Attention Gentlemen of OkCupid...

Dear Gentlemen of OkCupid:

After a few months of occasionally perusing my messages, my quickmatches, and your profiles, I have some advice to share. Actually, no let’s call it a lesson because this teacher would like to school you.

1. First, let’s start with your profile name. I get it; there’s a lot of pressure to pick something different, to stand out, to reflect our personalities, to use our profile names as a conversation piece. But just keep it simple. Though generic, a profile name that hints to your real name, location, hobby, or birthdate is acceptable. In fact, a profile name that tells me your real name is a plus. Because you all seem to forget to sign your name when you send a private message. But if you are a grown man looking to meet a grown woman, for any varying degree of relationship, and your profile name is ‘Hunglikeahorse13’ or any variation there of, you have just killed my hard on. It’s not funny; it’s creepy. If you’re truly hung like a horse, you won’t need to put it out there. You’ll know that such a monster can be just as much of a curse as a blessing. So please, keep the profile name PG. Otherwise, you’re going to come off like a 15 year old boy who goes to all male Catholic school. 

2. Selfies are for 13 year old girls, not 30something year old men. I get that the male gender may not have as many pictures of themselves readily available to post online since bros tend not to stop for a group picture or capture a moment with their brotha’ from anotha’ mother as often as their female counterparts. But that still does not give you an excuse to blow up your profile with selfies. Aren’t there any pictures of you from your friend’s wedding or your family’s Thanksgiving dinner or something? If not, have someone take a picture of you. Don’t do it yourself, especially in the mirror.

3. In addition to avoiding the facial selfies, would you please also stop selfying your abs and pelvis. Don’t get me wrong, your sex V is hot, and I love myself a six-pack. But leave a little to the imagination. I can just as easily tell that you are muscular and have a good body with your shirt on. PS: for those of you who only post pictures of your body, but never your face, stop trying to get girls and instead work on your self esteem. Even though you come across as an arrogant ass on your profile, and I am going to assume you are a jerk who only wants sex, you are still special and worthwhile. Don’t sell yourself short. You are more than your perfect physique. 

4. While we’re on the subject of pictures, please stop using a dating website as your online travel journal. Yes, it’s interesting that you climbed Machu Pichu and that you’ve been skydiving, but I can get a sense of your passions and your experiences from your written profile…and by getting to know more about you in person. Plus, I am on to you. I can see by your profile that you live in a cosmopolitan area and work in an office all day. You’re a corporate grunt. Just own it.  Don’t let your twice a year trips dupe the ladies into believing that you’re one of those off-the-beaten path, rebel adventurers. Because I don’t care. Let’s be honest, I am looking at your pictures in order to assess my attraction to you. The scuba mask covering up your face and that beautiful view of you skiing from 50 yards back are doing nothing to help your cause. 

4. As an English teacher, I get that I may be more of a stickler for proper grammar and such. And yes, I will probably notice obscure grammar errors that only a writing teacher would discern.  I won’t judge you for the small failures, like your occasional comma error or a subject-verb agreement issue. But I will judge you based upon the basics…you know, things like your spelling and your ability to write in coherent, complete, sentences. Instead of spending so much time flaunting your humor or career or body, could you maybe flaunt your intelligence by proofreading? Smart men are sexy. Plus, it shows that you care enough to come across a polished human being.

5. If, on my profile, I check off the boxes that proclaim I am looking for friendships or relationships, and you have listed casual sex, then please don’t contact me. Don’t take offense. I appreciate your honesty, and I understand your need for a little somethin’ somethin’. No judgment. But that’s not my goal, nor my use for this site.  If you took the time to read my profile, instead of just scanning my pictures, you would know that already. And let me give you a tip. Even if a woman is looking for casual sex, she probably won’t be using OkCupid. Because we ladies can simply go out to a bar and get it. We don’t have to waste time trolling the internet and messaging men. We don’t need the OkCupid middle man. 

6. Finally, adhere to the most basic and most important OkCupid commandment. Thou shall not not message me ‘What’s up.’ I totally get that messaging a strange woman on the internet is awkward at best. But I don’t get that you somehow think this is a throwback to the AIM days where I’ll immediately respond back, and we’ll message back and forth all night in an effort to avoid our math homework. So be a grown up and introduce yourself. Reference something in my profile to show you took the time to read it, and maybe even mention why you wanted to get in touch with me. Do we have something in common? Are you attracted to my sarcasm and wit? Or even just ask a question that requires more than a one word answer. That’s just Basic Conversation 101. 

MY MATCHMAKER DITCHED ME: PART 2

As I lamented earlier this month, I accidentally became embroiled in a misunderstanding of epic dating proportions. My co-worker, along with some help from my oblivious self, unknowing signed me up for a matchmaking service. After a rough start with the matchmaker, who thought my compatibility profile was low because I dared to request a man over 5’10 to compliment my 5’10 self, she quickly retracted her original concerns.

Only 10 hours after telling me that I might not be a good fit (literally) for her service because of my height and need for an equally tall man, Ms. Matchmaker called me with good news. She didn’t have just horse jockeys in her database! She had average size men too!  Hearing this news at 8am on a Friday (a day when I can sleep in a bit and not rush out), I was not at all thrilled. I was sitting pantless on my couch in the midst of my coffee and an episode of House Hunters. I was not at all prepared for, nor in the mood to get deep into relationships and set-ups and the potential for me actually hiring someone to help me date. I thanked Ms. Matchmaker nontheless, feeling secretly validated that I am not one of those ridiculously picky women who will never get a man because she’d rather not feel like the Jolly Green Giant on a date. Just as I was about to politely blow her off the phone, Ms. Matchmaker said, “Okay, well then let’s get to the in-depth interview portion.” Crap! This was the part I had been dreading since first becoming aware of my accidental new relationship with a matchmaker. She was about to ask me a lot of dating questions, questions designed to secretly diagnose my emotional issues, devise a plan to combat my dating inefficiencies, and force me to clarify my wish list for potential mates.

