On Saying I Love You

Whether you’ve said it once, twice, or thousands of times before, working up the courage to tell someone you love them can literally be a stroke-inducing endeavor.

I don’t mean that automatic, knee jerk “love ya” at the end of a phone call with your mom. That's easy! In fact, you should tell your mom you love her every day. But no, I mean romantic love. Love love. The mushy stuff Kate Hudson romcoms lead us to believe is always just around the corner, or across the hall, or sitting next to us at the bar. 

We might be an entitled, selfish, picky generation that struggles to find fulfillment, but when we're lucky enough to find love – we know not to scare it away. You don’t want to blurt out your feelings too soon, or you risk leaving the other person mute, terrified, ice-sculpture still. 

But when you know it, and you know you know it, how do you say it? When do you say it? Where do you say it?

• You can subtly tap it out in morse code on their bedframe the morning after a night together. Tip tap tip tap, spelling out your thoughts. Fingers drumming twice as fast as your racing pulse. You're like the freakin' Helen Keller of romance.

• You can spell it out into the curve of their back claiming it's just a new massage technique you picked up. Tickle-write it as loopy as possible so the message is 80% incomprehensible. 

• You can whisper it in their ear in the middle of the night when their breathing is steady and you know they won’t remember the next day. Even if some part of you hopes that they do. 

• You can pepper every sentence with the word love to get them to associate you with the phrase. You LOVE the color pink, you LOVE fried egg sandwiches, you LOVE when the metro is on time. LOVE LOVE LOVE. Hit them over the head with it to really drive your point home.

• You can write a blog post about saying I love you and hope they read it and say the words out loud to you first. 

Or you can just say it. Directly. No tricks or coughs or whispers or secrets. Just say it unabashedly, like you really mean it. And mean it.

Crazy Girls

When I think back to the guys I dated over the years, I know a number of them would probably call me a crazy bitch. I should probably be insulted by this, but ultimately, it just doesn’t bother me. Because it’s true.

It’s not uncommon for a girl to go psycho on the guy she’s dating or fucking or whatever-ing. I just think that when a girl acts crazy, it’s because the guy is making her crazy. He gives her reasons to doubt the relationship. He gives her reasons to feel insecure and unloved. He gives her reasons to come undone. 

Girls, and guys too for that matter, tend not to act insane for no reason whatsoever. I suppose there is the rare person who flips out over literally nothing, but I think that is far more rare than we’ve been led to believe. Rather, as human beings, it's in our best interest to maintain the status quo.

Rocking the boat is usually more effort than it’s worth.

When you have something good, you just want to hold on to it. You don’t want to be suspicious or doubtful or angry. You trust.

Maybe I’ve just never had the chance to trust before. Maybe I’ve never given anyone a reason to trust me. I guess what I’m saying is, it’s pretty fucking sweet when you find it. 

5 (More) Dating Deal Breakers

Odor
It’s not that I don’t want you to smell bad – which is obviously step one – I also don’t want you to try too hard to smell good. None of that asthma-inducing cologne, please. I can handle a nicely-scented deodorant, but mostly I just want you to smell clean. Like laundry and human skin. Is that too much to ask?

Height
I’m short, so this is a completely unjustified deal breaker for me to have, but I just can’t deal with small guys. Look, I’m sorry. I wish I weren’t this way. It would be a lot easier for me to find my eternal soul mate if I could expand my love network to include those 5 foot 9’ers out there, but ya know what? It’s just not gonna happen.

Non-complimentary
I’m sure you think as a smart, employed, “together” lady, I don’t need to be buttered up with over-the-top praise… but I want it. Tell me I’m beautiful, tell me I’m effortlessly sexy, tell me I look hot in the skin-tight dress I put on with the intention of looking awesome for you, and see where it gets you. Most likely you’ll be taking off said dress.

Too nice
I want a partner-in-crime not a honey bear. I’m generally a nice enough person, but I can be a bitch when someone or something pisses me off. If you’re constantly making me feel bad about my occasional meanness, I don’t want to be around you. So, grow a pair and add some snark to the conversation. If I mention that so-and-so gained 10 lbs, your response had better be “looks more like 20”. Zing!

Wandering eyes
Yes, she has boobs. So do I. Stop mentally undressing every female in your line of sight. If you’re the kind of guy who is constantly and non-subtly checking out every tit that presents itself, I’m going to turn and run the other way - taking my fantastic rack with me. Even if you don’t act on those lustful looks, I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly competing with Girl X who’s shaped like a Barbie doll. Appreciate what you’ve got – me – or don’t be with me at all.

