Dating in a "Social" Generation

            Between personal experience and listening to the stories of others, I believe that I have reflected on and dissected every scenario of postmodern courtship my generation could possibly be faced with in our technology-riddled world today. I am not, however, saying that this makes me an expert in any way; in fact, I find it more confusing than ever. Having been out of the game for a while now, I rely only on my friends’ tales of triumph and woe as they battle the man pool armed only with their carefully built cyber identities and of course, the Dirty Shirley (R.I.P.), which they undoubtedly had to buy for themselves. Some describe the experience as completely exhausting, longing for the times our mothers cling to when they spew unrealistic notions like, “If a man doesn’t offer to pick up you and your friend’s tab then he isn’t a gentleman,” or, “Only ‘fast’ girls kiss a boy before he’s officially taken her to dinner.” What? You’ve had a guy pay for your dinner BEFORE drunkenly making out, then texting for a month without any inkling of a “hang out” invitation, then not hearing from him for another two months, then hopelessly Facebook stalking him, then forgetting about him, and then finally having him reappear six months later? Are you a magician? Others call the whole thing liberating, going so far as to describe it as the greatest game they’ve ever played. 

No matter how you look at it, it cannot be denied that the dating game has changed completely since our parents were out there man hunting. It has been sifted through the giant colander of social media and text message, being sure to weed out the need of any form of commitment or even basic social skills, leaving the weird, confusing Narnia that our generation must trudge through in search of a mate. These social media platforms serve as weapons for both sexes, carefully bridging the gap between personal TMI of the potential love interest and, as previously referenced, blatant lack of commitment. It seems to me, though, that they can be simplified into three modes that matter above all others:

Text Message

This was always my favorite sword in my scabbard (I had to look that up. I didn’t just know what a sword holder was called.) It is such a delicate art and one that must be approached with thoughtfulness and a bit of healthy fear. It is something far more complex than the “where you at” it comes cloaked in. Every response must carry the perfect balance of wit and mystery. The overuse of one of these elements can completely ruin everything you’re trying to achieve. I learned this the hard way when I had someone respond to one of my HILARIOUS texts with, “Listen, can you just not? I have to be witty all day and I don’t need it from you too.” The mystery comes with the element of, “I don’t care about you at all,” while still maintaining, “There’s a chance you can have me.” It’s not as difficult as it seems unless you do something completely ludacris like say “LMAO” or “:).” However, there are some risks that don’t exist in the world of face-to-face contact. For instance, a misplaced emoji or autocorrected word can ruin everything that you’ve built for yourself. So basically if he were to text you, “Going to the bars tonight?” you’d need to say something artful like, “Don’t know. You?” only 30 minutes later. Do you see what I did there?

Facebook

There is so much power and yet so much problem in Facebook. It is both the most useful form of research and the most life-ruining vessel of emotional pain. On Facebook, you have no secrets. Within 10 minutes, you can know a guy’s religion, political position, favorite movie, past job experience, family history, weight fluctuation, high school senior spring break destination, and most importantly, exes. Before you know it, you’ve found a picture of them from three years ago cuddled together in front of a fire and you’ve clicked to go to her page. Another hour has passed and you’re on a picture of her on the beach two years ago. She has dimples in the small of her back that could rival that of Marissa Miller and somehow doesn’t look like a lunatic frozen in midair with her limbs playfully awry, but she listed The Giver as her favorite book and any required summer reading is an automatic disqualifier of versatility. Who is actually winning here? That’s yet to be determined. Then you end up on her wall posts from three years ago. There are posts from the man in question. You’re in too deep. You can’t turn back. You have to look. He called her “princess.” Game over. You’re turned off. But it was three years ago, you tell yourself.  Should I cut him some slack? But you can’t. The damage is already done and he hasn’t even gotten the opportunity to text flirt yet…