How do I feel about looks? Aside from height, am I typical attracted to darker skin? Blue eyes? How am I supposed to tell her that I really like the shaggy lax bro, preppy frat boy look and not lose my credibility as a grown adult who should have grown out of that attraction a decade ago? Do I care about race? Hmmm, never really thought about it, but if even I had a preference, am I really going to vocalize race specific criteria? What about religion? As a fallen Catholic with a complicated relationship at best with organized religion, I don’t know. I don’t really care, but have I really rejected my faith enough to possibly go in the direction of a religion-free relationship? Could I convert to another faith if that was important to this hypothetical man Ms. Matchmaker was unearthing for me? Suddenly, the panic set in—like the overwhelming feeling I experience when I walk into IKEA. That all I had thought about was a simple desk and now I am faced with a labyrinth of choices that look great on the models, but I know I can’t quite pull them off.

It was clear to Ms. Matchmaker, as I gave her background about my past relationships, that I am a commitment phobe who loves going after jerks. She interrupted my soap opera tale to tell me, very simply, “You are strong. They are weak. They seek you out because they need your strength.” As someone who enjoys sage advice, spiritual advisors, and self help books, I quickly latched on to this information, thinking that such enlightenment is just what I need in order to transform into a functional dater. But then Ms. Matchmaker said, “These things are involved in my coaching services, which is separate from my matchmaking services. But you remind me of myself, so I wanted to tell you this.” So was I going to have to be coached as well, just to make me dateable? 

Ms. Matchmaker concluded the interview with the assurance and excitement that she can find me some great men and that I have so much potential because really, I remind her of herself. And just like that,  Ms. Matchmaker had me on my laptop, checking my email to confirm my information and look at the contract she had somehow drawn up in the midst of her diagnosis session. This was problematic for me because when it comes to tax forms and contracts and all of the complicated grown up paper work, I am a child. I still consult my legally-minded parents for advice…and well, translation. Ms. Matchmaker wanted me to sign this paperwork electronically. Right there. Right then, as she was giving me a 90 second overview of the contract highlights. These major contractual features were lost on me, as I was still trying to furiously scan my email to see if I had somehow already committed myself to this or if I was going to be charged for this phone interview session. Well that, and I was trying to figure out why the first line of the contract was asking for my drivers license number. Was I going to have to provide a blood and urine sample too?  Also, I like time to think. I wanted to make sure that if I signed up with the matchmaker, I was going to put on my big girl pants, actually date, and take this process seriously. After all, I am the girl who tends to impulse buy with no prior thought or research. Things like my car, my $30,000+ graduate school education, and my €200 authentic dirndl. 

It was only after Ms. Matchmaker went through the features of the contract that she began to gloss over one very important factor—the most important factor to all normal middle class, hardworking individuals out there—the price. From having watched The Millionaire Matchmaker, I had this fantastical notion that as a woman, I wouldn’t be charged to join this dating service. But then when I started to think that I’d be a client she was matching FOR, I accepted that I would probably have to pay a fee. And okay, maybe a couple of hundred dollars isn’t so bad. Maybe this is a new and safer way to meet quality people. After all, Ms. Matchmaker kept emphasizing the safety of her service and the caliber of people she accepts.

But when my anxious eyes got to the bottom of the electronic contract, I saw the one little tiny line that mentioned the $2500 fee. $2500 for a six month membership. After that, it’s only about $100 a month to maintain my membership. $2500—does this woman know how many classes I have to teach, how many papers I have to grade, how many hours I have to tutor in order to earn that amount? It wasn’t that $2500 was an expensive price point and an impractical way to my spend my money. It was that I don’t even have this money. And if I did, it would go to more practical concerns, like my car payments or my student loans. I felt duped. She should have advertised her services as exclusive rights only available to the rich and undateable. Poor undateables like myself are relegated to OkCupid and Tinder. 

Feeling like a real dumbass, I didn’t want to openly tell Ms.Matchmaker, “Sorry. Too expensive. I don’t have the money. Thanks anyway.” I’m sure she must have mentioned something about the price range, but having only talked to her on the phone while driving through tunnels in DC traffic and then off guard when I was still half asleep, I just didn’t pick up on it. Yes, this makes me an idiot, but I truly don’t recall her telling me a price. And I didn’t even bother to ask because I was so much more concerned with not coming across as an emotionally challenged human being. 

For a brief moment, I considered selling the $2500 idea to my parents. Maybe it could be an advance on my inheritance? Or an investment in their future grandbabies? Or maybe just a pity gift since they put out so much money for my sister’s wedding? But then I returned to my senses and realized that even if they did give me the money, I would feel pressured to secure a boyfriend in this process. And let’s face it, I would have been out of my league. Clearly, I don’t roll in the same crowd as people who can drop $2500 on a precarious dating membership—people who, as Ms. Matchmaker told me, often own boats, country club memberships, and vacation homes in exotic locations. I have a communal apartment pool, a discount gym membership, and a coupon for a free stay at one of the casinos in Atlantic City. Clearly, it’s not a match.

And so, to avoid embarrassing myself further (now that I had bared my soul) and wasting more of this woman’s time, I diffused the situation by definitively stating that my parents would be paying for my membership, and I would have to call her back with their credit card number. She was hard pressed to get off the phone with me, but I insisted that I would call her back by lunch time. After stalling for about two hours, I sent an email to Ms. Matchmaker. I thanked her for her time (since I really did feel terrible for unintentionally leading her on) but unfortunately my parents weren’t willing to put out that much money. When I knew it was safe to call her office and get her voicemail, I followed up with a lovely, polite message. 

So it turns out that JLo was wrong all along. Love do cost a thing.  And it’s a price I can’t afford.

A Single Girl's Right to Register

Once upon a time in an old Sex and the City episode, Carrie Bradshaw fought for a single girl’s right to shoes. Shamed by her married girlfriend’s reluctance to replace her $485 Manolos that were stolen from said married girlfriend’s home, Carrie lamented the value (or lack thereof) of both her possessions and her single life. 

