Sh*t, M*llennials

The term "millennials" has become an expletive used to describe a person roughly 18 to 28 years old.  "Millennials" instantly connotes a crowd of unemployed hooligans who spend their days laying on piles of daddy's money making cat memes with iPhones surgically attached to their bodies.  We're entitled little shits with an inflated sense of self who refuse to accept anything less than designer despite our $28K-per-year-before-taxes income.  Oh, and our personal lives are fucked.

If you haven't read the NY Times in the past week, then you might not know about a little app that's having a major moment.  Lulu.  As a woman, it connects with your Facebook and displays all of your male friends accompanied by a rating that was submitted by women who've dated them.  If you know me, you know that I'm often found hanging WANTED fliers on telephone poles looking for the elusive Chivalry or on a soapbox spouting about the modern man's misogynistic deals with the devil.  Young women have somehow lost the power that accompanies the dating game- despite having the curves and the hair and the hole - we are often still the ones waiting around for our phone to light up with name we're "dating".  And often times we really are just dating a name on a screen - our relationship defined, yes by our time together, but also largely by the thread of characters that allows us to stay connected wherever, whenever.

According to a recent article on Forbes covering the advent of Lulu, such an app means that we must have more shallow relationships and apparently we're also lonelier.  Maybe this is true - the popularity of other relationship-based apps like OkCupid and Tindr perpetuates the on-to-the-next-best-thing mentality.  With these dating apps, I've personally witnessed and experienced a vast difference in the reasoning behind use between men and women.  Women crave an emotional connection; men crave a physical one - and because of this, women will always lose.  Maybe older generations have a hard time wrapping their minds around the concept of relationships in 2013, but whether it's "acceptable" or not, it is what it is - which is why Lulu is the outlet women have been waiting for.  

It's not, as Forbes describes it, a revenge mechanism - it's simply a balance of power.  Let men abuse dating apps and let them sext multiple women at once - but we're not sitting silent anymore.  Men claim to feel violated, but it's actually just an attempt to justify their fear of being found out.  

Sorry we're not sorry about your 6.2 rating.  Play nice, sweetheart!  We're all watching.

Dirty Laundry

Monday night I was walking home in my neighborhood, fresh from a gym sesh when I saw my ex-fling’s best friend/roommate/potential life partner coming out of our laundry mat.  I haven’t seen my ex-whatever in a while and haven’t spoken to him in just as long, but when you live in the same neighborhood as one of these blasts from the past, you tend to be subconsciously on alert for any sign of them.  For example, I thought I saw the fling himself today on the subway platform and my body immediately prepared itself to kick the doppelganger in the calves and take off running for the exit.  I had no idea my innate response would include both fight AND flight.  You can be emotionally healed from a relationship and happy and moved on and dating a Ryan Gosling look-alike…hell you could be dating Ryan Gosling himself, but you still don’t know how you might react at the first sighting of a man who did done you wrong. 

Seeing the best friend of my ex-guy didn’t provide a kick in the gut or a wave of depression.  Oh no.  I immediately yelled his name before I could stop myself and was running over to him before he even looked up to recognize where the ambush was coming from.  My very first instinct upon approaching was to hug him.  I started walking toward him with my arms out while my brain screamed “STOPPPPP”.  I kept advancing.  I honestly don’t even know if this guy knows my full name.   I know his last name sounds like a wet sneeze, but that’s all I got.  I couldn’t even add him on Facebook if I wanted to, but I still felt it necessary in some corner of my being to gift him with an intimate hug.  Did I mention I was at this point in time drowning in my own sweat from my work out and the humid July night?  His hesitation only perpetuated my hug, and I wondered if at heart I am a truly perverse individual.  After partaking in the grossest, and quite possibly most intrusive, embrace of this dude’s 25 years on Earth, my mind went blank.  Not even another peep from my misguided intuition – even that would have been better than pulling away from a near stranger you just had in your sweaty death grip with absolutely nothing to say. 

