The Oddest Thing She's Ever Said

Defining “Normal.”

Recently, I’d been experiencing some friction with my roommate. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I had a sneaking suspicion part of it had to do with the fact that she recently entered a bona-fide, label-ready relationship with the guy she’s been seeing for the past two months. Maybe it was the fact that he was so willing to commit to something so freaking early on, or maybe it was the fact that she could now bandy around the term “boyfriend” and not have to stick with qualifiers like “the guy I’m seeing” (which to me, calling someone your “boyfriend” seems abhorrent if not for the fact it’s just so much easier than the latter), but suddenly, our relationships with guys seemed to be affecting our relationship with each other. Was I jealous? Were we “cheating” on each other? Why was her relationship suddenly making me question mine?

Granted, her relationship has its issues, too. I’ve found her moping in bed when her plans fell through, just like she’s found me moping in bed when my plans with TGIS fell through, and there are things about my relationship that I wouldn’t trade for things in hers like labels or meeting the parents for all the money, steak, and peep-toe pumps in the world. But it made me wonder, especially in a world where all we seem to do is want the things that we don’t have: How much do other people’s relationships affect our perceptions of our own?

If only it really WAS as easy as a guy saying “don’t worry,” and you could stop worrying. Instead, given some face-time off from my relationship, I started thinking back to previous relationships and how in the past I’ve watched a guy go through distancing maneuvers, only to completely distance himself from me and our previous relationship and suddenly become one of those people who never returns your calls and never texts you back, seeming to suddenly enter Witness Protection. And the more I saw my friends, random strangers on the street, and my professors with their S.Os, the more I started to realize it wasn’t just a day or two not seeing each other that made me worry about my own relationship— it was now over a week, something that had never happened before, even though with distance and different schedules (he works odd hours; I’m a full-time college student with a part-time job,) it’s sometimes not conducive to seeing each other for a few days. While the perfectly sane side of me knew that in the overall scheme of things, not seeing each other for over a week is perfectly fine, perfectly normal, the neurotic, Nervous Nelly side of me kept reminding me that it wasn’t normal for us to go this long without him asking to come see me— we’re more of a see-each-other-twice-a-week, at-least-text-every-day couple. I asked some of my friends to use their relationships as a sounding board to give me advice or a breath of fresh air and a better grip on sanity. But despite all the (different— no two responses were the same, which was probably the most frustrating part of it all,) feedback I was getting, once I started comparing and contrasting my relationship, to itself, to my past, and to other people’s, it opened up a whole new can of questions and wormy doubts. Was this really better, or was I just driving myself crazy? Or, crazier?

By Day 9, I was most definitely in the “crazier” camp. I was a doomsday cloud of oracle-like beliefs that TGIS was now The Guy I’m No Longer Seeing. I resigned myself to picking up some of the slack in my Single Girl life again, started going to the gym again, spent 8 hours in bars one night with the girls meeting some of the oddest men I’ve ever had the distinctly unsure pleasure of meeting, went to dinner with my best guy friend who nearly made it worse by bringing TGIS up and telling me that he really liked him from when they met, and made a big (read: truly and magnificently pathetically large) dent in my Netflix instant queue. And then, the other night, the dearly departed ghost returned to my doorstep. Huhn.

It was a little awkward at first, and I felt tremendously relieved when he kissed me “hello” as usual and acknowledged the fact it had been over a week since the last time he’d seen me. “I worked two events this week,” he told me, and I suddenly found myself looking at him like he had suddenly sprouted a third head (think about it…). To me, “I’m working” is a perfectly acceptable, concrete reason to be busy and absent, and if I had heard that instead of “my schedule doesn’t allow it,” 6 days ago, I would have been so much less of an emotional little mess. I’m a word person, obviously. To me, the difference between “working and needing time with the guys” and “my schedule” is the fact that a schedule can include things like seeing other women, assiduously ignoring me, and moving away and enlisting in the Israeli army. Isn’t it funny how the specifics of communication, even when you’re communicating well in the first place, can make all the difference in the world to a girl?