For those of you who may have been too young to have seen the episode or maybe just need a refresher, it goes a little something like this…

Carrie: You know what? I am Santa. I did a little mental addition. Over the years, I have bought Kyra [the married girlfriend] an engagement gift, a wedding gift, then there was the trip to Maine for the wedding, three baby gifts. In toto, I have spent over 23,000 dollars celebrating her choices. And she is shaming me for spending a lousy 485 bucks on myself? Yes. I did the math.

Charlotte: But those were gifts. I mean,if you got married or had a child, she would spend the same on you.

Carrie:And if don't ever get married or have a baby? What? I get bubkes? Think about it. If you are single, after graduation, there isn't one occasion where people celebrate you.

Charlotte: We have birthdays. Oh no. We all have birthdays.

Carrie: That's a wash. I am talking about the single gaff.... No. I'm thrilled to give you gifts to celebrate your life. I just think it stinks that single people are left out of it.

I, like Carrie Bradshaw, am indeed Santa Claus. Okay, maybe more like a Dollar Store Santa Claus because, let’s not kid ourselves, I’m on a teacher salary and live in an expensive city. Regardless, though, of the extravagance of my gifts, I have spent the past decade giving—both money and time. When friends decided to throw destination weddings, I went, traveling so far as Europe to attend their blessed events. When girlfriends asked me to take on the role of bridesmaid, I always said yes. I bought the dress (which I ritualistically then threw away the day after each wedding), I attended the bachelorette weekend, contributed to the shower, bought the bridal lingerie, gave a gift, donated my soul, my kidney, and a pint of blood. When acquaintances invited me to their weddings and I politely declined, I still sent a gift, usually one random $80 Pottery Barn bowl, because it was the cheapest item on the registry. When babies started to make their appearances, I attended another round of showers, offering up breast pumps and boppies as my admission fee. And when these babies started to have birthdays and baptisms, I became kid friendly. I bought the annoying musical sets, the make your own bubble gum kits, the backyard slip-n-slide racer—you know, all of the kinds of toys that parents hate. I bought them because that’s what you do to show your friends and their children are important. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not bitter about all of this gift giving. I did it all of my own free will out of the genuine kindness of my heart. I absolutely support my friends and their life choices. I am happy to celebrate and give what I can as a token of their milestones. But I must admit that getting a wedding invitation in the mail is like getting a bill. Life choices are costly, mostly for those who surround the people making the life choices. And it stings a bit to know that as a single person, the gifts and the effort and the celebrations will not be bestowed upon me. No, it’s not a tit-for-tat mentality that I possess, nor an Eeyore state of mind that leaves me believing no one cares. But when you’re single, no one infuses your life decisions with cash prizes or a toast.

Case-in-point: moving. I recently made a pretty big life move, as I took on a new job and a new city. As an eternally single girl who has existed as a full time grad student and then teacher for the past decade, I don’t have much to contribute to this new life. After all, my domestic goods consist of mismatched hand-me-downs, second hand items, and TJMaxx finds. And my furniture mainly comes from my aunt’s garage and IKEA. To fill the gaps in my domestic collection, I went to the Dollar Store for cups and plates, along with a set of “steak knives.” I currently use my computer as a tv, and the fanciest appliance you will find in my apartment is that $20 Crockpot I purchased from Walmart. To be honest, the nicest things I have are surplus items from my sister’s stint as a bride-to-be that she generously donated to her barren older sibling.

Last night, as I boiled water in a hand-me-down pot from my mom (which I believe dates back to her own wedding registry in the early 80s), I considered the single girl inequalities. I have literally spent thousands of dollars on overpriced housewares, ridiculous items like sorbet makers, and bullshit toasting glasses people will never use again. Yet, here I am boiling water for my $2 packet of soup in a 30 year old hand-me-down pot because I am single. And yes, I am totally blaming the second hand pot on my single status. Because, you see, if I had a ring on my finger as I made this move to DC, it would have been socially acceptable to register for the items I need to build this new life. It would have been encouraged, even expected, for my full time working self, along with my hypothetical full time working fiancé  to spend hours…maybe even days…in Macy’s or Bed, Bath, and Beyond pointing a laser gun at 300 thread count bedsheets and stainless steel flatware. Even if my fiancé and I already had such items, we would be encouraged to still register. Because, why not? Why not upgrade? Or why not create a honeymoon registry so people can pay for your vacation? People really want to buy you things when you get married, and they are just itching for that list of items to rifle through. 

Sadly, though, there’s no laser gun for the single girl. No one will stop to think that maybe you need household items for your new apartment. You don’t need a lot of things when it’s just you. And when you move alone, it’s not a big deal. It’s not called an event. It’s called a Saturday.  No one will worry that you don't have the latest appliances or plush towels. Matching sets and high quality items are only deserving of married couples. Single girl, if you want something nice, work hard and buy it yourself. You’re an independent woman.  No one will consider that your salary is stretched because you don’t have the luxury of a double income to face life’s bills each month. So no one will recognize that you could really use a little help or a gift of generosity. And sadly, no one will view your move or your new rental or new job or that graduate degree as cause for real celebration. Sure, they might treat you to a drink or a dinner, but no one’s going to throw the single girl a reception for her milestones. Such public validation for the single girl is rare at best. 

So why is it that we validate marriages and babies with grandiose parties and material objects? Why do we, as a society, so willingly rejoice in areas of life that are oftentimes the result of sheer fate or luck, good timing or good karma? Yet we overlook so many opportunities to celebrate hard work or a person’s more understated markers of success and growth? How it it that we expect our ‘village’ of family, friends, and coworkers to rally together and contribute to our choices—but only certain choices that are deemed worthy of financial support? Oh, a baby stroller is going to be at least $300? Don’t worry, it’s on the registry. We’re actually going to need two carseats. At least one will get taken care of on the registry. I really want that $400 Williams and Sonoma mixer, put it on the registry. For those who don’t or can’t fit in to these prescribed social norms and traditions, why is there not a comparable outpouring of generosity? Of communal support? 

When I was accepted into a prestigious graduate program, no one threw me a party or sent me gifts or checks. I was not celebrated for this life choice, a choice that was the result of years of dedication and good old fashioned hard work. I couldn’t register on Amazon for my textbooks or expect anyone to assemble a wishing well or basket of precious school supplies for me. Nope. Instead, I quietly moved into my dingy apartment on the bad side of town, applied to a gaggle of part-time jobs, and stalked half.com for the best textbook deals. 

