Over the weekend, my boyfriend Michael visited his mom and his sister, who was home from school for the weekend, out in the burbs. He told them he was going to propose to me soon, and his sister said she already knew that because she reads my work. Whoops! I’m so glad I don’t talk much about our sex life here.
The reality of working as a writer, and specifically as a woman writer, while in a relationship comes with a few problems. I can’t say anything too specific about Michael, and I’m glad he has such a common first name, because it makes him hard to identify. Part of that gladness stems from the fact that there are nutso predators on the Internet who might take issue with what I have to say and decide to make my life worse by making life worse for the people I love. The other part of it is that I am an unconventional woman with strong, non-mainstream opinions, and I don’t want them to be attached to my boyfriend’s public persona. Dating someone doesn’t mean you agree with everything they say or believe, after all. My job in terms of his career is to show up at the annual holiday party and be charming. His bosses don’t need to know anything else about me lest they start believing that because I’m unconventional, Michael is also less conventional than they’ve been led to believe (he is less conventional than he comes off, but not in the leftist/feminist/sex positive/gender nonconformist/takes clothes off on the Internet sort of way). Keep reading »
For a period of time after I broke up with the man I’d been dating for four years, all I wore was black. I mourned the relationship by donning a widow’s wardrobe. Shapeless t-shirts, a wool sweater with a stretched out collar, an old pair of ballet slippers. I couldn’t imagine any other combination, besides black on top of more black.
I dressed like this for six months. Then one day, out of nowhere it seemed, an unexpected sartorial shift occurred: I reached for color again, but now, I suddenly wanted to put together outfits that can only be described as, well, “ugly.” Keep reading »
I have a theory: Esquire is on women’s side when it comes to the whole friendzone thing. Meaning, they get it. When a woman decides that she’s not romantically interested in one of her male friends, that’s kind of the bottom line. She’s drawn her boundaries in their relationship and that’s the end of the story. And that’s why they’re giving men terrible, terrible fashion advice to get out of the “friendzone.” Keep reading »