I apologized for sweating.  He returned the sentiment.  He asked me how I was doing and I said, “sweaty” – a topic we most certainly covered .5 seconds prior.  In retrospect, when the best friend of your former fling asks how you’re doing you should probably tell him of all the amazingness you’re accomplishing.  Even if you’re often found in deep discussions with your roommate's cat, Rosie – tell him you’ve just been scouted for America’s Next Top Model from Tyra herself while brunching at PerSay.  Tell him you’re planning a trip to Peru for a month with your investment banker with a heart of gold boyfriend.  I don’t care!  Just use this opportunity to appear pulled together and every bit the amazing woman you are.   Instead I was wearing a field hockey t-shirt from high school with neon running shorts I bought for $3 at Walmart and the largest glasses I own which I had to constantly adjust from the aforementioned (and mentioned and mentioned) sweat pouring down my face.

After covering all topics relating to sweat - including a brief discussion on the inappropriateness of sweating in the dead of winter - he finally mounted his bike to put us both out of our misery.  As he rode away, we exchanged a long series of assorted versions of “bye” and I vowed to erase this encounter from my memory.  When I got home I gave myself a good look in the mirror to assess what the friend might report back to the ex. I saw my frizzy hair, drenched shirt, stubbly legs, and melting mascara... and I thought - "Damn.  My teeth are WHITE."  Suck on that, Elliot.  This chick has still got it.

a dysfunctional love letter

You tell me about a new favorite song and I cringe as you hit play -  Not because I don’t want it hear it - but because I don’t need another reminder of you floating about the world. I watch as a silent spectator while the music consumes you and I listen as you explain with eyes closed why the track is worthy of your passion...and I'm jealous of a song.  And you’re giddy and uncharacteristically open and I can sense your usual, carefully crafted façade fading. This is your version of intimacy, isn't it?  All I can do is watch as you unravel to a beat; stoic in my observation of this rare occasion. And it makes me wonder- do you ever feel like I do? Like you might explode at any moment for lack of expression or too much expression or just being inside your own brain?  Can I tell you those parts of myself?  I keep my cards just as hidden as you do and the result is two people who don't know enough, who take too much, who pretend to see. Who will never be together because of their quiet pride, but who will stay intertwined in their mutual addiction to a physical bond.

There are days I swear I’ll never speak to you again…caffeine ridden days that I wander and write and create and feel okay without telling you my every thought for the sole reason that my voice sounds better when echoing off you.  And then come the alcohol reigning nights when I drift back to the right side of your bed with your body next to me taking up so much more space in the world than mine. And your bigness in life overwhelms me and hushes me and seduces me.  I adore you next to me.  I crave you. Greedily you’ve dived into me…giving yourself but taking more; hastily grasping at pleasure or closeness or amour propre at eliciting the dig of my fingernails a little deeper into your freckled back.  I let you because I want that for you, I want anything for you that you want for yourself.  I want to give to you.  I want all if this despite the fact that I will fall asleep next to your snoring shell -the only way i know you. When it all comes down, whether awake or asleep, you are the same unreachably mystical person that I’ll never have.

And it’s sad to only be acquainted with a man while he’s lying to you or lying on top of you.

diary of a masochist

Have you ever had a heartbreak that just wouldn't seem to go away?  Mine has taken up permanent residence with me like an oozing boil growing more infected every day, but instead of getting the proper medical attention to curb the infection I endure it. 

Heartbreak occurs more quickly than you ever thought possible and often with fewer gentle words than you feel you deserve given the pain that follows.  I find I'm constantly astonished at how clean and concise the parting of ways manifests on the surface - how casually someone can exit your life after having entered like a welcome whirlwind that came with its own soundtrack, rumpled your well-made bed, and branded your favorite Brooklyn hideaways.  A brief exchange can end the prospect of what you assumed was a promised future despite such a memorable past; leaving behind a labrynth of doubt to face.

