Waiting

It’s been about 55 hours since the date ended. It went well. I mean extremely well. Conversation flowed like water down a slip-n-slide. As soon as I saw him my breath went shallow. That feeling didn’t leave all night. He walked me in. We kissed and cuddled. It was awesome. I’ve got that sick feeling inside. It seems I can’t thinking about him. Crap.

As soon as the date ended I knew I was hooked. Oh God- why, why, why did I do this to myself? What is about being human that drags us kicking and screaming into a situation boiling over with so much potential pain and devastation? Every break up started with a good date. Every miserable Saturday night thinking about how I could have been funnier/prettier/less overwhelming - they all started with a first good night kiss. Every miserable moment I spent wondering what Rachel in Phoenix had that I didn’t began with a first time holding hands.

In some ways it makes nooo sense! Seriously! Just be single! Just stay by myself – I rarely ever disappoint me! I give myself great birthday and Christmas presents. I always take myself where I want to go on vacation. And sex - well – there are reasonable substitutes available to the single girl. So why do we do this to ourselves?

Because it might be right. Every married girlfriend I have once called me to gush about her good/great/ecstatic first date with the man who eventually became her husband. I guess we traverse the perilous lines – putting our self-esteem on the chopping block, allowing the faint glimmer of hope from a romantic song, opening the fantasies in our mind to play with his last name and our first name – because ultimately, hopefully, maybe this time, it could actually be the right one.

So it’s been 55 hours. Like I said. About 24 away for anyone following the “three day rule” to call back and ask for another date. We sent a couple of text messages about how much fun we had together. My psyche goes back and forth from ecstatic excitement to a deep and unsettling fear – and the recognition, more frightening than any horror movie could ever be, that I like him. Like, I like him a lot.

Terrifying. Thrilling. Horrifying. These are the most exciting moments in a nascent relationship. I’ll let you know what happens, assuming my emotional state survives the next 24 hours without having a complete psychotic break. I think I need to go put on another romantic comedy. Maybe, just maybe he’s the Harry to my Sally.

Dating at Work

“Aren’t there any cute attorneys or IT guys at your work? Seriously, there is a whole building of men in suits around you right?” My friend meant well. And she had a point – a recent survey found that 40% of married couples in the U.S. met at work. What is it about dating at work?

I’ve done it: Back in high school I worked at an establishment that served food through a window and required me to wear horrible navy blue pants that slimmed at the ankle. I was a vision in scratchy polyester and a visor that read, “Try our new burritos!” There was a blue-eyed skinny blonde manager there- a hot college boy – who used to “walk me to my car” at night to be sure I was safe. It was love. Or so I thought, until I realized he was literally walking every girl who worked there to her car the same way he did with me. There’s danger in spending your time lusting for a man who can legitimately make you take out the trash while he sneaks into the walk-in fridge with Alex, the dark-haired, tongue-ringed rebel who came in with him in the same clothes she wore last night.

Everyone knows it’s a bad idea: The perils are obvious- you potentially have to see Fred in marketing every weekday for the next decade, and you know that he knows what you look like in red lingerie. Worse – you know that he knows that you got waaay too drunk on your third date and ended up crying about how no one will ever love you and that you’ll die alone. Even worse than that? Choose badly and you’ll forever be “the girl who saw Ed naked. What was she thinking???”

But we do it anyway. Clearly, if 40% of married couples met at work, there are lots of us throwing caution to the wind and calling Brad into our office for “an important meeting (in my pants!).”

My theory is that we date at work because we get to know people there. Online dating, first dates, blind dates – they all have a black and white mentality attached to them. Do I like you? Do I like you enough to have another date? Oh, you don’t like Thai food? Never mind – this isn’t meant to be.

But at work? You get to know that Robert, who you never noticed before, volunteers every week training puppies to be guide-dogs for the blind, and suddenly at a happy hour, you want to get to know him really well. Dating at work allows time to know who someone is, and that can be the greatest aphrodisiac of all. And you always have something to talk about – like your boss.

So is there anyone at work I want to date? No – not right now at least. Plus I feel like you only get one chance to date at work per job. Go out with a couple of guys and you become “that girl” quickly. I’m saving my turn in case we actually do get a hot new junior partner that I can blog about

Eharmony Wants Us Together- Again

About two years ago I found myself where I am now- single and looking for someone to fill my Friday nights with popcorn and a roll in the hay. I joined eharmony at the time and went out on several dates, including one with Jersey Guy. He was well educated- too well educated in fact – he had a bachelor’s degree, MBA and was now attending dental school. Someone with that much education begins to reek of “can’t handle the real world.” He spoke with an intense east-coast accent. He asked me if I would consider getting fake red acrylic nails because, “I grew up with girls with those and I think they’re hot.”

