#wheretonotmeetmen

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

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

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

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

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

Two reasons.

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

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

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

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

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

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

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

The Gym.

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

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

Oh wait, I did. And he was a dick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

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

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

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

First up, Sweetgreen.

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

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

But, no. No salad soulmate for me.

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

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

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

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

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