Like a true masochist, my way of facing this doubt is clinging to it - because if you think about it, isn't being heartbroken such a beautifully somber occasion?  Think of all the Celine Dion sing alongs in your shower!!  Think of wine and chips in bed! I look kind of cute after I tear up!  I'm by no means taking selfies with heavy black eyeliner and I haven't listened to Dashboard Confessional in 6 years...but there's something so poignant in my missing him that I must admit I enjoy.  I feel a sting as I walk past the restaurant in Soho where we had our first date and I'm slapped in the face everytime Chvrches is shuffled on my Spotify - and buried in the hurt there's a chill of happiness in each moment of remembering us. 

When confronted with this man today, I consciously know why we're not together and recognize that he and I are like an attempt at a high-five that only grazes the fingertips.  And yet. Maybe feeling a loss for an extended amount of time isn't as self-destructive as it sounds.  It's made me wonder if our heartbreak isn't just in fact a reminder of our ability to love -  a phenomenon we don't need to tirelessly try to "heal" from, but something we should remember fondly and often.

Reply hazy; try again

I’m constantly seeking out answers to life’s questions.  -- As soon as you read that sentence you may be inclined to believe that I’m some sort of scholarly individual – curious in all the right ways and actively pursuing knowledge to elevate humanity and better myself…like a swami or a rabbi or some other robe-wearing, deep-thinker.  I do love a robe on a Sunday morning as much as the next priest, but if I led you to a conclusion that suggests I have any morally redeemable reasons for my search, I apologize.  My pursuit is much less noble.  In fact, it’s downright selfish. 

I’ve convinced myself that there has to be a justified answer to every conundrum thrown my way, and I'm determined to find it.   However- my methods haven't proven all too results driven. Why am I on a first name basis with ChaCha, yet she writes back a terse, “I’m not sure” when I ask what the hunky Aussie I’ve been seeing means exactly when he says he has to cancel our date for personal reasons?  Google isn’t much better at decoding the psychological tendencies of other friends and family.

For a "what's next??" approach, my horoscope is at times useful; today it says that someone will come into my life looking for an honest opinion and I should express it constructively.  I’ve obviously interpreted this to mean a wealthy stock broker with a soft spot for good literature and a swimmer’s body will come into my life and I should express my interested opinion by jumping him…constructively.

 In times of real turmoil I’ve even turned to tea leaves.  This requires consuming as few leaves as possible while holding the cup in your non-dominant hand as you quiet your mind and focus on the question you’d like clarity on.  Since I have self-diagnosed ADD and a left hand as useful as an amputee’s, I usually bend those rules, cut open the tea bag, and suck down a grande Starbucks China Green as usual while listening to a Justin Timberlake song and pondering what shade of black to wear to happy hour – hoping that I see an angel or a duck at the bottom of my cup before I give up trying to find “blob” in the tea readers’ dictionary. 

My HopStop app tells me where to go, why can’t there be a similar invention that unveils the areas of my life that get me just as lost as the subways do?  I even refuse to believe that the saying “when lightning strikes” is only used metaphorically, and I wouldn’t put it past myself in a moment of desperation to stand outside in an electrical storm with a rod.  I believe in signs, I believe in vibes, I’ve apparently been frying under the California sun for 4 years too many.  Some may find my need-to-know attitude somewhat desperate…but ya know, sometimes you’re just too hurt or too busy or too ashamed to figure things out on your own, and you need a smack from the universe…or a search engine…to hit you with the facts. 

Damsel in Yogurtland

There's an old saying "you don't choose who you love" that I used to find so romantic and whimsical.  Like the second you meet someone you're sucked into an inescapable pink vortex of cuddles and overwhelming emotion; like it's meant to be. But if I've learned one thing in roughly a decade of mistake-ridden romances (starting with my butterflies at the sight of Brendan Brody in the sax section at band rehearsals in middle school and extending to my half-year on again/off again series of romantic misdemeanors with a certain hipster ginger) it's that you can choose.  In fact you should.