We made out – a lot – on our first date out by the car. The wine facilitated that. After two messages delivered with his terrible whiny accent, I decided I’d rather not go on a second date and that was that.

Fast Forward to Yesterday: As I was scrolling through eharmony my new matches, I came upon Jersey Guy again. The good Doctor who owns eharmony apparently still believes that we would make an excellent couple. So much so that he tried to set me up with this dude twice.
I felt ashamed. I could almost hear Jersey Guy laughing with that high-pitched nasal tone, “Haha! Screw you! I wasn’t right for you? Hah! Look at where you are now, right back online.”

Or I suppose I could see it in the exact opposite way, “Aww, Jersey guy still has the same photos up. How old are those by now? Seriously? Ridiculous!” Ultimately I felt disappointed for both of us- we are both still looking for love in the big bad world of Los Angeles.

At this uncomfortable moment I briefly considered writing a condolence email to him – “Hey, nice to see you here again. So sorry we’re both still kicking this dead horse. Sucks doesn’t it? Best of luck to you. You were a good kisser, but I just couldn’t take the accent.” But as I really didn’t want to hear from him again, I quickly “archived” him. I’m sure he probably saw me as a “match.” I hate knowing that.

He’d be pleased to know that I actually did get acrylic nails after he’d suggested them- OK- a year later – but he was the impetus for the experiment. I tend to keep them French-manicured or a light and pretty color as opposed to the super-slut red talon-like claws he told me he’d prefer.

I wonder if there are others that have come across my profile again – matched because the good Dr. who owns eharmony was trying once again with his 29 dimensions of compatibility to say, “but you two would work!” No, we wouldn’t. His voice alone killed it for me. Imagining him in bed shouting, “baby, uhhh, baby, yeah that’s Hooowwta” made me wince. But I do hope he finds his Jersey princess soon. One with rapier-like nails, bleach blonde hair and a love for the way his uses the word “wicked” at every turn.

The OK Cupid Disclaimer

“I don’t even know why I’m still on this stupid web site. I’m engaged to Smiley_Kathy_88. If you want to contact me for hiking or whatever, please do. Otherwise, I think I’m getting off here soon.” I stared at this profile for several minutes. Let’s review: OK Cupid is A DATING WEB SITE. Now I know that you can also sign up to look for “friends,” “activity partners” and even for “causal sex.” Why would you keep your profile up on a dating web site if you’re engaged?

Because he needs the affirmation: One of my best friend’s now ex-boyfriend maintained his OK Cupid profile the entire eleven months they were dating. When she went ballistic upon learning this, he showed her his disclaimer paragraph on his profile- just like the guy dating Smiley_Kathy_88, saying, “I’m in a long-term relationship and am in love.” Well, that’s nice but still, WHY does this profile still exist?!?

He said it was to “continue to look at the profiles of his friends because he thinks its funny” and to “keep up with new friends he’d met, as work connections, on the site.” Hmmmm….giving him the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t trying to get some on the side, I think he kept this profile because it made him feel good to see the women who clicked on him.

There is no filter on OK Cupid for “disclaimer paragraph” – you can only search for things like education level and whether he has hair. No- my theory is that these guys get the ego thrill from the chicks who stop by their profile, and that no amount of love for their partner can fix this inherent need in that type of guy - permanently insecure or immature.

Because he doesn’t believe in the relationship: Look, those profiles take a long time to write and it takes a long time to edit your ex out of that cute picture you took in Mexico. Taking down the profile would just mean putting it up again in two and a half months when he realizes he can’t deal with your cats, your roommates, or your hope for a baby in the next six months.

Because he’s trying to cheat: It’s a well-worn cliché that men in relationships are more attractive to many single women than single men tend to be. Perhaps, in the ultimate act of reverse psychology, the man is not in fact engaged to Smiley_Kathy_88 – perhaps she doesn’t even exist! Maybe he’s preying on that all-too-common female instinct that compels otherwise sane women to prove they can take anybody’s man or have anybody she wants. That or poor Kathy won’t be smiling anymore when she figures out her man’s contacting people who list “casual sex” as a possibility on their profiles.

I think the bell weather moment in any relationship that begins online is the moment you both agree to take your profiles down because it’s obvious that, for the moment, you don’t want to meet anyone else. If a man I met added a disclaimer about me to his profile – that wouldn’t be good enough. Ultimately, it wasn’t good enough for my friend either. They broke up three months ago. And I’m proud of her for that.

All in the Timing

I saw a friend from my former job for lunch last week. As we blathered away she casually mentioned a meeting she'd just had with Lawyer X. My mind drifted back like a Calgon commercial - there he was - the opposite of my usual type- swarthy with a thin build and hair far too pretty for any man. He was fiery - the type of person who eats a handful of habernero chilis washed down with a jalapeno shake for lunch. His hips swerved with such sex appeal and grace as he walked- he looked as if he could break into a meringue in the middle of the office and show girls would appear to dance with him.

