Attention Huntresses and Single Girls Alike

I have startling news to report – at least it was startling to me: If you are really looking for a guy, you should be going out to bars alone.

If you are anything like I was, you get a girlfriend (not a group of girlfriends because that is just crazy) put on your cutest outfit, sit at a bar and laugh and share stories and smile and wait for the guys to start buying you drinks. After all, what guy wouldn’t want to buy someone as smart and pretty and funny as you are a drink.

And of course they know all of this, because they can see how pretty you are and how funny and interesting your friend finds you.

But here’s the thing. He isn’t likely to think any of that. No, according to my source, instead if he finds you attractive, he is only thinking about how he doesn’t want to interrupt all the fun you and your friend are having.

So, the next time you are in the mood to make-out with a boy, head to the bar by yourself. You won’t look like a desperate drunk (as I always feared) but instead will seem like someone that is open to meeting new people.

Happy hunting.

The Huntress

After a couple nights out and a few rounds of IM with some friends, I realized (or I was told) I didn’t fully explain why my quest for a boyfriend kept me from blogging.

As plain as I can put it: looking for a boyfriend left me feeling terrible about myself. And all that self-loathing paralyzed me from doing much of anything else – particularly writing. After all it is hard to believe you have any skills or talent when you keep telling yourself that you are a terrible, awful, human being.

Okay, I never said those words, but I may as well have. Looking back on it – this past year or so’s quest for a boyfriend was one of the most self-destructive things I have ever done.
Some of you may be guffawing. “Really, Tati. The most self-destructive thing you have ever done?”

Well, yeah. I’m not a cutter. I don’t have an eating disorder. And besides smoking (not any more) and drinking -- I don’t have any real vices (shoes don’t count).

Plus, think about the whole dating thing:

You meet a guy (or a girl) (either in a bar, or a coffeeshop, or a bar, or in line at the grocery store). You talk. You flirt. You exchange numbers. Maybe you make out (if you are drunk at a bar – not recommend if you are in line at a grocery store). Then you wait for him or her to call.

And you wait.

And then you call your friends who tell you to keep waiting.

So you wait some more.

Then your friends call you back to see if there is any word.

Maybe you cry a little at this point.

Finally, you stop waiting (but not crying) and you start wondering. Why didn’t he call? Was it something you said? Did your breath taste funny? Did you use too much tongue? As you walked away did he see your ass and think “whoa” and not in a good way?

It’s funny. It rarely crosses your mind that he may have lost his cell phone or been in a terrible accident and is now in a coma? (All my years of dating, when a guy called, no friend ever suggested I call around to area hospitals to check if he was admitted) Or is simply a jerk that didn’t call.

For some, this wondering lasts an afternoon. Maybe a weekend if she really liked him. For them, however, it doesn’t compound in their heads’ the way it does for those like me. For simplicity sake, I have decided to break these two groups of women up into Single Ladies and Huntresses.
Single ladies, like my friend Marie, can online date, and get fixed up, and go to mixers, and go to bars and never show the wear and tear because there isn’t any. At no time does she give the rejections any more value than they deserve.

For the huntress, however, dating is a game. A game she can’t lose. And when she does – when a guy doesn’t call or doesn’t show interest – all she does is think about what she did wrong. She analyzes game tape, makes changes to the roster, buys new uniforms, script new plays, and goes at it again.

The more she loses, the more work that needs to get done; the less time she has for anything else – if she wanted to do anything else. If she is like me – she just wants to win again, because she is not used to being a loser.

So this is why I couldn’t write. I didn’t have the time and towards the end I didn't have the belief in myself that I could. This is also why I can’t date anymore. I’m a huntress that has been clean now for almost a month and I don’t want to go back.

I’m Saving Myself for Ryan Gosling

Now before you get your knickers in a twist: No. I haven’t already given up on my Single-4-Life lifestyle. I’ve been at that a couple of weeks now, and I have to say it has been refreshing. I have finished reading a couple of books, got a lot of work done on rewriting the first novel, and even finally finished knitting a cowl I started in August.

One thing that has been troubling me is how to explain it to people when they ask if I there are any men in my life.

With my close friends it was easy. I told them, they listened, some expressed sympathy for not knowing how crazy I was making myself, all were happy for me, and all implied in some way or another that, you know if, in the meantime, I did meet someone that would be wonderful too.

