Monthly Archives: March 2012

What Carrie Bradshaw Never Told You

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It is Saturday night and I am young and single.

I should be out dancing the night away or batting my eyelashes at some cutie across from me at a table in some restaurant.

Instead, it is 10:29 p.m CST, I’m in my PJs, and “Too Cute!” has been playing on my television for the past 1.5 hours.

I think somewhere on the single train, I went terribly wrong.

Or did I?

I have been open to dating since I moved to the Big D. I told myself I would say yes and be willing and ready to hang out with all sorts of Southern gentlemen. I even went on a breakfast date and if you know me, you know I find any sort of movement before noon on a Saturday sacrilegous. But, I’ve discovered two very important things: 1) dating is exhausting and 2) Southern accents aren’t charming after a month.

I always thought when I watched Carrie galavanting around NYC or Joan fending off men with her 3-month rule that dating was supposed to be fun. Carefree. Exciting. And, I guess on my good days, it is. However, on my not so good days, I trade in my Carrie optimism for Charlotte’s quote: “I’ve been dating since I was 15. I’m exhausted. Where is he?”

I’m not necessarily in search of a “he.” In fact, that whole concept scares me but that’s a different blog post for a different day. The truth is, getting dolled up, being bubbly and outgoing to a complete stranger in hopes of a decent conversation (and maybe a decent lay down the road), and then realizing you’re really not in to that person is, well, exhausting. Dating isn’t easy and it often results in a sub par time with an OK person. True chemistry is hard to come by and even harder to forget once you’ve had it.

Some nights, I’d much rather just watch “Too Cute!”

And, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Love freely,

tY

Money, Power, Respect

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It has been said that love conquers all.

I am here today to tell you that is an absolute load of crock.

Life tells us there are certain ways decent human beings behave. They treat others the way they want to be treated. They make an honest living. They don’t judge a book by its cover. The list continues. Something all of us decent humans try to live by is not judging people based on their income. Ok, so far, so good.

But, scientific studies have shown that women correlate a man’s attractiveness level to his income. Guess that non-judgment is out the window.

So, the question: does a man’s income matter?

This has been discussed and debated for longer than I’ve been alive. But, I will give you my answer in short: yes.

I know, I know. I’m a bad person. A gold digger. I am everything else you want to call me. But, I am also honest.

I’ve told myself I like artsy guys. Idealistic soul searchers. Dreamers. But, at the end of the day, if you don’t know how to pay rent, your Langston Hughes aspirations are worth nothing. It’s not about a man with money having power; let’s be real, I have enough of my own power to go around. It’s not about a guy funding some extravagant lifestyle for me; I am perfectly OK with my Wednesday night zumba classes and Friday night Chipotle excursions. It is about stability. Yes, ish hits the fan, people lose jobs, and the economy is a blow. I don’t dismiss any of those things. But, The real world has jaded me enough now to know love, cupcakes and rainbows do not fund electric bills.

So, the answer is not “I have to marry a millionaire.” No, not at all. But, yes, I do want security. I do want a 50/50 split. I want to live the same life I have been living with my own salary. And, if that makes me a gold digger, well get down girl, go head get down.

Love freely,

tY

Touch Points

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Now that I’m in rotation 2 of 3, obviously I’m a seasoned veteran.

Not.

But, one thing I’ve learned is moving is a predictable ebb and flow sort of process. The first month in a new place is marked by that saccharine feeling of everything being new. The gym, the job, the chick-fila down the street (wait, is that just me?)—all of those things are awesome just because they’re new.

Around the second month is when reality (also known as homesickness) sets in. This is the time when it goes from “Everything here is awesome!” to “Oh, wait…I actually have to make a life here for the next seven months.” What’s interesting now, however, is that I don’t actually miss home (as in Maryland). In fact, that seems sort of like a foreign concept. Now, I miss the East Coast. Fast pace. Rude people. All of that.

So, last night as I drowned my nostalgic sorrows in buffalo wings and breadsticks courtesy of Pizza Hut, I realized this journey often times leaves us without any touch points. I’m now in a place where I don’t necessarily fit in, yet I now feel so disconnected from a lot of the people and places I grew up with. (I ended that sentence with a preposition. But, I’m not sure how else to end it. Oops.)

In some ways, moving is like love. Only the people actually experiencing it know what the hell is going on. They can describe it to others and other people will punctuate those descriptions with smiles or frowns or questions. But, ultimately, only the people living through the experience will know and understand fully the triumphs and challenges associated with it.

So, I’m kind of an emotional (and physical) nomad, plopped down somewhere and left to sift through the pieces myself. I guess I have to become my own touch point.

One of the quotes I live by is something I stumbled upon a year ago on the cusp of college graduation while reading Ellyn Spragins, “What I Know Now About Success: Letters from Extraordinary Women to Their Younger Selves.”  It’s the letter author Suzy Welch writes to herself at age 23 as a reporter for the Miami Herald.

“Look, every journey—every daring leap we make—has its tough patches. Its hours of loneliness, its days and nights of doubts. Every journey takes you outside your comfort zone and away from what is familiar—if it is a journey worth taking.”