Who's the Other Woman - Me or You?

Hello there. We've never met, but I hated you once.

You’re like me, but better. All those important feminine features you’ve got are undeniably superior to mine.

Your hair is long and shiny, and not only in your going out photos, but in casual, everyday pics too.

Your arms look starving-model-skinny from every angle – not just the shots where you put your hand on your hip and jut out your collarbone.

You have dark hair and dark eyes and a smattering of freckles just like me, but on you it all comes together in an edgy, smoky tableau of hipster awesomeness.

And somehow you’ve mastered that sultry “I’m-gonna-suck-your-d” look without coming across as a whore. I’m impressed. You’ve got me beat.

He never told me about you, so I assumed he was mine...

THEN I found out you existed. And it’s just oh-so-clear he has a “type”. Laughable, really. I mean, look at us.

While you were moving and then job hunting and ultimately achieving greatness in Palo Alto, he xanaxed his way through a pseudo-relationship in DC.

DID YOU KNOW THAT? Would you want to know? Has he uttered my name even once?

Our six degrees of separation have ruinously collided, leaving us unfortunately intertwined, side-by-side, bed partners and kissing sisters. Zero degrees.

4 Scenarios I Imagine When You Don't Text Back

When you don’t text me back right away, I play it cool like I don’t even care. I’m all, whatever, he really likes me, it doesn’t mean anything. A little later and still no text, I’m like, ugh I have better people to be texting anywayyy. But when a few hours go by and I still don’t get a reply, four very specific scenarios go through my mind.

1. You discovered your soul mate in that weird java coding class you take on Wednesdays and you’ve swept her away to Las Vegas to consummate your love. Your phone is, of course, turned off on the airplane and reception in casino chapels is always patchy – thus creating low odds I’ll get a text back.

2. You took a shortcut through an alley on your way home from the office only to be roughed up by thugs, robbed, shanked, and left for dead. Crimson blood pours from your eyes and ears and your mangled, broken arms make it impossible to reach into your pocket for your phone. As you slip in and out of consciousness, you can only murmur Kaaa... Kaaa... in the hopes that Siri might hear your grief and place your call sans touch.

3. You have been personally invited to lead the President of the United States on a midnight Segway tour through the pentagon. Your swanky department of defense job paired with your talent for tour-giving makes you the perfect guide for POTUS to become reacquainted with the building and its slippery hallways. You’d reply, but you don’t want to offend the prezzie or anything. Plus, it’s kind of hard to text from a Segway. They have a delicate equilibrium you wouldn’t want to disrupt with frenzied thumb-tapping.

 4. I stole your charger last night to plug in my phone so yours died at work today. You make it home safe and sound with every intention of charging your mobile device, but the beer in the fridge is calling your name and the lean cuisine in your freezer isn’t going to microwave itself, so you toss your phone on the bed and go about your evening like a normal person. You heat up dinner, open an IPA, turn on ESPN, and forget about the fact that there’s a girl 2.2 miles away who maybe wants reassurance that you’re not dead in an alley or exchanging vows in an Elvis chapel.

Coming to Terms with the Ex Files

He was yours first, I suppose.

And it doesn't matter whether you dated for 10 days or 10 years because the fact of the matter is, you beat me to it. You marked your territory before I even knew there was land to be found.

Though I envy you your history and your inextricably linked lives,  I don't envy you because you lost him. You turned your back. You let what you had wilt and decay into nothing. Well, not nothing. I found some scraps, I picked up the pieces. I spotted the stomped on seedling of a heart and nurtured it and cared for it and now it's mine. And dammit, I earned it. You don't deserve him if you couldn't figure out how to keep him yours.

He kisses me like his lips were made for mine, so I can't imagine how yours compare. I want to ask him whose lips win, but I don't, because even if he chooses me, I'd rather not turn his attention back to you for even a second.

As we get older, everyone's past becomes greater. I wish you weren't so much of his.

The Times They Are A-changin'

I get bored easily. Really, really easily.

