White Guys Don't Like Curves: The Case for Moving to South America

Like any single female approaching 30, I'm all too familiar with how rough the dating scene has become.  Especially in New York where I won't even speak the ratio, because, quite frankly, I don't have time to be on suicide watch.  Like most ladies in this fine city, there are certain times when you just feel completely beaten up by it all.  Sure, those times pass but its easy to get in a funk around here.  However, may I suggest its not you, its him - and not in the "its not you, its me" breakup line where every self-respecting individual understands it is, of course, them - but more in the sense that a little perspective and change of scenery can be a powerful thing.  Next time you're feeling down, take a vacation (no big deal, I'm sure your boss will get it) and reevaluate.

Traveling to Central or South America, or an island in the Caribbean has made it very clear to me that I am living in the wrong place.  This realization does not result from the fact that most of these places resemble paradise, although they do.  It is not because the American dollar goes so much further in these countries that I can practically convince myself I’m a millionaire, although that’s a happy consequence as well.  The simple truth is that my self esteem is never higher than when I travel abroad.  Despite the fact that I only speak about 10 words of Spanish (but at least those words include hello,  thank you, water, bathroom and red wine – so, you know, the important ones) and would live in constant fear of the water, I’m certain in some ways I’d be much happier.  The sad reality is white guys don’t like curves, or not real curves anyway.  (Disclaimer: I realize this is a gross overgeneralization and both stereotypical and quite possibly highly offensive, it's just a blog folks.)  Or perhaps this applies mostly to guys in New York, I haven’t fully tested the theory elsewhere.  But among the guys I know and observe, it is clear that they prefer a female with the body of a 12 year old to a female with the body of a woman any day.  If you’re larger than a size 2 (maybe a 4) you are obese in the eyes of most men and since I contemplated but gave up any and all considerations of a cocaine habit years ago, I’ve been forced to accept the fact that I will never be a size 2 and as a result will never be pursued (or even considered) by the majority of Manhattan's eligible bachelors.  Of course, it’s a slight dilemma for men who are taught at an early age to salivate at the mere thought of breasts, but thankfully with the increased popularity of implants a girl can now be both a size 2 and a D cup – hallelujah.  I'm not sure who or what exactly is to blame? I could jump on the blame Kate Moss bandwagon (once again showing my age - see the post below), shes been a good scapegoat for girls of my generation.  I could blame nature in general - take a psychoanalysis approach and suggest it has something to do with men wanting to be a protector and little things are easier to protect/control.  Of course, a few generations ago, curves were in.  I was clearly born in the wrong decade (the wrong decade, the wrong continent).  Perhaps the men of today have just gotten lazy and can't form opinions beyond what Hollywood informs us is sexy.  In fact that sounds about right on many counts (And, I'm pretty sure that will lead to another blog post), but it is more than that.  At some point, there was a significant change in what was viewed as desirable.   This isn't a revelation or anything even remotely new.  We've been aware of this trend since we were kids.  I mean please, we started dieting in elementary school (oh wait, was that just me?). So, I'm not claiming to be onto some new, original idea.  I'm just noting that this trend seems so American, so New York, so, "pretty fly for a white guy" specific.  So what's my point?  I'm not sure I ever have one, but I think what I'm saying is - don't give up! Don't feel bad about yourself! Don't you dare let some man make you feel unworthy.  (I am woman, hear me roar! or whatever).  Instead, just hop on a plane, get the hell out of dodge, and come with me to South America or Mexico - it'll be like Christmas morning.  Promise.  

We need Facebook 101 for our parent's generation; but when have we officially aged out?