Snap Chat

I find this the most interesting of all, as it was developed after I had hung up my hat. I only learned of it recently while at dinner with some friends. One of the girls was talking about how a guy she had recently shared a cab with had been SnapChating her all week. She said this nonchalantly like, “Ya know, so we’ve been snapchatting and…” I asked her to explain this to me. Had the app that I thought was reserved only for fewer than ten second dog videos, selfies, and the occasional Anthony Weiner style photos been turned into another stage of the lengthy journey to a real relationship? She informed me that it most certainly had. Then our other friend weighed in, “It’s a great initiator to an evening while having the lowest form of commitment. Like, someone sends you a Snap or you send one and it’s kind of like dropping a less forward hint that you wouldn’t mind seeing that person tonight like ‘I’m bored and I thought you’d like this picture so if you’re bored later maybe you could enjoy time with me.’ It’s also an easy way to remind someone you’re still around without looking too interested. Like, I sent this to you, but you have no idea how many other people I sent this to, so you’re not that special.” What does communicating like this even look like? Do you draw each other pictures too? How many seconds should you let him look at you? So many questions…

Do you think Shakespeare ever anticipated that the quest for true love would have turned into this? I’m not sure where our society can go from here but I’m sure it will only become more detached. Soon there will be an app similar to the operating system on Her where our online profiles date each other first before we meet in person. We’ll get a push notification on their first kiss. Younger generations will speculate what that might feel like in this sick, weird Second Life reality. And only will we feel the censored blur when they get in the heart-shaped hot tub, left to simulate and speculate how humans used to love back in the day.  

Greeting Card Photo Credit

My Super Bowl Observations

I’ve never been a sports fan. I always felt more connected to physical activities that offered shoes or handbags as prizes (until I found online shopping and realized I was now opposed to all forms of physical activity.) It wasn’t even so much that I disliked the idea of watching sports, I just didn’t understand them and I was too ADD to ever properly learn the rules. I have had many friends and boyfriends try to explain to me the detailed statutes of various athletic events. I could never quite retain the information being given to me. I’m not proud of this. The charming novelty of my lack of athletic education is gone and left only people’s sheer disgust that, at 23 years of age, I still haven’t figured it out yet. I know that no finger can be pointed at anyone other than myself, but I actually think that my brain automatically repels the information to make room for the stream of neuroses that perpetually flows through it. As you can imagine, the Super Bowl has never been an annual source of excitement for me. It’s not that I don’t like the commercials, although it’s sometimes hard for me to truly enjoy a Super Bowl commercial because I have nothing to compare it to; I only watch TV on my DVR. It’s not that I dislike the rituals of cheese-covered everything washed down with gallons of beer; I’m not an animal, I love that. I also thoroughly enjoy the halftime show just as much as any other self-respecting American; I’ll take any excuse to possibly see nipple. Say what you want, but you know you rewound and paused to see if it was ACTUALLY a real nipple. You did, I did, we all did. All that aside, the honest and only reason I actually tune into the Super Bowl is my sheer, social fascination of the female sideline reporter.

It is not that I am marveled by the fact that a female could possibly possess an interest in sports so great that she should want to pursue a career in it. I mean I’m not Lena Dunham or anything but I like to think I hold some feministic ideals. I did just say “nipple” on the Internet so I’m obviously incredibly progressive. I am just interested in what it would be like to be so knowledgeable in the realm of athletics that not only could I actually have a conversation about it, I could do it better than most men. This is a feeling I have never known and will never know. Every year, when I tune into “The Big Game,” my attention is completely consumed by Erin Andrews or her female counterparts. I study her the way one might study an algorithm. I don’t understand it so I am only more drawn to figuring it out. There is immense power in knowing a lot about sports and I wonder if she completely understands that. I wonder if she knows what it’s like on the other side. How tough it is for girls, like me, when the tailgate has faded to black and you’re left at a bar with your football savvy friends, fending for yourself. No matter how much beer you drink, you still have no idea when to cheer. No matter how well executed your themed outfit is, your friends are still going to get annoyed that you’re reading a book on your phone. That’s a cross she will never have to bear. I bet she completely owns first dates. No immediate chemistry? No problem. She knows everything there ever was to know about the male species’ favorite topic. There is no risk at sounding like that girl who pretends she knows a ton about sports but really knows nothing, she has an entire nation backing up her credibility. That must be the ultimate luxury. I can’t even imagine what it would look like if I was asking the Seahawks post game questions. It would probably just turn into a really long-winded game of Never Have I Ever.  