That morning, as he left with everything right in the world again, I realized that what really matters when it comes down to your relationship is keeping a fine balance between the “normals”— what’s normal for you, and what’s normal for other relationships. We’re constantly comparing our own to other people’s, or other standards. But as my very wise father told me, “No two relationships are the same. They’re different people, different situations.” At what point should we just breathe, and let it be?

XOXO

—-

- Excerpt from SATCG

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I have been flirting with this guy in my Entrepreneurship class for the last 2 hours. He told me to friend him on Facebook, and I just creeped him to see what his deal was, interests (outside of this class, making money, and business, of course), and if he was single.

 …He’s friends with the most recent failed relationship partner and all of his friends.

I don’t want to know how they know each other.

It’s official. I have to move out of Vermont. I have dated EVERYONE.

XOXO

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The Anti-Rebound

Last night, I went out for impromptu drinks with a guy. It’s not like I went to my night class thinking, “Whelp, it’s the last class of the semester and everyone is ridiculously stressed in Hell Week before Finals, so why don’t we choose now to find someone to go out with, eh?” But that’s what happened. As we chatted instead of working, and added each other on Facebook (the “hey, I’m interested in you” move of the 21st century,) we realized we had some mutual acquaintances in common— namely, my most recent ex and all of his friends. It’s official. I have to move out of Vermont. I have dated EVERYONE.

This got me thinking about one of the most ugly terms in the dating world— the “rebound.” While both my new friend and I were very open with each other about the fact that we had both recently gotten out of serious relationships and were still recovering from them, I knew what word would be on everyone else’s lips were they to know that three weeks after the Hindenburg crash-and-burn-in-flames end of my last relationship, I was downtown slinging back beers on someone else’s tab. While the most recent ex is undoubtedly taking a new girl out on the town, it makes me wonder— what’s the double-standard for switching dating interests so quickly? Do his friends care? Do they miss me? And do rebounds really matter anymore, or are they just another way to brush the dust of your last relationship off of yourself?

While my friends are glad that I’m back on the horse that so uncharacteristically bucked me off with aplomb, I find myself questioning what my dating and relationship mentality has evolved to. Though I still mourn the loss of my last romance, as it was a great one right up until the point we suddenly weren’t together anymore, I’ve realized something that’s become equally evident to others— after over half a decade of dating, it’s become harder to get as attached to someone (or the IDEA of someone,) and easier to deal with and mend from failed attempts at love than it used to be. For the five-plus month duration of my last relationship, I always maintained the mentality that nothing was guaranteed; it could end the next day. I was guarded with my mother and friends; less than hopeful when making reservations for one extra seat for my graduation dinner. So when it suddenly ended, I was somehow more prepared and less affected than I’d ever been previously. And healthy or not, that’s how I found myself out last night with someone who potentially knows my ex even better than I do. (Slightly hilarious, I’ll admit.) It wasn’t because I’m some callous bitch who thinks all men are expendable and I don’t know how to be or want to be single— it’s because I want to NOT be a callous bitch and learn how to acknowledge and move on from the end of a previous relationship as best as I can.

We tend to look at rebounds as some meaningless, interim fun. But the best part about last night for me wasn’t getting the validation that I still got it, but rather, bonding with a guy over getting past the past, and having us both realize that we could have a good time out with a member of the opposite sex again. (It was a little bit like Heartbreaks Un-anonymous, not gonna lie.) To me, THAT was more valuable than scoring a second date, though, this girl’s still got it in her. So, to make it clear, people, it’s not a rebound— it’s a growth opportunity.

XOXO

—-

-From SATCG

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Why I Shouldn’t Be Allowed To Interact With Men:

Because I legitimately sent Date #2 Guy this text: “Damn, you know it feels good to be a gangsta.” 

Who am I.

And why do I still do so well with men.

That’s questionable.

XOXO

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Dating Makes Me Want To Die Texting Gangsta Who Really Does That Anyway?

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, I met a guy’s mother and didn’t spontaneously combust into flames and die.

In fact, it went quite well. 

She’s thinks I’m sweet. We talked about my thesis. She liked it.