Five years ago we met at work and had an instant flirtation. But the timing was soooo off- first, I was his subordinate, which, particularly in a law firm, is begging for a law suit. Not to mention that pesky boyfriend I was with, and would be with, I would soon learn, for the next three years or so. But that didn't stop me from getting butterflies when I had to go to Lawyer X's office or imagining myself writhing on his desk underneath him once I got there.

The pot had simmered to boiling and when he finally asked me out. I still remember the pink floral dress I was wearing and my 4-inch do-me heels. There in the break room at work, I turned him down as gently as possible, using words like, "I'm super attracted to you but..."

But Now. But now, I'm single. It's been three years since I last saw him. We professionally played out our jobs until I left the firm. "So, is Lawyer X still single?" I asked my friend as casually as possible. "Yeah, as far as I know. He doesn't talk about anybody." Wow- there's that lightening feeling again.

Back at my office I strung up my courage and emailed him. "Hey you! It's been a long time! I saw (friend's name here) for lunch and thought how nice it would be to get together if you're amenable for a happy hour. Let me know!" Ten excrutiating minutes later, I got the YES. Then five more emails back and forth.

Life is all about timing, right? Perhaps now the moment is right. I know we were both into each other then- let's hope now, the clock will strike midnight and a new day will dawn. Or at least that I'll get to run my fingers through that oh-so-Pantene-fresh hair of his.

What I learned from Glamour this month

Ah Glamour- this month, I learned disparate lessons- (1) that women are better than men at some pivotal tasks, (2) that sexting is rampant and (3) that writing an article about how you’re a virgin in your late 20’s is bound to immediately make that news inaccurate.

Women are Better than Men: Dan Abrams must be pretty hard up – he wrote a whole book about jobs and tasks that women excel at above men. On the list? We’re statistically better drivers, have more physical pain in our lives and handle it better than men, make better world leaders and are better at gathering mushrooms in remote parts of Mexico.

As to the driving- it doesn’t surprise me that we get less tickets. I mean, I’ve never seen a female driver on the news in L.A. on the freeway chases so popular during late-afternoon traffic. It’s always some 19-year-old idiot going for his third-strike trying to outrun the cops who tried to pull him over going 110 mph the wrong way on the 405. But better drivers? Hmmm…

More tolerant with pain? Hell yeah- men don’t get to do the every-four-week-double-over-from-cramps the way women do from the time they’re about 12 to 45. I once had a boyfriend hospitalized with kidney stones which are “equivalent to child-birth.” After watching friends give birth, they kicked the crap out of his passing-out/needing-to-be-held-up, wheeled to the emergency room ass.

And this Mexico mushroom thing? Apparently the men all went out to the nether-regions to try go get the “far away, hard to get mushrooms” while the smart women picked three times as many of the same damn mushrooms, because they were within two hundred feet of the start line. Hell, these chicks even had time for a glass of wine before the study ended. Smart women indeed.

Sexting: Apparently 84% of guys have sent a sexy text – and we – dirty girls of the world- have
RESPONDED. 91% of these same men have received a dirty text. Which makes me wonder, how did seven percent of men who received a text reading, “Is it hard baby?” respond with, “I’ve had an easy day, thanks for asking sweetie.” Glamour had the idiocy to ask the question, “Which is better, phone sex or text sex?” Hello?!? One of them involves a hands free device – how is this a question? And yet, 41% of men thought text sex was better. Perhaps this is because they can re-read the texts for a round two? Most frighteningly, 16% of men said they would forward naked/sex pictures of their ex if she cheated. 33% of men have sent out phone pictures of their erect member. Common sense people- keep it to pictures that can’t be forwarded that would ruin your chances of ever running for office.

Writing an Article About Being a Virgin: DON’T DO IT. Advertising it is like begging for it to be past tense. Six months ago, Elna Baker, age 27, wrote about her “purity.” The follow up piece? “Guess What, I’m not a Virgin Anymore!” This shocked no one.

Glamour you do keep me informed. And I love you for that. Now I need to write an article about my “second virginity,” and then lose it, just in case I need more blog material.

To Call or Not to Call, That is the Question

“Let’s stop all this email and get drinks this week? 867-5309 – Polo Player.” Crap. A phone number. A phone number and an invitation. To call or not to call, that is the question. Let’s look at both sides of this, shall we?

Or Not to Call: My mother would definitely tell me not to call. She’d say to wait until the boy calls you, because boys don’t like pushy girls- they remind them of Shelly who stole their milk and pulled down their pants in front of their classmates during kickball in the third grade. Per my recent review of “Why Men Love Bitches,” I’m sure Shelly Argov would tell me to wait to make him call me. And I’ve promised myself not to deliver any more dead moose to the doorstep of the men I date (if that makes no sense, click here).

