How could Rob Gordon say no to Caroline Fortis?

The running joke amongst my friends is that people who are married (or hell, even people in a committed monogamous relationship) absolutely hate their single male friends. I know this is true because they are always trying to set me up on dates with their co-worker, or college friend, or sister’s ex-roommate’s cousin, in the hopes that I will find true love and therefore no longer be single.

It comes across as sweet enough—they want me to feel the same level of spiritual and emotional connection with another person that they share. But there’s a part of me that distrusts their innocent intentions. Like Tom Sawyer convincing his cronies to whitewash the fence, my well-meaning buddies are trying to get me to share their burden and pick up the chore that they’ve decided to tackle.

Misery loves company, after all. But I’m not buying what they’re selling.

I love being single. The freedom, the autonomy, the control I have are irreplaceable. I’m never more than two hours away from a spontaneous road trip or weekend away. When friends have an extra ticket to a show, sporting event, or theater production, I’m always the first one they call because I always say YES. If I see an attractive girl, I don’t have to pretend not to notice her. I walk right up and introduce myself. Unlike my romantically involved friends, I never have to check my schedule with anybody else. I never have to refuse a social invitation because I am obligated to spend more one-on-one time with somebody I already live with. I know there are definitely perks to having someone you love share your day-to-day life and responsibilities, but I’m just not convinced that they are more valuable than the perks I already have now.

According to my mother, I’m just “finding my way.”  My uncle says I’m sowing my wild oats before “some gal slaps the chains” on me, and my brother believes that I’ll “just never grow up.” But I’m not so sure.

There will always be overgrown man-children with Peter-Pan complexes who are too afraid to settle down, but I assure you, I’m not one of them. I am not scared of romantic commitment. I am simply averse to the concept. My life is full and ebullient. I share it with friends and family, whom I love dearly. I’m not lacking in affection or emotionally meaningful bonds. I have no parental issues to speak of—I meet my mother every Sunday morning for church. Children love me, and I love my little cousins more than anything in the world. I do not fear change, I actively embrace it.

Instead of defining who I am by being the “other half” of a couple, I am able to adapt and change to each new casual partner I see, date, or sleep with, according to her needs. I am whoever she wants or needs me to be. Until I want to be something else.

The stereotype of the 30-year old frat-boy prolonging his adolescence by bedding as many women as he can before one of them ropes him into marriage will always persist. In truth, I never lie to get laid. I never deceive my partners, and I’m very upfront about my decision to remain unattached. I’ve never cheated on any girl in my life, and I don’t plan to. I’m not notching numbers on a bedpost to brag to my friends. I’m making connections with as many interesting and attractive people I can. Sometimes, that connection is physical. Sometimes, it isn’t.

To be honest, it’s just easier for people to think that men like me are simply overgrown 15-year-olds without the spine to make a strong and lasting commitment to anybody but themselves. While I’m sure the criticism fits a certain percentage of single dudes, there are also a growing number of intelligent and thoughtful men (and women) who are simply enjoying the fact that men and women are on a much more level playing field these days.

We’re finally reaping the benefits of sexual liberation and the closing of the wage gap. When women set their own sexual standards and earn their own money, everybody wins. We no longer “need” to marry one another for sexual or financial security. And that’s a great thing.

A woman will not date me for my car, my apartment, or my job because I never use them as sexual marketing tools. If a girl likes me, she likes me for the way I make her smile, for my laugh, for the feeling she has in her stomach when we part company for the first time—not for any superficial bullshit that other guys have used to “sell” themselves to her in the past.

Women who are just as smart, successful, and sexual as I am don’t fall for tricks, pick-up lines, or insincere posturing. These women don’t intimidate me. They turn me on. And meeting as many of these women as possible and establishing connections with them—be it intellectual, spiritual, or physical—is my favorite thing to do. And my favorite reason for remaining single.

Because how could I marry just one? Each person I meet brings out a new and exciting aspect of my own personality, challenging me to broaden my definition of myself to create more common ground with people who fascinate me. Sipping dollar beers at an open mic in Brooklyn can be twice or half as much fun as a “Fashion and Finance” mixer at Tavern on the Green. The crowds are polar opposites, but I’ve met charming and challenging women at both venues who have brought out the best in me.

I can’t say for certain that I’ll ever find one woman who will be everything I need her to be (it’s unfair to ask that of anyone), so I’ll continue living the single life and simply hope that my married friends don’t hate me too much.

Voluntarily insane

By any standard definition, jumping motorcycles is both stupid and insane. Sanity is functionality. It is the wisdom to not be dangerous to yourself or others. It is the ability to swim with the current and stay clear of the undertow. Intelligence is the ability to learn, to assess risk, to choose the most logical and profitable course of action.