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 6 Types of Guys You Date In Between the Good Ones

There were a few men who entered my life briefly since the demise of my last Big Relationship. Then, I found You.

I’ve dubbed these fellows: "The In-Betweeners”.

1. Ugly boy – Ugly boy happens right after a big break up. He’s just there. He’s available and persistent and desperate for vagina. Ugly boy has the intriguing effect of making you feel ugly too. Rather than feeling more attractive in comparison to him, he has the unique ability of pulling you down to his level. Not a keeper.

2. Racist boy – Racist boy is the quintessential southern republican. Of course, there’s no way of knowing such insanity lurks behind those baby blues when he buys you a drink Saturday night, but when he makes a disparaging comment about your heritage between sips of $1 Bud Light the following Thursday, it’s clear it’s time to leave.

3. Pretty boy – Pretty boy is pretty and not much else. End of story.

4. Boring boy – Boring boy (also known as “perfect on paper” boy) is cute and successful and polite and nice enough, but utterly, mind-numbingly dull. He’s the reason you got sloshed on a Tuesday. Apparently, the secret to withstanding more than 20 minutes of Boring boy is Sangria. Who knew?

5. Jobless boy – Jobless boy is always the life of the party. He’s available to do WHATever whenever because he’s unemployed and up for anything! His enthusiasm is contagious and makes you want to quit your job and travel the world. But then the money runs out. He’s stuck at home and you’re stuck with him.

6. Apathetic Jewish boy – Apathetic Jewish boy is intelligent, interesting, and handsome. He’s passionate about his government job and comes off earnest and caring to friends and family. He’s husband material. Until you learn he likes to numb himself with Valium and ejaculate on your tits.

You're Probably Just Fooling Yourself

Fantasy is nearly always better than reality.

In high school, I had a crush on a boy in biology class. He was cute and didn’t know it. He was left handed.

I remember daydreaming about his beautiful, artistic fingers and dying to know what matters of profundity they were forever producing in his marble notebook. Sometimes, when I snuck a glance in his direction, he’d catch my gaze and smirk - and then go right back to ignoring the teacher and furiously moving his pencil across the page.

He was kind of a punk. Or however punky one could be at a DC private school. His clothes were scruffy and grimy and usually involved some number of chains crisscrossing from a belt loop to a wallet to who knows where. His hair was greasy, teeth unbrushed, and he generally gave off an air of unshowered-ness, yet I was entranced, enthralled with this boy and his perfect artist hands.

He wrote poetry, so I wrote poetry. He cared about music, so I pretended to care. He liked to draw, so I signed up for an introductory art class. I wanted to become someone he could maybe love.

He complimented me once. It was Halloween. I went to school dressed as a goth, and I remember the prickling sensation of his unrestrained scrutiny.  Class dismissed. I stood to leave but he caught my arm as I walked out the door. We locked eyes. “You look hot,” he muttered.

And that was it. The fantasy imploded and his appeal utterly vanished. The cerebral, sexy, brooding man I’d dreamed up in my head was nothing more than a high school boy with a penchant for too-tight plaid pants and underwhelming personal hygiene. He was no artiste! He was but a mere mortal.

Fantasies seem to have a way of undoing themselves.

My Dream Guy Criteria - 20's Edition

Do you have a Dream Guy? And I don’t mean Ryan Gosling or Wentworth Miller (look him up, I call dibs), but do you have a hypothetical perfect guy pieced together with the best parts of every man you've ever known? I do.

These days, my list is pretty fluid (Thanks DC for my ever-plummeting standards) but when I was younger, I had pages upon pages of “ideal husband” material I was convinced I couldn’t live without.

Today, I stumbled upon an old journal entry listing my dream guy criteria from when I was 12 and I realized... not much has changed. I still want funny and smart and kind and tall, but I do feel like I need to edit it to eliminate the superficial items (tween me was adamant about finding a man with light eyes…today I’ll settle for brown) and add the newly important (good grammar – absolute must).

My dream guy and I better have some intense textual chemistry. I want funny, offensive, frequent text banter and I want it now. If I send something hilariously awesome, I better not get an “LOL” in response. In fact, “lol” in any forum is grounds for me never talking to you again. True story.

