The Dating Chronicles Part Two: Mumbai, Dubai

Mumbai, Dubai 

I had been seeing this guy for a record breaking two months. He was tall with stormy blue eyes and honey blonde hair. Devilishly attractive yet painfully shy. Unlike me, he calculated every thought before speaking and only let his mouth run with tentative abandon after a few beers. No matter how hard I tried, I always found myself holding the talking stick. I swung it around as I spoke with gusto, while he sat there, silently judging my every word. Each encounter was a combination of quite frustration and sexy mystery that always left me confused.
One night, we met up for drinks after work. I made my way to the dive bar on South Broadway and found a seat at the back of the bar. After a few minutes, he sauntered in and ordered us some drinks. He had just moved out to Denver a few months ago and was surfing the wave of unemployment while calling his brother's couch home. We talked job opportunities and Craigslist roommates as we drained a few rounds of beer.
The beers chiseled away at his inhibition while my frustration melted away with my common sense. Devilishly attractive yet painfully shy took the stage with a confidence that's only found at the bottom of an empty cup. He held the talking stick with an appetite I rarely saw, talking about where he'd traveled and where he dreamed of going. Eventually his mouth ran dry, prompting him to ask me where I wanted to travel to next. I had just finished reading Behind the Beautiful Forevers, a non-fiction book about the slum of Mumbai, which led me to answer, India. While he fantasized about gondola rides and barrels of aged wine, I painted a picture wrought with economic disparity and slum lords. Given the opportunity, I'd travel almost anywhere in the world. It just so happened that India topped my list that particular night. I did not intend to sound "holier-than thou," but Devilishly Attractive Yet Painfully Shy interpreted my answer with blatant moral superiority.  He looked at me like I was a fraud. Here I was sitting across from him in heels and a new dress from Nordstrom talking about visiting India's slums. In hopes of revealing some twisted truth, he asked, "can you even name one city in India?" Without thinking, I confidently answered, "Dubai." He looked at me with those pretty blue eyes and said, "would you like to stick with that answer, sweetheart?" I nodded, unsure of my mistake. Before I had the chance to think about correcting myself, he shouted, "Mumbai! Dubai is part of the UAE... The United Arab Emirates" as if I didn't know such a place existed. Mortified by my mistake and insulted by the demeaning way he had corrected me, my embarrassment quickly turned to anger. Mumbai...Dubai...tomato....potato, it's a mistake anyone could have made after a few beers. As a woman who prides herself on intelligence, I decided to hail the waiter and close out our tab. I was embarrassed but more importantly, angry by the fact that he had made me feel so small.

The Dating Chronicles: The Hand Thief

I've been on a lot of dates recently. I'm not saying this out of an inflated ego and excessive self pride. I say this because majority of the dates I go on are nothing to brag about. Yes, I've met a handful of great guys, but majority of the dates I go on are awkward and head nowhere. As a self-deprecating writer, I've decided to start a series called The Dating Chronicles. A tribute to failed dates and the woes of 20 something single-dom.

 The Hand Thief

A few minutes early, I settle into a small booth at the front of the bar. I take in my surroundings, scanning the dimly lit Art Deco room. A waitress approaches me with a menu and I order a gimlet. A few sips in he arrives, greeting me with a nervous smile that makes his eyes go small. He's tall with dark straight hair and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Taking the seat across from me, I ask him about his day. He orders a whiskey and leans back in his seat. We talk alma maters, mountains, and Malcolm Gladwell books. Places we've been, things we've seen, and adventures we've had. His nerves disappear with the whisky. Clinking the bare ice cubes in his glass, he orders a round of IPAs for the two of us. I hate IPAs, but it's easier not to say anything.
I slowly sip the bitter beer and forget to listen as he talks about his recent move to Denver. Instead, I sift through pros and cons I've unconsciously made about him. Making my way back to reality, I find myself in a conversation about skiing. I smile and nod like I'd been listening the whole time. Somewhere within the past hour, I've decided that this isn't going anywhere.
He polishes off his beer and orders another. My stomach starts to churn with hunger and I suggest we grab a slice of pizza a few blocks away. The optimistic part of me asks him to dinner in hopes of finding a redeeming quality that will reverse the decision I've made. The selfish half of me asks him to dinner out of the desperate desire for company. We split the bill in half, and make our way out the door.
A few strides into our walk, he reaches for my hand. His rough fingers wrap around each of mine, his thumb strokes the back of my hand. My fingers stay imprisoned between his, paralyzed by shock. In the short 23 years I've lived on this earth, the act of hand holding is strictly reserved for circumstance and people that are far and few. My hands are chaste territory, not meant for holding on the first date.
Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I wrack my brain for an easy escape. I spot Union Station at the end of the street and use my hostage hand to point at it with enthusiasm. "See, that right there? That's Union Station. It just opened up to the public this week after having been renovated." Uninterested he says, "cool" and snakes his hand back into mine.
This time, I don't play nice. I shake my hand out of his and walk with my arm in front of me, Hitler style. Realizing my horrible gesture, I lower my arm back down to my side just in time for him to smuggle my hand back into his. I debate making a run for it but decide that my hunger is top priority.
We reach the pizza joint where I order for the two of us without even looking at the menu, giving him a taste of his own IPA medicine. I get up to go to the "bathroom" and follow our server into the back. I look at him with desperation, asking him to please makes these pizzas fast. When I return, Happy Hands reaches across the table for mine. So much of me wanted to look him in the eye and explain how weird his hand holding was, but I didn't want to embarrass him with the truth.
By the grace of God, the pizzas come out in record time, forcing the hand holding to come to an end. I give the server my card and dinner is finished in record time. I hail a cab the second we walk out the door and bid the hand thief a good night.