To Call: But he gave me permission, neigh, asked me to call him. Why else would he give me his phone number? And what about being a modern feminist woman? I can stare down opposing counsel, negotiate criminal sentences with the U.S. government and once I made a grown man cry on the stand. Calling a member of the opposite sex for a date should be as easy as getting a communicable disease from the guys on Jersey Shore.

Ambivalence: Polo Player and I started an email flirtation via OK Cupid way back in November. We sent three or four messages, it went nowhere fast, and I forgot his screen name altogether. One chilly February day he re-appeared in my inbox asking how I’ve been. I’m guessing he either (1) had a short-term girlfriend and therefore disappeared for three months or (2) went through the hotter chicks and is now ready to try me on for size. Either way, I detect ambivalence.

If I do call, does that set the pattern for him to be ambivalent, and for me to run the circus the way I normally do in relationships? I’ve been accused of taking charge – it’s a quality that serves me brilliantly at work and horribly in interpersonal relationships. If I call, does that give him permission to be dragged along, to stop trying before he starts- to be, in essence, the female in the relationship?

I’m not sure. For now, I sent him an email back that said, “Drinks sound awesome! Call me at 555-5555.” I must say, if he doesn’t call, I’m likely to break down in a couple of days and send a friendly text. I suppose that’s the half-way point right? And I’ve always liked the idea of relationships built on equal ground.

The Single Girl's REAL Happy New Year!

The pink cakes, topped with white frosting and red-hot hearts are wilting pathetically in the grocery store with a bright 50% off sign adorning the package. “Happy Valentine’s Day” balloons hang limply, barely hanging on to the helium that thrust them so high the day before. Candy hearts grow stale and cardboard-like, as inedible and unpleasant as their messages of joyful coupledom and true love.

My friends, Today is the REAL New Year’s Day: We made it through the horrible corridor that begins approximately Thanksgiving day and lasts through the long, cold winter through the middle of February. The holiday bridge begins with a family dinner where Aunt Ellen asks where that nice boy I brought last year to Thanksgiving went. Oh you mean the one who broke up with me last year the day before Christmas for my boss’ 23-year-old daughter?

That slides into Christmas, where no relationship can start because of the shear number of social obligations and the fact that a new relationship would have navigate New Year’s Eve – a strictly established-couple kinda night if there ever were one.

And then it’s January- starting to date in January puts enormous pressure on Valentine’s Day, pressure I for one and many men I know would rather avoid. Plus everyone feels fat: post-holidays, cold-weather, sweater-covering slightly pudgy.

Hurray for Today: Yes it’s still cold outside, but on the 15th of February, the world begins to shift toward summer. February’s frigid winds quickly give way to March’s “bikini-season-coming” diet and trying on summer dresses.

The 15th is magical, because on this day, there are MORE days than there will be at any time of the year between now and the next holiday season. There are months to find my Fourth of July date – the one who will show me fireworks long before that lit-up night. It’s time to rejoice in the days and weeks to live free from paper cupids, enforced champagne kisses and mistletoe!!

So Celebrate it!: I was just sent a date request and phone number and from a very promising lad on OK Cupid. It’s the magic of this time of year- the pressure’s off and the fun is ready to begin! I’m gonna try on my flip flops and summer dresses, just for tonight, to remember that the season for true love will finally, like frozen margaritas and the need for sunscreen, be returning soon. Cheers to the New Year!!!!

Happy Single Awareness Day!

Happy Single Awareness Day, otherwise known as SAD. On my way to work, I gave a homeless man a dollar. He piped up, “Thanks and Happy Valentine’s Day!” I was nanoseconds from screaming, “Give me my money back you ass!!!! How DARE YOU!?”

Does any other holiday so specifically separate the haves from the have nots? It’s supposed to be a celebration of love and happiness, but for those lonely souls- recent divorcees, the widowed, the ugly, hopeless, and plain-vanilla not-with-anyone-right-nows, it can feel like a funeral for your self-esteem. It’s a full 24-hours to spend watching Patty, the plus-sized, surly receptionist who hasn’t worn a skirt since 1987, get a bundles of roses from an equally unappealing man I somehow, for one moment, wish were mine.

But enough doom and gloom! Let us, the singles of the world, find the blessings and reasons to celebrate!

I Never Wonder if the Cart is for Me: Today the mail-guy passes out roses with UPS packages and junk mail all day today. In years passed, I hoped, prayed and threw holy water around my office wishing that the pretty star-gazer lily bouquet he had was for me. But alas, he moved on, bringing that gardenia-laced message of adoration to Betty, who sheepishly smiled, “Oh! For me! Isn’t Roger sooooo nice!”