My mother recently discovered the wink face on text message. I'm not sure who filled her in but she found it and she loves it. How do I know she loves it? She uses it all the time. Generally speaking, a wink face from your mother is not appropriate, so you can only imagine my reaction every time I open a text and see the wink. Granted this wink is placed next to a "c u soon" or some other abbreviation that we used on instant messenger 12 years ago. Once again, I am not certain where she got these little short cuts from, I imagine we included them in emails when we were 17 or in some instances, in letters sent from sleepaway camp when we were younger - in which case I'm simply impressed she recalled them decades after. Of course couple this with the fact that she still generally signs her text messages love mom, or rather luv mom, shows how much she is still learning about the text message process, and presumably new technology in general. To be fair, this isn't an attack on my mother. My friends tell almost identical stories about their parents texting and email habits. For example, my friend's mother recently learned to bbm. For some reason, she really focused on the concept of a ping (something I, as an iphone user, had to google to understand), and she now sends every bbm by typing a ping at the end ("Hi dear. ping"), but to her credit she sent a 3-way bbm recently - a skill I have not yet had the opportunity to master/google (You Go Mama!). Another friend told me she had to stop live chatting with her mother because she would sign off on every gchat message. In other words, in a 5 minute conversation, "love mom' would be visible 50 times. She couldn't fully grasp that it wasn't an e-mail. Every so often I have parents of friends friending me on facebook, and while my life -both in reality and in the social media realm- is much tamer than it was a few years ago (not that it was ever that wild, but it is downright boring now), I'm still not sure how I feel about this phenomenon. I'm friends with aunts, uncles, cousins - all who have the ability to view my idiotic comments and thoughts. And worse, the comments and thoughts my friends make on my wall or the pictures I'm tagged in when I'm regrettably not by a computer and cannot immediately detag. Like my mother's text messages and my friend's mother's gchat messages, many of these parents sign off their wall posts with a Love Mom or a Love Aunt so-and-so. If nothing else, perhaps the visibility or privacy settings on facebook should be explained to this generation. FYI, A post on a facebook wall is different from a facebook message which is more in line with an "old-fashioned" e-mail. facebook 101. (please note this is not a post about social media etiquette, that is a whole topic for another day.) I'm in no way suggesting that once you reach a certain age you are not permitted to visit social media websites, hell if that were the case I might argue I've already reached that age. I am simply describing the weirdness that is your mother's friend commenting on every single facebook post or status you make. I don't want to offend anyone but there is simply no way you are so interesting that every update requires validation. I would have blocked this mother's friend long ago had this example been about me. Not to mention the fact that the activity level of some of my parent's friends or friend's parents on facebook quite frankly exhausts me. I question where they find the time and then remember they are retired, so why not play farmville?

Perhaps my biggest issue with this phenomenon is just how much it highlights the gap between generations.  It makes sense that individuals who were not raised by the digital age would not catch on as quickly as those of us who were.  What concerns me is it makes me wonder at what point do we become that generation?  At what point will I be embarrassing my nieces and nephews with my inability to grasp the hot new craze.  And perhaps a little farther in the distance, when I'm driving my kids and their friends to soccer practice, what mortifying music will I be playing on the oldies station?  Jay-Z? Lady Gaga? (and what will motown, doo-wop, and even the beatles be considered when Biggie qualifies as the old stuff the lame parents are listening to).  And let's be honest we don't do ourselves any favors, we age ourselves too.  A few months ago, a friend and I reminisced for hours (notably, in front of other people who couldn't grasp our obsession with the topic) on the phenomenon of mix tapes.  We used to spend hours recording songs off the radio (trying to hit stop just in time to catch the end of the song without having the deejay's voice beat us) and pop them in our walkmans.  Recording a mix tape for someone was a timely and thoughtful activity, and the same remained somewhat true with our graduation to cds.  You did not have the unlimited space of a playlist and had to fit all your songs within the time constraints of 80 minutes.  Plus, there was generally a method behind the order because people didn't just hit shuffle.  And with tapes, forget it - the art of fast forwarding or rewinding just enough so that you got to the next song, that was a talent only the especially skilled possessed.  Kids today, they're missing out.  I actually found a mix tape not too long ago when I moved and was faced with the harsh reality that I couldn't even play it if I wanted to.  I'm not even sure the last time I saw a casette player.  I'm pretty sure this realization made me cry.  Perhaps I was nostalgic, or perhaps I was just really tired of packing.  Anyway, I digress.  The topic is how we already seem to highlight our age in many situations.

Not that long ago I was discussing a show or a song from the mid to late 90's before realizing I was speaking to a 23 year old who had no clue what I was talking about.  Oh. right,  you were only 9. I also recently discovered that kids in their late teens are not familiar with The Breakfast Club, or Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  I learned this when I brilliantly (predictably)  used an overplayed line that isn't even funny, such as Bueller? Bueller?  Anyone? and received radio silence in response from my cousin.  They don't understand the phrase 'Zach Morris cell phone' because they've been rocking a cell phone that fits in their pocket since they were 5. "Donna Martin graduates", "the dude abides", "the sea was angry that day my friends",  "you're so money and you don't even know it," none of these classic lines  mean anything to them (shameful).   We sound pathetic and quite possibly a little crazy when we quote these shows and movies and then laugh (a little too long, and a little too hard)....alone.  How are our cultural references already becoming out of date?  I fondly recall the days when I was the cool older cousin, now I'm not so sure that view hasn't changed.  I'm not so sure that every time I make a comment that completely dates myself, my cousin doesn't shake her head and roll her eyes a little the way I do when my mother signs off from a text message...