Like, if I paint my nails gold in the morning, I’m picking it off by 3 pm, and re-painting them charcoal gray before bed. And it’s not because I want my nails to reflect my mood and mornings feel sunny and sparkly and bright, it’s just that I like switching up the little things.

So, it strikes me as odd that I’m so slow to make big life changes.

Once I settle into a routine, I feel compelled to make it work. I have overwhelming patience for flaky friends, dead end jobs, and miserable living situations. In college, I paid $1000 a month for a grimy, possibly asbestos-ridden, mouse-infested unit for THREE years because it was kind of sort of near my boyfriend’s apartment… And we had an awesome beer pong set-up... And moving’s such a pain… And Chicago’s really cold… And wah wah wah.

So is my impatience for the little things caused by my unending tolerance for the big stuff? Or, does my general steadiness lead to these sporadic bursts of mini-change?

Relationship Advice: If There's No Room for This Article of Clothing... Leave.

Remember when you held up my tiny tank top and asked coldly what it was doing in your drawer? You glared at me like my shirt was a grenade moments away from annihilating your entire neighborhood, rather than the innocent piece of black fabric I knew it to be.

God forbid I take up two inches of your precious closet space.

If this had been days or even weeks into our relationship, I might have understood, but this was several months of regular sleepovers and the official label of "Girlfriend". So why were you so possessive of your space? Why couldn't you make room for me in your life? Were my actions so outlandish and overly-familiar that you felt the need to lash out over a shirt?

That silly shirt has since become a symbol of everything I'm looking for in future relationships.

I want someone who knows my tank tops have nestled in few drawers other than my own. I want someone who recognizes how lucky he is to take off my shirt. I want someone who feels proud to have an article of my clothing tucked away in a corner of his room – a guarantee of future visits.

You might not have thought about it that way. In fact, I’m pretty sure you never grasped the enormity of the situation at the time. But your spiteful, entitled attitude should have sent me running.

I kick myself for trying to make you like me when clearly, you didn’t even like my shirt.

I've Got a Case of the Mondays

I miss you on Mondays because we eat and drink and breathe shared air for fifty straight hours until the bus rumbles me away from you and I'm all alone.

I miss you on Mondays because my body has to relearn the weight of its limbs without yours tangled in mine.

I miss you on Mondays because weekday workdays overflow with comedy GOLD and my texting thumbs can’t tap out the stories to you fast enough.

I miss you on Mondays because I’m stuck with just the food in front of me, when I’d rather fork tomatoes off your plate and steal the bubbles from your bubble tea.

I miss you on Mondays because I live weekend to weekend and the workweek just interrupts time that could be spent in your steady presence.

I miss you on Mondays because I can’t get enough of you. Because you make politics interesting. Because you laugh at my jokes. Because you don’t mock the lululemon poster in my bathroom. Because you bring me ice cream when I’m sick and wine when I’m happy and kiss me in public and tell me I’m beautiful.

Do you miss me on Mondays?

The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

I see you less and less in strangers. You used to pop up everywhere.

You were the passenger in the back of the bus with his face smushed against the window watching the asphalt rush by. You were the waiter at the restaurant with the too loud laugh and smirky smile reciting the evening specials. You were the friend of a friend at last Friday’s party, just in for the weekend and mixing drinks like a pro. I saw you everywhere, I saw you often, and my stomach would plummet each time.

Because I would want it to be you as badly as I didn’t.

I spent this weekend revisiting our old places with someone new. In case you're wondering, I experienced a kind of wistful déjà vu but none of the sadness I was expecting.

The scent of fried dough and buttery popcorn thickened the air while the vendors smiled blandly and methodically ladled food onto outstretched plates. My shrimp lay nestled in their bed of creamy grits, no different than six months ago. But this time around, I didn’t need any comforting from my comfort food.

10 Characteristics of My Anti-Dream Guy

1. Visible earwax. You’d be surprised how many guys haven’t figured out that this is a crucial part of general hygiene. I don’t care how you deal with it, just deal with it.

2. Dandruff. Head and Shoulders shampoo works wonders (or consult your physician today!). Oily white flakes make me gag.

3. Dirty teeth. Brush them. Even if you’re convinced you never have bad breath, brush your teeth. If I see sticky plaque build-up or food stuck for hours, you’re dunzo.

