Match.com Is Right: Why It's Okay to Look (Even If You're Not Looking)

Online dating is terrible. And great. And fun. And frustrating. But those same words describe dating in general. People complain about dating after divorce, or dating after 40, but from what I can tell, dating at any age is a test of one's endurance and sense of humor. Take a snapshot of a website's collection of profiles at any given moment, or trap everyone in a bar on a Saturday night, and you're going to see the same characters. Single people come in all flavors across all spectrums: they are hopeful and jaded, horny and uptight, desperate and cavalier, cocky and insecure, honest and deceptive. They're people. People who need people.

As one of those single people, I admit to being home alone on more weekend evenings than I want to be. Some of my married readers may be jealous, and I can understand why: a Friday night can be lonely, but also self-indulgent. Last night, for example, I did what I wanted: I watched “Sex In the City” and “What Not to Wear” and other chick stuff, flipping channels with the remote as often as I wanted; I ate a healthy salad and diet soda, followed by two bowls of ice cream, approximately (ahem!) number of cookies, and three glasses of wine; I wore my pajamas over comfortable cotton underwear and unshaved legs; I read online personal ads.

So, at this point, I have to admit that I read them all: m4m, w4w, m4w, w4m, and all kinds of other categories I am discovering with each visit to a new site (did you even know there is such a thing as mm4tw???). I should probably be embarrassed to admit that I read this crap. And make no mistake: it IS crap. But sometimes it is hilarious crap. And if I were too embarrassed to admit that I read it, I wouldn't be able to share it with my readers, who by now must know that I am all about sharing and caring, even if it makes me look a lot less cool than the persona I was hoping to establish.

Anyway, the point is that last night I saw a headline that gave me hope for all the single ladies, all the single ladies (whoa-oh-oh).

The headline said it all. It said This Man is Funny. Honest. Vulnerable. Sensual. Expressive. Enthusiastic. It said This Man Knows What He Wants. And surprisingly, What He Wants is NOT a teeny, tiny, prepubescent, stick-thin, wanna-be model-waif chick who is devoid of curves but compensates with a push-up bra. This Man? For many women, This Man is a beacon of hope. For others perhaps, This Man is a crude, sophomoric neanderthal. And for me?

For me, This Man represents a happy future, but not one related to sex or love. For me, This Man represents financial independence. Why? Because while he is trolling online for BBWs, I am going to take his headline, copyright it, trademark it, stylize it, and slap it on tee-shirts, sweatshirts, baseball caps, bumper stickers, and all manner of dollar store goodies. I will be rich because of This Man and his headline. I don't want to date him, but still I see a bright future because of him. And so, without further ado (and at the very real risk of having someone steal my great idea and make MY million dollars off it), I present to you the headline worthy of an entire blog post and the foundation for my future Fortune 500 company:

I Heart Big Giant Boobies!!!

(Yeah, he included all those exclamation points, too. Thank God for This Man and his unfettered exuberance. This Man is my muse. Hey, and if you see my merchandise in the future, mention this blog post and get 10% off your purchase. Such a deal.)

New Year's Rabbit Reconstitutions

All new year's resolutions fail. It's a scientific fact. Show me someone who is actually keeping a a resolution afloat mid-February, and I will produce the Loch Ness Monster. In fact, show me someone who makes a resolution and keeps it through the end of the year and I'll throw in Big Foot, Elvis, and indisputable evidence that Joan Rivers is precisely 114 years old and has never had a bit of plastic surgery in her life.

Failure simply cannot be an option in 2011. That is why this year I am abandoning new year's resolutions. Rather than resolve to do something new, I am simply going to commit to those things I am already doing with at least some success. I am leaving behind the ideal and grabbing hold of the REAL.

Ideal: I resolve to be more charitable with my time, money, and emotions.
The Real: I will continue to abstain from punching anyone in the face, no matter how much he or she deserves it.

Ideal: I will exercise at a brisk pace for 30 minutes at least three times a week.
The Real: I will continue to walk my dog so he can pee, and even run a little when it is butt-cold outside.