Wanting What We Can't Have

Why is it that we always want what we can't have? We want straight hair when our hair is curly, and curly hair when our hair is straight. We impatiently wait for Fall throughout Summer, and Summer throughout Spring. Why is it that Oreos, breadsticks and fries dipped in ranch only tempt us once the diet begins? We yearn for the car we can't afford, the dress that doesn't fit, and the lover that doesn't care. We crave the thrill of travel, but miss the warmth of our own bed. We are swept up by the predictably unpredictable and continue to try and tame the untamable.

It takes a few heartbreaks, over drafting fees, and one too many Oreos for us to learn that the pain is self inflicted. It's one of life's most difficult lessons, appreciating the things we are so blessed to have, while ceasing to chase after the things that set us back. So the next time you find yourself pining after the man with "trouble" tattooed across his face, step back and really think. In the wise words of Cheryl Strayed, chances are, "he is like a motorcycle with no one on it. Beautiful. Going nowhere."

My Not So Sex In The City Life - Advice On Life

As a post-graduate, it’s easy to spend a lot of time dwelling on everything we’re not.

We leave college with lofty ideas about what our futures will hold, only to find that many of those dreams won’t actually come true (at least not immediately). I anticipated a life similar to that of Carrie Bradshaw.  I imagined living in a small city apartment among a few pairs of killer Manolo Blahniks, working my dream job. I envisioned brunches and lunches with friends, cosmopolitans, and a boyfriend who looked more like prince Harry than Big. If your expectations were particularly outrageous like mine, then the “real world” has begun to look a little dim. In the real world, my swanky city apartment is my parents house, I wouldn’t know what my dream job looked like if it hit me square in the face, Target brand shoes are more my speed, and I actually hate cosmopolitans. My life looks less like Carrie’s and more like the not so funny comedy that airs before the popular sitcom.

That being said, I have two options. I can either a) dwell on the fact that I’m no Carrie Bradshaw or b) re-evaluate my expectations. Since I’m a genuinely happy person I’ve decided to go with plan b and dedicate the next few months to riding out whatever wave comes my way. If you’ve found yourself in a similar situation, bellow are a few tips from a friend who has already weathered the 20-something storm. There may not be Manolo’s at the end of the tunnel, but at least there is light…

Advice from a 30-something to a 20-something:

1.     Take risks rather than choosing what is safe.

2.     Learn to love and respect yourself.

3.     Remain thirsty for knowledge.

4.     Take life less seriously – work only as much as you need.

5.     Remove the things you tolerate and get clear on what matters to you most.

6.     Don’t be afraid to be a little selfish.

7.     Meet new people, branch out from what and whom you already know.

8.     Don’t be afraid of looking dumb, it just doesn’t matter.

9.    Life is short, remember to have fun.

10. Always let the important people know how much they mean to you.

My Quarter Life Crisis- The Trials and Tribulations of a 20-Something

Photo Credit (http://the20somethingcondition.tumblr.com/)