Today? Today I can close my office door confident that nothing is coming for me- this can actually be fabulous- I won’t get to the end of the day excusing the florist because “they were really busy” and “I’m sure mine are coming- don’t they deliver past six on V-day?"

I’m not Going to Get a Crappy Card: Have you ever opened your Valentine- the one you expected to use words like “eternal flame” and “God created you for me” that, inexplicably, uses words like, “great time” or the ultimate in horror, “good friend?” If your card to him had lace, gold rings, and moonbeams on it, and his to you had two cartoon mice on the cover that said, “You’re the big cheese!” you know what I’m talking about. There won’t be that moment of horror or dread, followed by, “You didn’t like it?” followed by a fight about where this otherwise doomed relationship is going.

We Aren’t Going to Break Up: Two of my friends broke up with their more-than-a-year boyfriends this week. Valentine’s Day brings that out in people- a chance to remember you (or he) just aren’t feeling it. You stare blankly at the cards trying to find one that says, “I used to like you a lot but now I really don’t and Alan in accounts receivable is looking hotter and hotter. Can we take a break?”

So Happy SAD Day my friends: There is something wonderful about knowing you won’t be disappointed this year. And that, is honestly, is worth cheering, with champagne, in a candle-lit bubble bath you drew for your fabulous, sexy self. Cheers to us!

Will Valentine Please Shut Up?

Jillian Michaels just bitch slapped me. I always thought she was on my side! She's supposed to be smart, a little cynical, hard-nosed, and definitely not a believer in schmaltz. I turned on my TIVO to “The Biggest Loser” and expected the usual: corpulent bodies, sweaty with enthusiasm for kettle-ball exercises, swelling music underscoring the tears of a contestant who found forgiveness for her third-grade teacher, a profound craving for sponsor Jennie O’s lean ground turkey. That’s fine. What I didn’t expect, was being accosted by V-day.

“Valentine’s Day is all about love. And what better way to show love, than with videos from home,” says Jillian. Bad ass, cut-throat, make you puke your spleen Jillian is giving the intro to the Valentine’s Day Biggest Loser episode. The what you ask? A Valentine’s Day episode can be expected from say, “The Bachelor.” But a V-Day Biggest Loser, complete with a “temptation” involving heart-shaped caramels and chocolate-covered strawberries? I’m tempted to stop watching this episode, which is right now reminding me that despite my counting calories every day to maintain my figure, there are 15 super-obese people who’ve found someone to walk down the aisle with, who are much luckier in love than I am. I bet they’ll get chocolates on Monday too- damn.

In the closer, one contestant brought his wife, blindfolded, to the gym to celebrate their romance. Whew! At least I’m better off than some! If a man brought me to the gym on Valentine’s Day it best be because he covered the bench press with rose petals and was planning on using the pulley systems to hold himself up for exotic tantric sex moves.

It is Everywhere: It’s not just Jillian though. I received a heart-shaped lollipop in the mail from my computer specialist reminding me that, “This Valentine’s Day and every day, we’re all networked together.” F-off.

The local furniture store sent me an ad for its “Love Day/Love Seat Sale!” Even my damn gas station has little bears that express their love bi-lingually- you can get “I love You!” or “Con Amor, Mi Amo.” Nothing says love like springing for high-grade octane.

It’s over in four days. Really. In just a few hours, the candy hearts will be on the 50% off table at the drug store and roses will go back to $15 per dozen instead of over $100. And I’ll still be watching the Biggest Loser and opening my mail – but this time I’ll have 364 days ahead to find my Valentine for next year.

Review: Women Men Love, Women Men Leave

What an ominously titled book – so which side are you on? The winners or the losers? The sheep or the goats? Will you be in wedded bliss or left to rot like a carton of moldy month-old pungent strawberries?

The Basic Premise: Drs. Cowan and Kinder separate women into two sides- the ones men love and the ones they leave. On one side we have the women who fear intimacy and push men away, women who want a “prince” and have unreasonable expectations, women who hate men, women who control men, and women who give it all up too easily. The other side is women men love – aka women who love a man as he is, who trust a man to love her strength, who is sexual (duh?) and who can be a best friend.

The Test: The back of this book has 16 pages of single spaced quizzes (whoo hoo! Eat your heart out Cosmo!) to let you know what your problem is – err- problem(S) are. I expected to land squarely in the controlling group, but was surprised to find myself scoring off the charts in “loves too freely.” What? See here sirs, I do not give it up easily except on vacation!