Telling yourself you didn't choose this love many times means accepting him for all his wrong-doings.  Lord knows I forgave my beloved Brendan when he made fun of my braces and frizzy hair because I was convinced that my heart had closed the final chapter and there was no rewrite to my middle school melodrama.  And although my mouth is no longer full of metal and I like to think of myself as a savvy woman, I still decide to forgive the men in my life who have used my heart as a soccer ball.  But guess what?  We're not Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty or Snow White.  We're women who wish our hair looked half as good as those damsels, but we're also women who save ourselves.  We're women who pack 3 suitcases for a long weekend because we need outfit options, who layer 7 toppings on our fat-free fro-yo, and who go through every filter on Instagram before posting.  We can't survive without choices!  So why is love any different?

There are too many options in this world to settle for a relationship that's sub-par or flat or downright disrespectful.  I choose to be happy.  And if love comes along as a perk?  Well then I'll consider giving him a bite of my 8 ounces of self-serve frozen yogurt.

like a lady. a ravenous lady.

Last night I decided to be a grown up and attend an exhibition opening at MoMA.  I was trying, I really was - I even did all the necessary grown up prep-work.  I washed my face in the bathroom sink at work –blotting it dry with paper towels like any normal self-respecting employee, put on my LBD in a stall, applied my red lipstick painstakingly in a Starbucks sugar dispenser, and arrived fashionably late after a rather graphic transition from flats to heels on the subway.  Did I mention I had a date meeting me?  I told the lady at the door my name and she checked me off on her iPad guest list like I was somebody.  I mean...she didn't have to know my dress was from American Eagle clearance rack and I paid for my hair pins in change 15 minutes earlier at the drugstore...I was now among an elite modern art crowd and I was determined to soak it all in.

After teetering into the center of the cavernous lobby on my 5 inch heels, I hit the open bar to wait for my date.  I snacked on bacon strips ravenously....like a lady.  A ravenous lady.  I was hit on by an older Frenchman in real estate while I briefly imagined our life together in a Soho loft with a walk-in closet of bought love.  I quickly realized as I did the math on our age difference that as much as I’d love to be a gold-digger, I don’t have the stomach to take care of my bedpan-clad husband when I’m rounding my 34^th birthday – even if I’m doing it Louboutins.  I cursed morals.  I almost spilled my wine.  I gnawed on another 3 strips of bacon.

The exhibition itself included various portrayals of hamburgers, one in bean bag chair form, and I left the gallery starved for beef and with a deep-seeded desire to fall asleep on a LoveSac. Burgers.  That reminded me! I missed Bob’s Burgers this past Sunday.  I checked Hulu on my phone to see if there was a new episode. I think I sent a snap chat.  I verbally expressed each free floating thought (I blame the smell of modern art in the air) -- and yet my date stuck it out.  I even changed out of my sexy pumps into my grandma flats in the middle of the street…And he still agreed to follow me to a random gastropub in the middle of the worst part of Midtown where I proceeded to order my craved sliders and talk incessantly about nothing at all. 

Living in a city may nudge you closer to cultural experiences, but it’s other pastime is to ensure emotional isolation.  You’ve never felt more alone than when you are smushed against 8.2 million strangers on your way to life. In the meantime you get very up close and personal with yourself.  I’ve embraced this with a vigor, apparently, and I’m slowly morphing into a blatant carnivore as well as the little old lady who hits people with her cane in grocery stores (except I’m not nearly as endearing; I think the identifier for it at my age is “menace to society” or “psycho bitch”).  To top it all off I left one black Calvin Klein pump at the bar a la a very brunette, tipsier Cinderella - for the record it fell out my bag, but in New York it’s not at all uncommon to find yourself en route home on the G train at 3 AM wondering why your barefoot is wet before realizing you lost your sandal 5 blocks and one transfer ago.

Dating is exhausting. Living in the city is absolutely depleting.  Put them together and it’s amazing I can stand.  I’ve come to the conclusion that in all instances, being inexcusably yourself is the only way to avoid going absolutely insane or collapsing from sensory overload.  So I’m going to eat an inappropriate amount of bacon in an art gallery because I’m hungry.  And I really love bacon.  And I’ll sure as hell wear whichever shoes don’t make my toes want to fall off on a date despite the fact they make my legs look like stumps.  And these are things that the 8.2 million people around me are just going to have to deal with.