Let me begin by saying, I think I’m having a quarter life crisis – 

Everyone idealizes their 20’s. Our parents reminisce over those “wonder years” with sheer fondness, and teenagers can’t wait to transcend their teens and land in their magnificent 20’s. Yes, every decade has its ups and downs, but I’m finding my 20’s to be specifically difficult to navigate. I’m not the first person to think this. I just recently watched Meg Jay’s TedTalk and finished the book, Girls in White Dresses, and sociologists have done loads of research on what they call “the changing timetable for adulthood.” My mom’s friends, family members, and others ask me about my 20’s as if I’m living out some fairytale, but let me tell you, I’m no Cinderella. I am beyond grateful for my college education, and my parent’s ability to support me during this confusing time, and, yes, it’s great to be young, my skin still has its elasticity, and none of my body parts have migrated south, BUT…

Photo Credit: (http://foreveruntiltheend.com/2012/03/going-nowhere-3/)

20-Something Isn't So Glamorous:

1.     We all pretend to have our life together but 99.9% of the time we have no idea what we are doing.
2.     The majority of all job postings require at least three years experience – it’s lucky if I have three months worth of experience in anything I set out to do.
3.     In college, classes like the “Science of Beer,” “Herbalisim,” and “How Hip Hop Happens” were among the most popular courses. Alternatively, courses on how to be a grown up - “APR 101,” “How to Land a Job, Not Another Unpaid Internship,” or “Why Long Credit History is Essential”- would have been helpful. 
4.     My e-mail is never empty. It isn’t Facebook updates validating my popularity; it’s my mom’s daily heap of job postings (majority of which list three years experience as the principal requirement.)
5.  I have become chronically indecisive. One morning I wake up wanting to change and travel the world, knowing that this is my one and only life to live. Five minutes pass, and I’ve now decided I need to start my life; I need to become a “real adult” with 9-5 responsibility and a stable paycheck. Lunch rolls around and I’m hungry, next thing you know, I’m moving to Italy to become a chef…
6.     You are forced to join Meet Up because meeting people in your 20-somethings is near impossible. I eagerly joined a ladies book club only to find that they meet after Lamaze class on Wednesdays…
7.     The two most popular conversation topics are, “what are you doing with your life?” and “what are your plans are for the future?” These questions are commonly asked by people going on to attend med school or have just landed some glamorous job gallivanting around the world. I’m more than happy to discuss my current internship, but my future remains embarrassingly vague. To avoid humiliation I am forced to either (a) embellish the truth (b) mumble something and quickly change the subject or (c) hide, run, or pretend like I don’t recognize that old friend waving at me from across the street who just got accepted to law school. 
8.   Although you are more than happy for your successful friends, you can’t squash that little bit of bubbling envy. The majority of your 20-something friends are floundering in the same sea of confusion, however, a select few have clung onto that rare piece of driftwood for dear life. Neither law nor medicine have ever been subjects of interest, but as I pathetically bob and gasp for air, I secretly envy/loath those friends drifting down a path going anywhere but here.
9.     Just because college ended, doesn’t mean the party stopped. If you know me at all, then you know I have an 80-year-old soul. I like to go to sleep early and wake up early. If I’m feeling extra frisky, a few drinks at happy hour beats any club or late-night bar scene. Over the past three months of post-grad life I’ve learned it isn’t yet acceptable to fully relinquish your college partying ways until you’ve settled down and joining the Lamaze book club is actually a viable option. When 20-somethings think about their future, they want to be able to reminisce about their “crazy youth” as they sit at home frustrated and tired as they burp the newborn baby. I’m no where near wanting to settle down, but I much prefer a glass of wine and an early night in over feeling the effects of a hangover. Is that such a crime?
10. Songs start to make serious sense. Queen’s Under Pressure has never rung so true.  Brittany Spears hit the nail on the head with Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman - we contemplate life when someone calls us “mam”, but want to punch the bartender when he asks us for our ID. Jimmy Cliff speaks to us 20-something as we are all Sitting Here In Limbo.
11.  Up until recent, our lives have been more or less mapped out for us via school-time milestones. We have always had a vague idea of what came next whether it be middle school, high school, or college. Things like where we would attend school, what groups we would be a part of, and what classes we would take were always uncertain, but at least there were always traces of solid stepping-stones. Now that college has ended, those guiding milestones have disappeared. We are forced to find a path to success in a timeless, milestone-less abyss where the options are endless. As idealistic as unbounded opportunity may sound to the “got-it-together 30-somethings” and beyond, just remember the last time you stood dumbfounded at Baskin-Robbins trying to choose a single flavor out of the 31 original flavors...