Baby, It's Rough Outside

I once went on a date with a guy who laughed like a hyena.  Loud, erratic, and embarrassing.  In keeping with the animal theme I think I burrowed my head into my sweater like an ostritch in an attempt to hide.  But, I was still there.  One of my best qualities is my sense of humor and yet the last thing I wanted to do was make this guy laugh.  It was the longest hour, and naturally included the slowest barkeep, of my life.  I tried to talk about the weather, underdog sports teams, Darfur (or Tibet, or the the Gaza Strip, whatever was most relevant at the time) anything that really shouldn't induce laughter.  He was awkward and uncomfortable and made jokes and laughed at them (the way that I do, but I like to call my annoying qualities endearing).  Luckily, I went out with another guy not long after and learned that I had vastly underestimated how long an hour could be.  It was a set up and people are surprised I still speak to the setter upper, although they appreciate the story.  I don't tell fairy tales.  I've certainly kissed my fair share of frogs, but I'm not a princess.  Once upon a time, I was set up on a blind date with Carrot Top.   Only it wasn't Carrot Top because he was skinnier and didn't make jokes.  At all.  Not even bad ones.  Instead, he judged me.  We met at a bar - his choice.  Yet, he didn't drink.  Pardon me if I'm confused but if you don't drink why would you invite me to a bar?  In return, I made sure to order two drinks  I mean, I had to, after learning he didn't drink I finished the first while he ordered his water.  He then proceeded to judge me, and everyone else who drank, for our reliance on chemicals and mind altering whatevers.  Mind you, we were still at the bar.  He was clearly alone in his sentiments but that didn't stop him from his holier than though self-righteous bullshit.  From there it got worse.  He turned up his nose when he learned where I worked, denouncing anything that represents "Corporate America".  Is it lonely up there on your pedastal?  Of course, I assume its easy to judge others for selling out when you have a trust fund.  I'm sure that wasn't funded at all thanks to someone's contributions to "Corporate America".  Jackass. He then proceeded to judge my hometown.  I'd be shocked if he'd  ever really heard of it, but meanwhile I was biting my tongue for blood to avoid expressing my views on his place of birth.  I'm not sure why I didn't leave immediately, I suspect it was something like a train wreck, and part of me wanted to see what else could happen.  When I did finally leave, after what felt like an agonozing 5 hours, my watch informed me I had actually only been there for 54 minutes.  Another time, I went out with a guy who was generally pleasant despite being a little nervous and just not my type.  When the bill came he insisted on paying (+2 points), however his credit card was denied (-4 points), he apologized, seemed genuinely confused and handed the waitress another card. (+2 points), that card was denied. (-50 points).  The scene was palpably awkward, if I could have melted into the floor I would have gladly done so.  I tried to "I dream of Jeannie" out of there (Did I just reference a television show from the '60s?, is this why I'm single?).  No luck, instead I probably just looked like I had turrets or was having a seizure.  Fortunately, no one was focused on me.  Once my attempts at becoming invisible failed me, I threw my credit card at the waitress, making eye contact with no one and still trying to will myself to just die.  As I signed the check, he apologized while I simply wondered how it was possible that I was still sitting there.  It was the most uncomfortable goodbye I've ever experienced (well that's probably not true, but it was up there).  Now don't get me wrong, I'm not heartless - I felt bad for the guy, and probably would have gone out with him again just for the sake of sparing his self esteem slightly, if he texted the next day with an excuse (I mean, just lie, seriously) or an offer to make it up to me (although I probably would have suggested we meet at a fast food joint for fear of getting stuck with the bill again.  Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me) but instead I received radio silence for weeks.  Sorry kid, you reached your expiration date.  Oh and p.s. you're welcome for the meal.  Prior to that debacle, my most uncomfortable "check" experience had been at a cafe where we paid up front.  It was winter, I was bundled up, hat on, gloves on, bag all zipped up, the date was over and I was ready to go.  We had each had 2 glasses of wine and as I waited beside him he turned to me and asked me for a $20.  After I got over the surprise, and realized he was serious, I took off a glove and handed him $40, he clearly needed it more than I did (I never said I wasn't spiteful), turned my heel and walked away.  While I have strong views about proper first date behavior and social norms (suffice it is to say I do not claim to be a feminist), splitting the check isn't a dealbreaker for me in the right circumstances.  Standing and approaching our goodbyes and asking me for a mere $20 was tacky and insulting.

My last serious relationship left me damaged and devastated.  I was a puddle on the floor for months, I'm still not entirely clear when I finally got back up and out there.  I've suffered through dates with friends of friends out of respect for the friend only to be insulted by the report that they just weren't that into me (but wait, I wasn't into them FIRST!).  I've attempted to date the friend in a desperate reach for a When Harry Met Sally happily ever after.  Turns out my life isn't an 80's movie and the awkward aftermath was not even slightly worth it.  I've been stood up.  I've been tongue raped on the sidewalk.  I've been too scared to act and had to smile as someone potentially worth it introduced me to their new girlfriend.  And yet, I'm still putting myself out there.  Some days.  Depending on my work schedule, my pant size and my level of overall defeat.  I'm nowhere near as out there as most of my friends, and I truly admire them for their perseverance.  But, the point is, I haven't (completely) given up (yet).  Most days.  And why?  A quick review of my dating history doesn't leave much hope for the weary.  But, somewhere deep inside that cynical and jaded heart of mine, I believe there has to be a point to all this.  I hear success stories from friends, reminding me of why I bother and I feel a slight flicker of something resembling hope. I watch romantic comedies (although generally only when I'm hungover, so to be fair my guard might be a little down) and I think to myself, I want that and it seems somewhat attainable.  I attend wedding after wedding and sometimes I even let myself fantasize about my own dress.  Somewhere, deep inside, there is part of me that believes all these horrible first dates will lead to more than just an entertaining story for my friends.  Perhaps, someday I'll be able to say these bad dates made me really appreciate what I eventually found.  Perhaps not.  But, I guess in that case at least I got a few (although obviously not all) free meals out of it...

