I was really young and naïve when I met Christian* at a nightclub. By “young,” I mean 18 and by “naïve,” I mean an inexperienced dater who thought men would only like me for my intelligence.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Christian asked some other club goers in line. I looked behind me to see where the beautiful girl was. I certainly didn’t think it was me. But he pointed at me again. He was standing in the club’s entryway wearing big, Buddy Holly glasses, black leather pants, and reeking of “teen icon.” Then he smiled – a wide, devilish grin. With one hand, he offered me a lollipop; with the other he held a whiskey on the rocks. In fact, in the four years (on and off) that we were involved, Christian usually had a whiskey on the rocks. It was like his signature accessory. Keep reading »
I’ve always considered fighting to be a really important part of a relationship. Almost as important as how we f**k. Hear me out on this one. Just like screwing, I’ve always thought that there needed to be a balance, a compatibility in the way my dude and I verbally sparred. If we fought the same — either by withdrawing emotionally or screaming obscenities or sobbing tears of rage — our disagreements would never, ever end. I’m a weeper and, at times, an emotional mess. Often the only thing that can pull me out of the sinkhole is the soothing voice and manner of someone — a man, in this case — taking charge and putting an end to a fight as swiftly as it began. It’s the one area of my life where sometimes I feel like I need a little “saving.” Keep reading »
I think we can all agree that the internet has made it much, much harder to get over a breakup. Sure, you may have successfully erased his number from your phone, used his junior high football T-shirt as a rag, put away all your couple photos, ordered him never to call again, and cursed him to hell, but all of that effort is almost a waste considering he’s just a click of the mouse away.
After a while, though, watching how he’s growing in the midriff via Facebook photos loses its luster. You already know almost everything about him anyway, after all that time you spent/wasted. But what about his new girlfriend? She’s someone to be curious about. Keep reading »
When I was offered the opportunity to be one of “New York’s Most Eligible Bachelorettes” in a major local magazine, I laughed out loud. “There’s no way I will ever meet a guy that way,” I complained to my friends. “Why even bother? I already meet tons of guys. They just all suck. Plus, I’m happy alone.” After much coaxing, I decided my friends were right. I couldn’t turn down a professional photo shoot or an opportunity to get as close as I ever would to my fantasy of becoming the next “Bachelorette.” If only I liked to wear bikinis and go bungee-jumping, maybe ABC would consider me for the series. Keep reading »
He does not want to sleep with me. It’s been three weeks and nothing. Not just nothing—I mean the complete absence of sexuality in an awkward, platonic way. We go out to dinner several nights a week and we kiss, hug, and hold hands in public. I’ve met most of his friends at this point and we’ve even spent nights together. And yet, nothing. I have tried every trick in the book to get him to seal the deal—I’ve smooched and even fondled him. And yet Matt remands steadfast and as abstinent as a priest. Keep reading »
My name is Kate. Just Kate—not Kathleen or Catherine or anything like that. I’ve always really liked my name. I like that it’s one quick, strong syllable. I like that it means “pure.” I like that it’s a woman’s name and isn’t at all girly like Katie. I even like the celebrities—Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett—who share my name.
However, I don’t like that it’s really freaking common. Keep reading »
I feel like I need to issue a preemptive apology to my mother, my boyfriend’s mother and my boyfriend’s grandmother: I won’t be a “fun” bride.
I will probably be more of a wet blanket, really. I won’t get excited about table settings or flower girl dresses. I won’t even care about the cake (much). I’m a little excited about buying a special dress for the Big Day, but honestly, whenever I look at wedding dress prices, I start to hyperventilate. Keep reading »
A couple months ago I discovered that the husband half of a couple I’ve known for years was leaving his wife for one of his grad students. I was shocked. I mean, I’ve had friends go through relationship ups and downs before, but this couple was one I’d always looked up to as a relationship ideal. It sounds cliché, but they seemed like the perfect couple. They were both creative, independent (yet also very supportive of each other) and seemed very much in love. They went on adventurous vacations, were both still super hot—hell, they even had a house with a white picket fence! How could they break up?! How could they do this to me?! Keep reading »
I’ve been in therapy for, oh, almost four years, I think. I go once a week, for 45 minutes. I spend a lot of time talking about myself, obviously — issues I have from the past that I need to work on because they’re affecting me in the present (and potentially the future), as well as the usual topics I need to vent about (work, money, family, etc.) so I don’t go postal. But mostly, I talk about boys.
When I say I talk about boys, what I mean is that I talk a lot about the issues the dudes in my life are having, how they’re affecting me and, thus, us, and how improvements need to be made in order for them to be better partners. I play amateur psychologist during my little 45 minute sessions each week with my doc, diagnosing each and every one of these boyfriends based on the knowledge I’ve gathered as a patient myself. I have evolved and healed in innumerable ways through my own treatment. I was (almost) fixed, so let me fix them.
Keep reading »
I used to hate women on diets. They look at your frosted brownie, then at your waist, then at your cookie again. Women on diets whine, “I can’t eat that…” They poke and prod their bellies and upper arms like displeased factory inspectors. They complain about how “fat” they look seemingly because they want someone to compliment them. Let’s face it: women on “diets” are annoying.
Me? I thought I’d just count calories because I’m trying to lose weight. Keep reading »