Which is fine for them to say, but really not what I want to hear.

When I tell others, this last bit is what they really seem to harp on. For example, when I answered a former colleague one night when we were out for drinks that I was taking myself out of the game so I can focus on my work, she responded “be careful. When people say that, the shit really hits the fan and they find themselves married and pregnant, living in the suburbs.”

I smiled. “No, no. No shit. No fan. Nothing of that sort will happen.”

So I had to come up with some other answer to this question that wasn’t a lie, but didn’t leave room for debate (or sympathy).

And then I came across a link to the tumbler account Feminist Ryan Gosling.

Now, It’s not really him, obviously. But it is hysterical and I love it. I love it so much I have decided that the only way I will give up my awesome single life is for (feminist) Ryan Gosling. So, now when people ask I simply explain that I am saving myself for the Gos (he likes itwhen I call him that).

It’s brilliant. People aren’t sure what to make of it. They either laugh because they think I am joking, blink rapidly and walk away because they think I’m crazy or they get all high-and-mighty and ask, “Really? And how are you going to meet Ryan Gosling.”

To which I have the ready response, “When my novel is published, it will become so popular someone will want to make it a movie. R.G. is the perfect person for the male lead, and after reading the script, he will want to read the novel, and after reading the novel he will insist on meeting the cleaver woman that could pen such wit and insight.”

It’s Not Giving Up: Wherein I Attempt to Explain Why I Haven’t Blogged in So Many Months While Simultaneously Avoiding the Topic Altogether

I apologize in advance at the jumping around this post will do. But to tell this story, I am going to have to go all Tarantino on you folks. And because it is so long, I am going to break it up in two volumes.

A couple of weeks ago, on a deck in the middle of nowhere, the Duke (the Duchess’s beau) was asking me (as he always does) if there were any men in my life. I smiled and shook my head. After the typical notes of disbelief, the Duke then starts telling me about his cousin. I stopped listening until Bridie came out onto the deck and asked, “Are you really trying to set her up with a 50 year old that still lives at home with his parents?”

The Duke shrugged his shoulders innocently. The Duchess pointed out that the 50 year old is a really nice guy. I just laughed.

While, laughter was my normal go to response in these sort of situations, it was then followed my hours of self-doubt, wondering what it says about me that my friends want to set me up with a 50 year old guy that still lives in the suburbs with his parents. Followed by more doubts about whether there is anyone good left. That inevitably led to the plummet of desperation and sadness that I was never going to meet anyone and I would be alone forever which only ever led to the inexplicable resolve to move out of Philadelphia because life would be better in New York City, or Chicago, or Washington, D.C., or San Francisco.

But this time I just laughed and meant it.

See, a couple of weeks before that, on another deck just north of nowhere, I was sitting with my father. He was smoking a cigar, drinking a beer. I was drinking a beer, craving a cigarette. We were both silent, trying to think of something to talk about.

After several failed attempts to engage me in a political debate, he finally asked, “So, is there anything else going on in your life?”

I shrugged my shoulder. “Not really?”

“Any guys?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

Then my father shocked me. Instead of retreating back into silence he continued “I know you have really high standards, kid. But do me a favor, don’t wait until I’m dead to introduce me to the guy you finally fall in love with. Because I swear, if the first time I meet your boyfriend is at my funeral, I will haunt your honeymoon.”

What a lovely thought.

I attempt to assure my father that my intention is not to wait until he is dead and that I really am trying to find someone. As I say it out loud the truth of it hits me. Recently I have become consumed with meeting someone. I've told friends that I was open to meeting any single guys they know. I never left my apartment without make-up, even when I was leaving to ride my bike for 80 miles. I went on dates with other single girls so that I would have single girlfriends with whom I could go out and meet guys, I hopefully bought pretty underwear, and I agonized over what to wear to the gym. My every free thought is focused on what I can do next to find a boyfriend, which is exactly what I am about to say to him when I taste the bile in my mouth.

I force a smile and instead, off my father the platitudes I typically give him, ending with “Daddy, I am trying, but you know it is hard to find someone good enough for your little princess.”

It’s tough for a father to argue with that sort of logic. But while that answer was enough for my dad, it wasn’t enough for me.

To be continued Monday.