When the snowpocalypse turns out to be a case of the flurries; getting dumped on (but not literally) by Mother Nature

New York is beautiful when it snows, if only for a moment.  If you're very lucky, and awake at 4am, you might get a glimpse of this winter wonderland.  Central park in a cloak of white.  Giant flakes highlighted by flickering street lights.  And quiet streets. No buses, no cabs, just a coating of white blurring streets and sidewalks.  

But, chances are you will rarely have the opportunity to view new york in its winter splendor.  By the time day breaks, the white glistening snow has been replaced with dirt colored slush.  You'll debate between your hunters and uggs for 30 minutes before choosing wrong and venturing out for the messy commute.  By the time you finally arrive at the office, with wet hair and slush covered pants you'll be so bitter that you managed to drag yourself into work that you won't actually accomplish a damn thing all day.  Some people invoke arbitrary casual fridays on what they'd deem a snow day; showing up in jeans and snow boots and daring someone to say something.  Others dress the part but spend the entire day complaining and cursing teachers.  

When we were kids, a prediction of snow meant endless possibilities, but most important was the possibility of a school closing.  Despite your parents' warnings, you'd stay up late, the anticipation of a day off keeping you awake.  In the morning you'd run into your parents bedroom or down to the kitchen and turn on the radio.  Those moments waiting for the deejay to announce your fate were some of the longest in your short life.  Once they got through the closings if your school wasn't mentioned you'd insist there was a mistake.  You'd refuse to accept defeat and wait out the next round assuming you must have missed it or your school was a late arrival to the list or even though every other school was listed alphabetically yours was an exception.  You'd wait impatiently for the announcement that your school was closed so you could run back to your bed for more glorious sleep or head straight for the television and watch morning cartoons or waste no time by breaking out your toys.  The world was your oyster those days.  The biggest question was how to spend your time until you finally hit the snow. For hours.  Building snowmen, forts, making snow angels, having snowball fights and returning to the house only when it was time for some hot cocoa.  

As adults we don't get snow days.  Not unless you're a teacher or the storm is especially severe and the roads have been declared too dangerous to drive on.  In Manhattan, we don't drive.  We have one of the most comprehensive and impressive subway systems in the nation.  This means, unless you've made the tragic mistake of moving to a suburb, offices in manhattan generally do not proclaim snow days or encourage you to work remotely and you have no excuse but to begrudgingly set out for work.  Despite this reality, when the forecast calls for a blizzard, New York prepares for a disaster.  And as a result, we prepare for these unlikely snow days.  We email ourselves documents, frantically send emails out the night before, bring items home, and worst of all, we get excited.  The bigger the hype the harder the fall. A winter storm advisory sends the city into a panic but often its much ado about nothing.  Mother Nature is such a tease. 

Generally, the only times the snow affects our plans is to ruin them.  Whether it results in a cancelled flight or simply the obligation to wear a bad outfit, our snowstorm anticipation has been replaced with snowstorm anxiety.  And, so, in adulthood snow has become a nuisance rather than a joy.  Today, I complain after a 20 minute walk to work in the winter.  Being outside for 4 blocks induces complaints of frostbite.  My younger self would be appalled.  I welcome snow only when paired with my skis and the promise of a lodge.  New Yorkers have even gone so far as to carry umbrellas when its snowing during their commute.  A phenomenon I refuse to accept and will never take part in.  I grew up upstate, no one would be caught dead carrying an umbrella in the snow.  I'm embarrassed on behalf of these people and yet they're embarrassed on behalf of me when I'm forced to sport my frizzy mane the rest of the day. So, while some might view it as a pick your poison, either way you'll look foolish debate, I'd suggest there is little to debate, an umbrella is for the rain, period, don't be a douche.  Of course, the moral of the story is that frizzy mane could have of course, been spared in the first place, had Mother Nature just done her job and Mayor B just declared a snow emergency, granting us one of those magical snow days...

2011: Ch-ch-ch-changes....or, probably not.