To reiterate, I have NEVER met anyone’s (that I’m seeing’s) parents before this. Over 6 years of dating, NUMEROUS relationships, and never met a single parental figure until now.

I’m just gifted like that.

XOXO

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Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of A Relationship.

You do things for relationships that you normally wouldn’t be caught dead doing, right? I mean, after all, we always hear about how “sacrifice” and “work” are the two hot-button words in the game of being a two-some. For some women, that means learning how many minutes are in a quarter of football (that’s 15, if you were wondering,) and what player’s names to scream at the TV. For others, it means learning how to dirty-talk, or indulging in that odd vinyl fetish. For me, it apparently means sacrificing life, limb, and new Urban Outfitters’ dress. After watching a 20-something guy hammer a screwdriver into his motorcycle’s locked gas tank, I’m literally sitting here, writing this to you perched on top of an old black plastic milk crate, listening to a neighbor say “I took my dad’s bike to go meet my girlfriend in South Burlington; I met her in Kmart’s parking lot, ‘cause that’s where she was, Kmart…” Why? In the name of male bonding.

Now, there are three things I love, and three things I really, really love when in conjunction with each other: Men, beer, and oil grease. An elusive and usually sheltered sacred act, I found myself out of Burlington and in the wilds of Winooski after I was promised by the S.O some Steel Reserve and a chance to watch men physically pull apart a motorcycle; I jumped on that shit. But much like taking the pants off of a new beau after a Beergoogle Olympics night out at your local dive bar, I wasn’t ready for just how hairy things could get in a land where the Y chromosome had replaced a fun time for logic and was wailing away at a gas tank, cigarette dangling from lips. While any half-way intelligent person would be running for their life and diving behind the closest Jersey barrier, here I perch, on my milk crate, listening to four men talk about guns, bikes, engines, cigarettes, and penis length.

Well, maybe not penis length, but close enough. This could not get any manlier if Hulk Hogan suddenly showed up in a Ford F250 and promised to teach them all some top-secret wrestling moves and how to get into a scorecard girl’s booty shorts.

Any time when men and women coexist in a non-professional setting, a few differences between the genders become self-evident: 1.) Grooming techniques. 2.) Conversation topics. And 3.) What is really important and constitutes a good time. For women, these things include some strong drinks in martini glasses, the receipts from the last shopping trip’s spoils, and the latest gossip. For men, it seems to be beer, anything with an engine, and anything BUT gossip or recent headlines, possibly other than, “Did you hear about the Royal Wedding? Prince William—what a bitch now.” They ask about family, mutual friends, recent car accidents. They talk about the price of things—TVs, motorcycles, cars, cell phones. They compare the quality of beer, cigarettes, knives, bikes, cars, and housing. After three hours on this milk crate, I feel strongly in the validity of my statement when I say—men and women don’t like the same things. While my S.O and I both have subscriptions to GQ and I’ve watched him flip through the pages of my Cosmo, and we both have an affinity for expensive clothing and fine food, I have finally found an area in which I can’t follow him in—it seems to be, after all, a man’s world, and I suddenly feel like I should be asking if anyone wants me to make them a sandwich.

…Aaaaaaand my very white-collar boyfriend just craned his head around his shoulder, and spat. Oh yeah, Toto—we’re not in college or the Hill Section anymore. Time to get out of here.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG

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A Rose By Any Other Name Is Still A Slut.

While my ex seems to be content with popping up on my cell phone’s screen at all hours of the night, now plagued with a need to reconcile after all this radio silence, my S.O’s ex didn’t seemingly take to the news that he was seeing someone new so well, which has resulted in such jewels as “Makes more sense now; Carissa is a whore’s name :),” popping up on HIS cell phone’s screen.

I Googled. There seem to be no whores named Carissa. At least, none with websites or internet access.