Therefore, I shouldn’t really be surprised that I am facing this new life marker in a similar manner—no party, no registry, no big public display of community support. Of course, though, I’m not really lacking in support. Those who love me are proud that I am going after the things I want in my life, that I am taking chances, that I’m being brave enough to do things on my own. Those who love me are ready to help should I ever need something—financial or otherwise. Those who love me are there—just not in the way that they would express this support if I were making more traditional life decisions. 

Ultimately, I don’t feel sorry for myself because I lack a state of the art blender or because I’ve never had a catered event thrown in my honor. And I don’t expect anyone else to feel sorry for me and my single existence or to financially support my choices. I just want to be registered. 

I want to register for acknowledgement—that the things I do are momentous and life changing in their own special, personal ways. They are my version of buying a house or becoming a mother. These things are my big deals and are therefore worthy of celebration.  

I want to register for consideration—that single life isn’t as ideal as some may think. Being on your own can be tough and lonely at times. Don’t always tell me that you’re jealous of my freedom or that my solitude Sunday sounds like a dream vacation. I consider the challenges you face, like your lack of sleep or the small child attached to your breast. Don’t forget that I have challenges too, challenges that are just as important and daunting as yours are to you. 

I want to register for understanding—that regardless of marital status or lifestyle, we all want to feel loved and to feel part of something. When you’re single, your ‘part of something’ is comprised of other people’s couples and families. We are not at the center of anyone’s world, nor anyone’s top priority. Please do your best to make us feel like we matter. Because we have always registered with you. 

Tworking It: A White Girl Zumba Tale

To be honest, one of the most devastating parts of leaving Philadelphia (aside from leaving my hair stylist) has been leaving my fitness studio. As a bit of an addict, my attendance at at least 6 Zumba classes per week defined my single girl life. Some singles run and sign up for marathons to pass the time. I Zumba. Therefore, it was important to me to find a gym in DC that I felt a part of. And I also figured it would be a good way for me to start making new friends. I did some quick googling and found a gym close by that offered a range of classes that were conducive to my work schedule. So off I went this past Saturday morning—by myself because my roommate just can’t get out of bed that early. I chose this first gym in what I expect to be a process like “The Dating Game,” armed with my questions of compatibility. Will the instructor be upbeat and motivational, but not annoyingly motivational? Will she nicely blend Latin beats with recent pop hits? How about toning? Will my butt hurt when it’s over? A sure fire sign of a good Zumba class is always the butt pain the next day. 

When I got to the place, after having some difficulty finding its location in the strip mall, somewhat obstructed by the Home Depot and Post Office, I waited. I was still too early for class and didn’t want to be that girl standing awkwardly in the back, the only person not having someone to talk to. When I finally braved my way into the studio, the woman at the front desk welcomed me... and then made me fill out approximately 18 pages of paper work. Great, now I am going to be late for the class that I was actually 22 minutes early for. By the time I was able to enter the Zumba room, I realized that that the crowd was going to make it difficult at best to secure a spot in the back. I also realized that I was the only white girl in a sea of African American divas and the only one not sporting an awesome headscarf. How embarrassing when you're not aware of the style requirements. Knowing that I was going to be schooled by their rhythm, I wedged into the back corner, hoping that that no one would notice me even through the mirror. But when you’re 5’10 and pale and blonde, your definitely going to stick out in this crowd.

Zakayha, our instructor, made her grand appearance at the front of the room, microphone and all. She immediately asked if there were any new people in the room, instructing the newbies to raise their hands. Of course I was the only one. So I went with it, energetically raising my hand and giving a big smile. After all, I’m a trained dancer (okay, ballet but at least I have coordination and musicality), and I’m a Zumba instructor, though I have more of a Latin Pop style. I can fit it. Zakayha announced to the room that as the newbie, I need to get ready to “shake it.” Shake it? Shake what? I had by far the flattest butt in the room. A wide butt, but a flat butt nontheless. But boy did I try to shake it. Most of the songs in this 60 minute cardio class were hip hop, and I kept up, furiously gyrating everything my mama gave me. When it came time for the Wobble, I sprouted that much more confidence. You see, I can hold my own in the Wobble, as this white girl enjoys a 21st century urban line dance. Beaming with pride, I thought I had actually done my part to close the racial dance gap, to give white girls everywhere some Zumba cred. But then there was the twerking contest. With just 15 minutes left in the class, people were tired and sweaty and needed that extra push. So Zakayha brought out her twerking-inspired number that was sure to work the legs, the butt, the abs, and our courage. We were divided into two lines facing each other, and we were instructed to battle a series of 4 moves to show just how low we could drop it, how fast we could shake it, and how much we could pop it. This is where my whiteness really shone through. As much as I tried, I could not get my butt to pop like that or get my pelvis to do its own thing when I was so low in a squat. I just couldn’t. Is that even humanly possible? The real triumph was not in receiving the band of high 5s from all of the women in my battle line at the end of the contest. It was being able to get up out of my squat when all was said and done. 

And just like that, I had made it through my first DC Zumba class. I was tired, but I wasn’t about to heave, and I didn't make a total fool of myself--for that I was going to rejoice. And I guess Zakayha was going to rejoice too…in the form of her Gospel cool down. For 7 minutes, count em 7, I stretched and breathed and gave praise to the workout gods for my health, my strength, and my official acceptance into the African American Zumba class. 

I am blessed! Now I just need to find a headscarf. 

MY MATCHMAKER DITCHED ME

When my Brazilian co-worker, Maria, asked me last week over lunch to go speed dating with her, I didn’t so much as lift my head from my minestrone soup before I uttered, “Hell no.” I hate dating to begin with, let alone having to endure ten of them in one night. Hell no.  