Every January 1, we make goals that most of us have no hope, or even intention, of acheiving and call them new years resolutions.  Why? Are we all secretly masochists who like setting ourselves up for failure?  Or do we truly believe that this year will be different, this will be the year we (start working out, stick to a budget, learn to salsa dance, start giving to charity, learn to cook without burning down the kitchen, etc.)?  The best part is most of us do not even make realistic goals.  We don't just say we will lose 5 lbs (the 5 lbs we gained over the holidays, for example), we step it up and say we'll lose 20, because it sounds more significant.  Seems reasonable.  Often, we make the same resolutions year after year (again, isn't this sort of like the definition of insanity?).  And, we are looked at in dismay if we suggest we are skipping the whole resolution thing this year, because "everyone makes new years resolutions!"  In fact, it's often one of those space filler conversation topics when you find yourself stuck talking to someone you realize you have nothing else to say to at a new years gathering or other function in early January.  After an awkward pause, one of you will ask "so, what are your new years resolutions this year".  We ask it as if we care.  As if we expect the answer to be any different from the one we got from the last 10 people we polled.  If its a girl, weight loss and exercise are near guarantees and if its a guy, working out (to get big and buff, of course) and something dealing with finances probably makes the list.  One time I responded with the forbidden, "you know, I decided not to bother this year" and my shocked acquaintance inquired further, "really, theres nothing you want to change this year?"  Nope, I've thought about it and I'm perfect.  My life is perfect.  The lives of all those around me are perfect.  I have nothing to strive for.  Really?! Of course there are things I want to improve, but I don't need an arbitrary day on the calendar to remind me of my flaws and shortcomings.  And since this isn't my first rodeo I've come to accept that chances are just because I say out loud that I want to lose 10 lbs and give it the oh-so-important title of a resolution, does not mean I will, in fact, lose 10 lbs.  Those changes come only as a result of real motivation like, when my pants no longer zip or my best friend gets married and I'm the only single bridesmaid (looking forward to that), not when December becomes January.  And quite frankly if I was going to really reflect, look inward and determine what about me so desperately needed fixing this year, isn't is possible that might be just the sort of thing I wouldn't want to shout to the world.  Hey world, here is a list of my insecurities and the things I want to change about myself, but I don't feel exposed because I've written them down under the underscored phrase 'New Years Resolutions', so its no big deal.  Of course, recently more people seem to have embraced the no resolution resolution, so perhaps we are learning after all.  As we've gotten older (and wiser) we've also started to carve out exceptions to make our resolutions more achievable.  Most of my friends openly admit they are not starting their resolution on January 1st (because after a night of drinking, or on a day off in general, you are at much increased odds of breaking your resolutions on day 1).  So instead, we start them on the monday after.  We think this delay is a simple fix to all our years of failure.  Generally, we are wrong.  Or, as an alternative, we eliminate the rigid rules on the weekend.  I'm on a diet, except from 5pm Friday through 9am Monday.  While, this resolution tends to be remarkably easier to stick to courtesy of this weekly break, we get surprisingly frustrated when it results in a lack of, well, results.  Last year, after consistently breaking my new years resolutions by the second week of January I made a list of 10 resolutions.  I took a sort of playing the odds approach.  Hell, even if I break 9 of them and keep 1 - well, that's a success story!  At this point I have no recollection what the 10 were but I'm fairly certain I failed at all of them pretty much immediately.  Generally speaking, when recounting our new years resolutions we don't even mention the fairly common "I'm never drinking again" promise made at some point between the blurred lines of December 31st and January 1st.  We are a society used to making empty promises (see also, politicians), and new years resolutions are just an extreme form.  