Stupid and insane. Words to describe the young men and women who break bones, wind up in wheelchairs, and sometimes die from riding high-powered off-road motorcycles. Though it’s a more acceptable fixation than it has been in the past, we still feel the bite of deviant labels in the stares of passerby as we drive to the local riding spot, ostentatious, brightly-colored mechanical steeds in tow. We can still hear the unanswered question in those stares:

“Why?”

Because. That’s why. It’s as simple as the question.

We do it “because.” It’s innate. Or, if it’s not, it becomes innate as soon as fear is overshadowed by excitement. We hop on a bike at a young age, maybe crash, learn the controls, and before long, we can’t stop. Teach a beginning guitarist a few new chords, and see if he puts down the guitar anytime soon. We see the tools and components that make up the masterpiece compositions we’ve witnessed—the 75 foot backflip combinations, the fourth-gear pinned, all-or-nothing outside pass—and we want to begin composing.

“But the risk, ohhhh, the risk!”

Yeah, we know. People die on motorcycles all the time. Any motorcyclist is guaranteed at least a few large, unsightly scars if they pursue their hobby with anything more than a lackadaisical interest. To get better, to fly farther, to race faster, a rider pays dues. Such is life. So it goes. We in the motocross community are all criminally insane and abysmally stupid.

The standard definitions of stupidity and insanity, though, sometimes fall short. They fail to apply. They are obsolete, outdated, narrow, or inflexible. See, by our definitions, we are not stupid or insane. We are realistic. We realize that our sport carries a hefty risk, so we wear helmets, neck protection, kevlar-and-leather boots. Life is fragile. It ends either suddenly or all too slowly. World War Three could start tomorrow. An SUV could take your life away on the bleary-eyed drive to work. Some bad meat from the local grocer might put you in a hospital for the next three months.

To this argument, I always hear: “Yeah, but those things aren’t likely to happen. They might, but they won’t.”

Exactly: “Motorcycles could kill you. You could crash and die.” We might, but we won’t.

How else can a person think about life? Should we be terrified of danger in all forms? Wrap ourselves in bubble-wrap, sleep 8.5 hours per night, drink water and eat vegetables and organic, healthy foods only? Yeah, maybe. It may work for some people. For the riders, the flyers, the racers… no. We know life is dangerous. And we choose to accept that.

Every time I line up for an unknown, large jump on my motocross bike, a small voice says, “you could crash.”

But then, a larger voice answers, “but you won’t.” And most of the time, I don’t.

I’m not schizophrenic. Not insane. Not stupid. I just do my best to turn fear into confidence. The joy that comes from this process is one of those pesky indefinables: Stare at a jump for two hours. Watch the professionals hit it. Roll over it, shaking your head, knowing you can do it, but afraid to commit to it and try. Then, one lap, one second, something clicks in your brain. Confidence overcomes fear. You screw on the throttle, lean forward, look ahead, and lift off. Spot your landing, adjust as necessary, and in an instant, you’re on the other side. And the insurmountable mountain is a pathetic excuse for a molehill. The impossible is incredibly, inexplicably possible. And you’re not afraid.

That is the nature of our “insanity.” How hypocritical is it to call one segment of the population insane or stupid for their desire to leap before looking, when every great advance in human history comes from those who push, try harder, and risk it all in the name of progression? Progression is our bible. We strive for it. To go faster. Fly higher. Extend further on a new trick. Every ride, we learn.

To avoid risk, to say, “no, it’s just too dangerous”—to me, that’s insanity. Saying “no” produces only unopened doors. Saying “no” will assure that you have no romance, no memories, no happiness, no sadness, no life. To say “yes”—well, that leads to an interesting existence. (Admittedly, to say only “yes” leads to a brief existence, but to me, it’d still be preferable to a life of “no.”)

We are seeking quality of life. Seeking a balance of Yes and No. Progression with minimal injury. Excitement and happiness through mastery of danger. This attitude bleeds over into life after it’s been reinforced on the track. Possibilities appear where none were before. Risks seem insignificant when compared with the risk involved in a 5th gear leap over a dirt valley. Soon, we learn to live aggressively, pursuing all leads, chasing all possibilities, and yes, taking risks.

These things are not stupid or insane, and neither are we. We’re just trying to find something worth finding.

Photo by Wettly via Flickr

Tell me if this sounds familiar. You’re at a party and find yourself talking to a friend’s friend. He seems really cool and makes you laugh, but honestly, you don’t find him all that attractive. Later, he asks if you want to hang out sometime. You agree… hesitantly. Then you make an excuse to leave before he can ask for your number.

Been there, done that? Then, like me, you’ve suffered from a type of romantic tunnel vision, where you lose all interest in hanging out with someone you don’t immediately see as romantic potential.

The problem with this behavior is that we need friends of the opposite sex. They help us see life from another perspective. That guy asking to hang out may be looking for something more, but he could just as well end up becoming a friend.

