I’ve been trying on men lately like Goldilocks testing out chairs and porridge, vacillating between one extreme and the other — scalding hot and limply cold, too soft and too damn hard.
Sunday night’s premiere episode of HBO’s new comedy “Girls” drove home this idea of extremes when it comes to self-selecting men: the difficulty of finding one that is just right and why we continue to dwell on the very, very wrong ones.
Judging from my social media streams and a litany of text messages from friends, most of us watching “Girls” were struck by the dilemma of dating the asshole versus dating the nice guy and how neither is a viable option. Keep reading »
By the time you’ve reached your 30s, you have likely been on dozens of first dates. Be they through a set up, a slurry meeting in a bar, a random encounter on the street or an online dating website, the first date almost always goes through the same motions: Non-alcoholic Beverage + Light Snack, Small Talk, Promotion to Cocktail/Dinner, Walk home/Light Petting/Awkward Kiss.
The entire time that question hangs expectantly in the air: How do you know? Not how do you know this is the man you want to marry and have babies with, but how do you know this is someone you want to have sex with for the next several months and see where things go? Keep reading »
Anyone who thinks that women are the needy gender when it comes to Valentine’s Day was not up in my inbox on this particular Hallmark holiday.
Without fail I receive three phone calls on the special day, whether or not I am in a relationship. One call comes from my mother — who, like Viola Davis bolstering the egos of pudgy babies in “The Help” —reminds me that I am smart, pretty and have an OK job.
One of my girlfriends inevitably calls to wail about her douche boyfriend/lack of a douche boyfriend.
And without fail, at least one ex-boyfriend will leave a voicemail just saying, “Hey.” Keep reading »
The first rule of man boobs: Don’t talk about the man boobs. Following that: Don’t touch the man boobs. And like a lackey on a Nicholas Cage set, do not look the man boobs in the eye. Errr, nipple.
In my decade and a half experience negotiating male bodies, I have seen some things. Male genitalia obviously comes in all shapes, sizes and easterly orientations. Y chromosomes often cause their carrier vessels to have hair in the strangest of places (and shapes).
But what I had never encountered until age 31 was the man boob — until recently. I may be an anomaly. None of my friends were shocked when I told them I chanced upon a man with breasts. There is even a slang for them. The gays apparently call them “moobs.” Of course in that community, they are shunned and sentenced to the David Barton Gym for immediate alteration. Doctors, I have been told, refer to it as gynecomastia. It’s the abnormal development of larger than normal mammary glands in men resulting in the appearance of breasts. The terms literally comes from the Greek, gyne, meaning woman, and mastos, meaning breasts: men with lady breasts. It often happens when men past 30 let themselves go. Meaning it often happens to men past 30.
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