Mathematical Equations in Dating

I'm no mathematician.

In my freshman year of college, I had to take remedial math.  Remedial math.  Like X + Y = Z kind of stuff.  Or something like that.  I don't know - I wasn't really paying attention.  Much like in high school, which I'm guessing is why I had to re-take it in the first place.

But as an adult, I've found that even though theorems and calculus rules have gone in one ear and right out the other during the course of my education, there are plenty of practical mathematical applications in my every day life.  Particularly when applied to dating.  For example, if date ideas were a mathematical equation, "dinner plus movie" would equal "yawn" - "yawn" being the truth to a proven theory that factor "dinner", when added to factor "movie" exponentially increases both parts of the equation to their highest intrinsic value and leads to answer "yawn".  ("Yawn" being the subject equivalent to a root canal.)  See how easy that equation was?  Yet, it seems to be rather difficult to understand when it comes to planning first dates.

Here's the deal:  It's not like I expect The Bachelor-style creativity (read:  reality TV-style fantasy) when it comes to first dates, but all I'm really looking for in a relationship is to connect with someone, and I've yet to find that connection over an awkward dinner and a mutually agreed-upon movie in which both parties are only semi-invested, as often neither person is willing to expose the true nature of their cinematic interests on a first date.  No, I've found that the best first connections are those which are not "dates" at all.  coffee and a stroll in the park (where the dog runs away); a lacrosse match followed by beers (where the guy's teammates show up and make themselves at home between you); playing pool at the local sports bar (where a heated argument ensues over the actual artist singing the song on the jukebox), or a Big 12 college football game (where the guy's team loses - terribly).  These are scenarios that make no logical sense whatsoever:  "attraction" plus "undesirable/embarrassing/frustrating situation" equals "inexplicable great first date".  

I'm a mathematical anomaly, because I'm a linear person, and like to go in a natural progression of order when it comes to my life - but there are some social cliches (such as dinner and a movie) that are so straight and narrow that I just can't abide by them.  Why must we "start" by "getting to know one another" in this way?  It feels to me as though the tradition of the idea of getting to know one another often supersedes actually just doing it.  There's something about the randomness - or perhaps messiness - of a non-traditional date that's so appealing to me.  Even my worst relationships have started with a great story - and at the end of the day, that's made the initial (sometimes unromantic) connection and (sometimes challenging) subsequent attempt at maintaining the relationship well worth it.  I would trade traditional first dates for witty banter and simple, human connections any day - and I'm well aware that there's nothing linear about that.  

So no offense, but I'll pass on dinner plus movie - it's not that romantic, memorable moments and conversation can't be had using that particular equation, or that outcome is the same for everyone.  Perhaps it's just that I've yet to meet the guy who can disprove the theory that "yawn" is the answer, but I'd rather play around with other factors and see if I can create my own mathematical truth in dating - even if it takes a number of failed attempts to get there.

But maybe I've got it all wrong, because I'm just not very good at math.

Their, There, They're

Facebook is a fascinating social phenomenon. Facebook allows us to all be connected in a very public forum, even with those whom we are only connected peripherally in "real life". On Facebook, it's okay to be connected to your brother-in-law's babysitter, or your housekeeper with whom your major "real life" interaction is a transfer of money (usually left on the counter) and very little - if any - personal conversation. Interesting where the boundaries of privacy become blurred when it comes to "real life" versus Facebook: you let your housekeeper into your house to clean your most intimate spaces, yet when your housekeeper's online status updates include the details of his or her family's vomit-filled weekend due to the flu or their depressingly public "poor me and my sad life" personal statements, (see The 12 Most Annoying Types of Facebookers) it all becomes more to handle than you'd like for a relationship with the person who cleans your toilets and invokes an unthinkable action in Facebookland: defriending. Which is okay, because really? Are you friends with your housekeeper? If so...well, then your next cleaning may be slightly more awkward, assuming that your housekeeper is online often enough (and stalking you online often enough) to know that you defriended him or her. In which case you should probably seek out a new housekeeper anyway.