“But it’s just for fun. We’re not going to be serious about it. Pleaseeeee,” she retorted. Poor Maria. A fellow 30 something single girl, she recently had a baby, and a break up with the baby daddy followed soon after.  It was clear that she was desperate for a night out to reclaim her prior social life. And I guess I was too because I finally said yes. You just can’t say no to a postpartum woman who’s sleep and man deprived. Okay, and I must admit that I am not in the best place to turn down an invitation no matter how undesirable it may seem. I’m in a brand new city and literally know two people here. I’m bored and lonely and eager to make Maria my friend.

Maria said she would organize everything, and that she did. That very moment. I was told to expect an email later that afternoon, an email that would ask me to confirm my details. Within 2 hours, the email came through, and I quickly replied as my students were taking their reading quizzes. When I got home that night, I re-opened the email to check out the date and location for the speed dating event. If was going to partake in such a ridiculous endeavor, I was at least going to make sure I got my dress dry-cleaned ahead of time. But to my horror, I realized I had made a rookie mistake—the mistake I beg my students to correct each day. Always read carefully. Here I had just confirmed my details to have an interview with a MATCHMAKER! 

If this wasn’t speed dating, was it then a sick joke? Maria’s idea of hazing me at my new job? Were other co-workers in on this? As I went along reading more of the fine print and researching the website, I concluded that not only was I an oblivious idiot but also that Maria needed some help with her English. She had mistaken a matchmaking service that specializes in quick, casual lunch blind dates for lunchtime speed dating. Clearly I was going to send that girl back to ESL 1. 

With it being too late in the evening to cancel the matchmaker, I prepared a speech to give her at the start of our phone interview the next morning. My friend, you see, she’s Brazilian and still has difficulties with translating. She accidentally signed me up for the wrong service and then I inadvertently confirmed the email on my phone while I was driving and I know texting while driving is bad, and I’m sorry for this confusion. Have a good day. I rehearsed these lines throughout the night, hoping that the matchmaker would have a sense of humor and let me off the hook easily. She did indeed do just that….

BECAUSE SHE NEVER CALLED! I got ditched by the matchmaker—a matchmaker I didn’t even want in the first place. I wasn’t sure whether to feel a sense of relief or a sense of rejection. It’s bad enough that I can’t find a decent guy to follow through with dating me, but now I can’t even get the professional—the professional whose job it is to take my money in order to find a guy who will follow through with dating me—to not blow me off. I might as well save myself the trouble and just move into my sister’s attic now. (That’s my version of the old woman with cats plan). 

The day passed and still no word from the matchmaker. The weekend passed and still no word. Monday passed and nothing. Out of my sheer need to not feel like such a loser (and maybe because I needed a distraction so I wouldn’t go crazy while sitting in DC traffic) I called the matchmaker this morning. She answered and said that she was literally just about to call me back. Yeah, sure. I was shocked that she skipped the whole ‘let me give you an overview of my services’ or ‘what are you looking for’ chitchat and went straight in for the kill—“Let me ask you a few questions to see if YOU are compatible with my services.” Me? Wasn’t this about finding a compatible man? Why do I have to pass a test in order to have you find me dates? I stiffened up, my body clearing take preemptive offense to the psychological test I was about to fail. I was going to have to avoid being classified as an emotionally deficient or damaged woman, and I was going to have to come up with a good explanation for why I was single or what went wrong all of these years. Maybe it’s best to lie. Maybe I had a long term boyfriend in the Marines who was away for 5 years serving our country, got PTSD,  and wasted my youthful 20s away. Maybe my fiancé disappeared on a cruise ship, like the stories you see on those missing persons shows. Or maybe I was too busy working for the Peace Corp in Bostwana to have a relationship. The possibilities were endless….

But my stories were unnecessary. The matchmaker started with a simple question: “Do you smoke?” 

“Nope!” (insert sigh of relief here). This isn’t so bad. I am clearly going to pass this test.

Question two: “How tall are you?”

“Ummm, 5’10.” The umm followed by an awkward pause wasn’t the result of me not knowing my height or being ashamed of it. It was the anticipation of the next question, the follow up that all tall girls get. 

“Does it bother you to date a shorter man?” 

“Why yes, yes it does.” Okay, I really didn’t give her such an honest blunt answer. Instead, I stuttered my way through the most inarticulate response. 

“Well, ummm I’m 5’10 so height is kinda sorta something I look for, but if he’s like my height but not too skinny then yeah but just not too thin. I don’t want to feel like I’d crush him. But yeah, okay I’d be open.” Open to what? I was even confused the second I heard my response come out of my mouth.

“Why don’t you tell me what size you are? I’m trying to understand you.”

“I’m a size 8” I blurted out in a defensive tone, figuring that this woman thought I was a beast with that ‘don’t want to crush him’ comment. 

“Oh, so you’re skinny. But you just don’t want a smaller, metrosexual build, correct?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Well, let me look through my database and see if you would be a good fit for us. I must be honest—most of the men in my system are about 5’8’ or 5’9’. Now my best friend is 6’2’’ (a girl) and I matched her up with her husband, who is 5’10. But she’s not the type who was bothered by height. In fact, most men aren’t It’s usually the women who don’t like to be taller.”

“I just don’t want to feel like a giant,” I responded in a most dejected tone. I was going to get kicked out of the fancy matchmaker service before I even got in just because I want a man who is taller than me?!?!?! Is that really so much to ask? Is DC a city of horse jockeys?

“I understand, but I need to see if I have any men who match your requirements. I don’t know that you are compatible with our clients. I’ll get back to you.”

Compatible? Me compatible? This woman knows nothing about me other than my height and size, and I’m already a compatibility concern? I didn’t even ask for that much. Just that I didn’t want a short guy. And I didn’t even give her the mental checklist I had planned and stored for the matchmaker, where I expressed my need for a cross between Bradley Cooper and Vince Vaughn, with a dash of Brody Jenner. 

She ended our conversation on the most hopeless of terms, “If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, then assume there you are not the best fit for my service.”

Stay tuned….

Does this outfit make me look like a cougar?