The Best Advice: From my “over-giver” section, “Women who give too freely tend to be impatient, and then quell their anxiety by giving even more. It’s as though giving could secure the love they so desperately crave.” OK- so you aren’t talking about fellatio, you’re talking about planning all of the Valentine’s Days and birthdays and vacations, sending the first cute text messages and getting annoyed that they aren’t returned, and giving adorable heart-shaped little notes that are promptly ignored, followed by more notes and encouragement by me that I’d really like one back since I spend so much time making them in red and pink and white and really, don’t you want me to feel good too???

The Most Questionable Advice: “Men operate on a different dynamic. Their feelings of romantic passion are linked, at some level, to the tantalizing effect of uncertainty as to whether she truly cares for him.” Awesome – translation – ignore, be bitchy, stay away, be unavailable and from time to time be “out with a really good friend-- gosh it was good to see HIM.”

Is it worth reading?: I loved the sections of the book that related to me. Perhaps one should get five single friends together to pool in for the cost of the book so that the whole thing is useful- “OK Adrian, you’re the control freak, Haley, everyone knows you’re easy – hence the nickname vacuum in college - Janice, you’re the unreasonable princess, Alice, you hate anyone with testicles – who are we missing? Oh – Allison- you take the ‘Daddy never loved me’ section.”

It’s nice to see yourself in the “women men love” section- I have had love in my life and know many of the qualities they “love” pertain to me. Now if I can only stop over-giving, perhaps the “Women Men Love” side will call “Red Rover, Red Rover, Send Miranda right over!” and I’ll live on that side permanently.

Hate Mail: The Return of Overtry

I came home from vacation to 214 emails. One stood out- I didn’t recognize the email address at first, and when I opened it, I thought it was to the wrong person. It read, in part, “I came across your card today and I still can’t believe you blew me off. You’re a fat, average-looking woman who thinks your sh*t don’t stink because you’re a lawyer. YOU SUCK!!!”

Reminder: this is a guy I met at a speed dating event for five minutes, went on ONE happy hour date with, and never chose to speak to again. That was three months ago. I hadn’t heard from him until this.

You’re Fat: No, I’m not. I suppose for Los Angeles, the land of the 5’1, 98 lbs actresses and the 5’10, 110 lbs models, that next to Cameron Diaz I’d might look like I shop in big girl stores. But I don’t. I heard a comedian recently use the “c” word, then say, “that used to be the worst thing you could call a girl. Now the worst thing you can call a girl is fat.” Oh snap- Overtry went for the jugular! Except sweetie- I love my body- it’s curvy in all the right places. Since you didn’t see it anywhere near undressed, I’d give you Mr. Vaca’s phone number to verify the truth of that statement, but you aren’t worth the time it’d take to type the numbers out.

I prefer the famous 90’s deep insightful and soulful poetry, “So Cosmo says you’re fat. Well I ain’t down with that. ‘Cause your waist is small and your curves are kickin’ and I’m thinkin’ about stickin it.” Calling a girl fat is in my mind the equivalent of a racial slur or a serious yo mama insult- it’s war bitch and you’re on my radar.

Average Looking: Well, I guess that’s better than half the population! Consider me a glass half full kinda girl. Most people are average-looking, right? Hence the term “average?” And average in Los Angeles has got to be “Hot for Pittsburgh” any day! I’m a freaking 10 in Mississippi AND Arkansas! Hot damn! I’m going South! But average in L.A.? Aww, thanks- you shouldn’t have.

Why Would You Send This?: My friend’s take, “He fell in love and you rejected him.” That’s the only explanation I can come up with that makes any sense. Really? You’re that mad at me? Three months later? After a grand total of 55 minutes in each other’s presence? You have ISSUES my friend. I’m sorry- my enemy. Anyone who would send this kind of an email to someone he barely knew at all has to be, without a doubt, a very sad man.

No Response from me: Ultimately I chose not to respond to this drecht. My yoga instructor constantly reminds me, “I am not my body,” I’m bigger and better than just my outside. But since I’m in my body, I assure you Mr. Overtry, YOU will never be, nor will you ever hear from the voice in this body because you are hereby blocked and deleted. Loser.

Mishits and False Starts

Although the vacation ended in a blaze of glory, it didn’t start that way. I was on the lookout for my vacation romance the entire time, but there were several false starts before goldilocks found her just-right bear to go upstairs with.

Gambling Girl: All of my potentials began at the craps table. Perhaps this is a metaphor- gambling on money and on love, putting it all out there and hoping that lady luck is on my side to make it rain dollars and men. Or maybe that’s where I and potential suitors seem infinitely more attractive to each other wearing our best beer goggles.

The Atheist: Night two and three a dark-eyed man watched carefully as I tossed the dice. He and I played for different teams- he with the house- meaning he won every time I lost. He cheered when they took my money. I immediately disliked him.