Facebook also connects us - however peripherally - with those we'd really rather not be connected to. For example, an ex's new girlfriend. And while mild curiousity makes a quick sneak peek at said new girlfriend's online profile appealing, it can also be so very detrimental to one's self esteem. Now in "real life," when an ex obtains a new significant other, there is always the possibility that you - as the other half of the disbanded pair - will have to eventually meet the New Girl. And as luck - or lack thereof - will have it, you are likely to run into this happy couple when you have just exited the gym, after a particularly bad day at work, when it's that time of the month and also raining. And being the happy couple that they are, they're likely to be on their way out to dinner, dressed to the nines and looking fresh as though it was a balmy 72 degrees, because he'll be holding an umbrella over her head while gazing at her adoringly. This is likely to happen at some point, but hopefully - unless you are traveling in the same circle of friends - not with any regularity.

Unless you are on Facebook.

Because on Facebook, you have to decide - after the mutual (or one-sided) parting of your "real life" union - whether to remain friends online or end your Facebook relationship in addition to your "real" relationship. And even if you decide to end your online union by mutual defriending, you may still - due to individual privacy setting options available to Facebook users - end up seeing your ex's new girlfriend anyway. Even if you've decided that you want nothing to do with your ex - ever - you may find that between your group of 226 friends and his group of 447 friends online, somewhere down the road your friend paths will cross and in your goddamn mini feed will end up a tagged photo of your ex-boyfriend and the New Girl, looking fabulous of course - because naturally, only people's best photos are posted on the internet.

Lately, Facebook has been making me feel pretty good. I've been consistently validated by my friends and family for my "funny" status updates and dry sense of humor, which are probably the highest compliments I could receive, given that writing gives me a tremendous amount of joy and I've discovered that I'm much funnier online than in person (unless in the company of my dad and brothers, who somehow make me funny verbally by proxy).

However, every now and again I find that Facebook brings me down as unexpectedly as if I'd just seen my ex and his New Girl on the street right in front of my apartment, as their photos and comments and stories show up - through mutual friends - in my minifeed in such a way that I can't escape them and their irritating happiness.

Case in point: I commented on a photo in a friend's photo album. And he just so happens to be a friend that I met through an "ex" and who has continued to be a friend - long after the other shaky union dissolved - because he's just a nice guy, and frankly as peripherally as I know him, I know him a lot better than some of my other "friends" on Facebook so I'm unwilling to defriend him. Did that make sense? Anyway. Because I commented on his photo, other photo comments began to crop up on my notifications via Facebook, several of which were from my ex and his New Girl, who are both friends with my friend. And so I had to see the New Girl. And it was upsetting, because she's beautiful. And trendy. And frankly exactly the kind of girl I've always suspected my ex actually wanted to be with (instead of yours truly). And her profile picture includes my ex (as his includes her) - that kind of smiling, "aren't I soooo lucky?!" profile pic that's a knife to the heart of every jilted girl. And this is precisely the irritating, smug happiness I have been trying so hard to avoid. However, upon closer inspection of her Facebook comment on my friend's photo, I noticed something. Something that made me snicker. And then chuckle. And then feel smugly superior to the point where I now realize why my ex and the New Girl are so perfect for each other:

She wrote the word "there" when what she clearly meant to say was "they're" - which is exactly the kind of literary mistake my ex so often makes. Neither of them can write, and that's just perfect.

