yesimstillsingle-blog

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Where to Not Meet Men, Vol. 1, No. Four: Your Local Watering Hole

Most of us have a bar where we feel comfortable going alone when our friends are being lame, for a place to party with or without a special occasion, and where you always have a stool during the big game. A place where everyone knows you name, so to speak (real talk: I have never seen an episode of Cheers in my entire life).

No? Just my alcoholic friends and me? Well then, you classy ladies who bartenders notice because of their perfectly coiffed hair and gentle manners rather than due to being a regular, feel free to skip this post. 

(I've been reading some 19th century classics and feeling all sorts of superior these days, hence my need to over exaggerate my intelligence using big words.) For girls like me, who overuse profanity on a daily basis, have been known to carry beer koozies in their purses (learned that trick from my older sister, proof I’m not the only booze hound in the family), and can keep up with sports talk with the dudes...pay attention. I love having a "regular bar." For my sister and me, it's a dive bar that only accepts cash, sells Stroh's in the can, gives you unlimited shelled peanuts FO FREE, always has a Detroit (or Chicago, but who cares about that?) game on, and you're greeted either with a big hug or by having peanuts thrown at you (depending on who’s working). I've celebrated birthdays and a graduation there, gone solo and gotten drunk with my favorite bartender until closing time, but never have I ever met a dude there. Let me amend that. I've met- and conversed and flirted with- plenty of young gentleman at "my" bar. Never have I ever been asked out or even propositioned by one of these dudes. Why, you (and my friends, family, and coworkers) ask?

Two reasons.

First, your favorite bartenders are looking out for you, even when you don’t want them to. They want to keep you safe from minor annoyances such as unwanted attention and roofies. Which is great. I wish I had a favorite bus driver to keep me safe from tripping up (and down) the steps. Or a favorite Dominos delivery guy who would ask me, “do you really need that lava crunch cake?” 

But I’ve noticed that while checking up on me, my bartender’s watchful eye and concern are deterrents for men. They either think that I’m dating said bartender, scared of him, assume I can get my own drink since I’m buddies with him, or that I’m in the middle of a weekly Stroh’s induced therapy session (that last is semi accurate).

Second, they may be regulars, too. And when you find a good bar, one that you can go to on your shittiest and best day, you don’t fuck it up by complicating things. I already had to endure going to the gym every day and running into someone I desperately wished to avoid (the things I do for fitness). You bet your ass I’m not making that mistake again. I have zero intention of spending Sundays watching the Lions lose while wondering if the next person to come into the bar is a former fling.

Silver lining...pressure’s off. Expect not really, since my lack of success in finding a man at my favorite bar didn’t stop me from trying last weekend, and probably won’t next time around. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Vent Session

My least favorite question in the entire world, even more than “are you dating anyone?” is “how do you not have a boyfriend?!”

I know this question is meant as a compliment. It’s usually delivered in an incredulous tone, implying that I am just SO FREAKING INCREDIBLE that it’s unbelievable that I don’t have a significant other. It’s great that people think I’m fantastic. For someone who is their own toughest critic and favorite type of humor is self deprecation, it’s nice to hear that I’m held in such high esteem. 

But instead of its intended ego boost, it serves as a painful reminder that I’m single as fuck. So you’re telling me I’m beautiful, funny, smart, and it’s just a crime to you that I don’t have a boyfriend? Thank you for vocalizing, in public, the question I ask myself every goddamn day.

Ok, not every day. But almost as often as “what should I watch on Netflix tonight?” 

Saturday night, I heard various versions of “how do you not have a boyfriend” from two strangers and one friend. Instead of feeling like the coolest girl in the room, I was exhausted and reminded of how fucking lonely single life can get. Two of the inquisitors were attractive, smart men, who not only asked this question (with much emphasis placed on how “goddamn gorgeous” I am; please note, I was at a bar, so God knows how many shots blurred their vision), but proceeded to spend quite a bit of time hitting on me. And then leaving, without my number.

YOU DOUCHEBAGS ARE THE REASON WHY I AM FUCKING SINGLE. 

Sorry, deep breath. 

It’s worse when my friends and family ask the question. I can’t just fly off the handle at them; they don’t know (especially if they are not single) how irate the question makes me. You’re my friend, of course you think I’m great, just like I think you’re a wonderful human being. Otherwise we wouldn’t be friends. Ergo, your sense of how awesome I am is inflated. Secondly, you know I have been single for approximately a thousand years. Instead of asking a rhetorical question (how the fuck am I supposed to answer, anyways? “I have intimacy issues?” “I like dogs more than people?”), how about you try to help a sista out and introduce her to your single friends?

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Tinder Rant

I’ve finally worked up the energy to unleash a proper, profanity-filled rant on Tinder. The multiple cups of coffee and EDM this afternoon definitely played a starring role in this uncommon burst of Friday afternoon energy.

I want to preface this rant by acknowledging that some people have had success with Tinder, and ended up in fulfilling relationships (or mawwiage). I do not know any of these people personally, and I sure as hell am not one of them (ergo, I doubt their existence).

So as not to waste my current caffeine jitters, I present reasons Tinder is ACTUALLY the worst (do I sound basic betch enough?):

1) Tinder is the virtual version of speed dating. Instead of forcing two strangers to talk to one another for two minutes, Tinder replicates the experience on your phone, and reduces the two minutes into maybe two seconds. And that’s if the swiper reads the bio (not likely).

2) Tinder is superficial. Don’t get me wrong- most dating apps are on some level. Tinder takes the cake, though. My friends have seen me swiping:

Left (he’s pictured with a Republican), left (too chubby), left (looks like a douche), left (looks like a cast member of The Jersey Shore...wait didn’t I just swipe him?!), ehhh left (oh, I thought you were your hot friend), right (you look like you have a good job and can speak in full sentences), oooh right (black guy with a shirtless photo and a million ab muscles)! 