Though I will never be Erin Andrews, I know there is a very simple solution to my problem: learning the rules of sports. I’m not sure my attention span will ever allow that to happen and I’m okay with that. I like the mental vacation I take every year as I watch that long-legged athletic encyclopedia make the Super Bowl her bitch. For now, I’m comfortable clinging to the sporting event I do understand: The Academy Awards Red Carpet Special, the actual award show, the post show, and the special episode of Fashion Police after the post show ends.

Pantaloony

     I used to be really good at knowing the things that would trigger my becoming of a total nutjob. There were certain things that would immediately send me from a self-controlled Beyoncé headspace to a complete Amanda Bynes in a matter of seconds, and I could smell them from a mile away. I prided myself in this ability. I told myself that only the most secure girls could sense their crazy and lasso it back into something manageable. I think that actually might be the definition of mental stability. Look it up. The problem is that, lately, I have completely lost this vital ability to reverse-Hulk myself back into a person suitable for society. I’ve been totally taken over by hormones.

This became glaringly evident to me yesterday. I was trying on a pair of stylishly flowing pants from Urban Outfitters that I had purchased late one night while trolling the Internet for things I don’t need. The most rational part of me had known as soon as I hit “add to cart” that the pants would never fit my child bearing hips and protruding gut, but the idealistic part of me knew that the simple act of typing in my credit card number would make me feel alive. It was one of those devil and angel on your shoulder situations and I had given into the promise of sartorial splendor over the bore of financial accountability. As I stared in the mirror at my body shoved into the pants like a pregnant chimichanga, I stared to cry. But, the thing was, my tears weren’t those of lament for the complete Nichole Ritchie moment the pants would have provided, or tears of sadness at the loss of my old body; these were tears of sheer rage at the profiling, animal house that, obviously, was Urban Outfitters. Who did they think they were, not catering to those with the bodies of chubby angel statues? My mind drifted to thought of activism for fuller-framed individuals. Is this the kind of garbage Gabourey Sidibe had to deal with? I wanted no part of that kind of discrimination.

As I threw the pants back into the box and grabbed my computer to order an XL t-shirt that said something along the lines of “I MIGHT BE CHUNKY, BUT I STILL DESERVE TO DRESS FUNKY,” Alex entered the room. Realizing the state I was in, he urged me to go into the living room and fire up some Vanderpump Rules to clear my head. He was right, I needed to mellow out and really explore what it was that was making me feel sad, angry, and inspired all at once. Was this about pants or something much deeper?

As I watched Stassi question Jax’s fidelity while simultaneously throwing a drink on Katie, I let myself crawl into a trance of self-discovery. I thought back to the roller coaster of feelings that I had been riding the last few months. There was the time that I had caused the front desk girl at the doctor’s office to cry when she had told me it would take 15 days to transfer my records to my new doctor. She was just being dramatic, right? That couldn’t have been my fault. I had simply questioned her commitment to her field. I mean, if it took her 15 days to send a fax, maybe she wasn’t cut out for clerical work. I also don’t really think I took it too far when I requested that she let me come behind the desk and send the fax myself while she took a second to reflect on what the hell was wrong with her. There was also that other time when I started crying so hard during One Direction’s song Story of My Life that I had to pull over until I could get it together. What about that other time when my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I became so enraged that she didn’t already know that I told her I wanted nothing at all and called three separate times that day to make sure she wasn’t getting me a present because I DID NOT WANT ONE. She ended up getting me a gift, but I wonder what would have happened to her if she hadn’t. It couldn’t have been good. Could all these events be connected by one common denominator?

It was at this moment that Alex came into the living room jokingly sporting the pants that had ruined my life only a few hours before. He thought it would be a funny, light-hearted way to cheer me up. As I looked up from my Bravo favorite and saw him, I was overcome with a myriad of familiar emotion. The fabric was loose yet flattering on his frame. The slightly transparent fabric revealed the lining, which was cut into shorts, perfectly giving him the exact sexy, bohemian edge I was trying to achieve. He was taking those pants from sweatshop-made high school free dress day to Valentino Pre Spring 2014 so effortlessly. I took a deep breath, quickly trying to process the cocktail of irrational feelings that Satan himself had thrown in my face. Before I could wrangle myself back to earth, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Listen, you’re sleeping in the guest room tonight.” He replied, “Can I still wear the pants?”