Truth be told, every year I vehemently root against many people in their "new year, new me" quests.  It's not that I'm a mean-spirited person, it's just that as a year-round faithful gym rat, there are few things more irritating than the month of January.  Suddenly, you spend 30 minutes waiting to use a mediocre machine, that the person before you will obviously neglect to clean, seeing as they aren't accustomed to the rules of the gym and all...and you can just forget about taking classes, those fill up long before they start and when you complain in exasperation that you've been taking this class for years, (foot stomp, pout) the gym attendee tells you something about reservations and a list (words words words).  Inevitably most of these new years resolution bandwagon gym-goers will start to fall off by mid February.  But, that's a long 6 weeks for those of us who are used to just walking into our morning spin class with no call ahead and a mere 5 minutes to spare.  I  also sometimes root against my friends. It's not because I don't want them to succeed, I do, but I know they won't (I'm a realist) and it gets pretty lonely drinking and eating alone before welcoming them back with open arms.  This goes along with the all or nothing unreasonable goals though.  I have full confidence that they could drink less or eat better but instead they swear off alcohol altogether (which in turn, makes me feel like an alcoholic drinking alone, selfish selfish) and refuse to go to restaurants for fear it will jeopardize whatever extreme diet they've decided to try.  Don't get me wrong, I'm all for bettering yourself and sometimes, even, reinventing yourself (whatever that means).  Hell, I'm frequently guilty of the chop my hair for a new look, a new me instant gratification.  I just think such a reinvention should be a result of some real reflection or realization or desire for change that results from something, anything, not just because everyone else is doing it (see also, cults).  A favorite resolution is from friends who say they will get engaged this year.  Oh really?, is that a threat or a promise? Are you proposing an ultimatum?  Because, I've heard nothing but good things about those (sarcasm). Or even better, are you Charlotte from Sex and City, and going for hook, line and sinker in a year, because I'm pretty sure that statement worked out splendidly for her (her being a fictional character, of course) and that's not even to mention the obvious glaring red flags involved with such a proclamation.  But hey, you go get him girl!  Other friends have resolved to make the decision to start being happy, sort of embracing the whole power of positive thinking mantra, I suppose.  And while I don't want to discourage their good intentions, unless their plan is to take a little pill, I think that sort of resolution is setting yourself up for the worst kind of failure.  But, on the other hand I guess I should give them some credit for being creative.  A google search of the 10 most common resolutions confirmed that I'm entirely predictable.  While the results differed slightly, the main ones were the same.  Drink less alcohol, lose weight, get a better job/succeed at your job, learn something new/get an educaton, quit smoking, get fit, manage debt, manage stress/get organized, volunteer/help others, spend more time with family and friends/plan a trip.  I make at least half of those resolutions on a yearly basis and incidentally, I'm still in debt, totally stressed out, striving unsuccessfully to lose weight, switching between wanting to quit my job and travel the world to freaking about getting fired (depending on the day and the dow), crying about how I never have enough time to spend with family/friends, and coping with all these failures with copious amounts of red wine.  I mean, generally speaking I feel enough like a failure in certain areas of my life that I can't really control with the snap of a finger and the magical declaration of a new years resolution.  At this stage, I need to start making resolutions I can surely achieve.  I need all the minor victories I can get.  This year my resolutions include learning more about wine (by drinking generous amounts of different varieties), trying new restaurants (eating like a fat kid at trendy locations), losing 3 lbs (which presumably can be achieved for a day by one bikram yoga session or hell, even wearing spanx and just appearing like I lost 3lbs will probably suffice), presenting myself in a more professional manner (actually bothering to wear makeup to work and going on a shopping spree for new clothes), paying off some of my student debt  (I've already put aside some cash for this feat but havent had time to call the loan specialists, last years failure is this years success story!) and train for a race (I train for various races every year).  See, the beauty of this brilliant little list is that when saying any (some) of these reasonable goals to an acquaintance, I might actually sound like I've made somewhat legit resolutions.  In fact, they probably made some similar (although less realistic and more impressive) ones.  But, unlike their big plans of working out 3 times a week or getting a new job in this economy, I'll get a gold star and a pat on the back for achieving almost all of them!

Happy New Year! Now, Go Have the Time of Your Life...or else.

If you're anything like me, December 31st has somehow become the most dreaded day of the whole year.  I realize this is quite a statement since there are some other serious contenders for the title.  Many would argue Valentines Day is evil incarnate and spend the day inflicting torture on cupid voodoo dolls.  I'm not a valentines day fan, but I'm less offended by it.  First of all, I've learned I look good in red.  Second of all, it's a meaningless holiday manufactured by the greeting card industry to raise revenue.  In fact, kudos to you Hallmark, you got us all - when we're in relationships we're obligated to plan something romantic and buy stupid gifts and live up to bizarre expectations that come from nowhere and when we're single, well, its just another reminder that we might want to kill ourselves.  So, well played.  Some of my new york friends might suggest Halloween as the day to avoid.  If you've ever tried to get a cab or attempt to get into a bar in Manhattan (or worse, an outer borough...) on Halloween, observed (i.e., the friday or saturday night closest to October 31st where girls dress like slutty (fill in the blanks) and men dress like the latest snl skit or movie character craze) you'd be empathetic to their disdain for the day.  After weeks of planning the perfect, brilliant costume, spending money on said costume and taking hours to ready yourself for the night's event, you end up spending the evening fighting for a drink at the bar, getting hit on by lame guys in predictable costumes which somehow give them the confidence to approach you and your short skirt in the first place, and return home - whether that night courtesy of a long subway ride with people drunker than you (no matter how drunk you may be) falling all over themselves, or worse on you - or the next day (ahh the walk of shame in costume, impressive) with your outfit ripped, your hair mangled and your credit card likely missing.  Unless, of course, you've been smart enough to limit yourself to a house, or err apartment, party or are lucky enough to find a bar where the line for the bathroom does not stretch around the corner, and is not filled with recent nyu grads "whoo'-ing" all over the place.  Of course, many would argue their birthday - once we are reaching or have reached that dreaded "30" become less of a celebration and more of a day to mourn our youth, but that's a whole other blog post.  Interestingly, Groundhog Day is another day that fills me with resentment.  While it appears to be such a harmless holiday, or not even a holiday most would argue, my bitterness overfloweth on February 2nd most years. I'm sure this stems from the movie "Groundhog Day" and the fact that I'm fairly certain I'm living it.  Having the words staring at me from a calendar to remind me just how routine and mundane my life has become just adds insult to injury.  And, when I turn on the news and learn that pesky little groundhog saw his shadow and we have 6 more weeks of wearing uggs and treking to work in the sludge, it makes me want to kill someone.  But, despite these compelling cases, I'm sticking with New Years Eve as being the absolute worst day of the whole year.