I can only imagine the commentary in men’s heads when they came across my profile. So I won’t try.

Point is, though other apps certainly place an emphasis on snap judgements and are based on users’ attractiveness, at least they try to add another element to the experience. Whereas other apps have some sort of restrictions or mission (e.g., Hinge is intended to match you up with people already in your social or professional networks, and Bumble attempts to make girls sack up by sending the first message). Tinder’s mission is simple: get the user laid ASAP. 

3) Tinder is to blame for deterioration of “real” dating. What do I mean by real dating? Overcoming your fear of rejection to approach someone and start conversation. Putting forth effort to make plans. But thanks to Tinder, men (and women!) no longer have to take a risk and face rejection from the pretty girl at the bar. They can hit up a hottie from behind their screen; the worst thing that happens is that s/he doesn’t respond. 

It's turned dating into a game. I’m guilty of handing over my phone to my friends to let them swipe for me and send messages. I think it’s funny. I know more than one person who use Tinder as entertainment while pooping. Seriously.

4) Tinder perpetuates ghosting. For those of you who must still be living in the Stone Age if you don’t know the term “ghosting,” Urban Dictionary breaks it down for you:

The act of suddenly ceasing all communication with someone the subject is dating, but no longer wishes to date. This is done in hopes that the ghostee will just "get the hint" and leave the subject alone, as opposed to the subject simply telling them he/she is no longer interested. Ghosting is not specific to a certain gender and is closely related to the subject's maturity and communication skills. Many attempt to justify ghosting as a way to cease dating the ghostee without hurting their feelings, but it in fact proves the subject is thinking more of themselves, as ghosting often creates more confusion for the ghostee than if the subject kindly stated how he/she feels.

I have been ghosted so many times that I’ve lost track. And I have ghosted. I’m ashamed at that fact, but I’ll probably do it again. Because there’s always the next person in your Tinder queue, who may be a little better, a little funnier, a little smarter, a little cuter, a little richer. 

5) Tinder drains the SHIT out of your battery. Fine, maybe I’m being overly critical, but I like my phone battery at a hefty 75% full at all times. You never know when Prince Harry is going to call you from across the pond and want to chat for hours on end. A girl can dream, ok?

More like you need your battery life to last long enough to get an Uber home after you and your friends turned Tinder into a messy drinking game.

God, that was therapeutic. Hope everyone has a good weekend; I’ll be stepping down off my high horse and see what today’s batch of Hinge matches look like.

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Where to Not Meet Men, Vol. 1, No. Three: A Note

I recently was introduced to foam rolling. I knew what it was and -like yoga- I knew the touted benefits, but had zero interest in trying it out myself.

Let’s just say, my life has changed for the better. However, it’s yet another reason why I’ll never meet a man at the gym.

Foam rolling, if you’re doing it right (and it’s really hard to fuck up, so reevaluate your life if you can’t get the hang of it), HURTS SO GOOD. Long run causing tight shins and hips? Foam roll. Too many deadlifts and your hamstrings are in a constant state on contraction? Foam roll. Carry too much tension in your back and shoulders from being in a constant state of anxiety? 

...Just me, huh Well, foam roll it out.

I feel bad for anyone who has to see me foam roll. Not because I’m rolling around on the ground in less than flattering positions (though, that’s on the list), but because my face is unreal. 

Foam rolling is a painful and pleasurable experience, and my face betrays it. One moment, I’m grimacing, mean-mugging, and letting my bitch face out full force, and the next, I look like I’m enjoying myself a little too much if-you-know-what-I-mean. I can’t say I know what my face looks like when...well, you know. But I have to imagine my foam roll and my O face look similar.

Goes without saying, but if I were to have an out of body experience and see me in all my glory, I’d be disturbed. Probably not unlike every single, straight man at my gym.

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Bumble Date #2

Who: The Mumbler

Where: Barrel

What: Drinks and chit-chat

Another first and last date has come and gone. 

Overall, this date was uneventful. I was late per usual (though an obnoxiously punctual person in real life, I make it a point to be at least five minutes late in my dating life to avoid awkwardly waiting alone or not being able to find a barstool, i.e. with The Cracker), but found him quick enough, avoiding the obvious “I’m meeting someone I met online and I’m not 100% sure he’s using a current profile pic.”

We went to Barrel, which happens to be right next door to Beauchert’s Saloon (the scene of my first Bumble date). Eastern Market and Barracks Row should clearly be avoided for future dates- bad dating juju going on there. 

Once again, the gentleman in question was smart, driven, shared similar interests (we may have swapped favorite podcasts), and attractive. Once again, zero spark. It was a nice evening- I had a couple beers, got to brag about my quest to read a biography about every president (have to fill my time somehow since I’m single as fuck), and got some great music suggestions (of course, none that I can remember...thanks for passing along your terrible memory, Mom).

Hands down, the most frequently spoken phrase of the evening was “what’s that?” My hearing is pretty shitty, thanks to a childhood full of ear infections, but this dude was straight up whispering. Maybe I was supposed to lean across the table to receive soft-spoken sweet nothings? Highly unlikely.

In addition to having a tiny baby mouse voice, The Mumbler was averse to eye contact. By no means do I want to sit across the table from someone I just met and stare deeply into their eyes intensely, but c’mon, dude! The only reason I know your eyes are some shade of brown is because you’re black and I’ve yet to meet a green or blue eyed black man (if you meet one, please send them my way).

No story involving my dating life is complete without a disastrous farewell. The Mumbler was not as daring as The Cracker, but upon exchanging good-bye, he appeared to timidly go in for a kiss, then think better of it, and then hold out his hand to shake my hand.

...what?!