I also don’t want text updates detailing every mundane second of your day. I don’t care about your dentist appointment. I don't care about the weather. I want your droll observations about the randos pretentiously reading The Economist on their way to work. Or I want a link to your favorite overly attached gf meme on reddit. Is that too much to ask?

Is texting incompatibility a deal breaker? For me, yes. Here’s why: I see it as an indicator of life compatibility. Why would I want to be with someone who judges me for texting an inordinate amount when I have a lot to say? Or why would I want to be bombarded with boring updates I don't even want to read? Social connectivity via tech devices obviously isn't going away, so it's really just another medium for establishing and nurturing a relationship.

If you're not on my level, it's not gonna work.

Dunzo.

Some say the opposite of love is indifference, but what about pure, unadulterated hate? What about a blinding desire to literally dismember the person you once might have loved even if you never said it out loud?

What if you want to slap the smarmy, smirking smile off his face with a smack so hard his cheek turns scarlet and your hand sears with heat but it doesn’t matter because the pain is entirely worth it? And he mostly deserves it.

What if you finally (kind of, maybe) understand where Chris Brown was coming from. It’s not his abusive behavior you condone by any means, but rather, you finally recognize the level of bubbling, aching hatred we can feel for other human beings.

And then it turns off like a switch. Just gone. You don’t love, you don’t hate, you don’t care. You’re released from something you didn’t even realize you were still connected to.

It’s over, it’s over, it’s over. Not even this mantra can convey your relief. It sure took a while - certainly longer than you’d like to admit - but all good things must come to an end.

In The Mood for a Drive?

I haven't been on a true family car trip in ages and boy it sure makes us regress.

I'm suddenly belting out show tunes with my mom while my sis rolls her eyes and my dad calmly ignores us to focus on the road twisting for miles ahead of us. He loves his girls but sometimes, admittedly, we can be a bit much.

Seven hours is a long time to be around anyone let alone the crazies who share your DNA.

So the purpose of this trip is not entirely positive but we are making the best of it. It's all very little-miss-sunshine and we are getting a kick out of that. My sister hopped in, buckled up, and promptly fell asleep. I opted to ignore my parents for the first hour and immersed myself in a new book. My mom became navigator - struggling with our outdated gps (that British bitch keeps losing her connection and orders us to "make a u turn")... But my dad just drives. He's good at getting us safely where we need to go.

Our fifth passenger is what makes this trip bittersweet.

My grandpa's ashes are perched between me and my sister in the backseat. He's sealed up in something that looks a lot like the Tupperware in my kitchen which is both odd and comforting. Despite the inevitable sadness of the upcoming funeral and memorial services this week, we know he would want us to find the humor in this situation. It's too bizarre not to appreciate.

It's a long trip but it's not so bad.

Pandora is providing us with endless Taylor Swift ditties (thank god for tswift) and chocolate drizzle popcorn and grapes keep us happily hunger-free.

I think sometimes the best moments just sneak up on you. Right now my legs might be cramped and my bladder might be full, but there's something sweet and wholesome about being cooped up with your family. It's too bad it takes loss for us all to spend time together like this but I know it's what my grandfather would've wanted.

There's a lotta love packed into this little honda right now.

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.

When It's Time To Go

I had never been present at death until last night. It’s not exactly unlike what I expected, but it has a certain elusive component - a characteristic that simply cannot be captured. Death has many sounds.

His individual labored breaths intermixed with the steady hum of the oxygen tank and the syncopated beats of jazz music playing softly in the background. At 5 pm there was still enough life in him for me to get a final gesture of acknowledgement. Not quite a full squeeze of my hand, but enough. There was some fight left in him to leave a lasting tactile impression. Selfishly, I’m glad he knew I was there.

My mother held his hand and I rubbed his shoulder, bony from weeks of refusing food. At 5’11, he weighed less than I did. I joked with him that I’d kill to be at his weight, but he just looked past me blankly, not seeing, not comprehending. It was my first joke that failed to elicit even the slightest smirk from his lips.

The room smelled less medicinal than I would have imagined. I detected the same hints of laundry detergent and burnt carpet as always.

By the time I left, his skin was cool to the touch. The color had vanished from his face but he remained beautiful, taut – statuesque, really. In my grief, I asked myself, what are we if not impermanently stored carbon energy?