I go to my guy friends for their unbiased (or sometimes totally biased) opinions on everything from dating to whether I’m too fat to wear a bikini. Unlike the girls who will undoubtedly answer, “no you look great, really,” the guys will give me their honest opinions and often offer a fresh point of view.

It’s hard to explain the differences between relationships with your girl friends and relationships with your guy friends without getting into stereotypes. But it is a unique relationship I’ve learned to value as I’ve gotten older.

The most obvious example? When I need to know all the stats on the new Padres’ pitcher or an update of the Charger’s season, I get my guy friends to give me the Cliff notes version.

But more than just for sports, guy friends can be like cultural translators. Thanks to my brother’s friends for example, I can totally speak “geek.” I’ve never owned a comic book in my life, but thanks to the guys, I can compare Stan Lee characters, critique a Kevin Smith movie, recognize Vulcan references, and make quips about World of Warcraft. Don’t even get me started on Star Wars! This comes in fantastically handy, not just working in a preschool, but carrying on conversations with men of all ages.

If I want to enjoy a nice, quiet evening, sipping wine while chatting on a pristine white sofa, I can hang out with my girls. But it’s my guy friends who organize beer pong and flip cup games, where it’s perfectly acceptable to belch as loud as I can. Plus, with all the tall, muscular or beer-guzzling guys around, I can get away with being completely unfeminine and still feel cute and girly.

Also, for whatever reason, there’s a difference between your guy friend telling you how cute you are and one of your girls saying the same thing. There’s also a difference between hearing it from a boyfriend and hearing it from a platonic guy friend. Platonic love lets us know we are loved for who we are, completely separate from any sexual or romantic motivations. There’s just something more sincere about the compliment when it comes from a platonic guy friend.

Especially when you are dating and the romantic relationships in your life come and go, relationships with the opposite sex are comforting. It’s placating to know that I can still get my testosterone fix even without the boyfriend. I enjoy having someone who will “drag” me to UFC, so I can have an excuse to watch it and, admittedly, check out the other guys at the sports bar.

Guy friends can be your designated date when the occasion calls for it, preventing all those happy couples from patronizing you. Best of all, guys have other guy friends. Sometimes cute guy friends… the kind you just might want to date.

So try this: Before you blow another guy off at a party or a bar, let him know you’re not really looking to date him, but he’s really fun and interesting to talk to, and you’d love if he came to hang out with you and your friends sometime. Or just friend him on Facebook—whatever approach works for you.

You’ll be surprised how much fun you can have when you switch out of dating-and-mating mode and enjoy the friend zone.

But do the guy a favor and make sure he’s clear that he’s in the friend zone… especially if his eyes seem to linger a bit too long when he tells you how cute you are.

Photo by Lutz-R. Frank via Flickr

I don’t consider myself a saccharine person, but one thing I wouldn’t mind having a little bit sweeter is my family. We get together on holidays and birthdays, but there’s always a lot of dead air. Dead air, as in someone just sucked all the oxygen out of the room, leaving only panicked expressions on our faces.

It doesn’t help that my family has dwindled down to around ten people. Here’s a social math rule: the more people there are to spread out an awkward situation, the less awkward it becomes for each individual.

I love my family and appreciate the time we have together, even if it’s not what I always hoped I would have. Still, I was never able to get past my older brother’s aloofness. We’re six years apart, and we had what I’d describe as a less-than-average childhood. We both made it through extreme medical crises, but not even those brought us any closer. Now that we’re adults, I still don’t understand why he doesn’t want to associate with me.

I’ve tried joking with him, engaging him in conversation, and even asking his girlfriend to hang out. I got what could be best described as robotic replies, blank stares, and insincere offers of help when I need it. At his wedding, I hugged him and told him I loved him… to which he replied, “I know.”

You know?!

“You know” things like you need to eat your vegetables, pre-treat stains, vacuum more often, and floss every day. That’s not how you reply to someone who genuinely loves you.

Things have deteriorated to the point that he and his wife will not talk to or even look at me. They don’t address me, and when saying goodbye, they hug and kiss everyone and pass over me… repeatedly. To my knowledge, there was never a catalyst to our relationship being like this. I’ve discussed it ad nauseam with friends, and none of us can figure out what I did.

After having a door slammed in my face 1,000 times, I’m not going back for 1,001. At this point, I’ve decided that the door will stay shut on any hope for a meaningful relationship between my brother and me. I don’t pick fights with him, and I don’t ignore him when he talks to me. But I’m through trying to get him love or even like me.

I don’t know why it took me so long to apply this one piece of dating advice to the rest of my life: You can’t force someone to have any type of affection for you.

My real dilemma stems from the fact that, now that my mother and grandmother have caught on to what’s happening, I’ve been told to put a smile on my face. A simple fact of my family is that the women make excuses for the men: unacceptable behavior is brushed off with excuse after excuse.