I lost a particularly large bet and he had the waitress bring me a champagne. Now I was irritated, but also intrigued. I left with my champagne to go dancing, and he followed me. He had moves. He jerked and grinded me around the floor, causing a Zoolander dance-off-type between the two of us.

“What do you do?” I asked. “I’m writing a book proving there is no God.” I excused myself. He chased me down – “Wait! Let me buy you another drink!” He explained to me that he was on the cruise with his boyfriend, but that they had “an understanding,” and “I like women (long pause) PLURAL.” Gees, it’s getting late, whoo, that champagne went straight to my head and I need to go to bed. He offered to join me. I declined.

The next morning he came up to me. Starring through me he said, “I have something for you,” then kissed me on the cheek to my abject horror.

The Beefcake: The opposite of the Atheist was the Beefcake. He watched his Uncle playing craps- never dirtying himself with the filthy dice. But he was sweet, and we talked ‘til 2:00 a.m. one night after dancing – or rather, after I was dancing- he was standing near me snapping and briefly swaying. My friend said, “He wouldn’t know how to hit on a girl if he were in a boxing ring and she was training him to fight.” Damn straight. I should have known better- anyone who drinks only water and gets up early on vacation to lift weights is probably too regimented and serious for a fling.

Various: There were others- the guy who catches your eye whose girlfriend later wanders in, the hot ones who fail the ring test (damnit! why are so many of the hot ones taken?!?), the ones who its clear after listening to their voice, prefer Liberace and Lady Gaga to a lady like me.

Luckily my trip ended with the perfect little tryst. Since it was that or the polyamorous gentleman whose boyfriend was upstairs, I think things turned out just right.

Am I Easy on Vacation?

Now that I’m back to the usual grind, I’m momentarily shocked at how I acted on vacation. If I were in public relations, I’d describe that night as, “acting on instinct and with total freedom.” But my former Catholic School teachers might, in the bright mug-shot light of day, say that I was acting, well -- easy.

Easy??? Me???: Oh no, no, no. In normal dating life, you’re lucky- VERY lucky to get a damn kiss at the end of the night with me. Come upstairs? I don’t think so – you won’t be coming in my house or anywhere else near me until I know who you really are. I follow the advice of the Millionaire Matchmaker – no sex until monogamy. Any guy thinking I’m following the “three date rule” is going to be vastly disappointed.

But on Vacation: In the midst of the ocean breeze and the aforementioned blanket of stars at two in the morning, I was easier than a teenager completing a Fisher Price puzzle. I wanted him. Now. And it didn’t matter what he did for a living, what his religion was, or whether or not he liked dogs. Which makes me wonder, was I using him?

Matters of casual sexual activity are generally pejoratively described as a man pursuing a woman for cheap physical gratification. The woman, overwhelmed by his injurious charms and lecherous leanings, succumbs to a brief coitus. Then, walking in shame with her torn-off dress in her hands, she returns to her room scorned and ambivalent, feeling both sadness and regret. But I don’t. Not even kinda.

Maybe it’s my Thirties: Perhaps getting to my thirties has allowed me to wholly embrace my own femininity and not to apologize for indulging in a brief dalliance for the pure joy of connecting with another person. Maybe months and months of careful weeding of potential partners with self-enforced celibacy allowed me to break free and embrace a moment for just that – the moment, instead of focusing on what it will all mean for me and my future, or how such an activity should make me fell about myself. I feel great. And I don’t see a reason not to.

It’s Not How I’ll Always Be: I luxuriate in the not-so-distant memory of my night on the upper verandah deck last week. Do I think I’ll take home that attitude? No- most lifetime partnerships don’t start with passionate long-distance hook-ups in strange parts of the world on a floating mass of iron.

Maybe that’s the true magic of vacation- allowing yourself to be whoever it is you want to be – the free version of yourself separate from hours or sales quotas at work, family dinners to attend and bank balances to worry about. I want to take a part of that girl home though- being reminded of how much fun I can be, and how free I can feel, was definitely a good thing.

Melting on vacation is an easy feat, and being an easy-bake-oven, just once in awhile, can’t be that bad, or in fact, can actually be, that good.

The curse is broken!!

I broke the curse! I can’t tell you how excited I am. I keep seeing last night in my head in vivid detail. Finally. It’s been months.

I’m on my way back from vacation today, so I appreciate your patience with my erratic posting this week. I went on a cruise with a notoriously abysmal male to female ratio- unmarried men not currently on Medicare were spotted only in fleeting glances. When spotted, every single lady on the ship sucked in her stomach and pushed out her chest, competing for her vaca-romance. I was ready. I was willing. I was looking at a lot of wrinkled women and no chiseled men. Damn.