I’d say his last 86 seconds were a worthy reflection of his 86 years – courageous, sweet, surrounded by love.

He did not complain, did not cry out, did not even whimper. He breathed until he decided not to. Then he stopped.

Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?

I forget what it feels like to be in love and I want so badly to be reminded.

I have a vague recollection of yearning; so much want and need and a heightened awareness of my being. Like a homunculus come to life – all lips and hands and overly sensitive private parts.

And I want that again.

I want more than a casual crush on a coworker who smells like herbal outdoors and cracks Dilbert jokes by the water cooler.

I want more than a lustful fling who’s all touch and no talk and leaves me breathless but confused.

I want more than a convenient companion – someone you fool yourself into believing you’re in love with just because it would be so easy.

No, I want that can’t-talk, can’t-breathe, forget-how-to-act-like-a-normal-human-being kind of all encompassing love. Thanks Disney for making me believe that exists. Can I just go to sleep for a decade or two until some hot guy who owns the kingdom wakes me up with a kiss?

When my parents interact, I see something rare. I see love wrapped up in friendship with a dash of passion. They found each other young and grew together and somehow, against all odds, made it last. If they could do it over again, I know they’d tread the same path, retracing their steps. Because they are part of the lucky few who found earth-shattering love and guard it, cherish it, and appreciate it every day.

I’m exhausted by my own ambivalence.

Hello, Goodbye

Who says goodbye for real anymore?

Aside from the ultimate au revoir, death, humans are just too technologically connected these days to lose touch completely. A goodbye is only a see-you-later, not a see-you-never.

But what about when both parties know that it has to be the end? It has to be. For the sake of everyone involved. It can be healthy to completely cut yourself off from the past now and then, right?

Sure, paths cross unexpectedly and a random 3 AM drunk text can be the grape-scented glue stick weakly binding two individuals together, but the final goodbye lingers. It’s been formally announced and acknowledged and the gavel’s been pounded.

So why is a goodbye still so hard to accept?

Maybe it’s just me, and I don’t know how to do goodbyes, but in the middle of this one I simply stood there, awkwardly biting my lower lip and softly mumbling ‘bye, like I’d see him tomorrow, or this weekend, or next.

Forever goodbyes are so unlikely, so few and far between. Most of us don’t know how to be gone for good. We cling to our pasts, and re-visit old loves, and wonder what if.

Ties that Bind...

I watched you pack up your apartment in a matter of hours it seemed. You posted and re-posted on craigslist offering up the last of your freecycled furniture and managed to turn a profit off the pieces you’d accumulated over the months. I was impressed. And jealous. And sad.

Your ability to take flight, literally, made me feel all the more stifled and tied down. I’m grateful for the life I’ve made but I have too many things.

I have an apartment and it’s pretty and I love it.
I have furniture and it’s heavy and hard to move.
I have clothes that overflow from every dresser and closet and plastic bin.
I love this and I hate this.

The life I’ve made for myself here is valuable and valid. It’s evidence of my existence, of my efforts to create a home.

And yet, watching you climb out of my car that morning, all limbs and luggage, it seemed so unfair.

You are quick to make friends, quick to build experiences, and quick to create stories, but you never knotted yourself to me. You made it easy to pick up and take off and start anew.

You left me behind. Saddled now with not just my life, but pieces of yours; your boxes and our memories and a check to cash when your bank account was full again.

Expiration Dating

It’s easy to offer sound, rational advice to love-struck peers, but as soon as your own heart is hit with a meat mallet, it’s impossible to see things clearly. Leaving Chicago was one of the most traumatizing events of my life. I left behind the college version of myself I’d grown to know so well but I also forced myself to turn my back on a relationship that I thought was The Relationship. Looking back, I chuckle to think I could have ended up with a tattooed college athlete with diamonds in his ears, but when you’re in it, it’s so easy to get wrapped up in what you have. I was so overwhelmed by the good stuff and so blind to the obviously bad.

Once in DC, I made a life for me. A Kat life. I tried so hard not to be a pushover and to do the things that made ME happy, but even living just for me, it was hard not to want someone to be with. I like when guys dote on me. I like having a built-in friend, companion, and travel buddy. Everything is more fun when a boyfriend comes along. Social situations are less stressful, life feels safer, and I’m happy waking up next to someone I care about.

