking in or making two trips when getting take-out because he hates sushi. You take the job despite the distance, have your friends over at 2:00 a.m., and you paint the kitchen table red because you fucking feel like it. No one gets any say.

6. You don’t have to defend anyone.
Anyone who’s ever been in a dark relationship knows what it feels like to assure family that he’s really trying to get a job, he’ll pay them back soon, or he didn’t start that fire. Eventually the reassurances turn to lies and half-truths and then to avoidance altogether. You don’t want to share the truth, because then they’ll hate your partner, when there are still hopes of fixing the festering wound that is your relationship or you wouldn’t be there. But now that awkward one-on-one with the judge is over and you neverhave to speak another kind word toward the bastard again. You can refuse to discuss him or you can share all the details. Hell, you can exaggerate if you want. Who cares? They’re your family and have (hopefully) been on your side the whole time. There are no more excuses to be made. You can finally be completely honest with the people you love and no longer feel like you have to hide from them. If you’re in the city and realize you’re driving past your aunt’s house, you can stop by without cringing at the dreaded job question, because you only have to answer for you.

7. Masturbation
Not once have I ever rolled over before finishing because I “have a headache” and gone to sleep. I’ve never turned myself down despite the fact that it’s my birthday. It’s not offensive that I’m the only one who ever does any of the work. Enough said.

8. You’re not faking it.
This isn’t a sex comment, but a life generalization. From the smile on my face at Wal-Mart, to my Facebook statuses, to Christmas dinner, I don’t have to pretend I’m happy. I don’t have to force myself to spend time with someone I hate, because doing otherwise would be admitting that it’s long over. I don’t have to lie to myself and say it’ll get better when I haven’t been able to picture that future in years. I don’t have to reassure myself that he’ll get a job and I must’ve just lost my grandma’s bracelet. I am exactlyas ecstatic about life as I appear in social media and I don’t have to pretend otherwise to anyone ever.

9. You learn what you like to do.
Now that you’re on your own and you’ve rid yourself of that pesky compromise crap, you get to spend your time trying new things. You may like them and you may hate them, but you get to do whateveryou want. Nothing rids a girl of that victim feeling quite like shooting a gun. It truly is the closest you will ever come to having a penis without surgery. Now there’s no one to say you can’t learn. If you want to see a show, they will sell you a single ticket. Not one person will look your way and think “Why is she alone?” They’re just as self-absorbed as all humans and when they do notice, they do not care. So now’s the time to take that free fencing lesson, try out for community theater, or sign up for a pottery class. There’s no one to disapprove or complain about the expense of time or money and you’re not busy sitting through a movie the person next to you may or may not also hate.

10. There’s a future… and it doesn’t suck.
There was a time in my life where I would turn to my best friend and defend my marriage with “You get different things from different people. I trust and love you and my grandma. I just need him to work.” That was the bright version of my future. He would work and keep the job and I wouldn’t trust, love, or rely on him ever. I would stay, because I made a commitment, but that was it. Now I see a blur of accomplishment, trust, love, and fun. I see a family if I’m not too broken to give it another try. I actually have hope for the future. More importantly, though, I know that if this is it, if this is the most happiness I’ll ever find, it is infinitely more spectacular than anything I ever felt in my four years of marriage, so I’m okay with that.

As I’ve said, these things seem negligible to anyone who hasn’t had them taken away. The joy of getting them back and the gratitude you have when you wake up and know you can take care of yourself, though… it almost makes all the pain and suffering worth it. Almost.