I probably could have written the Modern Love essay, Exit Left, Wordlessly, in this past Sunday’s New York Times. Not that I could have penned it better than writer Aimee Lee Ball, just that I have a story which is frighteningly similar. Ball’s tale is about breaking up with a man only to have him resurface eight years later for round two. But instead of the happy ending that would ensue in Rom-Com Land, after a few months of “too good to be true” dating, the man disappeared from her life without explanation. “No message. No note,” she says. I refer to this dating phenomenon as ghosting — when a man disappears without a trace.
“Ambiguous loss” as Ball calls it, is a particularly heinous and cruel way to have a relationship end because you’re left without any indication of what might have gone wrong.”[It's] unfinished business, without closure or understanding,” Ball explains. Keep reading »
Recently, a friend sent me a link to a YouTube video called “Can Men and Women Just Be Friends?” I rolled my eyes. I hate that question. It’s heteronormative and sexist, and yet, I clicked anyway.
The video has more than 5 million views. In it, women on a college-campus all say, “Yes! Of course men and women can be friends.” But the college-aged men aren’t sure. They report always wanting “something more.” The women also admit that many of their male friends have crushes on them. Watching, I squirmed in my seat. The video hints at some unnamed truth in the male/female friendship dynamic: the male friend who is in love with you, who you kind of lead on but who you do love, in some way. I understand this phenomenon all too well. Keep reading »
Tipping the scales at 300 pounds through college made meeting my beloved at a frat party or in the dining hall impossible. It wasn’t just the reactions I received from the opposite sex, but since I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin, how could I trust anyone else to be comfortable with me? At 23, I found myself with a great job at CBS News, living in the city that never sleeps and 132 pounds lighter – aka suddenly desirable to men. Yet not only had I never been kissed, but I had never been on a date. I had worked hard to lose the pounds, but was not ready for the attention that came with it. Keep reading »
2011 had scarcely started before my life turned into a heaping pile of dog shit.
The Frisky was being sold to new owners and our jobs (and paychecks) were held in balance. My boyfriend started diddling around with some girl on the Internet, got caught, and dumped me. He asked me to move out of our apartment and I moved back into my childhood bedroom in the suburbs.
All this happened in the span of two weeks.
My life looked as bleak as the January freeze outside — which, incidentally, trapped me indoors with my parents during a blizzard for longer than should be considered legal under the Geneva Convention.
But friends, family and even strangers surprised me with their mercy in the days, weeks, and months that followed. My best friend, who lives an ocean away, called constantly. My sister drove me down to New Jersey to help me move out of my apartment. A reverend who I barely knew spent hours on the phone talking me down from ledges of broken confidence and self-hatred. Frisky readers wrote me the sweetest, most uplifting blog comments and emails that brought me to tears. Amelia let me sleep on her couch. As my life as I knew it fell apart, I saw the strength of my support system, which I hadn’t even known I had. Keep reading »
Sometimes when I am sitting in a Starbucks on my lunch break, I will remember sitting there with Joey* nine years ago. I will see my 20-something self a few tables over, leaning forward towards him, my cheeks flushed. I will see my hands flailing through the air as I talk to him about my acting classes and ideas I have for future projects. I will see him looking sideways at me, biting his bottom lip, trying not to smile.
Sometimes when I find myself in the subway station a block from where he used to live, I will feel my feet hitting the concrete of the platform, and imagine his feet tracing those same steps over and over again on his daily routine. I will walk through his neighborhood and picture us walking together, our bodies so close I could feel the heat pass between our arms, but not quite letting them touch. Keep reading »
When I told Amelia I was going to write something about why I like bad dates, she asked me, “Do you really like them?”
“Of course not!” I replied. “Does anyone?”
No. Everyone hates bad dates. There is nothing that destroys your spirit more than spending an evening with someone whose company you quickly discover you can’t stand. A bad date can make you want to go home and take 17 showers or encourage you to start wearing ankle-length skirts. Because obviously, you are going to die a lonely spinster.
After exceptionally bad dates, my best friend used to joke, “I am having a funeral for my vagina.”
Her description, while hilarious, is not that far off. A bad date is like a mini-death. It’s a moment when your balloon of hope about the prospect of romance gets deflated. Keep reading »
When Trevor posted a Facebook suggestion that we go somewhere tropical where he could “teach me to scuba dive” and we could “smile again,” I jumped at the chance.
Trevor was six foot one, built like a SubZero and fluent in, at last count, five languages – several of which were dead. I was almost exactly half his size – a slender 120 pound, 5 foot 7 brunette with overwhelming ambition. We’d dated in graduate school, nearly eight years before, and after I joined Facebook we’d flirted back and forth. Keep reading »
I did not want to be in college and be a mom. And I’m not talking about having a baby, I’m talking about dating one.
Tom and I were just barely in our 20s and our wants were few. Most of the time, just being together was enough. So when he told me that he going to quit working as a NYC bike messenger during in his fifth year of college, I just thought that meant there would be more “us” time. Keep reading »
I believe you’ll remember Mike, the man who showed us how not to get a second date last week. While we’re still not sure if Mike is a douchebag or a man struggling with some very real issues, we present you with yet another one of his lengthy emails making its way around the interweb. This one comes via Danielle, a woman who claims to have been corresponding with Mike about a Craigslist rental back in 2006. This time, it’s the friendship end of the human interaction spectrum he’s after. Real? Copycat? Or maybe Mike never existed in the first place? Thoughts? Check out another one of “Mike”‘s alleged manifestos after the jump. [Observer] Keep reading »
Some of us may be feeling sorry for ourselves that we’re single this holiday season. But it could be worse! We could be getting a 1,615 word missive from a guy we went on one date with, chiding us for leading him on by playing with our hair too much and making eye contact. Such is the case for Lauren, who received a lengthy email from Mike — an investment banker who makes “real money, not Monopoly money” — in which he expresses his disappointment in her for not wanting to go on a second date. After the jump, you’ll find his unedited manifesto, which is making the rounds on the internet. Please read it in its entirety. To be honest, it’s hard to tell if Mike is suffering from some very real issues and, if so, what they are; some have suggested that Mike “obviously” is on the autism spectrum and therefore this email is not to be laughed at, while others think he is simply a Wall Street douchebag with a serious entitlement complex. Perhaps he is all of the above? Anyway, read on and discuss. [Observer]
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