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Dating & The Single Grrl:
Trying to keep sane in this single world...
I thought I was on track. Back at school for the so-called "victory lap", I moved into my own apartment (a bachelor), complete with kitchen and little bathroom with a hallway and vanity. I started working out again. I enrolled in courses that I was interested in, instead of courses that were required for my degree. I read books, stayed in, went out, drank tea and ate donuts. I immersed myself in rich fabrics and pillows and kept my apartment tidy, "just in case" I might have unexpected visitors. I was the "package".
What does Robert Munch's "The Scream" have to do with dating? A heck of a lot, considering.
However. After sitting at home reading classics for a number of consecutive Fridays and Saturdays, I've taken a second look around my apartment. My laundry still resides in my grocery cart, from when I did the three loads last week. My blanket is perpetually in a pile; it stays that way until I pull it over my body when I go to sleep at whatever ungodly hour I choose. The bulb from the lamp beside my bed is dead. My rich and exotic fabrics hanging from the ceiling are wound up so that I don't get tangled in them when I flail around in the dark trying to get to the bathroom (refer to aforementioned dead lightbulb). I have an empty pizza box from last week that still has to be thrown away. The pizza is still in it, and, in confession-style, I will say that I considered eating the pizza last night. It was, in fact, one of my darkest moments.
The other day, a high school acquaintance had a birthday. A few of us were meant to meet up for dinner, and then move on to a bar for drinks. I didn't attend because of the amount of work I had to catch up on (the "victory lap" is apparently not supposed to be easy), but one of my friends who did attend related a story to me that left me unsettled. One of the girls in attendance, M, was someone who we all haven't seen since high school. My friend related one story in particular about M to me. For Christmas, last year, M received a vibrator from her friend. It is "the best fucking thing ever, MOTHERFUCKER!" M "lost her virginity to that thing!" although she quickly clarified that she has in fact, had sex (the real kind). M, this manly girl with broad shoulders, a bad haircut and a very loud, abrasive way of speaking, actually related the joys of vibrator love, among other things.
Adding to this, another person recently told me that there are two men interested in her, but she won't be giving either of them a fair chance and is therefore rejecting both of them.
The point is, lately I have been hearing stories from all sides of my life, about people who are dating, who are being asked on dates, and who are having sex in many different ways - and a lot of it. And I ask myself - what about me? I am not obsessing about anything, I don't have any weird habits, I don't try too hard or not enough. I don't write things like this often enough to be a serial whiner...so what's the problem? I discussed this with an equally "packaged" friend of mine and we wondered...where are the eligible and fun men in this city?
We decided to have a party. It will be big! It will be bold! - we exclaimed. We will invite all of our single friends, and they will invite their single friends! It will be an orgy of singledom - the new sexual domination. This idea died on the phone when my cell phone died. I called my friend back and we decided that because of exams and the nearing Christmas holidays, no one would really attend this party. "No one seems to go to parties in general, these days," I said. "I'm going to order pizza," my friend replied.
We then decided that we just had to get out there and go to the bars. Are our standards too high?, we wondered. Maybe we should give those greasy haired men with beady eyes a second chance. We agreed on trying a different bar every week. We decided to start small, with The Madison, a "U of T bar" by reputation, also a bar packed with men from the after-work crowd. I recalled our last trip to the "Maddy" and shuddered. We met Jason at the Maddy, a 32-year-old guy who had a secret job with the government that he wasn't allowed to talk about. He was skipping out on a trip to the Brass Rail for his friend's stag, and decided to stay at the Maddy by himself. He shared with us that he had once been a topless waiter, and a topless clown. Additionally, he made a joke about not being allowed to be around farm animals, and that his therapist said it was something he should talk about. I reiterate that this was a joke but nonetheless it was not very sexy.
So what's the deal? I recall a conversation I had with my friend when we were on the way to the movies. She asked why her ex-boyfriend (with whom, like the rest of us, she has some unresolved issues) might prefer to spend time with a "stupid trashy whore with no future" instead of her. I told her that the girl was just a nickel, small change, while she is a toonie (I tend to compare relationships to inanimate objects quite often), and that her ex would realize the true value of their relationship at a much later date. "Well, why does it take them so fuckin' long?" - she was exasperated. "Because," I said, "older men know the value of a dollar."
What does this mean, however? Will I write again when I'm finally happily married at 45? I certainly hope not. What I do hope is that the good-looking guys studying Commerce are paying attention when they learn about curves. ¤ Dani