Ideal: I will eat more whole grains, steamed veggies, and drink 8 glasses of water a day.
The Real: I will continue to eat chocolate on a daily basis, preferably more of the good stuff.

Ideal: I will lose the same 12 pounds I have been complaining about for a decade.
The Real: I will not gain weight. At least not enough to require buying bigger pants.

Ideal: I will get 8 hours of sleep every night, preceded by meditation, journaling, and teeth flossing.
The Real: I will continue to fall asleep on the couch watching trash TV if I feel like it, sleep in on the weekends, and floss at least when a popcorn kernel gets stuck up in there.

Ideal: I will speak in a polite, professional, and ladylike manner at all times.
The Real: I will continue to swear when no other words will do, but restrain myself in front of children and the elderly. Well, in front of children anyway.

This year, 2011, is the Year of the Rabbit in the Chinese zodiac calendar. And rabbits are cautious. They look before leaping. They don't jump into diets and investments and relationships without using their little bunny brains. I feel confident that my list of New Years' Reconstitutions is doable. And that's all I'm really going for in 2011. I'm not saying we ought to settle for mediocrity or stop setting goals or refuse to challenge ourselves. But sometimes we need some small successes just to keep us going. And that's what 2011 is going to be about for me: small successes. It would be great to get out of bed an hour earlier every morning to do sit-ups and stretching and read some classic literature before work--that's the ideal. But you gotta know where you're at. For sometimes just getting out of bed and going to work is not only The Real, but a Real Success, too.

P.S. If you'd like to join me in a year of Real Successes, the official Year of the Rabbit doesn't start until February 3 this year, so you still have a whole month to modify your list and replace some of those idealistic resolutions with realistic reconsitutions.

In Bra We Trust

Every once in a great while, I come across a cause that I think really deserves attention. Recycling, dolphins, Frankenfish, back acne...these are covered by people with greater influence and personal interest than I can muster. But I can certainly get passionate about things. And you know what has me spitting nails right now? They discontinued my bra.

At this point, gentleman readers, you may want flip over to ESPN.com or go make yourself a sandwich. This here's Woman Talk.

Ladies, I'm sure we've all been here before. We spend hours in the department store, trying on bra after bra after bra. And because it's no longer the 70s and because we are no longer 19 and perky, we MUST buy SOMETHING. So, we pony up more than we should for a bra that gets the job done--barely. And we live with it. That is our lot in life.

But every so often, the heavens open, the stars align, our horoscope promises that we will find what we are seeking, and on that day, we find The Bra. You know the one. It is exactly the right color, and it feels good against the skin. It gives you lift and separation in a way you thought could only be bought from Dr. 90210. And, miraculously, it fits BOTH girls perfectly, in spite of the fact that they are clearly two completely different sizes.

You buy one in every color, go home, and for days afterward, see your tightest sweaters and skimpiest tank tops in a whole new way. You walk around the office feeling like a Victoria's Secret model, standing taller and straigher and with the confidence that comes from knowing You Are A Woman. Weeks, months go by, and you love your body again. And you wish you had found this sooner. You wish you'd known that all it took to look and feel this good is The Bra.

But then, one day, it happens.

You get up, get showered, get dressed. Huh. Something isn't right with The Bra. The elastic is loose, the girls are droopy, and you realize that it's time to make another trip to the lingerie section of Macy's and buy The Bra again. This will be a quick trip. You know your size, you know the brand, and you have your credit card in the holster. In and out, with time for a latte before you have to pick up the kids.

You march right up to the rack where you first discovered The Bra, but it isn't there. Did they move the racks around? No. Wait, did you find The Bra at Nordstrom? No. You were sure The Bra was made by Bali, but maybe it's by Playtex. Or Wacoal. Or Maidenform? No, no, no.

Oh...NO!

Because it just hit you. The Bra has been discontinued. Some stupid MAN (had to be a man) on the board of directors or in accounting or marketing has decided that The Bra is not bringing in an adequate return-on-investment and will therefore no longer be made. And when you call customer service to find out what they recommend you buy to replace The Bra, they give you three other model numbers, NONE of which is even remotely CLOSE to being The Bra. And you complain. And they don't care.