The Night Before Last: I was in the casino. As usual, I was screaming “give me a yo!” at the dice as they spun across the green felt table. And there he was. I immediately did a ring check – Pass! – nothing but lovely masculine skin and a smile that said, “it’s on!” We chatted. I flirted. He moved to play blackjack behind me. The casino closed at 4:30 a.m. In my chardonnay haze I said to myself out loud, “Why didn’t I meet you earlier? I really wanted to make out!” He didn’t look over. I couldn’t tell if he was mortified and was therefore faking momentary deafness or if he didn’t hear me.

Last Night: I wandered back to the casino at 6:00 p.m. the next day, sobered up, skirt hiked up, and looking for love. Or lust. Whatever. He happened by and sat next to me at Blackjack. I thought we were flirting – I kept touching his hand and he didn’t pull away. I went back to craps. Knowing it was the last night and I had little to lose besides my dignity and self-esteem, I amassed my courage and asked the waiter to bring VacaMan a jack and coke. I couldn’t look over. I was terrified and exhilarated. What if he rejected it? Or took it back to his room without me? Or hurled it at me while spitting on the floor in disgust. The waiter returned with my credit card and a glass of champagne. “From the gentleman,” he said. It’s on. It’s on like Donkey Kong. I giggled like a fifth grader.

I went back to blackjack- I could sit next to him there and we could flirt. Some time later it was last call and last hand. Oh God. Now what??? He looked in my eyes, turned to the waiter and said, “I’ll take a bottle of wine to go please.” YES!!!! Presumptuous perhaps but soooo take charge sexy. YES, YES, YES.

Upstairs: He took our bottle and glasses to the roof of the ship- it was just as I’d imagined —2:00 in the morning under a blanket of stars, a bottle of wine and a beautiful man with his lips pursed and moving forward toward mine. I only slept an hour by the time we had to leave.

Today: I saw him at the airport this morning on our way out. He walked up to me, gave me a huge hug and took my earrings out of his pocket. With a twinkle in his eye he said, “You left these on my nightstand last night.” I went all gooey like a molten chocolate cake.

The curse has been broken. Today, I am a new woman. I remember that I can, in fact be hot, both to myself and to a smokin hot date. Was it sad that it was only the one night at the end? Perhaps. But perhaps that was exactly what I needed to feel beautiful and remember that I’ve still got it. And baby, what I got is gooooood.

Now is Forever?

Whatever is going on now, is forever. Wait, wait, wait, we all know that isn’t true. But the human condition is such that good or bad, whatever IS TRUE NOW, WILL BE TRUE forever and evermore.

Depression: I’m never, ever, ever going to find a man. The tides will wash away every last wisp of sand in the ocean until only dust remains, and the sun will burn out and all life will vanish on this planet before I find a person to procreate with me. Do I recognize this voice as depression? Is this voice accurate? Is this the actual speech my Aunt Margaret gave me last week after I refused to meet her cousin’s best friend Cedric from Columbia who is 22, 5’2, and has a speech impediment and a deep love of discussing the Spanish-American war?

Maybe. But even when I talk that voice down from my own personal apocalypse, it remains angry, and in and taunts me saying, “Fine, ignore me. But you know what? I’m right. You are alone. And always will be.”

Weddings: The flip side of this voice is weddings. Women, myself included, tend to looove weddings. “I promise that I will love you forever and ever and ever and ever amen. No matter what, we are soul mates, and swans will congregate wherever we are to make heart-shapes with their necks so that everyone who sees us can know that we are the lucky and blessed and the loved. Amen.”

Do we know that marriages fail at a 50% rate? And that second marriages fail at a higher rate than that, never mind, God forbid, being wife #3 or #7. But at that moment, with our friend wearing the virginal white dress carrying $375 in gardenias and star-gazer lilies, we are absolutely sure that this love is the real deal, and that hell or high water will not change that love.

Change is the only Constant: Ben Franklin was wrong, the only inevitable things in life aren’t death and taxes; they are death, taxes and change. Nothing is permanent, and nothing stays the same. That doesn’t change the fact that right now, it feels that celibacy is my permanent state. I fear in this moment that the best use for my lingerie collection will be willing it to the Museum of Sex in Prague for their 2099 exhibit titled, “Early 2000’s spinster-clothing used to make the useless feel hot.”

But like death and taxes, tides change every day, and there’s no reason to think that tomorrow may not bring the same- in fact, may actually deliver the man of my dreams. And if, by some miracle, that does occur, I relish the opportunity to live my life, even for a few month, dreaming that we will always, always, always feel like this. That kisses will linger for hours, that sex will always be exciting, and that I’ll never, ever want to be apart from this magical man.

Perhaps life ultimately runs on the eternal hope that tomorrow will be better, or, in the alternative, that when we’re in love, it’ll always feel as good as it does today. Here’s to hope. Drink up.