What Else You Find Out at the Ultrasound

I was really bad at having my first ultrasound. My large-headed baby was curled up like a shrimp. Alex had a look on his face like the heavens had opened up and everything he ever dreamed about paternity was coming true. He was nailing this. I felt nothing but pure unadulterated fear, and then the realization of my fear scared me even more.

“Does this mean I’m going to be a terrible mother?” I thought to myself as I laid there being poked by the ultrasound tech that bore way too close a resemblance to Fortune Feimster. I mean, when Ross and Rachel saw their little inch-long piece of life for the first time, she cried and there was that touching music in the background. All I kept thinking was, “my straightener is definitely still on and I wore this exact same outfit yesterday.” Are those the actions of a prepared parent? My smoke alarm randomly went off last night and I was so sure it was a ghost trying to contact me that I slept with my iPhone night light on. I hardly ever take my dog all the way out to go to the bathroom when it’s cold outside. I just let her poop on the balcony and act like I had no idea she was going to do that. I love bagel bites. I laugh every time I see a Sprinkles cupcake because it looks so much like a boob. Sometimes I actually order amaretto sours at bars as a serious drink that I’m going to consume, not to act ditzy and have guys show me better drinks. I like them. I think they taste like a good time. I used to give my middle school boyfriends framed versions of my family’s Christmas card as gifts. I’m an only child so they were always dramatic black and white pictures of me in our backyard. These are the things that were running through my head as I stared at the fruit of my loins wiggling around on the big screen TV in front of me.

I looked over at the tech like she was supposed to be filled with advice for me but she just said, “Well, there it is. Your typical human variety baby.” She was looking at the screen like it was a Sbarros menu or something. This wasn’t her first rodeo. All I kept saying was “this is so crazy,” which I knew she hated. She didn’t think this was crazy at all. She just wanted to take her lunch break. Wasn’t I supposed to feel some kind of unbreakable emotional connection? Wasn’t everything supposed to make perfect sense now? I was just more terrified than ever. There was going to be my own personal human in the world now and I was completely responsible for its rearing. This was like a high stakes Tamagotchi situation and I was awful at having a Tamagotchi. I always forgot to feed it and it always had those wiggly lines like it was starting to smell. I wasn’t really done rearing myself. I always told myself that I didn’t have to have it all figured out until I was 25. That seemed like an age where you should stop picking at your face and start watching the local news. I just thought I had more time. All of the girls I knew that had found themselves in this exact situation had been either really responsible or really cultured. I was neither of those things. My responsibility was constantly being disproven by car towings, overdrawn bank accounts, and academic blunders. I also can’t really say that I’m necessarily cultured. Greta Gerwig would never play me in a quirky independent film about unexpected motherhood. I always fast forward through the indie musical guests on Late Shows. I’ve never been inside a Madewell store. I had no idea who Moby was until they made a reference to him on SNL a couple weeks ago. I had to Google him. Three months ago my biggest concerns were whether or not I wanted to start a juice cleanse and if Girls was actually getting as nonsensical as I thought or just going way over my head.

When we got home, I was searching for a magnet to hang the ultrasound picture on the fridge, and there was only one left; the rest were being used by bills, my weekly calendar, save the dates, and Christmas cards. I realized maybe being scared was okay. Maybe being totally unprepared was okay. Maybe that was just being honest about it, because even if I already had a 401k, I bet I’d still be pretty insecure about the uncertainty of the whole thing. So, for now, I think I’m going to take comfort in my excitement and fear of the situation because that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it? I don’t think anyone is ever completely confident in his or her parenting abilities. I’d even be willing to bet that when Tori Spelling was lying on that table staring at her 30^th kid wiggling around on the big screen in front of her, the most real and honest part of her was thinking, “Dammit, I think I left the garage door open. This is going to be a complete disaster.”

Thought Catalog

Thanks Thought Catalog for publishing my post. Go see it here! 