Unfortunately, that wasn’t just my reaction upon reflection of the event, but my reaction immediately following. I believe my words were “you’re seriously going in for the handshake?”

I can’t believe I haven’t heard from him. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Bitch Face

I have touched upon my bitch face several times. For those of you who live under a rock, “bitch face” (see also: resting bitch face, RBF) is an affliction in which the sufferer perpetually looks angry or upset. Common symptoms include brow furrowing, clenched teeth, multiple inquiries of “is everything ok with you?” or “are you upset about something?”, and my favorite response to my stony demeanor, “you really should smile more, it makes you more approachable.”

I’ve suffered from bitch face since I -and my parents- can remember. My mom used to call my constant sulking look “the vulture,” which is far cleverer than RBF, in my humble opinion. I mentioned a few weeks ago that one of my New Year’s resolutions is to work on lessening the severity of my bitch face, but after a couple weeks of failing miserably at this, coupled with a few infuriating comments about my face, I’m saying fuck it.

I have bitch face. If you don’t like it, too bad. It’s my face, not yours.

I like lists, so here’s a neat and tidy one explaining why I’m throwing out this particular resolution.

1. I have far more important things to do than worry about my face. Perhaps if my professional success was based solely upon my looks, I’d be much more invested in changing this harmless, involuntary part of me. I haven’t been hit by the ugly stick, but I am no Cara Delevigne and don’t anticipate a change in careers. On any given day, I’m thinking about work, my friends and family, how I’m going to pay off my student loans, what I should read next, where I should go on vacation, etc., etc. Wasting time on being conscious about how my face looks in its default position? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

2. Would you tell your friend they should stop smiling because they don’t have nice teeth? Would you point out a volcanic zit on a stranger’s face on your morning commute? Didn’t think so. 

3. Ever think about that maybe I’m shy, and have anxieties about meeting new people and trying new things? And that maybe my bitch face is a result- and protects me- from those anxieties? No, you didn’t, because if you had, you wouldn’t have brought it up.

4. Dude. Maybe I am in a really fucking bad mood. If that’s the case, go hide. 

5. Most likely, the case is that I’m deep in thought. I don’t pretend to be intellectually superior, or that the thoughts swimming around in my cluttered brain are profound (though, who’s to say they aren’t?!). The point is, my brain is at work, and I don’t have enough mental capacity to care about my expression.

I get it. The people who comment on my bitch face aren’t trying to hurt my feelings or be nasty. Most of them think they’re paying me a compliment by telling me how pretty smile is (thanks for the braces, Mom and Dad!). 

I refuse to change myself because someone thinks I’m prettier when I smile more (or if I were slimmer, wore my hair different, stopped swearing, wasn’t as opinionated). 

I’ll change when I want to, for reasons that are important to me.

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Where to Not Meet Men, Vol. 1, No. Three: The Gym

No, I’m not ghosting everyone and forgetting to post for three years again, I’m just incredibly busy watching Netflix after work to write (mental note: a post on ghosting).

Apologies for my absence; I become a complete hermit during the winter, and my sole activities consist of work, gym, and my bed (don’t even attempt a dirty joke, given the accounts of my dating life thus far, it’s pretty obvious I’m either watching ‘Flix, reading, and/or drinking wine in there alone).

It’s been awhile since my last WTNMM post, so without further ado...

The Gym.

I spend approximately 15 hours at the gym each week. For once in my life, I am not exaggerating. For starters, I used to be fat, and now terrified I’ll get fat again. More importantly, exercise is one of the few things that relieve my anxiety. It’s my most coveted alone time, and it’s the place where I’m consistently proud of myself (because I’m a mutha fuckin beast). 

You’d THINK that someone who spends as much time around hot, ripped men as much as I do this week would find a man as passionate about fitness as herself.

Oh wait, I did. And he was a dick. 

Here’s why the gym isn’t a good place to meet men:

1) If you’re at the gym for any other reason than to get your fitness on, go home. Seriously. First of all, you’re going to look like a weirdo just standing there, taking in all the muscles and spandex. Second of all, if you’re trying to nail down a jacked up dude by pretending you’re into fitness, but clearly aren’t working out, he’s going to notice that.

(This sentiment extends to anyone working out in jeans, has their hair down, or isn’t wearing tennis shoes.)

2) No one looks good when they work out. If you aren’t dripping sweat, making weird faces during that last set of commandos (worst/best things ever), and gasping for air, then you aren’t working hard enough. 

Fineeee, maybe that’s just me. I start stretching and I sweat (not glisten- just sweat), and my bitch face only gets more intense at the gym. Easy to see how Mr. Muscles wouldn’t try to get with this perspiring, panting hot mess.

3) The trainers at your gym are there to get clients and to help people, not marry you. If they DO start hitting on you, run away.

If you don’t run away, don’t go out with them.

If you don’t refuse to go out with them, don’t believe that “they have never asked out a girl from their gym” or their “number one rule is to not go out with a girl from the gym.”

If you’re stupid and believe that, don’t sleep with them.

If you’re a stupid slut, don’t make it an ongoing thing.

Ok, clearly you’re an even stupider slut than one would think, and you keep at it for months. Just don’t believe that he doesn’t have a piece or two on the side.

Ha. Of course he does, you idiot. Have fun seeing him every day for six months and pretending to not know him!

(Remember that “dick” I mentioned before? Yea...I didn’t take my own advice)

4) All the guys at your gym are gay. I recently switched gyms (NOT because of said dick trainer, though it is wonderful to not see him, but because it’s much nicer and right across the street from my office), and my new fitness playground is known for having a “gay” clientele (because apparently that’s of note?). Now, even if #2 weren’t true of me, I would have zero hope. You know, because I am not a gay man.

Dismayed as I am that I’ll never have a fitness-themed “meet cute”, at least I can continue to give zero fucks about how I look doing burpees.