4. Poor grammar. Talking, texting, emailing – the medium of conversation is irrelevant. Figure out the difference between “to” “too” and “two” and “their” “there” and “they’re” or you're just going to come off as a dumb hick. Seriously, if you’re a college graduate and you haven’t nailed this down, you’re not worth my time.

5. The anti-texter. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If you like me and you’re compatible with me, you’ll respond to my texts with an appropriate and hopefully humorous message. (FYI I like gifs of animals having sex. Or pooping.)

6. Neck jewelry. A leather rope, a guido gold chain, a cross – Sorry dude, not for me!

7. Moodiness. You’re gregarious and exuberant one moment, sarcastic and sullen the next. DING. NEXT. I can’t deal with ups and downs. I don’t want to be a part of the rollercoaster ride that’s your idea of a Tuesday. Be one person. Preferably a happy one. Bipolar tendencies are exhausting.

8. Closed-mindedness. Everyone is entitled to an opinion. You’re not going to know everything. You will be wrong sometimes. And if you truly believe otherwise, then you’re an arrogant asshole. Buh-bye.

9. Wearer of speedos. Sorry impossibly sexy probably homosexual European beach goers – you are not my cup of tea. Put on a pair of oversized swim trunks like an Amurrrican and we can talk. Otherwise I’m just going to ogle the outline of whatever you’ve shoved into that banana hammock and debate your grow-er/show-er potential in my mind. Not conducive for a lasting relationship.

10. Cheater. Yes, we’ve all done it. Long distance relationships suck. College drama is fun. Make-up sex is the best. Yada yada yada. But come on guys… we’re past that. We are in our twenties now and trying to be better people. And if you’re not, well, go find a girl who doesn’t care where your dick’s been.

You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Blog is About You (Ha!)

When it rains, it pours.

It’s odd how you can feel like such a cookie cutter cliché of a lonely, single girl one day and then suddenly it’s like you’re fighting guys off left and right, scheduling back-to-back date nights, and surreptitiously replying to texts from potential love interests under the table mid-way through Sunday night dinner with your parents.

All of a sudden, you’re giving off some sexed-up, “you can’t have me” vibe and people sense you’re a hot commodity. While just a day earlier you would’ve pictured yourself grocery shopping and folding laundry on Sunday afternoon, instead you find yourself happily ignoring Nicholas Cage movies while a guy plants kisses on the nape of your neck.

…And then the Texts from Boyfriends Past start pouring in.

Almost as if they have some kind of radar that notifies them when they are slowly being forgotten about; the sexts, the awkward comments, the four consecutive ichat bubbles about unimportant nothingness. These were the texts I desperately needed three days ago when I wanted some reminder that I was missed – that I mattered. But my phone was obnoxiously silent. Until now, of course. Until I couldn’t care less.

I’ve never thought of myself as the type who needed “closure”.  I always liked the idea of being friends with an ex. But now, I’m doubtful. Why hold on to someone who didn’t treat you the way you deserved? Even if the split itself was amicable enough it doesn’t mean you need the toxic emotional angst that can accompany prolonged contact with an old flame.

Just let me be happy.

Seeing an Ex

When you break up with me, I like to think you cease to exist. It’s not like I want you to die or anything (I swear, I don’t) but it would be nice if we didn’t have to share the planet let alone this tiny city.

I was tipsy when I passed you on the street last night, and you caught me completely off guard. You were smiling, relaxed, enjoying the company of the girl you were obviously on a date with and it felt offensive and unfair and insulting.

I get that we weren’t really a couple. I get that we had virtually nothing in common. And I certainly understand that I am belaboring a point here and clearly have spent far more time analyzing our non-relationship than is appropriate for the quantity and quality of time we spent together but aghhhh.

Without you, I’m so bored I’ve resurrected all of my drawsomething games. I’m cooking elaborate four course dinners for myself. I’m making one-woman acoustic music videos personalized for each of my non-DC friends.