Thought Catalog-Thinking You're Pregnant is The Scariest Thing in The World

An Open Letter To Pretentious Cocktails

Dear Pretentious Cocktails,

I always fancied myself more as a beer girl. You know, the kind of girl so unbelievably down to earth and chill that she could kick back a Natty Light and still own the room. That was totally me. My cheap, tasteless beer and I needed no one to define us. We were effortless in our simplicity and edgy in our bubbly roughness. I threw my head back and laughed at even the sight of your kind. My beer was Serena and you were Blaire. Sure, you had style and elegance, but we had gusto and personality. You were forced to cling to snobbery while we were set free by our self-acceptance. We weren’t necessarily classy but we had swag. When my Natty and I were together I was sure that everyone was saying, “that girl knows exactly who she is.” 

But as much as I hate to admit this to you, now that my body is being operated by the corrupt despotism of hormones, you’re all I think about. It's not really even alcohol that I miss, it's just the overwhelming need to feel something festive glide through a straw and into my body. Sometimes I wake up to myself screaming, “CLUB SODA WITH A DASH OF SIMPLE SYRUP, CRUSHED MINT AND A SPLASH OF ORGANICALLY INFUSED BLOOD ORANGE VODKA PLEASE!” I don’t even know myself anymore.  I’m consumed by the need to hold something in my hand called a “Stiletto” or a “Farmer’s Skinny Daughter.” I’d even take the “Farmer’s Chubby Daughter with A Clubbed Foot,” I really don’t care, as long as something is muddled. Sometimes I sit in bed in my favorite French bulldog pajama set and look at the Fleming’s drink menu online. I just want to feel close to you. I saw that they had a new drink called “50 Shades of Rose.” I giggled for a solid 10 minutes at its subtle cleverness. GOD THEY’RE GOOD. It’s kind of like Facebook stalking the guy you used to “talk to” but stopped because he started verbally hashtagging everything like a huge tool. He is now dating another girl with way better legs than you. You want what you can’t have. That’s exactly how I feel about a pretentious drink that involves lavender bitters or something. I’m Eve and a “tini” is my forbidden fruit. I just want to get dirty with it for a minute then toss it aside, just to know I can.

As a substitute, I’ve tried everything you can make with a Keurig. There’s so much boba in my system from drinking bubble tea that baby girl is probably playing marbles with her imaginary friends in the womb. I even tried ordering a round of wheatgrass shots, “on me,” to try to feel like I was a somebody again. “Oh, just order a virgin Daiquiri, or a virgin Bloody Mary (I can’t decide if this is ironic or just gross), or a virgin Long Island Iced Tea,” they say. Virgin cocktails… Is that some sick joke? Every drink is pale ale in comparison to you. They call them spirits for a reason, and I’m not feeling very spirited these days. I live my sober life vicariously through others now. I go to a bar or restaurant with someone and find myself ordering drinks for them just to see them imbibe. It’s like live beverage porn; I get my kicks by watching strangers drink something on the rocks. “With a twist” never sounded so sensual.

So this is what it’s come to. Sitting in the corner of a Starbucks and writing you this letter you’ll never read. The thought of my cheap beer has completely left me now only to be replaced by my mental affair with you. You win.

White Girl Problems,

Katherine

Boobie Blues

     When I was little, I always thought having large boobs would make me feel like Scarlett Johansen. I knew that I would be really good at having them. I’d take care of them, make them feel loved, take them on plenty of walks, and bathe them in La Mer to ensure that they were always at their best. We’d eat at only the best restaurants and take tons of zany photos together at the booths in the mall. Unfortunately, now that my fetus has given me the backhanded gift of giant knockers, I look more like Rosie O’ Donnell and I constantly complain about them.  They aren’t glamorous. I feel nothing like a mysterious burlesque dancer. My back always hurts and I want to donate portions of my mams to my more flat-chested friends so they’re less flat-chested and I don’t have to frequently wear ponchos.  