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Trying New Sh*t, Vol. 1, No. One: Street Sense

I still have enthusiasm for my lofty New Years Resolutions. Well, minus the first one. I have deemed my Resting Bitch Face incurable; I rest easy at night knowing that while I may scare small children with my icy glare, there’s always Botox for my unavoidable (and deep) wrinkles. 

The resolution I am most determined to keep up all year (she says in January...) is trying new things. Specifically, doing something each month that I’ve never done before. I don’t have any hard and fast rules about the types, duration, or setting of these experiences, but they should not be different variations of a similar activity (e.g., a different type of fitness class each month or a new food that has freaked me out- I’m looking at you, citrus) or be centered on booze (while a winery tour is on my bucket list, I’m not counting it).

As I push myself out of my comfort zone each month (hopefully even more frequently than once a month), I will document all the details: how I heard about the “thing”, why I decided to try it out, and my impressions. Along with an account of various levels of awkwardness and anxiety.

What: Miss Pixie Presents: Street Sense Rising

Where: Miss Pixie on U St NW

When: Friday, January 8th

Cost: $7 requested donation 

I enticed my friend D to accompany me to this event. I’m skeptical he only agreed because we had dinner first at Barcelona*, which brings me to another first: I asked for the dessert menu. And then did not order anything. That’s right, folks. I TURNED DOWN DESSERT. I already feel skinnier.

For those of you unfamiliar with Street Sense, it’s a DC organization aimed at bringing awareness to the plight of homelessness and provide services, support, and opportunity to those experiencing homelessness. One of the most well known services to Washingtonians is the Street Sense Paper. The biweekly newspaper is written by individuals who are experiencing (or have experienced) homelessness, focusing poverty and homelessness issues and sold by similar individuals around DC and nearby areas.

I knew little about Street Sense outside of the newspaper, which thankfully has changed. A good friend of my sister’s told me about the event earlier that week, and I figured it was a great opportunity try - and learn - something new. 

Among the many services Street Sense supports is arts education, one division being the Street Sense Filmmakers Co-Op. The Co-Op teaches participants about cinematography, directing, and editing and helps them develop their own films. The event at Miss Pixie ran two films: Fairness Rising and Raise to Rise.

Due to this post already getting lengthy (and spoilers, duh), I won’t get into the films’ details, but I will share that the films made me cry.

Yes, that’s right. Miss Bitch Face has a heart somewhere inside that cold, angry exterior. Google commercials, home videos, well-written cards, and midterms cause me to break down into a mushy, snotty (I am not a pretty crier) mess. I kept it pretty together during the film (only a few tears spilling over and a couple of audible sniffs heard ‘round the whole room), but inside, I was losing it. 

My discomfort with human emotions aside, this was a fantastic event. The films were eye opening, causing me to reflect on my previous relationship with those experiencing homelessness in the city: giving spare change when I have it, buying an occasional cup of coffee, but mostly staring straight ahead and ignoring it. I’m hoping to drastically change that relationship by getting more involved with Street Sense (as more than someone who donates or reads a newsletter) by volunteering, attending more events, and interacting with the newspaper vendors I see all over the city.

My first order of business in my quest to become a less selfish and more engaged human being is to urge my fellow Washingtonians to check out Street Sense, and see what you can do (donating, events, or even just buying a $2 paper every other week). 

*I’m making him look bad. D has volunteered at a local soup kitchen for a few years, and he told me he enjoyed the event. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Bumble Date #1

OKCupid is sooooo three years ago now that everyone has a smart phone and relies on apps for everything. Seriously. My DAD even has an iPhone now (and his emoji game is surprisingly strong...though his Bitmoji gives me the creeps).

Though I’ve been semi-actively Hinge-ing and Bumble-ing (I really don’t have it in me to get back on Tinder. That place is a war zone), I’ve only been on one date. Naturally, my assumption is that while I’m apparently a hot commodity on Tinder (It’s a strange day when a black guy I’ve swiped right doesn’t swipe me right...this white girl loves chocolate, and it is reciprocated), Hinge and Bumble men find me hideous and fat and a loser and I’m going to die alone either aren’t as active on the app or don’t like what they see.

Since downloading both apps, I have been on one date. And of course, it was a disaster.

Who: The Cracker 

Where: Beauchert’s Saloon

What: Cheese and fancy cocktails

This was my first real date in months. Naturally, I brainstormed a million and a half reasons to cancel and was on the brink of an anxiety attack. Not only do dates give me anxiety (along with trying new things, calling people on the phone, my student debt, my trajectory to becoming a cat lady, etc.), but I arrived before him (despite being five minutes late on purpose) to a packed bar with zero place to sit. So I had to awkwardly hang out by the hostess stand waiting for him to show up. 

He showed up, after politely calling me to tell me he was a few minutes away (causing more panic on my side), only to leave us both awkwardly (His fault- he kissed me on the cheek upon greeting me. We aren’t in goddamn Europe.) standing by the hostess stand, waiting for stools to open up. 

After finally finding seats (veryyyyy close together), we ordered some drinks and a charcuterie board and appetizers and the standard first date banter began. I could tell straight away that I wasn’t into him. I mean, he was nice, funny, polite, and smart, but he was someone I would want to be friends with, not bang. Such a shame that bad first “app” dates can’t turn into friendships.

Then, out of no where....his voice cracked (See? I wasn’t being derogatory). Like a 12 year old boy’s. And given that I have no poker face, my attempt at pretending not to notice was an epic failure, forcing him to acknowledge it. Which he did so comically, and we continued a nice banter about some safe topic.

AND THEN IT HAPPENED AGAIN. SEVERAL TIMES. 

Luckily, I got a little better at hiding my surprise. Meaning, I didn’t have a total body physical reaction...I think my eyebrows got a good workout, though:

How he thought I was ready and willing (and prepared for) a goodnight kiss at the end of the night is beyond me. But he did. And I reacted badly.