So I'm feeling a little Carrie Bradshaw this evening, a la "Attack of the 5' 10" Woman" episode - because I've discovered that despite New Girl's beauty, she's simply not as smart as me. Okay, that's harsh. Perhaps she's very intelligent, and simply lacks a dedication to grammar, punctuation and accurate spelling. But you know what? Those things are important to me. And just as Carrie discovered that Natasha didn't know the difference between "your" and "you're," I'm discovering that New Girl doesn't know the difference between "their," they're" and "their". Which doesn't "matter," per se, certainly not when it comes to love in the long run - but it makes me think about my talents and qualities, and what I bring to the table in a relationship, and that despite New Girl's beauty (and evident charm, at least to my ex), she's not perfect. I may not be 5' 10" - but at the end of the day, I can spell.

So their.

Dating Disaster #37 (Or, Why Do These Things Always Happen to Me?)

I don't really date a lot. As a matter of fact, I haven't "dated" anyone (seriously or otherwise) in...well, a while. And it's not because I'm jaded about guys, or sad about ex-boyfriends, or super bitchy to new guys I meet. I'm pretty laid-back, down to earth, sometimes funny, kind of cute (I'm aware that's completely subjective), socially competent, professionally successful and willing to take new adventures (I'm also aware this is beginning to read like a personal ad, but bear with me here). The point is: there's no good reason for my lack of dating, other than I'm just really not focused on it right now. But when I meet a guy who interests me (and who's interested in return), I get kind of excited about the whole dating process: the first call, the exclamation of delight over shared interests, the silly embarrassments of a first dinner, the awkwardness of a first kiss and the anticipation of the next time you meet.

However, I'm only surmising all of this "first date" stuff from what I've seen in romantic comedies, because none of that ever happens to me.

It all began a few Fridays ago...

I went out for my fellow hotelier friend's birthday (let's call her..."Joy") to a local karaoke bar in Seattle. Couple of things about the evening should be noted:

1. I went out by myself. Yes, I was fine with this. I wasn't going to invite a friend (as my other friends don't know Joy, and anyway I'm comfortable-ish by myself) and as I'm not dating anyone, it was either go solo or stay home. So I figured I would go out, and the worst case scenario would be that I would've spent an hour getting ready only to come home again if I wasn't having fun...right? (Keep reading.)

2. I don't really "do" karaoke. I have a decent to above average singing voice, but I'm often not quite confident enough to feel good about my performance, particularly when followed by other, better singers/performers.

3. I had no intention of "meeting" anyone.

So. I arrived at the bar and was immediately "introduced" (read: Joy shouted at the group of 15+ at large, "Hey everyone, this is Kelsey, say hi!") whereupon people looked up, smiled (some) and mumbled a couple of names I promptly forgot. I settled myself down in the only available space and made new friends with the people around me, ordered a drink, and began to enjoy the raucous, silly madness of a karaoke- and booze-filled evening. A few Bud Lights in, I decided to put my name in the queue to sing one of my fave old school country songs, "Every Little Thing" by Carlene Carter (June's daughter). I waited with baited breath each time a name was called, and felt a little "oh shit" pang when mine was eventually called - but decided to go for it anyway.

The tiki-themed scene of the crime.

My "performance" started off slow because I was nervous (so my voice was shaking a little) and as I don't usually sing karaoke, I had the mic too far from my mouth so I think the first 16 or so measures were probably only heard by my immediate audience (thank god for Joy pointing that out and correcting me before people starting booing and throwing tomatoes. Or drinks.). I was embarrassed and tried to make the rest of the song fun, entertaining and upbeat...but I just don't think I ever got it back together. Upon the song's final measures, I was able to make my exit (mercifully) and was congratulated by the group for a song well sung (liars!). I accepted their praise semi-gracefully and made my way to the bar to hide my shame in another drink.

The rest of the evening passed quickly but began to deteriorate for me, as I watched guys that I had felt potential interest in turn their attention toward other women, and listened to confident karaokettes rock the house with their surprisingly powerful voices and crowd-pleasing song selections. I decided I'd spent enough time with the group to be socially acceptable for a birthday event and needed to jet before my mood really started to turn. Just as I had paid my tab and was getting ready to make my way home, I heard a voice next to me saying, "Going home already? I was hoping you would sing again." In surprise, I turned to meet "Marlon", a Hula Hula regular with a gravelly voice and infectious smile. I laughed (somewhat more derisively than intended) and as he introduced himself I felt a little connection, and decided perhaps I wasn't quite ready to call it a night. We exchanged pleasant, humorous conversation over a couple of cocktails the rest of the evening and generally had a rather delightful time.