Having a mom who has rotated the same two pairs of pants (seriously, I am not exaggerating) for the past 17 years and considers the height of fashion to be throwing a patterned button down into her collection of 15  solid colored button downs, I never learned to be a fashionista. But my mother did always stress the importance of looking put together. After all, this is the woman whose lips are permanently stained from her signature fuchsia lip color. And this is the woman who has a daughter (my sister) who won’t so much as go to the gas station without a ‘full face,’ the girl who sported fake eyelashes during her c-section so she would look her best in pictures. 

I have to admit that I did not inherit such a heightened concern for my looks. When it comes to makeup, I’m pretty low key, sticking to mascara, concealer and maybe a bit of blush. When it comes to hair, I wash it. Sometimes I dry it. But in reality, I mostly sleep on it wet, throw it into a bun or the latest DIY ponytail concoction I learned on Youtube, and go. And when it comes to my clothes, I stick to the basics. Most people would probably label me preppy. You can usually find me in skinny jeans, riding boots, Oxford shirts, and a cardigan or crew neck sweater, with some variations here and there. I love my pearl earrings and necklace, often rotate between 3-4 key pieces of jewelry (though my jewelry box is full of unused gifts, bargains from Francesca’s that I swear I’ll wear someday, and hand-me-downs from my mom that I just can’t get rid of). Sometimes if I’m feeling ambitious, I’ll even mix in a statement necklace because…well, big girl = big necklace. When you’re 5’10, you have to embrace the few perks of being average male height. 

On the whole, I tend to take fashion and trends in stride. Actually, I tend to stray away from trends, especially if they don’t get along well with my body type. I will only incorporate a trendy piece or two if it’s a) unavoidable b) super cute c) on sale and/or d) makes me look skinny. So, as you can imagine, I’ve always had some difficulty in piecing together ‘going out’ outfits. Most of my clothes are far too preppy for a night out at the bar. And after having built a teacher wardrobe for years, I refuse to wear such items out on the weekend, no matter how versatile they may actually be. I just can’t. My teacher clothes make me feel sexless and old. 

In college, combatting this ‘what to wear when I go out’ problem was pretty easy. I simply threw on my standard pair of boot cut jeans, slipped on my ‘frat’ shoes (the one pair of crappy old black boots I didn’t mind sending into battle with beer, vomit and urine), and wedged into one of my standard ‘boob’ shirts from Old Navy or H&M.  Boob Shirt: a tight top, usually V neck, best used for procuring free beverages and phone numbers. When the weather was nice, I really shook things up and exchanged my jeans for a mini jean skirt. 

But deciding what to wear out post college has been an ongoing conundrum, one that gets more difficult with each passing year. The first problem is that I find there’s a lack of stores that cater to my particular age range. I’ve outgrown (literally and figuratively) former go-to places like Forever 21 for cheap yet cute bar wear, and sadly Express and the like have gotten a bit too tight, a bit too clubby…and okay I’ll just say it, a bit too slutty. So that leaves me with the Loft and the Gap and Banana Republic and JCrew—all great stores that I frequent for my clothing, but clearly they aren’t the leading designers for night life apparel. I’m sure there are many yet undiscovered little boutiques with some great options out there for me, but I’m also pretty sure that I can’t afford them. 

And then there’s always the question of where I’m going. What may start off as a casual night at at a nondescript restaurant/bar may then turn into a quick stop at the Irish Pub to hear a great cover band, and then a jaunt to the young, college-esque bar down the street, followed by a club because it’s 12:30am and I’m in the mood to dance after that last drink. Especially now that I’m living in a major city, I find it challenging to dress for the right type of place because there are so many different options and they’re all within walking distance. Too, no one ever makes set plans, and even when they do, these plans change based on the line to get it, how dead the bar is, and how many drinks we’ve all consumed. So dressing for the unexpected can be difficult, which can be furthered complicated by the winter. I know it’s not sexy to wear my preppy riding boots and a cardigan, but I’m cold, and I’m not about to climb over that snow pile to get into the cab with my suede heels on. 

Problem Three: I’m at an awkward age, and I’m self conscious about it. I’ve finally accepted that I can’t pull off the little outfits that the girls into their early 20s are wearing. And I’ve even accepted that I’m okay with being slightly older. But I don’t want to look older. This means that I can’t try to imitate the fashion of those in their early 20s. I have to try something else, something that is age appropriate yet screams that I’m still young and fun. However, when you try to find this ‘I’m young and sexy, but I know I’m not too young and I’m okay with that’ look, you run the risk of imitating another fashion label—the cougars. You know, those women in their 40s and 50s, the women who are divorced or still single or getting their once a year girl’s night out. You can spot them by their uniform—they’re usually pretty skinny and quite fit, rock a great pair heels with dark wash skinny jeans, a tank top, and a blazer/snug jacket-like looking thing. They have great accessories because they’re in their 40s and can afford the nicer purses and jewelry. Simply put, they look fantastic…and older. The tank top/blazer combo gives it all away. As does any leopard print, leather accents, or a White House Black Market label. So we single ladies in our 30s are stuck somewhere in between. We fear looking like we’re wayyyy too old to be in this place, but we don’t want to look like we’re trying too hard to fit in—or that we haven’t gotten the memo that we graduated from college in the old days…before Twitter. 

So what’s a girl to do? Where’s a girl to go? Is it too much to ask for a store to cater to our age group? All we want is an affordable, yet not cheap-looking option that can fit into the night life. Something that is made for actual women who have curves and bumps and makes us feel and confident and dare I say sexy. Something that lets us blend in and leaves people wondering just how old…err young….we are. There has to be something out there—something in between the micro minis and the leopard blazer. 

If you find it, let me know. 

Third Wheeling Tips for My Coupled Lady Friends

A few tips for those who have third wheels in their lives. Here are some ways you can help your single friends to feel a bit more comfortable when in the presence of your coupledom. 