Thank baby Jesus (who hopefully did not have the above little guys’ eyebrows) that both our Ubers were waiting for us at that moment. Well, kind of. Because we were on the sidewalk, so I had to face a silent five minute ride home with a perfect stranger who witnessed the event. The “event” being me turning my cheek to the dive bomb of a kiss, giving him an awkward hug and goodbye, and climbing into a jacked up Chevy Suburban (have I mentioned how short my legs are?).

I haven’t heard from him since, but at least I gave that Uber driver a great story for his first Bumble date. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

New Year’s Resolutions

There are two types of people in this world: those who make New Year’s resolutions and those that don’t buy the “new year, new me” bullshit.* 

Big surprise, I fall into the former category. I’m all about self improvement (Mostly because I weighed myself for the first time since this summer. For Christmas I got myself 15 extra pounds.). Without further ado, here’s my ambitious list for becoming a better person in 2016.

1) Cool it with the bitch face. 

I suffer from Resting Bitch Face: furrowed brow, scowl, and emitting a very strong “get the fuck away from me” vibe. I regularly have coworkers, friends, and strangers ask me what’s wrong thanks to constant bitchy expression. I don’t have high hopes for accomplishing this resolution without the help of Botox, but one can try.

2) Run a marathon. I ran two half marathons last year, after years of insisting I hated running (you would too if you were made fun of for being the slowest runner on the softball team). I signed up for the Rock N Roll half marathon this March (mostly out of desperation to lose my holiday weight) and plan on running one this summer, and I became addicted. I figure if I can go from not being able to run a mile to running 13.1 in three months, I can run 26.2. Here’s hoping my old lady hips cooperate.

3) Try one new thing a month. I’m a creature of habit. Putting myself in new, unfamiliar settings often make me anxious. I live in an awesome city with so many amenities, but I tend to stick to the gym and bars. Not only will new settings help me meet more people, but I’ll most likely spend less money, get less drunk, and learn a thing or two. 

I’m most likely switching to a new, more expensive gym this month (out of convenience and so I can stop running into the trainer I hooked up with last year- more on that later). To justify the increase in cost, I’m challenging myself to go to one class a week (I tend to work out by myself because I prefer it and classes make me anxious; I’m paranoid about looking like I have no idea what I’m doing in front of other people). Gym classes can’t count as a new “thing”- the whole idea is to branch out and experience new types of things. 

4) More meal prep, less meals out. Goodbye, Sweetgreen addiction. I throw away way too much money on meals out because of the convenience. Now that school is over (and football season nearly there since my team sucks and there’s no hope of making the playoffs), I need to get back into using my Sundays productively and cooking healthier and cheaper meals. I’m going to try to stick to one meal out a week, and make it one that counts. One meal at Momofuku is the same price and a way better experience than five salads.

Here goes nothing. Lots of self improvement to accomplish, and only 363 days to do it. Oy vey. 

*Though one could argue that the two types of people in this world are actually those that have no notifications on their phones and those with 54,837 unread emails. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Where to Not Meet Men, Vol. 1, No. Two: Home Town

Like most of America (judging from the security lines at DTW last night) I spent the holidays back home with my family. I’m from a small town outside of Toledo, Ohio (which explains why I am unable to drive in traffic ridden DC). Both of my parents (and stepmom) are from the area, I grew up next door to my cousins, and instead of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, it’s Two Degrees of Being Related to Your Friend or the Lunch Lady (doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, but seriously, every body knows every body around there). 

The holidays are great for several reasons: I’m able to eat 10,000 calories a day with only my jeans to judge me, Christmas movies are on TV 24/7, and the constant reminder from my curious family members that I am indeed still single. 

Kidding about the last. I’d like to point out that they all asked me my relationship status a mere month ago at Thanksgiving, and for some reason, they expected a different answer a few weeks later. Fools.

Back to the nonstop Christmas movies. For some reason, my family is obsessed with the super corny ones on the Hallmark Channel and Lifetime. You know, the ones with the predictable plot lines, cast of forgotten D-list actors, and all end with a lesson learned and marriage*? One of the most popular plot lines involve an overworked, urban, professional who has forgotten the meaning of Christmas and family. Their fancy holiday plans go awry, and they’re forced to spend Christmas in Nowhere, USA with their hick families and long lost love. The protagonist eventually realizes how much s/he misses home, values small town life, and re-falls in love with high school sweetheart. The End. Happily Ever After. Marriage and babies. Blah blah blah.

Guess what? That plot line is a crock of shit. Going home for the holidays is NOT a good place to meet men. 

First of all, I didn’t even go to my senior prom, and sure as hell did not have a high school sweetheart. Before you feel too badly for me (believe me, I feel bad for 17 year old me), I was not a huge loser in high school. (though, I guess it depends on who you ask...) I had a ton of friends, just no boyfriends. I regret nothing. Instead of obsessing over some pimply, gangly teen aged boy, I was busy excelling in school and sports and dreaming of a future outside of Northwest Ohio. 

Secondly, in rural Ohio years, my 26 years qualifies me as an old maid. Any good looking, successful man within my dating age range (20-40 26-35) is already wifed up with a couple kids. If he’s single, he most likely has already been married and has kids. No thanks. Love the idea of not having to endure pregnancy in order to have a child, but “instant family” isn’t on my Christmas list.

Let’s pretend for a hot second that some attractive, successful, single, childless man did live in my hometown. Where and how would I meet such a creature? Sure as hell not in my leggings at the local Kroger, wandering around in the wine aisle (Holiday Survival 101: ALL THE WINE). Definitely not at the local gym (I’ll share my thoughts on man-hunting meeting a man while sweaty in a future post, I promise.). And I’m from Toledo, not the Appalachians, so I’m certainly not finding Mr. Right at a family gathering. 

