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.

Dear Grandma,

Over a glass of red wine and spinach artichoke dip, my grandma wished me a happy twenty third birthday. "You know, I got married at twenty three" she said as her chip broke with the weight of the dip. It was her canny way of suggesting that it's time my father trade me for some goats. Of course I took her comment with a grain of salt, our worlds are drastically different, but I know I'm not the first twenty-something to feel relationship pressure.

Between our relationship diet of Cosmopolitan articles, Text-Roulette, Facebook, and Tinder, I'm not quite sure how anyone finds someone worthy of their family goats. As I watch my grandmother dig out the other half of her lost chip, I decided to let her comment roll off my back because our worlds are too far apart.

Instead, I've decided to give her some insight, insight into the modern dating world. The world that seems to prefer perfection over authenticity. The one that makes you drop your hand because your worried about sweaty palms. The world that relies on self help dating books and dumbing yourself down.

So grandma, modern dating goes a little something like this:

I just got your text, it's 9:05. I read it three times, wracking my brain for a witty response. 9:12 rolls around and I settle on something flirty. I press Send, letting my phone fall where it may. We all do it; we put on a little show for ourselves to prove that we are not attached to the person on the other end. While I wait for your response, I begin flipping through your Facebook photos. It isn't until I reach picture 310, that endearing photo of your awful hair cut from 2007, that you finally respond with a single word. Something to the effect of "ok" or "ya..."

Modern dating is like a staring contest. You see, we had a few beers at a bar that smelled like moldy carpets and tobacco. You laughed at my jokes and kissed me under a street lamp at the end of the night. The next day, you invited me to play tennis but when i went in for a kiss you pulled away. You text me something coy and I haven't a clue. Each of us are waiting for the other person to blink, or simply ask what's going on.

You tell your friends what happened with high hopes that they can crack the code. Instead, they tell you that you broke rule number 67 of 500,000; your not playing "Hard To Get."

So grandma, do you understand why I haven't been traded for goats? I have sweaty palms and I'm not afraid to admit that I think that I am smart. I dance off rhythm and sometimes, i'll admit I even fart. So grandma, until that person who loves me for every inch of me, I won't get married at twenty three.

The 4 Things I've learned About Men Via Tinder

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I'm slightly hooked on Tinder. It's not because I'm seeking out a one night fling, nor am I'm convinced that I'll meet Mr. Right. I'm hooked on Tinder because of the excitement that lies in the thrill of the game. Getting a match is an exhilarating confidence booster that hooks you on your first swipe. Your ego wonders just how many more will swipe right, and thus your addiction to Tinder begins...
Through this sick fixation of mine, I feel as though I've peeked inside the male mind. I've learned what men think women like, what men enjoy, and a few thing about men in general...

1. I've learned that catching a fish is a monumental male milestone. Whether you've caught yourself a 200 pound Marlin or a sickly baby carp, this defining moment of your manhood warrants a photo. I'll call you Ishmael or maybe Captain Ahab.

2. I've learned that men have great self esteem. A vast majority of you have at least one photo of your shirtless upper body. I'm pretty happy with what I've got, but there is no way a photo of me in a bikini will grace the likes of Tinder.  

3. Due to the mass amounts of photos of men waxing their cars, adjusting the sails, or modeling with their favorite vehicles, I'm led to believe that men love all modes of transportation.

4. I've learned that men use adventure and bravery to get right swipes. Wether your skydiving, bungee jumping, or doing backflips on skis, you've made sure to post a photo of your gallantry. Nothing says suitable suitor like the rush of adrenaline.     

The Men I'd Never Date

Dating in the real world can be a bit cumbersome. As twenty-somethings we are expected to launch our careers, establish some sort of financial stability, and somehow find a decent man. My sweet mother has grown increasingly concerned about my less than exciting love life and is more than bewildered by the fact that I don't have a long line of suitors waiting for me at my door. But unlike the stone-age era our parents grew up in, men no longer drag women off to their cave and call it a day. The 21st century dating scene is far more complex since women have a choice. My mother constantly reminds me not to be too picky, but my life is far from a fairy tale and I'm not about to kiss any frogs with the hopes that one will turn into a prince....

I'd Never Date The Man Who:

- Has ever been in or has ever considered being in a sex tape

- Spends more time in front of the mirror than I do

- Is a "gym rat" or sticks to any weird diet without allergy or moral purposes

- Has ever voted or wanted to vote for Michele Bachman, Rick Perry, Sarah Palin or any Republican       that you can think of.

- Wakes and bakes- I'm no fan of late night Taco Bell or breakfast pizza

- Equates World News with ESPN

- Is rude to waiters, orders for me, or tries to feed me

Cheers to being picky