While it’s not the first time I’ve been called a whore— let’s be serious, this blog’s name is “Sex and the College Girl,” not, “Aeronautical Nuances of the 21st Century and How They Effected Young Women,”— it still bothered me more than I thought it would. I think the hardest part for me is that I’ve been on both sides of the equation that I currently find myself in, and so, I have empathy for my S.O’s ex, even if she did call me a slut. Her life was torn apart when she realized her ex had moved on and started seeing someone else, and I’ve been there, too. While she feels emotionally (and maybe physically) cheated on, I’ve also been both cheated on, as well as the cheatee, in previous relationships. All in all, it leads to a confusing war of emotions— part of me wants to land a good right hook on her nose for calling me a whore when I have done absolutely nothing wrong (or whore-like,) while the other, greater, more Gandhi-like part of me wants to help comfort her and work her through this, since I have the knowledge and experience on how to survive something like this from before. If we were men, it would be so much easier. We’d have a good rough-and-tumble fist-fight, and then we’d be best bros. Instead, it all just gets to be awkward and I get to live in fear of opening his bathroom door after a shower, dripping wet, naked, and vulnerable, to find her standing there when I’m home alone at his place. Have I mentioned that she apparently has 8 inches on me? Yikes.

But maybe, it’s not all so cut-and-dried. As I guiltily found out when the ex cheated on me, it’s easy to hate someone you don’t know. I was CONVINCED the girl he’d slept with was born with the express purpose to ruin my life, be a bitch, and look horrible in her Facebook profile photos. (There may have been many, many catty references to her resembling a wall-eyed bass. Not my finest moments.) But gradually, I started to realize that she probably A.) Had no idea I even existed, and B.) Was just looking for the same sort of love I was. Unfortunately, we were both looking for it from the same guy, but all the same, I couldn’t fault her wanting her happy ending. And so, little by little, I started to forgive. The other day, thinking about her, about me, and about my S.O’s ex in the current situation, I looked the ex’s indiscretion up again. And you know what? She looked good. She looked happy. And not even the least little bit fishy. Maybe it had just all been me, being a cat-fish.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t. The other night, at dinner, my S.O mentioned something inside-joke-like in passing about his mother, a different women than his father is currently seeing. I happened to be looking at his dad’s girlfriend when he said it, and I saw a look flash across her face as quickly as it was then gone. But I recognized it. It’s the same look ALL women, when the name of the woman who came before, or who they’re afraid will come after, adopt as soon as the syllables hang in the span of air between mouth and ear. As I sat at our table in the dining room of the Woodstock Inn and looked at my S.O’s father and his girlfriend, it hit me— The ex-girlfriends of our past and present are only going to become the first, second, and ex-wives of our future. And it’ll still be just as difficult, awkward, and confusing as it is now, so we just might as well get used to it, and get good at letting all the flack slide off of our shoulders. So here’s to turning the other cheek and waiting for the day when she knows better than to think I’m actually a whore, or that I ever meant to hurt her. Because I, possibly more than most other girls, know both the exquisite pleasure AND pain that comes from these sort of relationships past-yet-still-present. I’ve been in those tight size 8 shoes, and it’s not a fun trip, not in the least.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG.

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Relationship Benchmark: The “AHA!” Moment

I’ll tell anyone who will stand still long enough that the “AHA!” moment in my relationship came on our third date, when my now-S.O managed to both spill his coffee and throw plant matter at me from a nearby potted plant within the span of 2 minutes, and while cleaning said mess up, apologized saying, “Sorry, it’s been awhile since I’ve romanced anyone.”

I loved it. It killed me. And the other night, I inadvertently discovered his “AHA!” moment when he looked at one of his friends and said, “One night, when she was half-naked in bed, she rolled over and asked me if I wanted to watch Top Gear.”

The things that attract us to members of the opposite sex are eternally enlightening, as well as amusing.

XOXO 

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Walked into a restaurant today, completely forgetting that an ex of mine works there. Murphy’s Law: He was working. I managed to eat lunch, skulk around whilst making sure my (bra-less) torso wasn’t jiggling all higgidy-wiggidy too much, and make it out the door without having to talk to him.

SUCCESS.

I must stop dating; being in public is getting awkward.

XOXO

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Stuck Between A Carney And A Hard (Up) Place.