If we want to move even further away from reality, let’s explore the possibility that I did meet said Mr. Right. What am I supposed to do? Leave my great job, a city I love, and wonderful friends for the town I grew up in? No thanks. 

Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful childhood, and I love going home and seeing a majority of my extended family. But there’s a reason I moved to DC right after undergrad, jobless and poor. And it’s because I don’t have a strong interest in the white picket fence, three kids, and a minivan (I drove a minivan in high school and I am not going back. Hm. That might help explain my high school singledom). 

Let that not be an attack on men and women who do want that lifestyle- but a reminder to those of us who have fled our suburbs for the big city and might feel a bit lonely around the holidays

*Other popular plot lines: Small Town USA defeating Corporate America, Santa actually existing, love at first sight, conquering commitment-phobia, and single mom/dad finding love again. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Where to Not Meet Men, Vol. 1, No. One: Sweetgreen

My twenty-six years of single-dom is proof that I am no expert in dating, love, or social interaction, but is does mean that I am an expert in other useful areas, such as dining and/or drinking alone, cooking for one, and critiquing other people’s relationships. I also hold the expertise to impart useful wisdom to all other old maids single ladies out there, who are furiously roaming the streets for their male prey searching for an eligible bachelor: where to not meet men.

In this series, which will probably be pretty regular, considering I’ve been roaming about DC for nearly five years and have still yet to meet a man, I highlight places and situations that are not conducive for finding Prince Charming.

First up, Sweetgreen.

Sure, I’m a self-proclaimed expert at cooking for one (thanks to a crockpot and the ability to eat the same thing for a week without wanting to kill myself), but sometimes, I’m just too damn lazy or too hungry to make the walk home from the gym without passing out to wait till I get home to eat. Much to the dismay of my bank account, there’s a Sweetgreen on my route home. Its fresh veggies and warm bread beckon me from the sidewalk, tempting me with a nutritious and convenient meal in the attempts to steal a not-so-insignificant percentage of my paycheck (the fact that one of the cashiers knows me as the “girl who always has on different, cool workout leggings” also suggests I should reevaluate how much I spend on Old Navy active wear...).

While the frequency in which I stop at Sweetgreen is not correlated at all with  my desire to meet a man, it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility that I could meet someone. When I think about it, a dude who eats at Sweetgreen most likely is health conscious and has a decent job. I’ve definitely dated people who meet neither of those criterion. 

But, no. No salad soulmate for me.

Eating salad is perhaps one of the most unflattering human acts ever (publicly acceptable, that is). On that list includes sweating (you bet your ass “gym” will be a topic of a future WNMM post), sneezing, and eating anything that requires chopsticks. There is NO dainty way to eat salad. Inevitably, a piece of the fresh, locally grown mesclun is going to get stuck in between your teeth. Or you end up with quinoa in your lap. Worst of all is the spaghetti-like bite of salad...leaves hanging out of your mouth like healthy, but not more attractive, version of noodles, making you look like a fucking cow with no table manners. No man wants that.

Next, eating an overly expensive salad, alone, in front of a book does not exactly scream “talk to me!”- it only screams, “I’m single, and there’s probably a good reason for that!” It presents a picture of a healthy mind and body, but not that of fiscal responsibility or social skills. 

Lastly, when an attractive man DOES come in for some Guacamole Greens, he’s usually getting two to go. I have no interest in becoming a home-wrecker (even if spicy broccoli is involved). In the off chance that he’s ordering a solo salad, my chances don’t improve much given that I’ve just come from gym, am still sweating profusely, and most likely smell like a prisoner of war.

Easy to see how I’ve come up short on dates via Sweetgreen. 

So ladies, go forth and order your overpriced salads, but do not expect to score a date at the same time. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Moral Hangovers

Hangovers come in all shapes, sizes, durations, and causes. You’ve got wine hangovers (hello, headache), cheap beer hangovers (expect to be on the toilet all day), and liquor hangovers (expect to be on the couch all day watching bad TV and promising yourself you’ll never drink again).

The worst kind of hangover? Moral.

Moral hangovers linger for days at a time, catching you off guard when you least expect it. One moment, you’re hard at work in the office like the picture of success, and the next, you remember trying to make out with some “barely out of college” aged guy who looks like Prince Harry, thanks to the amount of Jameson you shot. Then, you’re at the gym crushing that cardio, and you check your bank account (”I spent HOW much on shots? That’s six months worth of Netflix!”). Or, my least favorite and most frequent...waking up to texts from people you had no idea you texted.

I am, without a doubt, the world’s worst drunk texter. I’m also super sneaky, so which ever one of my friends lucky enough to be my babysitter oversee my communications that night will have no idea what happened.

Willingly have my phone held hostage by a friend? Easy. I get it back by telling them I was supposed to let another friend know the plans for the night. Delete a number? Yawn. Check recent messages or a text string with a friend who I sent said deleted number to. Somehow can’t find the number? Snapchat.

After I get my hands on my target’s the number, Lord knows what ensues next is utter chaos, and much cause for a long, painful moral hangover.

It’s important to understand WHY I text people (let’s be honest...dudes) when I’m drunk. So if you know, please clue me in. I’m going to assume it’s because I’m needy or insecure on some level. Perhaps I’m a masochist. All I know, is when the booze starts flowing, my drunk little brain decides to rebel and put me in my place. No longer am I the successful 20-something with a great career, advanced degree, and a good head on her shoulders. Instead, I become a 21 year old version of myself, unconcerned with consequences or the possibility of damaging a friendship, courtship, or my reputation.