Yadda yadda yadda, we decided to meet for breakfast the next morning at a great hangover-type bar in lower QA. Okay, so it wasn't exactly "first date" material. I mean, I didn't even shower from the night before (nor did he). But this felt okay, as it seemed like the kind of spontaneous situation that's better than primping for a "real" date, because it was so in-the-moment (and also, I was fresh as a daisy with a quick makeup touch-up). We were chatting pleasantly, if not deeply, and all in all it felt...comfortable.

A few mimosas into breakfast, we were both feeling a little tipsy (before you judge, remember: I'm single. And had nothing to do that Saturday.) and decided to hit another bar.

Which is where everything began to go downhill.

Suffice to say that this is the part of real life that rom-com movies skip right over - the part where there are no butterflies, or roses, or cute chance encounters but instead drunkenness, embarrassment, a too-hot day (rendering the lack of shower a bad idea in the long run) and complete disillusionment in the idea that meeting someone in a bar ever works out.

Long story short, Marlon got wasted (well, what did I expect? Even for a guy, a couple of mimosas, a full shot of sipping whiskey and several Jack & Cokes will probably put someone under.) and I ended up taking care of him. Which means...
-I hauled him out of the bar where he was pissing off a bitchy bartender,
-took him to the scene of the crime from the night before to get food (I don't know lower QA well enough to know where else to go) where
-I was ridiculed by that bartender for getting stuck with Marlon to begin with (evidently this is a pattern of behavior he's seen over time), and
-I paid for Marlon's food (as he got mad at me for not wanting to make out with him in the bar and walked out on the tab), whereupon
-I got into a drunken argument (on his part, not mine) with him, after which
-he decided I was being a bitch and was going to go home, where after
-I got really angry and ran into the street after him (as it was evident he was going to drive home) and
-finally, finally cajoled his car key out of his hand (so he wouldn't kill someone or himself) and at last
-stalked home in a furious rage, leaving him to get home by his own means with the texted instruction to call me in the morning to get his goddamned car key.

Does any of this sound like romantic first date butterflies?!

No. There were no butterflies - only a wasp's nest full of angry buzzing in my head that I'd been so stupid to let this whole situation get so out of control to begin with. In hindsight, I'm well aware of the many wildly waving red flags that - had I been willing to see them - would've alerted me to impending disaster. For example, the fact that Marlon knew all the morning bartenders at the restaurant. Or that he'd ordered a full shot of sipping tequila at 10:30 AM. Or that we went to breakfast immediately after meeting, instead of waiting to get to know each other on another level (via phone? Email? Whatever.) and then going on a date (if, indeed, a date was warranted by other conversation). So, okay, it's mostly my fault. But I threw caution to the wind, and...well, you read the story.

On the one hand, I see why things like this happen to me, because I'm a nice girl. If I'd been more of a bitch, I would've left him in the street without going through all drama of assuming responsibility for someone else's actions and let fate take him home, safely or otherwise. But you know what? I can't have that on my conscience. I can't know that I willingly allowed someone so clearly incapacitated to take care of himself to potentially drive away and put other people's lives in danger. So I took the ethical high road, and I feel good about it - but I wish I hadn't traveled down that path to begin with.

More on the end of that story to follow, but the point is this: lesson learned. It's okay for nice girls to have plain old nice dates instead of dating adventures. In the future, when I'm ready to go home and a guy hits on me at the end of the night, I'll give my number and let him call. And if he does? Great. We'll talk, and maybe email, and maybe meet up. But not for karaoke.