So, the fair is happening in Rutland starting today, and, due to the fact that I haven’t been in roughly 135,364 years or since the last Ice Age, whatever happened longer ago, I’m kind of jonesing to go. Kick the fun house mirror-maze’s ass again. Ride the swings, convinced the corroded chain will snap at any moment and send me winging off into the side of the inflatable slide if I’m lucky, and if I’m not, the side of Al’s French Fry cart instead. Gawk at the horrible monstrosities of human beings who only seem to come out for these magical 5 nights a year, and people-watch recklessly as the carneys heckle me. 

The only problem with this splendidly nostalgic plan is that my last $10 went toward my father’s RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE Vermont teriyaki marinade I bought for him, and a McDouble for me. (Guilty, guilty, guilty.)

So now I’m trying to decide if I should attempt to con some poor man into taking me on a date, which would mean of course I request an outing to the fair for a night, and thus he pays for my entrance fee, tickets for rides, and for my candy apple and maple sugar cotton candy. (But hold the fried dough— it makes me sick.)

I know I’ve got the stuff to do it— I cannot tell you how many times I felt myself being eye-raped in the mall today while I hunched over a Vickie’s application and feverishly filled it out with all the hope in a young girl’s heart, but it would have equaled the equivalent of having a train run on me— but I have the nagging feeling that would officially make me cross the moral line into becoming one of Those Girls who feel like a man’s money is their natural and God-given right. And I hate, loathe, and DETEST Those Girls. And I just really, REALLY don’t want to go through all the bitches of dating again right now. Being a crotchety cat-loving spinster is really working for me right now, especially considering that I’m living on the other side of my parent’s wall again. I really do NOT see that EVER being a plus for my desirability rating.

On one hand, I know the draw of the fair to me is only in the food and staring-in-abject-horror-at-other-people parts, so it’s not really worth it, but, on the other hand, I mean…it could be the tiniest bit romantic. Especially if you were to get stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel. (That always happens to me, and it’s ALWAYS my favorite moment.)

Oh, existential decisions, decisions.

XOXO

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Doing a semi-drunken Facebook crawl through my exes.

It is AMAZING to me that I dated some of these characters. In both good AND bad ways.

Like, dear Rutland citizens, one of my last dates was a wine-tasting benefit for charity at which I met the governor. And here, where you’re lucky if you can flag down a bartender for a BUD, I really have no hope of ever getting back to that level.

I have never regretted a single relationship I’ve been in…just really strived to remember WHY it happened. Like my ex who watched the Jersey Shore and now has a photo of him and a semi-automatic rifle as his profile picture.

Again…WHY DID WE DATE?

XOXO

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Back In The Saddle(bags) Again

There are a few things I really like about attending weddings: The look on the bride and groom’s faces as they look at each other, the dancing at the reception afterwards, and the ruthless “time of famine and drought”-style drinking involved when the two best words in the English language get together— Open. Bar. And then there are a few things I really hate about attending weddings: The fact I am ALWAYS over-dressed for the occasion; the feeling of desperation that settles in the air every time all the single women are rounded up onto the dance floor to make that leap for the bouquet; the fact that more and more, I’m attending the weddings of people that I’ve either grown up with and/or my age. First, it was my childhood best friend. Then, it was the older son of a friend of the family whom I’ve known since I was…I don’t know…BORN. They’re both a year or two older than I am, and now nuptially blissed-out, and here I am, still single, and while the motorcycle club I belong to may have a healthy number of prospects, when it comes to ones for my hypothetical wedding bed, there are NONE. Zip. Zero. Ziltch. Nada.

However, I like this show of priorities.

My last relationship involved living together, cleaning together, cooking and drinking together, exercising together (and if you know how much I hate to be seen sweating, you know how much that says about my commitment), and beginning to casually talk about weddings— what locations we liked. What good theme colors would be. Who the bridesmaids and groomsmen would consist of. It was obviously serious when me, Miss Commitment Issues, started considering floral arrangements and the merits of hand-made wedding favors made by myself and my army of loyal (and handy!) bridesmaids. I could see myself spending the rest of my foreseeable 50-to-70 years with him, and somehow having us both miraculously die of old age and NOT of spousal homicide. It was a special union. He asked me one day if I’d still love him when he had a beer gut and had gone gray and to seed. I told him that I probably wouldn’t even notice and still find him sexy, because I’d look like my mother. We laughed. We loved. And we parted.