Luckily (I think), I delete my drunk bombs of weirdness so I don’t have to see them when I wake up in the morning afternoon. As if it never happened, my texts, browsing histories, and Snapchat feeds are mercifully clear and I remain ignorant of my recklessness, and I’m left with imaging the worst (note to drunk self: stop deleting...knowledge is power).

Big surprise- this weekend resulted in a lingering moral hangover, thanks to my need for attention. Excuse me as I retreat and lick my emotional wounds, and wait for the work week to be over so I can repeat the process again next weekend.

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

I’m baaack

Because I am technologically challenged, I can’t seem to find the time stamp on my last post, but I think it’s safe to say it’s been nearly two years since using Tumblr as my public (but unread) diary about my inability to meet a man. 

So much has changed in two years: the Silver Line on the Metro is open (and WMATA still sucks), Donald Trump is still on reality TV (this time as a presidential candidate, God help us), same sex marriage is constitutional (YAY...and duh), the two biggest egos on this planet have joined in holy matrimony and procreated- twice (go away, Kimye), and Snapchat rules the world.

And in my world: I started and, more importantly, FINISHED my Master’s of Public Policy and Administration (while working full time thank-you-very-much), got a promotion, ran two half marathons, cycled through a couple horrible roommates, and stopped going to Starbucks every morning because I finally realized it really doesn’t take that long to brew mine own at home. 

This last accomplishment is only a result of McDonald’s FINALLY selling their coffee in grocery stores, and is only a one week old thing...so let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Still plenty of time to relapse.

I’ll give you three guesses as to what has NOT changed in my life. If you need three guesses...well...you clearly aren’t the brightest bulb, are you?

Yup. Still. Fucking. Single.

No, being single is not an affliction, equivalent to a death sentence, or cause to join the circus a la bearded ladies. It does, however, get rather old after being on this planet for nearly twenty-seven years.

Disclosure: I have not gotten a cat. I also have gone on dates. Just very few second dates (I think only two second dates. Three? HAHAHAHA....shut up.).

You know what else has changed in the two years since I forgot I had a blog that no one read? Dating. If I had a dollar for every dating app that exists today, I would be able to pay off my students loans (I have a very expensive taste in education). 

There’s:

Tinder*

Hinge*

Bumble*

Coffee Meets Bagel

How About We

Zoosk

Happn

OkCupid (yes, they’re still here...along with the usual Match, eHarmony, etc.)

Grindr (which apparently started it all)

Hitch

A billion others, many for weird fetishes like sugar daddies (given my student loans, not ruling that shit out), farmers...I’m going to stop letting my mind explore all the disturbing possibilities

You better believe your slightly larger due to the holiday season ass I will give my impressions and experiences on each one I’ve tried. 

Stay tuned. 

Or don’t...who knows, I might not have another post for another two years. 

*Indicates apps I have tried.

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

This is actually a reason why I'm still single...

I have this really bad habit. Actually, I have many, but one is particularly noteworthy. I have cancelled every first date I have ever had, save one (and potentially two, barring that I don't cancel my date tonight*). I've even cancelled on guys twice. 

I don't think it's a nerves thing, though it certainly started out like that. My first real first date was with Old Man Winters (let's be real, there is no such thing as "dating" in college...or at least where I went. A date was a guy buying you drinks at McMurray's and walking you home, and not out of chivalry), and I cancelled on him only a half hour before we were supposed to go out. Now that I know where he lives, I'm fairly confident he was already en route when I cried wolf and told him I was sick. Whatever. He asked me out again the next day, so I couldn't have inconvenienced him that much. And I'm fairly certain I hadn't washed my hair after working out that day either. Couldn't have made THAT bad of a first second impression considering we kept seeing one another.

I think it's now morphed into a test to see how much these men boys actually want to spend time with me. Granted, a majority of them I "met" via my short stints on match and OKC (I'm cringing as I type and reflecting on my apparent inability to meet men organically. I need to work on easing up on my bitch face). It's a bit unfair to test them in this way, I suppose. How are they supposed to know if they want to spend time with me if I haven't given them the opportunity? Amazingly, I've ended up going out with all but one of the guys I've cancelled on. 

Here's a round up of my favorite excuses:

1) "My landlord is sending someone over last minute to look at the vacant apartment downstairs." I used this one frequently this fall. It was my fail safe. And a great conversation starter once I finally met up with my dates. Also a good lead in for roommate horror stories, which I have a plethora of.

2) "I'm stuck at work late and have no idea when I will be able to get out." I work in non-profit. The only time I "work late" is when we have guests in town and take them out to nice dinners. Nice dinners that include wine.

3) "I have sooooo much homework." A new addition, but a fail safe.

4) "My aunt needs me to babysit- family comes first!" I would gladly, but it's usually not true.

5) "Oof...food poisoning." No one, I repeat, NO ONE will question this one. Nothing says romance quite like indigestion, does it?

Wednesday, I cancelled on account of snow and cold. The guy is from Ohio, and knows I am from Ohio. And now he knows I am full of shit. Stay tuned to see if I actually reschedule. Tonight, I'm tempted to do the same, but considering it's a guy I actually met organically, and knows a friend of mine, I'm giving myself a pep talk to be a decent person, stop being a baby about the cold, and go on a damn date.

I'm not sure if it's a sign of maturity that I'd rather stay in, do homework or relax, and drink a glass bottle of wine instead of getting dressed up, going on dates, and shamelessly flirting, or just a sign that I should think about getting some cats. Verdict's out. 

*Note: I cancelled. And went to bed at 10:30. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Win of the Week

I think all of us DC area residents are in agreement that yesterday totally blew. It was cold, wet, and so slick.

You know that feeling when you slip, and you feel like you're on a roller coaster? You lose your breath, prepare for the plummet, and in my case, see your very short life flash before your eyes. That happened a good twenty times on my way to work, from the moment I stepped on my front steps (thank God for my catlike reflexes, that was an emergency room visit waiting to happen) until the door of my office. I am still completely astounded that I didn't bite it. 