So with G leaving DC for good, I’ve had to adjust to “expiration dating”. We are still a couple in the truest sense of the word (we go out, hang out, don’t date other people, etc) but there is a finality to it that I haven’t experienced before. I know with absolute clarity I want to get married and be a mom, so what am I doing with him? Why am I wasting these weeks hanging out with G when I could be breaking up, moving on, and meeting someone new? Why am I emotionally torturing myself? I tend to cling to the status quo, happy and complacent with things just the way they are, so maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why I’m willing to hold on to something that will never be more than what it is now.

Or maybe, sadly, pathetically, I’m clinging because I feel like I might change his mind in the next 10 days. I know it’s hopeless (I’ve spoken to him about it) but I don’t WANT it to be hopeless.

The craziest part is I know on some level we aren’t even right for each other. True, we are compatible in seemingly obvious ways, and bring out good sides of each other in certain situations, but I’m outdoorsy and active in a way he never will be and his love of fantasy sports and late nights is something I’ll never entirely understand.

So, as the expiration date on my expiration dating comes closer, I guess I’ll just have to focus on what makes ME happy. A friend recently told me, do what you love and you’ll find it.

So simple. So perfect.

The Economics of Dating

My roommate R recently broke up with her boyfriend of three years and has been quick to re-enter the dating world. She started seeing a guy at work, M, who has a history of casual hook-ups and one night stands. Unprompted, he offered up a number around 50. If you catch my drift.

When I see them together, he seems sweet and doting and not at all the sleazy dirt bag I pictured when she first divulged his dating history. They spend hours and hours together and never seem to tire of laughing and talking and enjoying each others company. And I like him. He's a nice guy. He's smart and genuine and affectionate towards her - even when others are around - and he seems completely enamored with her.

So, when I told my boyfriend G about their relationship, I was shocked when he calmly said: "I give it six weeks. Tops"

Whatttt?

I didn't understand. How could he be so dismissive of my roommate and her new love? He was belittling their passion by suggesting it was coming to an end within the month.

So he broke it down for me in a little lesson called "relationship economics".

G explained that in econ terms, the past is the best indicator of the future when it comes to a mathematical trend. Of course, statistically, there are always outliers, but on average, if the trend is consistent, odds are, it will continue on that path.

So if M has a history of casually dating girls and ending things within a matter of weeks, odds are, R is NOT the exception to the rule.

I argue that people are not economically sound. We can't determine someone's actions by his past behavior. Yes, it might make sense mathematically to analyze a trend and apply it to the current situation, but when it comes to people and our quirky decision making, I truly believe that no calculations can estimate the value of a human connection.

M's former women might have been dumb or flaky or bad in bed. He might have been immature or sad or searching for something better. G knows virtually nothing about this new boy and yet feels confident predicting the demise of a relationship.

We decided to bet on it. $5 says R and M break up by Memorial Day.

Clearly, I'm a terrible person betting on my friend's relationship but....I've got three weeks to see if I'm out five bucks or a couple dollars richer.

The grass is always greener...

Do we always want what we can't have? Is it just a symptom of selfish twenty-somethings, or is everyone like this?

I have a great job and I'm thankful for the paycheck that's miraculously deposited into my bank account every other Friday, but when my unemployed friends flit from city to city sleeping on futons, visiting friends, and barhopping, it's hard not to feel jealous. I want the spontaneity of their lives. I want the flexibility. I want the freedom and the epic stories that come with crashing on a college friend's couch.

My unemployed friends tell me I'm crazy. "You think we want this? Roaming from place to place?" They tell me their parents harass them daily to find work, their savings are dwindling miserably, their rent feels scarily high. "The grass is always greener," they say as they hop on the bus to NY for the weekend...

But it's more than just the job thing. Not to pull a Carrie Bradshaw, but it's relationships too. As a young person, I spent months looking for a guy. The bar scene in DC is hectic and exhausting and I'm not the online dating type. But when you finally find someone who makes you happy, you second guess things. You're vulnerable again. A part of you longs for the independence and sense of self that comes from not catering to another person's needs.

A part of me feels like I should cut all ties. Remove the bindings that hold me to my current life (job, apartment, boyfriend) and see what I'm left with.

I feel antsy and in need of some serious self reflection. I want to visit Chile, San Francisco, Australia. I want to walk and run and canoe? Sitting at my desk day in and day out, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week,  351 days per year feels stifling.

I'm 23 and not getting any younger.  Now is my time.

But maybe, the grass is always greener?