My problem isn't with New Years Eve in and of itself, I mean who doesn't love an excuse to pop champagne and wear glitzy dresses, it is with the expectations surrounding the night and the production it always becomes. Here's an exercise to illustrate my point.  When's the last time you REALLY had fun on new years? No, not like your facebook pictures make it look like you had the time of your life and you paid so much money you are comfortable lying to yourself about how the evening truly unfolded - but, like, really had fun.  And if you are fortunate and can think of a time in the not so distant past when you honestly had a fantastic time - was it worth it?  Was it worth the hassle, the money, the itty bitty cocktail dress in sub freezing temperatures, the feelings you hurt by choosing one set of plans over another, or the random dude you made out with at midnight even though he was downright offensive, simply because it was 11:58 and at that point you were in it to win it.  I'll be honest I've had some decent new years eve celebrations in the past, but were they a better time than that random night at the dive bar the other week? Absolutely not.  They did, however, cost me an overpriced ticket, a lost coat at coatcheck, watered down drinks that were damn near impossible to get, frost bite on my toes and a subway ticket because cabs are so hard to come by that if you're lucky enough to snag one I'd suggest just driving around in it all night to celebrate this accomplishment.

More times than I care to admit (since the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results) I attended a New Years party at a club or bar in Manhattan put together by a friend or friend of friend.  For the bargain price of anywhere from $100-$200, I got a fun-filled evening of open bar in a private room with 100 of my closest friends (or more likely, 15 friends,  60 strangers and at least 25 people I had hoped I would never have to see again) or a reserved table at a swanky establishment with an enforced dress code (add another $100 to the bill please), which in December means guaranteed tearcicles stuck to your cheek en route to your fancy evening.  At both places, drinks were somewhat difficult to obtain - despite my snazzy wristband entitling me to as many as I wanted, the line for the bathroom made me cry, and at midnight when I looked around for someone to kiss, I either made out with my vodka soda (and felt all sorts of sorry for myself) or set myself up for some follow-up regret (and felt all sorts of sorry for myself).  One year I even attended a party at a club near times square.  Well folks, it turns out that times square is where that big ball drops every year, so, not surprisingly, the streets surrounding times square for at least a 10 block radius were closed to traffic.  You guessed it, that meant walking entirely too many blocks in frigid temperatures, grasping on to each other for warmth and trying not to stumble in our stilettos.  The simple reality is New Years Eve almost always leads to disappointment.  That's right, I said it.  The pressure to have a life altering night is unavoidable and sets you up for inevitable failure.  Even if you choose to do something low key, with a few friends or just stay in with your significant other and wind up having a nice night by most normal standards, there's always a part of you that can't help but wonder if you're missing out on something more - it is New Years Eve after all, this is THE night of the year, the night that shapes the entire year to come!  

Every year when the "what are you doing for new years" emails start, I get anxiety.  Only worse than this feeling is the anxiety that occurs when those emails/calls do not happen.  Spending new years alone is simply not an option.  More so than any other night of the year, to be alone on new years means, from society's standpoint, there is truly something wrong with you.  I learned this when I suggested I might do just that to avoid the drama and I'm pretty sure my mother started calling my friends on my behalf.  So, you're obligated to go out and have the "best time ever" and spend January 1st nursing your mandatory hangover and already breaking your new years resolutions, whether you'd like to or not.  I don't know what I'm doing this year, but I have a sneaking suspicion that despite my best efforts I'll be wearing heels higher than I can handle (which will lead to walking in the street barefoot at 2am - and a trip to the doctor for a tetanus shot soonafter), eating at an overpriced restaurant with abominable service or crying into my tequila for reasons I won't even remember the next day.  I bet if you check my facebook page though you'll see my pictures and be super jealous of the fact that I look like I'm having the time of my life.  So, off to Ricky's I go to get a cellophane noisemaker (silver please), a tacky 2011 tiara and sweet matching sunglasses.  Happy Freakin New Year.

PART II: Navigating Your Way Through a Wedding (and Life) Without a Plus One

(please scroll down and read Part I first, if you missed it yesterday!)