 Asking me to start my day without coffee is like asking cats to stop being creepy. Never going to happen. So while I could have waited for a bus at Braddock Road Station to take me directly in front of my office, I chose to risk an epic fall and walk to Starbucks. What is usually a 5 minute walk for my coffee turned into a ten minute balancing act, complete with some choice words too inappropriate to type. Not that that has stopped me before, but I digress. 

  Safe and warm inside Starbucks, I had the great sense to check the next bus's arrival, since there's a stop right outside said SBUX. The metro gods were smiling upon me, as a WMATA bus was scheduled to stop in two minutes. Shivering under the awning, wishing away the next 120 seconds, I glimpsed a DASH bus (the Alexandria bus line) approaching. I have zero experience with, but I've seen them barreling down the main drag of my work neighborhood, so what the hell? I jumped on, only to realize I wasn't going to get dropped off in front of my office as planned. The closest I was going to get was about three blocks downhill.

 Let me tell you something about old brick sidewalks. Not only are they a complete bitch to walk with heels on, but they collect puddles like nobody's business. And get completely frozen over in ice due to their porous surface. Imagine a less cute, two legged, angry Bambi on a frozen pond. That was me.

Bitching as the bus driver under my breath and simultaneously skating up Queen St, I saw a hooded figure approaching me. No, not Death (though I was quite ready to be put out of my misery). 

 James Carville. James Motherfucking "It's the economy, stupid" Carville. Looking like a BAMF in rain boots and jacket, not at all like the miserable creature I was.

HE SAID "GOOD MORNING" TO ME. And I said it back. And haven't been able to stop smiling since (until I remembered the homework that awaits me this weekend).

 If it makes you feel any better, I accidentally wore men's cologne to work. And not only did everyone notice, but it gave me a headache. 

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Swinging New Year

Firstly, apologies to anyone who cares (...Bueller? ...Bueller) regarding my absence. I could tell you I've been in the gym, working off the holiday sugar cookies and am a few hot yoga sessions away from a bikini body, but alas, I was just being lazy. And now I am busy as fuck since starting school.

(Anyone interested on a blog about research methodology? Because I have a shit ton of content for that!)

No? OK, well, then here's something a little more entertaining...

If the rest of 2014 is going to be as awkward and crazy as my New Year's Day was, then I am going back to bed, emerging only when I'm in danger of getting bed sores. And for the occasional daily Chinese delivery.

Like pretty much everyone, I was nursing a bit of a hangover on January 1st (If you're looking for Fireball in DC, you're never going to find it. I drank it all on NYE. ALL of it.). Naturally, my solution was hair of the dog.

My friend A and I found ourselves a nice little dive bar...not too crowded or well lit (bright lights would only aggravate my pounding headache), ordered a pitcher, and planned resolutions for 2014 that will never be realized (drink less, swear less, forgo pub food...).

And then we were interrupted. By swingers, in search of a lady friend to fulfill their sexual appetites. Or friends...he was 6'7" and probably man enough to handle two extra chicks. How did I know they were swingers, you may ask? Because they approached our table, to tell us- several times- how pretty we were (Andre the Giant's tree limb (strike) arm was wrapped around his little Latina Lover's shoulder. Clearly a couple of people sexually familiar with one another) . 

Seriously, I am never approached with as many compliments about my looks as I did on the first day of 2014. Let me be clear, I have not been hit by the ugly stick, but I haven't stopped rooms in their track a la Cinderella. So when I'm hungover, with glitter remnants in my hair and dark circles under my eyes, and two people (OF EACH GENDER) approach me with protestations of my beauty, I know there are ulterior motives.

My friend wasn't as quick to pick up on it. As in, I was a good 45 minutes quicker.

To her defense, A is the friendliest person on this planet, and believes the best in people. She chatted them up like we were all old chums, as I sat panic-striken, sending out SOS texts to all members of my contact list.

My stand-offishness, quick aside, resulted in Andre's charge that I was "very pretty" but I had a "shitty attitude". For someone who didn't do too hot in picking up my signals that I wanted nothing to do with a threesome or foursome, he was astute in the shitty attitude part. And I guess I'll give him the really pretty part. Twist my arm.

Back to the story.

It took an unfortunate turn of events for A to realize what was going on. And when I say turn of events, I really mean that I had too many pints and had to pee. As I went about my business (and seriously contemplated calling a getaway car), A had an epiphany...after each of them bestowed her with a kiss on the cheek. (as Gru would say, "LIGHTBULB!'). I'm just glad it wasn't me they kissed, because I would have had some legal issues to deal with in addition to dealing with the invasion of my personal space.

Looking back, I'm not sure why, after exchanging looks of panic upon my return from the bathroom (finally on the same page), we didn't cut and run. I'd like to blame our pristine manners (ha), but I think we were just too stunned to act. Even after my fictitious boyfriend (Joe, after THE Joe Biden, obviously), made several appearances in the conversation, Andre wasn't deterred (according to him, my boyfriend "swallowed balls" and probably "didn't treat me like the princess I was"), planting a kiss on my forehead, and touching me in places I feel tempted to hit my doctor when she gets too close.

Thank god for A and her date. Heroine of the evening. Without her prior commitment, I'm not sure that we would have mustered up the courage to slip out as Andre was enjoying a cigarette outside (and his Latina Lover chatting up a booth of chicks a couple yards away), shooting the bartender panicked looks (I swear he mouthed, "Godspeed" to us...) as we slipped away. Who knows what the evening would have morphed into (roofies, anyone?), so THANK YOU, THANK YOU mystery man who insisted on taking out A that evening.

I was left to return home, to take the longest and hottest shower known to man, to rinse off the slime (and shitty attitude).

Happy New Year to me.