So it was particularly bitter-sweet this past weekend, as I found myself down in Connecticut, open bar at the ready, single, condoms perennially-prepared in my cute little white clutch, and no single groomsmen to be had. People started asking after my ex. I started drinking more heavily, and eventually excused myself down the hill to the pond, so I could sit and willingly be eaten alive by the mosquitoes rather than have to utter the painful words, “Well, no one special…” one more time.

…And then, I heard the roar of a four-stroke engine.

Riding up the driveway came a refurbished custom Yamaha motorcycle, paint job pristine, chrome gleaming. It’s rider was tall, dark, wearing plaid, and seemingly single. I wanted him. I wanted his bike. I was either in love, or very, very emotionally vulnerable and slightly sloshed.

So I did what every girl does when confronted with a really smokin’ hot guy— I watched him. Yes, I just sat there, and looked at him for the better part of an hour. He was pretty. It was easy. But really, I told myself, it wasn’t quite enough. On the ride down to CT, I’d picked up the newest issue of Cosmopolitan, and for shits, giggles, and boredom, flipped to the last page and taken the “How Much Game Do You Have?” quiz. I got two points for professing that if I were out at a bar and saw a cute guy, I wouldn’t just move into his line of sight and telepathically plead with him to come over and talk to me— I would walk over and say hey. And you just don’t lie to Cosmo. Was I really so sad and single and pathetic that I couldn’t even brush the dust on my flirt off and go over and make a go of it? So I slung back my drink, adjusted my cute little summer dress, cursed being single and back in The Game, and grabbed my purse and lady-balls and walked down to where he stood next to his bike.

Now, if there is one very important life lesson I learned three years ago from having to un-Velcro the Motorcycle Man of my sophomore college year from the thoughts of making me his girlfriend, it is that you DO NOT touch even a man’s kickstand without asking his permission first. And thanks to the Northern Deathriders, I’ve acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge about motorcycles in the last few months. So I sauntered down to him, lightly touched his upper arm to get his attention (and for the hell of being able to touch him), and said, “Excuse me, but what model Yamaha is this?”

He turned around. He smiled. He told me. I told him about my friend’s Yamaha. He asked if I was into bikes. I laughed and told him about my old lady status. “I’m more of a ‘fetch beer, remind them to flip the burgers, and admire the bikes,’ kinda girl,” I told him. “Are you one of those girls who will polish her boyfriend’s bike?” his friend asked me, leaning in. “No. But I’ll tell him when it needs to be done.”

Their eyes lit up in a way that told me that the only wedding bells that day had not just been earlier at the church. For the next 20 minutes, we talked bikes, business, and New York City, where he lived. It was like God had delivered me my perfect made-to-order man. The only thing missing to make it more obvious would have been a silver platter, hand-engraved. But after years in the dating trenches, I knew when to cut things off before the stink of desperation cut in and I went from being The Cute Girl Who Knows Her Shit to being The Crazy Girl Who Won’t Go Away. Proud of myself for having the guts to approach him, and still buzzing from the intoxicating mix of wine, cute guy, and bike exhaust, I thanked him for talking bikes, shook his hand, and excused myself. I may have been out of the game for awhile, but this cat still knows when to play hard-to-get.

Later that night, he came back and found me before he left. I was sitting at a table, taking a break from the dance floor, when I saw him approaching me from the corner of my eye. I pretended not to notice him until he was right next to me, leaning over my chair. He offered his hand again, saying he was leaving, but thanking me for coming over and talking to him earlier. I took it, shook it, and told him the pleasure was mine, and that anytime he wanted to talk bikes, I was game. We didn’t exchange numbers. I didn’t know his last name. But I knew that I felt good about myself, and that this old-hand Single Girl still had some life— and some game— in her yet. And who needs an engagement ring or kids when you can flirt with all the hot young bikers with good manners in the world? Exactly.

22. College-educated. Self-employed entrepreneur. Confident. Sarcastic. Single. Fabulous.

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG. 

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