This is a chapter length excerpt about dating from my forthcoming memoir entitled "These Uneven Bars are Too Uneven, I Blame the Patriarchy" You can not possibly be bored enough to read the whole thing.
Last night, I went on a date. With myself. (And yes, I totally scored!)
You see, my romantic life has been a bit of a mess this past year and now, here I am, 30 years old and (gasp!) still single (Ok, I'm not actually 30 yet, but 29 and 5/6ths doesn't have the same lyrical ring or cultural stigma). According to most magazines, this is my worst nightmare (as long as I don't accidentally wear neutral tones this Fall. Oh, the horror!). According to my grandmother, it's means that I'm "too independent" (although the magazines would probably agree with her) The fact that I'm a stuver only makes it worse ("stuver" is my combination of student and server...I couldn't bear the painful accuracy of the misspelled alternative, "servent") Fortunately, at this rate, I figure I can take all of that cash that I've been storing away to buy frilly dresses for my not yet conceived daughter and start investing in medicine to combat my allergic reaction to the fifty or so cats that I am determined to accumulate.
I digress. Back to my date. I've had a long week. When I'm not sitting on my ass begging academics to give me money in written words, I'm running said ass off at a restaurant begging random strangers to give me money with spoken words (determining which one of those of audiences is more pretentious might be more difficult than you think). It's exhausting. So, having emailed a rough draft of my funding application to my advisor, complete with an incomplete final sentence, I decided to treat myself to a movie.
(As an aside, Terence Mann was close. If you build it, and stock it with popcorn and beer, they will come...)
I generally prefer to go to theaters by myself. I hate people talking or moving or chewing or breathing or basically existing anywhere near me during a movie. I don't want to be distracted, especially if it is one of those plotless, character-development driven stories that has all the requisite love, death and indie-rock-music-playing-in-the-background scenes that really accentuate the pain of a mundane existence. I need to focus in order to develop the proper level of profound, pseudo-existential angst that the writer, director and music-picker-guy have so diligently worked to contrive for me. And this was just that kind of movie (actually, it's based on a true story and pretty heartfelt. It's called "Beginners." Look it up).
Now, while this post is intended to advocate for people, and especially women, to be comfortable doing things alone in public (insert obvious sexual joke), it is crucial to be thoughtful and careful in choosing when to go and what to see. If you're running on no sleep and lots of stress, you've been feeling hormonal and hungover all day, and you're still working through some break-up anxieties, don't go to see a movie that you already know is about death and love. I mean, it's one thing to be a strong, proud, feminist who doesn't need a date to go out. But it's an entirely different thing to be a 30 year-old stuver blubbering into your overpriced PBR tallboy while Ewan McGregor conjures his best puppy dog face. That shit's just sad.
It was a good movie, though (and, honestly, Ewan McGregor was surprisingly good. He's got a big head. I like it). And despite there being more people than I prefer, I left feeling appropriately pensive. So I did what any self-respecting, broke-ass, emotionally vulnerable, 30 year-old stuver does after she's seen a sad movie by herself...
I went to a bar.
The Bookhouse Pub is one of those uber-hipster places where, when you can finally make out the bartender's face beneath his full-body tattoos and the fedora he got from Urban Outfitters, you instinctively recoil from the smug hatred emanating from his over-privileged eyes (in reality, the bartender was quite nice and knowing the life stories of the bartenders at my quasi-hipster restaurant, where they're required to wear fedoras, he's probably just a kid trying to pay his bills. But you get the idea. I'm definitely not cool enough to be there). I ordered a beer that I can't afford and started reading Tina Fey's autobiography, Bossypants.
And then I started laughing. Out loud. Almost uncontrollably (step one to becoming crazy, alcoholic, cat-lady...check!).
But my laughter led to a pleasant conversation with the barback, which was part of the point. In fact, I strongly recommend this strategy for sitting at a bar alone. Take a funny book and laugh a lot. It's an easy way for strangers to start a conversation because they'll just have to know what you're reading. Better yet, take a book that isn't funny, like Mein Kampf, but continue to laugh uproariously. In my experience, the most interesting conversations always start with, "Oh, that Hitler. What a jokester..."
I ended the night back at my house with a slice of pizza and the rest of that book. All in all, I would say it was a rousing success (if only because I cried during the movie, and not during dinner, this time...).
What's the point, you ask? Well, honestly, there isn't one (I can't believe you even made it this far, although the fact that you're still reading makes me feel better about how boring and lame my life is. Thank you for that). But, if I had to come up with some new-agey message to make up for the way I just insulted you, it would be that it's important to find a way to be alone without being lonely. It's a difficult thing, I'm realizing, but the first steps are to accept that you don't need someone else to validate that you're a fun, interesting person (unless, of course, you're actually not interesting or fun) and not to be afraid to put yourself out there, even if it makes you look like a crazy fool (especially, of course, if you actually are a crazy fool).
If those don't work, publicly mocking you own self-pity seems to be a decent alternative...
---I would like to thank my editor and muse, Jordann Johnson, for his endless patience and merciless witticisms. If it weren't for you, this blog would have no audience.
Last night, I went on a date. With myself. (And yes, I totally scored!)