It's a tragedy, and it happens to women every day all around the world. And frankly, I wouldn't find it so irritating if retailers didn't continue to carry OTHER items for decades on end, often hideous, outrageously ugly and outdated items that have survived far past their fashion usefulness (banana clips for the hair, mom jeans, Christmas sweaters, turtlenecks with little flowers, anything Bedazzled or made of pleather...I could go on and on, but I won't). They don't seem to mind manufacturing and selling the same old unflattering outerwear, so why can't they keep making The Bra?

Ladies, I'm fed up, and I don't want to take it anymore, but I don't know what to do except cry, complain, and finish up the container of Chunky Monkey. What can one do? It's all been done before--PSAs, celebrity statements, sit-ins, rallies, bra burning....hmm. Maybe that's what made the bra makers so flippant about discontinuing designs in spite of who loves them. We burned bras in protest and in public. Obviously we didn't care about them THEN, so maybe they figure we don't care about them NOW.

Why, oh why, didn't we burn denim jumpers and Birkenstocks instead?

Mommy, where does milk come from?

God has a way of taking all the talents and splitting them up so that--with very rare freak-of-nature exceptions--we all get a little something, which is nice. Some get beauty, some brains, some the ability to tie a knot in a cherry stem with the tongue.

I've always felt more smartypants than hotpants, and sometimes I feel a little down about my looks, thinking I'd be willing to trade some IQ points for a bump up the Sexy Scale. Maybe you, too, sometimes lament the fact that your six-pack-abs are gone or that the days when men stared at your perfect behind are...well, behind you. But take heart in the knowledge that you got brains, baby. And if you need a reminder, you can call your mom who thinks you're awesome in every way, gossip with a friend about the morons at work, or pull out your grammar school report cards and count the A's.

Or do what I do. Turn on some trash TV. I submit that watching idiots on the idiot box can provide a sense of well-being that is near impossible to find elsewhere.

Here's what worked for me today. On Survivor - Nicaragua the tribes were competing for a reward: horseback riding followed by an authentic Nicaraguan farm breakfast with homemade tortillas, cheese, rice and beans, and fresh milk, which the survivors would get to try obtaining themselves from the cows.

Kelly S., a member of the losing tribe and possessor of a face and body that belong on the cover of Shape magazine, was pretty disappointed at not winning reward. That's understandable, as I'm sure she was as hungry as the rest of them. Turns out she was looking forward to more than just the food. She said:

"Reward was for a horseback ride and breakfast and you get to...milk your own milk, I guess. I don't know if that makes sense. You get to milk your own milk, and that sounds amazing. We should have won and we should be be going because that is amazing."

Oh, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. I agree. Milking your own milk would be pretty freaking amazing. I'll bet some of the guys on your tribe are disappointed that they won't have the chance to milk your milk, too.

Now, not every stupid thing a stupid person says makes me laugh, but this did. And you want to know the best part? Kelly is a nursing student. Yep. A nursing student.

Aren't the layers of irony here positively delicious? And don't you somehow feel better now than you did five minutes ago? Me, too.

Thank you, Mark Burnett and Survivor staff. Your casting and editing choices bring joy to all of us. Well, to all of us who are smart enough to get it.

The Nose on One's Face

[Note: It's definitely been a while since I wrote some pure fiction pulled straight out of the air. Critiques invited by all.]

Big nose. Actually, enormous nose. Big enough to store farm equipment in. The kind of disfigurement that makes you realize why some plastic surgery should not be considered "elective." Sure, God gave it to him, but couldn't one argue that God also gave us rhinoplasty?

Rhinoplasty. Now there's a word that doesn't exactly feel good spilling out the mouth. Rhinoplasty, he thought. "Rhinoplasty," he said aloud, and as he did, he felt heads in the waiting room turn toward him. He didn't need to look around to know that he'd slipped. He didn't need to see their faces to know that his voice had invited them finally take a good look at the monstrosity that had brought him to this place. He had felt their eyes on him when he had first walked in, but they were more discreet then, peeking over opened People magazines, pretending to stretch so they could twist their necks and hide their faces behind their raised arms, dropping things accidentally-on-purpose so they could stare up at him from the floor.