Sexy Excel

I can personally attest that New York City will make you crazy.  You wonder why there are grown men dressed in overgrown ratty Elmo costumes wandering around Times Square assaulting innocent bystanders with $15 hugs?  You wonder why the man in the handicap seat on your morning commute is always muttering about banana peels and sexy legs?  You ever scratch your head as to why assless chaps and a cowboy hat is a completely acceptable ensemble at most parades and all McDonald’s in the 5 boroughs??  Well I will tell you. 

You too will crack eventually under this city’s constant pressure.  You may not resort to a homeless lifestyle or moonlighting (and daylighting) as Hello Kitty, but little by little you’ll feel its effects.   Here’s a brief list of facts that are slowly leading to my personal demise:

 

1.        Everyone is gay.  Don’t get me wrong…I love all humans- gay straight blue green omnivores or NASCAR fans, but the ladies need some love too.  That well-dressed, perfectly coiffed man you’re desperately trying to make eye contact with on the 7 platform?  He has no interest in your parts, my dear girl. When I first moved to New York I was convinced I had found a utopian wonderland of men and I proceeded to fall in love 8 times a day on average.  Silly, naive me.  Then I noticed that these gorgeous creatures weren’t smiling at me…they were smiling at the dude to my left.  Now I’m sure I’ll never find anyone in this town because all the good men are gay, and all the straight good men I will pass off as gay and miss out on….BECAUSE EVERYONE IS GAY.

2.       Every day you rise out of bed, put on your gross flats, stuff your pretty pumps in your bag and head out to battle.  Getting anywhere in the city is a pain in the ass, but getting to work during rush hour is inhuman.  I use that word purposefully as there are any number of animal metaphors that can be used to describe the stages.  Climbing the stairs to your connecting train like a cow in a cattle chute.  Walking the 5 blocks from Times Square to Herald Square area like a salmon swimming upstream…except instead of fighting a current of water you’re fighting a current of under-caffeinated, late New Yorkers.  I’d take sub-zero water temperatures 7 times out of 10.  You get home at 8 PM wondering, "Where did my energy go???" …well you elbowed 3 finance  guys in the briefcase at a stop light, got gouged in the eye with an oncoming umbrella, was squeezed mercilessly by the closing subway doors (come onnn MTA, would motion sensors kill you?? Because the lack of them is literally killing me), and overall you walked about 3 miles total throughout the day. 

3.       There is always an asshole wearing a backpack standing in front of you on the crowded subway smothering your face.  Coming in at 5’3’, I’ve been besieged by any kind of backpack you can imagine: Patagonia, LL Bean, leather, hipster fabric, Pikachu.  Of course the owner of such a destructive piece of luggage is usually around 6’2” and completely unaware the havoc he’s reeking to my face behind him.  PS- I haven’t worn a backpack since middle school. Unless you’re 12, get a grown up satchel or remove the thing before boarding my G train.

4.       Speaking of backpacks, living in the city means that you are at all times carrying at least half of what you own on you at any given moment while out and about.  I live in Brooklyn.  I work in midtown Manhattan.  These locations might as well be Sri Lanka and Alabama.  There is no quick trip home to grab your gym clothes, and who knows when you might need your toothbrush, 3 types of face wash, rain boots, and a box of Goldfish snack crackers?? They don’t call it the concrete jungle for nothin’, kids.  Come prepared.  Coming prepared means being a human pack mule.   I don’t think I’ve ever walked through my apartment doors at the end of the day with less than 70% of my weight in necessities hanging off my 110 lb. frame.

 

Even just WRITING this entry has exhausted me.  Instead of rounding off the list to a socially acceptable 5 reasons, I’m capping this bitch at 4…because I’m a New Yorker and I really just don’t care.  But ya know something?? I wouldn’t trade this lifestyle for anything.  New York is a concentrated dose of humanity…anything you want to believe about people is on display right outside your stoop.  The good the bad the horrific the questionable smelling – we’ve got it all.  You can keep your well-rested, vanilla life.  I have giant bags under my eyes and the greatest city in the world.