You see, my romantic life has been a bit of a mess this past year and now, here I am, 30 years old and (gasp!) still single (Ok, I'm not actually 30 yet, but 29 and 5/6ths doesn't have the same lyrical ring or cultural stigma). According to most magazines, this is my worst nightmare (as long as I don't accidentally wear neutral tones this Fall. Oh, the horror!). According to my grandmother, it's means that I'm "too independent" (although the magazines would probably agree with her) The fact that I'm a stuver only makes it worse ("stuver" is my combination of student and server...I couldn't bear the painful accuracy of the misspelled alternative, "servent") Fortunately, at this rate, I figure I can take all of that cash that I've been storing away to buy frilly dresses for my not yet conceived daughter and start investing in medicine to combat my allergic reaction to the fifty or so cats that I am determined to accumulate.
I digress. Back to my date. I've had a long week. When I'm not sitting on my ass begging academics to give me money in written words, I'm running said ass off at a restaurant begging random strangers to give me money with spoken words (determining which one of those of audiences is more pretentious might be more difficult than you think). It's exhausting. So, having emailed a rough draft of my funding application to my advisor, complete with an incomplete final sentence, I decided to treat myself to a movie.
(As an aside, Terence Mann was close. If you build it, and stock it with popcorn and beer, they will come...)
I generally prefer to go to theaters by myself. I hate people talking or moving or chewing or breathing or basically existing anywhere near me during a movie. I don't want to be distracted, especially if it is one of those plotless, character-development driven stories that has all the requisite love, death and indie-rock-music-playing-in-the-background scenes that really accentuate the pain of a mundane existence. I need to focus in order to develop the proper level of profound, pseudo-existential angst that the writer, director and music-picker-guy have so diligently worked to contrive for me. And this was just that kind of movie (actually, it's based on a true story and pretty heartfelt. It's called "Beginners." Look it up).
Now, while this post is intended to advocate for people, and especially women, to be comfortable doing things alone in public (insert obvious sexual joke), it is crucial to be thoughtful and careful in choosing when to go and what to see. If you're running on no sleep and lots of stress, you've been feeling hormonal and hungover all day, and you're still working through some break-up anxieties, don't go to see a movie that you already know is about death and love. I mean, it's one thing to be a strong, proud, feminist who doesn't need a date to go out. But it's an entirely different thing to be a 30 year-old stuver blubbering into your overpriced PBR tallboy while Ewan McGregor conjures his best puppy dog face. That shit's just sad.
It was a good movie, though (and, honestly, Ewan McGregor was surprisingly good. He's got a big head. I like it). And despite there being more people than I prefer, I left feeling appropriately pensive. So I did what any self-respecting, broke-ass, emotionally vulnerable, 30 year-old stuver does after she's seen a sad movie by herself...
I went to a bar.
The Bookhouse Pub is one of those uber-hipster places where, when you can finally make out the bartender's face beneath his full-body tattoos and the fedora he got from Urban Outfitters, you instinctively recoil from the smug hatred emanating from his over-privileged eyes (in reality, the bartender was quite nice and knowing the life stories of the bartenders at my quasi-hipster restaurant, where they're required to wear fedoras, he's probably just a kid trying to pay his bills. But you get the idea. I'm definitely not cool enough to be there). I ordered a beer that I can't afford and started reading Tina Fey's autobiography, Bossypants.
And then I started laughing. Out loud. Almost uncontrollably (step one to becoming crazy, alcoholic, cat-lady...check!).
But my laughter led to a pleasant conversation with the barback, which was part of the point. In fact, I strongly recommend this strategy for sitting at a bar alone. Take a funny book and laugh a lot. It's an easy way for strangers to start a conversation because they'll just have to know what you're reading. Better yet, take a book that isn't funny, like Mein Kampf, but continue to laugh uproariously. In my experience, the most interesting conversations always start with, "Oh, that Hitler. What a jokester..."
I ended the night back at my house with a slice of pizza and the rest of that book. All in all, I would say it was a rousing success (if only because I cried during the movie, and not during dinner, this time...).
What's the point, you ask? Well, honestly, there isn't one (I can't believe you even made it this far, although the fact that you're still reading makes me feel better about how boring and lame my life is. Thank you for that). But, if I had to come up with some new-agey message to make up for the way I just insulted you, it would be that it's important to find a way to be alone without being lonely. It's a difficult thing, I'm realizing, but the first steps are to accept that you don't need someone else to validate that you're a fun, interesting person (unless, of course, you're actually not interesting or fun) and not to be afraid to put yourself out there, even if it makes you look like a crazy fool (especially, of course, if you actually are a crazy fool).
If those don't work, publicly mocking you own self-pity seems to be a decent alternative...
---I would like to thank my editor and muse, Jordann Johnson, for his endless patience and merciless witticisms. If it weren't for you, this blog would have no audience.
3 comments:
"If those don't work, publicly mocking you own self-pity seems to be a decent alternative..."
I have a feeling that somewhere this "editor" of yours must be hanging his head in shame.
My guess would also be that he would (rather predictably) have a snide remark or two to make about the situation described in this blog post that would strain the bounds of good taste. God, I hate that guy.
If you're interested in writing an edited volume, i'm in.
Not enough sandscripts. I liked it anyway.
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