Pathetic, he thought. They are pathetic in their unsneakiness. They think I don't see them. Puh-leeze.

Pathetic, he thought. I am pathetic in my patheticness. I see them. I see them wishing they could get a really good look at me and burn the image of my supernaturally unnatural face in their brains so they will have an interesting story to tell to their spouses at dinner or to their coworkers at happy hour or to their neighbors at the block party about the circus freak they saw at the office where beautiful people go to be made more beautiful. Quidnuncs, he thought. I see them in their smugness, in their silent gratitude that they are, however imperfect, not as hideous as I am.

I see them. I see them see me. I wish I were unseeable, he thought.

He pulled the rim of his baseball cap down a bit. Checked to make sure his sunglasses were still on. Flipped the collar of his jacket up. Yanked his scarf into position so as to cover just a little more of his face. Pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, bent down over his lap, and pretended to be engrossed in whatever it is that keeps normal people attached to their portable technology. But I'm not normal, he whispered. I'm not normal now, but I will be. I will be.

He opened his email. Fourteen new messages since he had checked just an hour ago. All from women. Some he knew, some he didn't. Some old, some young. Some attractive, some super attractive. All of them out of his league. All of them asking him out, calling him sexy, making indecent proposals, describing what they would do to him if given the chance, professing crushes and infatuation and even love. But he knew they were all liars. The world is full of women who get off on mocking the ugly guy. Bitches, he decided.

When the nurse called his name, he didn't notice until the third time, and again, he felt the eyes of the room on him, silently piercing him with their pity, disgust, curiosity. For the last time, he thought. "For the last time," he said aloud, and he got up and followed the woman in scrubs from his old, pathetic life to the beginning of his new, normal life.

* * * * *

He never knew that when the door closed behind him, people in the waiting room shifted in their seats, uncomfortable with the thoughts and wonderings and imaginings that had started in their stomaches and been climbing into their chests and up their throats longing to burst from their individual and collective lips as they had stolen glances at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses and flipped-up collar and bulky scarf. Everyone made subtle invitations for eye contact with someone across from them or next to them, eager to put words to the feelings they had been holding in silence out of courtesy and politeness.

A woman, unable to contain herself any longer, inhaled deeply, exhaled a sigh that was a curious combination of relief and arousal, then said it first and said it best and without the least bit of irony: "My God, isn't he positively gorgeous?"


* * * * Same Ending, Said Differently. * * * *

He never knew that when the door closed behind him, the waiting room filled with chatter. With the door closed behind him, those waiting in the waiting room finally turned--either to those they knew, or those they didn't--eager to speak the thoughts and words that were ready to burst from their mouths as they had been stealing glances at the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses and flipped-up collar and bulky scarf. With longing and arousal and not the least bit of irony, one woman said it first and said it best and the room agreed with nods and sighs and some licking of lips: "My God, isn't he positively gorgeous?"

* * * Logophiles, which do you like better? Help! Anonymous opinions count, too. * * *

Upon Learning of My Replacement

Sophia will be taking my place. Sophia. A girl I hate. A girl with hips that are too wide and thighs that rub together when she walks. A girl with saggy breasts in need of a well-fitting bra. A girl who wears different shades of brown during the daytime because it is safe and wears all black at night because she heard somewhere that black is slimming. A girl whose muddy dishwater hair is too long for her age and too frizzy all the time, as if it is in the perpetual state of growing out a perm. A girl who wears the same outdated shade of lipstick every day, regardless of the season. A girl who owns only two pairs of high-heeled shoes. A girl who thinks that an inch-and-a-half qualifies a shoe as high-heeled. A girl whose foot-fat squeezes out over the top when she wears these heels on the rare special occasion. A girl who thinks a special occasion is dinner at Red Lobster. A girl who I would pass by on the street without noticing, or would notice only to comment on how sadly unnoticable she is. A girl HE noticed. A girl--no, THE girl--he picked instead of me.