1. Avoid PDA in front of the single friend. This most important tip might seem obvious, and you might not even think that you believe or engage in PDA, but you all do. Trust me. When he goes to put his arm around you as you all walk to the car, remember that your single friend is strolling right behind you…alone…watching you…feeling like she’s intruding on your date night. 
2. If possible, try to keep your cutesy couple behavior to a minimum. This behavior includes the inside jokes, the looks, the flirting, and the touching that individual couples all cultivate. Don’t get me wrong, these behaviors are adorable and healthy and a sign of wonderful chemistry. But these are the things that make the single feel like the outsider. Even the slight brush of your man’s arm or that little stare he gives you, no matter how subtle you may think it is, can make us feel like we weren't accepted into this secret club. 
3. Make time for girl time. As much as it’s fun to socialize with friends’ guys and as important it is for us to build friendships with your men,  it’s even more important to keep the girl bond. Just because you might want to spend all of your time with your man doesn’t mean we want to. (No offense!).We were friends with you first, and we miss the way it used to be. So please don’t invite your guy to every occasion. Allow for a mani-pedi day, a girl’s only brunch, or a lady’s happy hour sometimes. Or even just meet for coffee or stop by your single friend's place. Oh, but don’t make a big deal out of it by labeling it a specific ‘girl thing’ or only scheduling the ‘girl thing’ for when your man isn’t around. Such a faux pas can make the single lady feel like she’s getting the quality time scraps.
4. While you may be tempted to invite along a man friend to our social outing, a man who just happens to be gainfully employed, cute, and single, who would conveniently round out the 4th seat at the table, and who may be quite compatible with us, don’t! Trying to set up your single friend in this way makes us feel pathetic and pressured. It sends the message that we are best suited for your company if we, too, are in a couple. That we are more socially acceptable when paired. You may not mean this well intentioned gesture in any such way, but inevitably, this is what we the singles immediately internalize.
5. Finally, shut up sometimes, and I mean that in the most loving way. We don’t always need the pep talk after another dating debacle. Nor do we need you to reiterate your thoughts (for the 20th time) on our unhealthy pattern with men. Or to suggest a retreat, that self help book, or the new dating site you saw trending on Facebook last week. We don’t need you to commiserate with stories from your past or to fill us with false hope because you lived happily ever after. You also don’t have to offer to set us up, and you certainly don’t need to assume that we're always feeling sad and lonely because we are single. Being single doesn’t mean that we need to be fixed or that we need to create an action plan. So unless we’re unusually upset or specifically ask for something, all you need to do is listen. And keep the drinks coming. 

And We're Rolling, Rolling on a Third Wheel

When you’re single in your 30s, there is one role you will certainly have to embrace, and embrace often—the third wheel.

You will have those nights where your girlfriend’s significant other plays ‘big brother’ to you. He’ll buy you drinks, alternate dancing with you and his own woman, and make sure you get home safely. Both you and your friend will adore this man for caring about you so much. 

You will have those nights where you are invited to your friends’ houses. You’ll be good buds with your bestie’s boyfriend or husband, and you’ll have a great time. They’ll make you a real meal, pour you a glass of wine…or many glasses, beg for stories of the exciting single life, and make suggestions about the next guy you should pursue. Sometimes these events take place over brunch. Usually small children are involved. 

You will have those events where you’ll be in a large group of your coupled friends. There will be a perfect symmetry—4 wives, 4 husbands. But then there’s you. No one will care that you’re throwing off this symmetry. They love you and are happy to have you there. But your added chair will obstruct the waitress. And your lack of a date will make your friends give you a sad look, which reads, “We just wish you had a nice guy to be by your side.” And as they discuss plans for remodeling the kitchen or that couple’s cruise, your different stages of life will make you feel like the stranger at the table. 

Finally, you’ll have those afternoons where you sit in the corner of your friend’s living room pretending to smile at all of the small children wandering about. It’s their kid’s birthday or baptism or whatever, and not only are you down a significant other, but now you’re also void of a baby. You’ll overcompensate by exaggerating, “Awww, so cute” with a weird smile, fighting off your own discomfort and awkward presence. You’ll overhear the mommies discussing teething remedies and naughty corners and breastfeeding. With no interest in or ability to engage in such conversations, you’ll continue your attempt to look child-friendly, engaged, and thrilled to be spending your Saturday afternoon here. Deep down, you’ll truly feel honored that you were the only single invited, you’ll be happy to be a part of the kid’s life and will wish to be the best ‘aunt’ possible. And yet, you’ll feel painfully out of place. 

Let’s face it, being the third wheel can be difficult at best. You’ll constantly debate your presence when extended such invitations. You’ll want to to spend time with your friend because her time has become precious. You’ll want to get to know her man because it’s important to her, and thereby you, and you’ll want him to feel like your family too. You’ll want to show up because it’s nice that they still make the effort to include you, and you need to prove to them that the singles and the couples don’t really exist on different planets…or social scenes. And you’ll want to be a part of the kids’ lives, whether you like children or not, because they are a  part of your friend…and now you. Most importantly, though, you’ll want to show up because these people have your past, and you want them to be a part of your present and future too.

But you’ll also fight not to RSVP no. You’ll want to avoid those desperate attempts to set you up with the husband’s stray single co-worker or newly divorced friend from high school. You’ll want to forego the awkward moment when all of the couples get up to slow dance, and you sit alone, fidgeting with your phone until you can slink off to the nearest restroom or bar line. You’ll want to dodge all the grown-up conversations that you can’t contribute to, the conversations that make you feel like you’re 15 again, listening to your parents and their friends talk. You’ll wish for the time when you could just hang out with the girls, when it didn’t have to be a special occasion, when you didn’t feel like you needed a plus one just to fit in with your friends. And finally, you’ll want to avoid the looks, the looks that, despite everyone’s best efforts, reveal the disconnect. 

You see, you can’t fully understand their lives and their priorities, and they can’t understand yours. Your friends will wonder why you don’t try harder or go after different types of men. They’ll simultaneously envy your life, with your ability to make plans without consulting someone else first or spending your Sunday with a yoga class, a latte, and a Real Housewives marathon. But they’ll also pity you. They’ll worry about you being alone and feeling alone…and they’ll keep wishing for you to find someone. In the meantime, they’ll keep you close and try their best to make you still feel a part of it all. You’ll think it’s sweet and endearing but sometimes frustrating, and you’ll try your best to stay a part of it all too. 

….And so love and friendship and loyalty keep the third wheel rolling.  

