#yesimstillsingle

[levitrent]

Relationship Goals: Someone who won’t dare question my snack-food curiosity and will realize that $1.50 is well worth whatever may be waiting inside these boxes. #iboughtthemofcourse #garlicpowderandblackpepperlistedasingredients #chickenandwaffles #yesimstillsingle https://www.instagram.com/p/BvsioOXB_Wt/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=afrtpv895q41

[infoodwetrustnyc]

Mission: A promising OkCupid Date. Venue: @breadsbakery's new Lincoln Center location (@urischeft's big fan, here!) Verdict: I will definitely have a 2nd date with...Concord. #concordcake #fortwo #yesimstillsingle #seriousinquiriesonly (at Breads Bakery)

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

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

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

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

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

Two reasons.

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

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

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Vent Session

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

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

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

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

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

YOU DOUCHEBAGS ARE THE REASON WHY I AM FUCKING SINGLE. 

Sorry, deep breath. 

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Tinder Rant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Bumble Date #2

Who: The Mumbler

Where: Barrel

What: Drinks and chit-chat

Another first and last date has come and gone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

...what?!

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

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

[yesimstillsingle-blog]

Bitch Face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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