He's not very tall, but I spotted him in the crowd right away. He wasn't alone. But where was my replacement? Where was the dowdy, frumpy, marble-mouthed, moon-faced girl I had already decided she was? Obviously this was the re-replacement. But then he said, "This is Sophia," and I am sure that my mouth dropped open with bottom lip hanging in quite unladylike fashion. "This is Sophia." Did he just say that? "This is Sophia." THIS this Sophia?

But this is no girl. Sophia is a woman. And she is stunning. And her breasts aren't saggy--they are annoyingly, perfectly perky. Her hair isn't mousy brown and frizzy--it's silky and smooth and golden and falls over her shoulders in big, full ringlets that probably smell like vanilla or jasmine or whatever that smell is that makes men lean over and kiss women without thinking or asking for permission. Her skin is flawless and glowing--not covered in the dull, acne-scarred pall I had decided on for her. She is not wearing safe brown or slimming black--her dress is red. Well, not red, but the color of perfectly cooked cranberries, and I decide now that cranberry is probably what her hair smells like, too. She is not fat, and in fact, not skinny either--her feminine curves seem sculpted in softness that even I want to touch. And her feet? Not the graceless, clumping sledgehammers I had hoped for. Instead, her feet are almost dainty and have been slid into delicate satin stilettos adorned with just-the-right-size rhinestone hearts.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, and my eyes jump to her perfect lips and perfect teeth--straight and white and smiling with genuine warmth. "I've heard so much about you," she practically sings, without the least bit of pretention, but I had already stopped listening. My eyes had already met his--no, had TRIED to meet his, but his eyes were already (or still?) on her, and I knew in an instant that he was hers and that he would never be mine, and worse, that the only person who had noticed or would ever care was me.

Don't Let Holiday Relacide Happen to You

[Note: I read somewhere that if you have a blog and you are single, separated, divorced, widowed, or part of the GLBT community, it's practically a law or something that you write a post on being alone during the holidays. In accordance with the aforementioned expectation, I give you the requisite it-sucks-being-alone-during-the-holidays-but-let's-pretend-it-doesn't post. Enjoy.]

Single and alone on Thanksgiving? Look on the bright side. Relative-on-relative homocide rates spike 293 percent on this holiday compared to other days of the year. Okay, I can't back that up with any actual data, but I do know I have personally had to channel the strength of Zeus in order not to shove the big turkey fork into the carotid artery of a particularly annoying relative over more than one holiday spread.

So, besides eliminating the inevitable desire to commit relacide, there are lots of other advantages to spending the holidays alone. And this isn't only for single people; you married folks with annoying parents and/or in-laws should feel free to use one of your sick days to call in and miss today's "festivities." Here's just a short list of things to be thankful for if you must (or choose to) spend today alone:

* If you're a chick, you don't have to listen to the endless droning of announcers and crowds as the relentless sounds of football waft through the air with the smell of burnt rolls.

* If you're a dude, you can have the football games on all day long without fighting for the remote, negotiating for time away from the Macy's Day Parade, leaning around well-meaning bearers of Doritos and pork rinds, or missing important game commentary because of the endless droning of Aunt May about your third cousin's newborn who has colic.

* You don't have to answer the question, "When are you going to get married?" or any of the other [frequently more annoying and distasteful] derivatives (e.g., "You DO like men/women, don't you?" or "Do you think it might be time to lower your standards a bit?" or "You do realize, I hope, that at your age, you are more likely to be killed in a terrorist attack/struck by lightning/attacked by a rabid hyena/commit relacide than get married?") .

* You can drink as much as you want without the fear of letting it slip that Cousin Pete is the ONLY person who doesn't think his toupee looks obviously like a toupee and that when he's not around you semi-affectionately refer to him as Squirrel Pelt Pete.