I have TOO much time on my hands and it’s pathetic. I mean, I guess I’m doing things I like to do, and I’m obviously improving my skills in the kitchen, but it seems like I’m just biding my time until I can fill it with someone else. You might have found ways to occupy yourself – as you made evident on your annoyingly adorable dinner date – but I don’t want to witness how you spend your time now that it’s not being spent with me.

I’d really like you to move so I don’t ever have to think about you again. K, thanks, bye.

I'm Stupid When I'm Single

I’ve never really been good at acting like a normal, functioning adult when I’m boyfriend-less, but lately, let me just say - UGHH I HATE SINGLE ME.

Single me does stupid stuff for attention. Single me wants every weekend night to become an awesome story, or a better-than-average blog post, or a fogged over memory of epic-ness. Single me encourages my friends to booty call randos they don’t really like just so I can live vicariously through their drunken, horned-up exploits. It’s not that single me can’t have sexploits of her own, but single me has to be careful. Single me doesn’t want to get a reputation or anything.

Single me wakes up with a hangover at 2 pm with an entire Sunday gone and a craving for Shake Shack that borders on desperation. Single me looks like a hot mess after a night of partying and passing out in my bed with a made-up face and lips swollen from making out with someone I don’t remember. Ok, confession – I just don’t want to remember. Single me prays to black out and misremember a night but usually, thanks to an ever-climbing alcohol tolerance, single me’s adventures just get blurry around the edges – like an instagrammed snapshot of the evening. Only worse.

Single me awakes to an iphone crammed with texts from worried friends – did you get home ok? How did your night end up? I'm fine guys. I'm always fine. Single me looks at the old family pictures on her bedroom wall shamefully, wondering if she’s dishonored the lineage. Single me shuffles blearily into a kitchen of pregamed chaos. Limes and sticky solo cups lining the counters and chairs in disarray. Single me drunk-eats leftovers at 3 am if she doesn’t make a stop at jumbo slice first. Single me eats jumbo slice. Although, come to think of it, non-single me eats jumbo slice from time to time too.

Single me is the worst version of me. She’s the one who drunk dials ex-boyfriends in the middle of the night just to hear a familiar voice even if she regrets it the next day. She’s the one who thoughtlessly gives her parents cause for concern. She’s the one who favors reckless decisions over rational ones.

So, despite the outrageous amounts of fun that single me has, it is certainly time to become non-single me. I can’t take much more of this.

The Worst Part about a Break-Up (and a mini rave about Girls)

I love Girls so much. And not in the lesbian way (not that there's anything wrong with that...) but in the can't get enough of Lena Dunham and her quirky brilliance kind of way. If there are any mid-20-year-old girls currently living in a major city who don't find this show appealing, you're crazy.

In general, I'm not the most opinionated person, but I can honestly say I LOVE THIS SHOW. There have been some complaints about the white-ness of it (literally not a single black/brown/asian person in any of the 8 episodes so far), but for people like me (sorry, I'm white and privileged) the show really hits home.

It does a good job of highlighting how trivial 20-something's problems are without being condescending. One character, Marnie, breaks up with her boyfriend of four years and spends the next few episodes moping around and wallowing in her misery. She is really, really sad even though it was HER decision to break up with the guy.

I can completely relate to this. Just because you don't want to be with someone anymore doesn't mean you don't feel sad about being alone. Marnie had a constant companion and built-in best friend for four years. Losing that is like losing a family member. Or a limb. Or something equally monumental. When the ex-bf shows up at a party two weeks after the break-up with a tiny, new, adorable girlfriend, Marnie is crushed. Partly because the girl is cute and it's clear the boyfriend has moved on, but partly because she wanted to beat him to the punch.

When you're the breaker-upper, you usually assume you'll be the first to re-find happiness. When that doesn't happen it's confusing.

Break-ups completely suck. That's easy enough to conclude, but lately I've been thinking what's so terrible about them isn't losing a boyfriend. It's losing the friendship you created with someone over the time you spent together.

And even if you can truly be friends with an ex, it's never the same. You will never be as important to each other as you once were. And to me, that's the saddest part about it. Becoming less important to someone who was, at one time, the biggest part of your life.