      I knew the situation was really starting to develop (no pun intended) when I was getting dressed one morning and noticed my “after Mexican food” bra was doing that thing where it cuts into the middle of the breast causing the upper division to pour over the cup, resulting in a four-boob disaster. This was only going to get worse. This was like breast genocide. My chest was going to join forces with my stomach and I was turning into a blob. I was going to look like this by the time I had this child…

     I clearly needed some new bras. I recruited my mom to come on this journey because this was her fault. It was her genes and she needed to make it up to me. We chose to do our shopping at Dillard’s because it was a place where the youth and the elderly intersect, like aisle 18 at CVS where they keep both condoms and Depends, so we knew they’d carry brands with some flare yet plenty of support. Victoria’s Secret would scoff. Aerie’s demi cups would run in fear. This also wasn’t as grim as Steinmart. It had to be a multi-aged department store. 

     I wasn’t really sure what size I was, so I just started grabbing the next size up from my quad-boob bra in some styles that didn’t horrify me too much. Between my mom and I, we probably had at least 40 bras slung over our arms. We were ready for anything. We were hoping for something that still encompassed the allure of a twenty-something-about-town, but we knew that it might be a job only underwire and a thick strap could conquer. As we sifted through another rack, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a tall, slender, boobless sales woman in her late seventies and she was giggling. “Sweetie,” she said condescendingly, “it looks like you have a lot of bras there.” Obviously.  “Are you sure you even know what size you are?” she said looking me up and down. “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I answered dismissively, willing her to walk away. She suggested that I get measured. I opened my mouth to object, but before I could get my words out, my mom was already speaking for me. “THAT’S SUCH A GREAT IDEA!! WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING!!!” she said like she wasn’t completely ruining my life. As we followed Bea Arthur back to the dressing room, I shot my mother a death look and whispered, “Is she going to fondle me?!” She assured me that she wasn’t and that there was a method that they used to guarantee you aren’t violated. I didn’t believe her. This was so my mom. She was the queen of “Oh, that’s not going to hurt at all!” before an incredibly painful medical procedure, so I was sure “Oh, she’s totally not going to touch your boobs!” really meant that I was going to be crying on the floor of a cold shower after this was over. 

     Immediately upon arrival to the dressing room, Bea began flipping through the bras and giggling again like, “oh these are definitely not going to work, you silly little thing.” I gave a needy look to mom, but she was talking on her cell phone and not caring at all about my desire to hold on to my self-worth. I turned back around and Bea had dramatically flown out of the room in search of her assistant. When she found her, I saw her whisper something to her and they both turned and looked at me, nodding in silent agreement. When she returned, she was holding two different styles; one was a very aggressive beige number with one of those clasps that has 12 hooks for people who sometimes get their mamos stuck in their socks. I can’t talk about the other one. I just can’t. She grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to the corner (molestation nook) and instructed me to remove my ill-fitting brassiere that I had arrived in. Then, in this weird turbo speed whirlwind, she put the new one on me. She never touched me. She just witnessed them and said “nipple” a lot, so it was pretty much just as bad. She informed me that I had been shopping for bras that were completely the wrong size and basically setting myself up for complete failure. I had to admit, home girl was right. Thanks to her recommendation, I was a new woman. I looked like a Designing Women cast member, but I felt pretty good. Bea brought me some more nursing home exclusives and I felt like we were really developing a level of comfort with one another like a scene out of Fried Green Tomatoes. Before I knew it, we were talking tons of shit on her assistant and conspiring against my distracted mother. 

     Bea really thought my mom should pay for the bras. I’d been through enough and she WAS the reason I was in this situation, right? We just really got each other. I also realized that she was never in this to feel me up; kind of like how doctors aren’t in the game to see your junk, just to cure you. She was like a doctor. She knew not to touch my belly and say anything about the miracle of life and I knew that offering her gum for her cig breath would be too obvious. I didn’t want to cheapen this and neither did she. Once someone sees full breast, a level of trust develops. I forgave her condescending attitude, I could be a major ass too when people were butchering my art. Bra shopping was her art and I needed to stay in my lane. I understood that now. 

      As I handed her my mom’s credit card and we had a good snicker about conning the old gal into her financial support, I realized it wasn’t my giant chest that was holding me back; it was my attitude towards it. With the right bra, I could flaunt these Dita Von Teese’s all over the place. It just took a little violation and some geriatric girl time to make me appreciate that.