* You can eat as much as you want without apology, without wishing you'd worn looser pants, without the judging eyes of your grandmother who always said it's a good thing you're so smart because your sister/cousin/niece is "the pretty one." In fact, you can unbutton your pants and slide your hand inside the waistband Al Bundy-style and sit that way all day long if you want. Hell, take your pants off. It's your house.

* If you cook a turkey, you get to pull BOTH sides of the wishbone, guaranteeing wish fulfillment (bonus: you don't have to tell anyone what you wished for).

I guess none of these ideas is particularly unique, and perhaps all are inadequate in staving off the achiness that comes with spending a family-ish holiday alone-ish. But when it comes right down to it, Thanksgiving should be more about personal gratitude than a jockeying for position around the sweet potatoes and big screen TV. That's why this Thanksgiving, I'll be spending a few moments writing down a list of things for which I really ought to remember to be more thankful. Right at the top of that list: the fact that I have family members I love enough to miss today, and friends who love me enough to help me miss them a little less.

Why Victoria's Secret Sales May Skyrocket

Granny panties have never been my thing, but I admit there are too many items in my lingerie drawer that would fall under my mother's don't-you-dare-wear-those-out-of-the-house-because-if-you-get-into-an-accident-the-paramedics-will-see-them advice column. I've typically dismissed this advice under the if-I-get-into-an-accident-I-will-have-probably-soiled-myself-anyway response column.

I've got what I consider to be a healthy mix of undergarments, from cotton briefs to thongs. But based on some new information I have just acquired, I'm going to make a trip to Victoria's Secret very soon and get something special.

Why? Well, I don't want to jinx this, but I feel sure that I am about to let someone make it to third base with me in the very near future, and I want to be ready. I want to feel sexy when it happens, especially because it will likely be a public fondling. In addition, I may have some nearly-nude shots taken, and I really want to look and feel my best. Dieting and working out are too much effort, so I'm going for the quick fix: a lacy new bra-and-panty set (I am considering red or leopard print the front-runners, demi-bra with extra lift and seamless bikini bottom with lycra--again, for extra lift).

How can I be so sure about my imminent frolic? Well, I bought a plane ticket, and I understand the airlines are running a special. Apparently, with each ticket, you get a free x-ray or a complimentary feeling-up. I want them both. I'm sure they will oblige. A free photoshoot AND a groping from someone with a full-time job? That's a better offer than I get from most men. I'll be there early. Just show me which line to get in.

I am very excited about this. I may stop dating altogether and just start hopping little commuter flights for $59 each way so I can try out different folks at airport security. Ideally, I'll get screened by a man, but the idea of gettin' a little sumpin' sumpin' from a stocky female security screener with strong hands and a no-nonsense attitude isn't altogether unappealing. I never did go through that experimental phase in college, so this seems a fairly harmless way to see if I might feel a little spark during the inevitable cupping and rubbing. Afterward, I can treat myself to an eight-dollar Big Mac at the food court, grab a Cinnabon for the ride home, and sleep soundly.

Hey, it's not all about me, you know. I'm just doing my part to keep our country safe. Maybe if you can find a way to put a positive spin on the new security screenings you won't be so freaked out about it. I'm not saying it's time to put a stripper pole in your bedroom, but give your inner prude the day off, spread 'em, and smile for the camera. Your fellow passengers thank you for your cooperation.

Lady Lumps

Okay, I give. Let's change it to "volumptuous." People aren't going to stop saying it that way, and nine times out of ten the word serves as just a thinly veiled euphamism for something between chubby and fat anyway. Women who describe themselves as "volumptuous" OR "voluptuous" usually have plenty of actual lumps under their ill-fitting clothing which, arguably, makes the mispronunciation a more accurate adjective. So I say, let's stop fighting over this one. Let's save our efforts for stamping out "supposably." There will never be a day when society should surrender to that atrocity. But for all the curvy, full-figured, hourglass, healthy, thick, stacked, womanly BBWs with a little boom-pow and some junk in the trunk, I support your bastardization of the English language because, like the guy who stumbled upon Post-Its and made millions, you accidentally invented a word that is better than the original. Long live your volumptuous lady lumps.