And Guest?

When I was 25 and single and the first round of college friends were getting married, I was never given a plus one on my invitations. Not to the slew of regional weddings (okay, it’s going to be like a college reunion. We’ll all sit together as singles and drink and dance and be ‘those girls.’) Not to the Labor Day Weekend 5 hour drive through a hurricane wedding. (You just finished school and are on a tight budget and have a big family. I get it). And not even to the destination wedding in Puerto Rico (it’s a small, intimate affair and yes, I am honored that I am one of the 30 invited guests).  These slights never seemed to bother me. After all, I understood the careful budgeting, the complicated demands on guest lists, and most importantly, the possibility of meeting the groom’s hot single guy friends when one attends a wedding plus no one.

So I would throw on my standard tight black cocktail dress, calculate the number of drinks that must be consumed in order to make up for the money I spent on the travel, the hotel, the gift, and proceed to spend the entire night on the dance floor with a bottomless glass of vodka cranberry in my hand.

I never felt lonely at these events. I was knee deep in graduate school, pursuing my dream of becoming an English professor and esteemed writer. On school breaks, I was teaching and traveling in Europe, riding out those precious final backpacking/hostel years. Boyfriends and weddings and mortgages would only distract me from my lofty plans and destroy the amazing life I had. While my friends were settling into careers and sitting in offices all day, I still had spring breaks, “study” abroad, and three day weekends. I constantly came across new people at school and throughout Europe on my travels, routinely got hit on by the college students I was teaching, ensuring my youth status continued, and casually hung out with/dated the men I encountered through friends and in bars. Life was full. And life was so much more fun than those with who rsvp for two.

By my late 20s, another round of friends began the marriage process--those who had finally finished graduate school, finally had saved up for that house, or finally settled in the same city with their significant other.  I worried that now that we were officially ‘adults’ who were all pushing thirty, I would be invited with a plus one...and I didn’t have a plus one to bring. Ever the late bloomer, I still approached dating with a college-like mentality, which meant that I never really dated and certainly never went after a guy who wanted a real relationship. Peter Pan is the epitome of sexy, right? Too, guy friends were becoming scarce--I lost them to relocations, jealous girlfriends and wives, and the general state of tired that sets as we grow older. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, my invitations did not extend to include the elusive plus one. At 29, I was relegated to the kid’s/2nd cousins table at wedding. No, not even the single’s table. Because when you and all of your friends are pushing thirty, the singleton is a rare species. A species that is all too apparent and exposed at such functions.

Did I feel bad about my plus no one status in my late 20s? Indeed I did. Not because I was dreaming of my own wedding colors and reception location and certainly not because I wanted a platinum setting of my own. Rather, I just wanted someone to deflect from the awkward and sometimes offensive questions that are imposed about singletons--questions and comments that are so much more frequent at public events, like weddings. “Why aren’t you married yet?” “You’re such a beautiful girl. I just don’t understand.” “Maybe it’s time to settle down and get serious about dating.” “Why don’t you try online dating?” I hated having to justify why I didn’t have a plus one.  I hated the pressure to appease everyone else and make them feel comfortable with my plus no one status by crafting a rehearsed, logical explanation. I hated the very clear distinction that I was the 9th person at the table and there were no single friends left with whom to share a hotel room or a group gift.

Now at 32, my attendance at weddings has been largely replaced by RSVPs for themed baby showers. While there are still occasional weddings, they are mostly those belonging to younger cousins and 2nd go -rounds for slightly older divorced friends. And when the stray first- wedding friend invites me to their event, I am filled with hope that this long-term singleton understands the plight of the plus no one and will commiserate with a simple and sincere ‘and guest’ on my envelope. Sadly, my hopes have been consistently dashed in my 30s. Family weddings still use the ‘You’re only invited with a guest if you’ve been dating them for over a year’ rule, even though I am one of the youngest grandchildren in the large brood and one of the few singles left. So that means I am insultingly alone at ‘little’ cousins’ joyous days. And even more recently, I braved a 6 hour solitary drive to upstate New York for my cool, former single girlfriend’s romantic winery wedding weekend. Staying in a somewhat seedy ‘Comfort Inn’ in a podunk town (because I couldn’t afford the fancy rooms at the winery), I sat alone in my bed each night with a glass of $7 white wine and a bag of peanuts watching old Lifetime movies on Youtube.  Each morning, I ventured to the McDonald’s or the convenient store to find myself a makeshift breakfast. When it came time for the actual wedding, the 11th seat placed just for me at the already overcrowded table screamed of the lingering ‘where do we put the single one’ dilemma. I spent the reception scouring the room for any signs of a single man...divorced, balding, unemployed, whatever. But all I found was a cute old man who was itching for a swing dance spin on the dance floor while his supportive, yet feeble wife looked on, clapping offbeat to the outdated tunes. I ended up in the back of the picturesque building with a drunk uncle who was challenging me to a push-ups contest. I won! And I didn’t get any grass stains on my dress.

When I went to leave New York at 4:30am on a Sunday, after this painfully single weekend, I discovered that a strange light had made its appearance on the dashboard of my car. With no significant other, no guy friend, brother, or dad to help, I prayed to the baby Jesus that the light wasn’t a sign of something serious and that I could make it home before my car was sure to blow up. It was then that I resolved to start a new life. I was going to stop being so self conscious, so aware of my loneliness, so uncomfortable with being single. I was going to embrace my plus no one. Oh, and I was going to learn about my dashboard lights...and a bit of car safety.

So now I find myself in a brand new city with a brand new job. In late August, I left Philadelphia, the site of my friends, family, and entire life, and moved just a few hours south to DC--a move no one in my close knit family is ever supposed to make. I swapped my exhausting teaching job for a newer, less exhausting but still non prestigious teaching appointment. I moved into an overpriced 2 bedroom apartment with a cute 20 something girl and her frequently visiting boyfriend. Knowing only 2 or 3 people in the area, I am learning how to navigate the world of making new friends in the grown up world, dating in a city that has been described as “touuuughhhhh,” and cultivating my domestic diva skills.

These are my stories.