Since that initial solo invite, I’ve experienced a few more.  I’ve also received quite a few invitations granting me that coveted plus one (to which I, incidentally, still placed a single 1 on the reply card).  Getting a plus one and realizing you have no one to bring to a wedding is almost as mortifying and anxiety-producing as not receiving the plus one in the first place (see later installment – “Your gay best friend, your second cousin, the homeless guy on the corner, and your brother (if he does not look that much like you) - the options when you do score that coveted plus 1”).  However, I will happily take that anxiety over the scarlet S that comes with the lack of the "and guest".  I understand that most blushing brides who choose to rob you of your dignity (okay that's dramatic, but...) do so in the interest of saving money and making more room on their guest list for those people they really want there.  Phrases such as "you can’t imagine how expensive a wedding is" are both common and highly insulting (are you suggesting I lack imagination or simply assuming I live in a cave and have not been privy to far too many conversations about weddings and the costs of this and that?).  I get that it’s expensive, I do.  I also get that it’s “your day”, and hey you deserve "your day" and to have the people you want to spend "your day" with there.  And, yes, I of course, understand that every situation is different and perhaps this doesn't apply to you because of xyz - this blog is a general rant.  But I’m sorry, from my perspective, it’s sort of hurtful and frankly, a little tacky.  End of story.  And, lets be honest, from an "avoid inviting people you don't know or care about" angle, is having one of my friends who you've known for years in a picture or two more offensive than another friend's boyfriend of four months that you've never met, just because he doesn't have the boyfriend label?  Once someone is over the age of 18-25 (fill in your age of choice, I haven’t fully committed to one yet), they deserve the option of bringing a date to a wedding.  To me saving – what? $200? at the risk of making someone - who is supposedly important enough to be on List A – feel uncomfortable, sad, and sometimes dread attending, is simply not worth it.  I will certainly choose simply not inviting some B List contenders over risking making those I actually really want to share my day feel unwelcome or bad about themselves.  Although, chances are I’ll also pull a “27 Dresses” type maneuver and pay it forward, if I was invited without a guest to someone’s wedding, they will be invited without a guest to mine.  Imagine that awkwardness – No, I’m sorry you can’t bring your husband.  How do you like them apples?  As I alluded to before, 8 times out of 10, if you gave me that plus one I wouldn’t bring a date anyway.  This is an "it's not the point, it's the principle" line of reasoning and I recognize many people might find it ridiculous, but I am ridiculous, so it is what it is.  The thing is I’m insulted that you assume I might pick up some random dude or bring the guy who works at 7-11 to your wedding.  I’m not a total asshole, usually.  So in the end chances are you get the same result but you don’t cut me down, in the process.  I’ll concede that guys are a little trickier because it’s a toss-up between whether they will use their "plus one" as a big fat pick-up line (hey pretty lady, what are YOU doing 3 Saturdays from now?) or whether they will rely on the single bridesmaid stereotype and fly solo anyway.  But, guys for sure think I’m being dramatic when I step up on my soapbox anyway, so do what you want as far as they’re concerned.  

So back to the topic at hand; how to deal when you don’t get that plus one.  The way I see it, you have a few choices: (1) You can show up at the event with a big smile on your face and appear ready to make the most of it (or something), (2) you can pout and spend the evening making snide remarks to anyone who will listen (I'd like to say I'm above this), or (3) you can simply not go.  Don’t ever underestimate option 3.  While I’m certainly not proposing you spend your evenings alone on your couch, eating bon bons (what ARE bon bons?) and avoiding life, sometimes not going is the right choice.  Since that plus one seems like such a no-brainer to me, it’s possible that sometimes the lack of it suggests the degree to which your friend cares if you show up.  Perhaps you were an obligatory invite but the truth is she’d prefer you sat this round out anyway, then by responding no you are not only saving face, you are doing her a favor.  Why, you’re welcome.  And sometimes, you simply have to weigh your priorities, turns out it IS okay to say no once in awhile.  If you do choose to go (and I usually do), here are a few tips.  Never show up without a camera.  Playing photographer and documenting all the moments you are forced to sit out of is an underutilized mask, you can use awkward moments as opportunities to hit the playback button and review your masterpieces.  Under no circumstances should you drive to the wedding.  Alcohol is an extremely important tool and by the end of your night the bartender will be your best friend.  Bartenders tend not to be huge fans of people drinking diet coke, so write down a number for a cab and get drinking.  That brings me to my next tip.  Always have a car service or taxi company in your cell phone ready to dial at a moments notice.  Do your research, find out how long in advance you’ll need to place the call so you aren’t stuck waiting awkwardly around with the families of the happy couple and cleaning up with the catering staff.  If you find yourself at an especially painful wedding or playing the role of token single person, don’t hesitate to call early.  They got your gift already, you can feign illness - if anyone notices - and make it an early night.   Do hit on any available (nobody likes a homewrecking slut) men (of legal age) you choose.  While your hosts may find your slurred speech and awkward advances embarrassing, that’s what they get for depriving you of a date in the first place and at the very least this will up your chances of leaving the event with a good story for your other friends.  And lastly, do look your best and have a good time if you go, no one is interested in your drama at that point and you may be surprised at how much fun you end up having, I know I certainly have been (again not the point, the principle).  Plus, I keep hearing these rumors that weddings are a good place to meet men...