Monthly Archives: November 2014


I read an article recently that said intelligent people would rather spend their lives alone than settle for an incompatible mate. Once I got past the loose use of the word “mate”, I really appreciated the idea of this study. It gives me ammo for the inevitable questions at family gatherings and unfortunate run-ins with high school classmates. I’m mere weeks from my thirtieth birthday and have yet to date anyone longer than three months. Let me rephrase that. I have yet to be able to date anyone for longer than three months. Because humans are weird, and spending tons of time with one human brings to light all of that weirdness. There has to be something there to combat the ick factor and make me want to see their face again without the urge to strike it with a blunt object.

That something, for me, is simply a lack of pressure. If I’m not feeling pressured to make something romantic happen with a person, I can get along with them famously. This is perhaps why I feel most comfortable around gay people. They’re not going to try to sex me up and I’m not going to have the urge to gaze longingly into their collective downstairs. Without sexual tension I’m able to quip freely and often and maintain friendly relationships for decades. With it, however, I’m awkward and full of unmet expectations. The list of which only gets longer as I get older. After all, the years are stacking up on me and my baby making organs are beginning the slow descent into uselessness.

Biological clocks and romantic pressure aside, I’m turned off by any number of behavioral and wardrobal idiosyncrasies. Not the least of which are man-tank tops and man-sandals. And glasses with transition lenses. I just can’t. And you shouldn’t. A few other things that send me running for the proverbial hills are a penchant for sleep-snuggling and the expectation that all of my free time must be morphed into we time. Because, no.
My longest running relationship is with Netflix and eating inappropriate things in bed and I’m completely unwilling to give that up. Netflix gets me. It anticipates my needs and checks on me when it thinks I’ve been binge-watching Gilmore Girls too long to still be categorized as a healthy human. And it doesn’t get mad at me for dismissing the concern and continuing to binge for another four hours. Netflix lets me be me. If Netflix could father my children, I’d be in romantic bliss. But, it can’t. Not yet, anyway. I’m looking at you, technological geniuses. Make it happen for me so that I can stop eyeing wide-eyed child-nuggets with a fleeting intention to kidnap them.
Biological clocks are a real thing. Even if the ticking is against the will of the person hosting the evil uterus. My internal clock ticks most loudly at night when it penetrates my sleep with dreams of procreation. I wake up and frantically check my stomach to be sure it isn’t engorged with a tiny human and relieved, fall back into a childless sleep. I assume I’ll never marry and I’m too cautious to get knocked up by mistake, so my choices are basically to trick someone handsome into fathering my mid-life baby or to adopt well into my forties. I’m leaning toward adoption, since I’ve seen childbirth happen and frankly, I’m not into it. At least with adoption I can pick out physical attributes like accessories. That is what is most important in a child, isn’t it?
I’d hate to clash with my baby like plaid and stripes and have to return it.

You Better Werq

Happy Hour took a dark turn this evening.

I can be talked into a number of things after two martinis. Giant tire swings, weeknight karaoke and making out with strangers are a few of the antics that have followed happy hours gone by, but tonight was something new. Something sinister. Something I never thought I’d do. Tonight, I joined a gym.

Once four or five ounces of gin start sloshing around in my stomach, everything sounds like a great idea and I turn into a very supportive friend. Without the gin, I’m terribly disagreeable.  On this occasion, conversations of weekend plans and rough terrain on the job front turned to self improvement and affirmations of change. My friend announced that she was going to get herself a gym membership after dinner and I quickly stated my intentions to join her. Then immediately regretted it. But it was out there in the universe. I had said it and she intended to stick me to it.

True to our (her) word, we left our empty martini glasses and went straight to Fitness 19. This particular location is situated conveniently on my way home from work, which I knew was the only option if I was actually expected to go there occasionally. As I clomped across the parking lot in my 5-inch heels, I stared in horror at the sight before me and nearly turned around. The front of the facility is all windows and framed in those windows were gads of overly-muscled dudes. Dudes as far as the eye could see. Dudes squatting, lifting, curling and presumably grunting in close proximity to each other. Dudes wearing t-shirts that had had the sleeves viciously ripped from them, perhaps in a Hulk-like manner.

We walked in, arguing about who would do the talking and I stepped up, telling the overly-muscled man behind the counter that we needed help. He laughed and I stared, unblinking, at his forehead until he realized that we truly needed to be treated with kid-gloves. I told him I had never been inside a gym before and he laughed again, realizing more quickly this time that I was again serious. We were led over to a small table, adjacent to a handful of sweaty people jogging slowly on treadmills. At the table, the gym representative (I’m sure he told me his name, but my buzzed brain ignored it) asked us some preliminary questions, including what our expectations and goals were. I had no answers. I wanted to say, “Help me, I’m fat” and call it a day. I assumed they’d just need to take a look at me and they’d know every answer they ever needed. I was in business casual, of course, with full makeup and the aforementioned high-heeled boots. I was sweating at the mere mention of exercise and babbling sarcastically, like I do when I’m uncomfortable.

We settled on a 6-month plan and embarked on a tour of the facility. I asked questions along the way, things like, “Is there a particular time that is less populated by dudes?” And he said, no. It’s always dude-city at Fitness 19. He did recommend sticking to the treadmills and/or elliptical machines, which is “where the women usually stay”. So, at the very least, I  know there’s sex segregation. Basically, the treadmills are the “kitchen” and I should stay there where I belong. Which is fine. I don’t want to bulk up with weights, anyway. And I’ve always wanted to be barefoot and pregnant. Truthfully, being in the weight-area made me uncomfortable. There’s something very “bath house” about groups of glistening men, all grunting and moving in otherwise silent unison. Totes fine for them to experience. Not fine for me to watch.

Asking about possible classes they offered led me to the gloriously named “Werq”, which is a dance-based fitness class. I can’t not go to it. It’s called “Werq”. With an E. And a Q. I only know how it’s spelled because I jokingly asked if it was spelled with an “e”. I did not expect to be correct. If “Werq” isn’t danced entirely to post-insanity Britney Spears, I’m going to be incredibly disappointed.

Before we left, the gym-guys behind the counter made us promise they’d see us tomorrow. We of course said they would, and even meant it. So I guess I should start practicing my grunting face and find out if I own any clothing that stretches in a good way.