But why should I condone and reinforce completely unacceptable behavior? I won’t do that. And since I won’t, I’m seen as an instigator.

It all came to a breaking point on Mother’s Day when our mom told me that she was fed up with the way things were, and to get “revenge,” I shouldn’t let him or his wife know that they bothered me.

Uh, right.

Mom, if you’d like to join us in the land of reality, we’re all over here *frantically waves hands*.

Tears and high-pitched voices ensued, and surprisingly, she conceded that both my brother and his wife had been treating me like garbage. I told her to talk with her son if she wanted to see any resolution to this stalemate.

I also told her that if a boyfriend treated me the same way, and I continued to chase after him looking for love and affection, she’d tell me to ditch him and move on. She agreed, but still thought that slapping a smile on my face would fix my woes. That’s like someone offering you a Band-Aid after you’ve been shanked. No thanks. What’s the point?

I don’t know if my mom ever talked with my brother. Either way, he’s never reached out to me.

This has been going on for years now, and I still haven’t figured out how to make my family happy without driving myself insane. So I’ve decided that, for once, I’m taking a stand. My sanity comes first. The crappy facade that we have a perfect and happy family comes in a distant second.

It’s crazy to do the same thing over and over again and expect different results. So this girl has wised up and is done beating her head against a wall. No, I will never be able to make him love me, so I’m shutting and locking that door. And I’m not going to keep pretending that everything is fine.

My family may not understand this, but it gives me some peace of mind to go forward with a guilt-free and apathetic relationship with my brother.

Photo by flag75 via Flickr

When did the line between genuine and false confidence become blurred to the same level as a faked photograph of indiscernible alien life?

True confidence is out there, but people will just as quickly dismiss it as douchebaggery these days. When I’m out navigating the faux-hawks, faux hos and faux pas that serve as the foundation of Vegas nightlife, I observe all manner of posturing and territorial behavior. I internalize (usually) my amusement and bemusement when such actions pass for successful flirtation, and I ponder what has brought us to this point.

Actual confidence used to be rather simple to identify: a powerful yet relaxed stride, a commanding but courteous tone of voice, eyes which at once act as both as lasers and Zen gardens. Today, however, it seems the pretenders—these airs to the throne of self-assurance—are being mistaken for leaders and real men.

The definition and perception of the alpha male finds itself under fire.

I see the fractures in the once rock-solid foundation of the alpha male castle. Male authors wearing goggles and frilly shirts and calling themselves Mystery… online articles entitled “Secret Dating Tactics Nice Guys Use to Get Women”… reality shows depicting hopeless guys attempting to become attractive to women… “peacocking,” the “negative comment,” flat-out asshole behavior…. Combine any or all of these tactics with a delusional or insecure male, add a completely contrived personality, pour in vodka and Red Bull, splash it all with Acqua Di Gio, and you have false confidence that will assault any sensible person’s senses.

Stereotypes portray the alpha male as an overly aggressive, Christian Audigier-garbed prick, who has mastered mercenary dating tactics and cutthroat approaches to business and (the appearance of) wealth. He edges out the so-called “nice” guys in social situations, stomping their sand castles and stealing their women. The alpha male is pure instinct—fucking, fighting and feeding.

Well, I call bullshit. Such muscle-headed, immature behavior is the stuff that posturing, impatient beta males are made of. The truth is that a large portion of the beta males of any given social hierarchy are attempting to rush into an alpha male position that they are not ready for. A boy must grow into a man before he can be an alpha male. Immature behavior only precludes them from holding the alpha position in any hierarchy.

Alpha male behavior does not consist of aggression and intimidation, and false-claimant beta males are the enemy of all. For the record, I do not believe there is anything wrong with being a beta male, just as there is nothing wrong with being a beta male who aspires to become an alpha male. What is wrong is the behavior of insecure beta males who believe they can use trickery and disrespect as part of their alpha male costume.

A true alpha male is assertive, not antagonistic. He is competitive, not aggressive. He commands respect, he does not demand it. The heterosexual alpha male loves women and therefore respects them. He does not prey on them due to a vendetta stemming from an involuntarily imposed virginity throughout high school. The alpha male does not believe that sexual experiences are the sole proof of his masculinity. He does not feel the need to prove that he is a man. He has already demonstrated it.

The encroaching beta male menace is actually just a betta fish. The beta posturing as an alpha cannot deal with stress and cannot handle what he identifies as competition. He puffs up and flares out—just like a betta—in an attempt to impress women and threaten perceived rivals. When he has established what he believes is his territory, he becomes possessive of her and displays extreme aggression towards “trespassers.”

Perhaps you believe that this particular type of beta male—the betta male—has earned some measure of respect. He has, after all, asserted himself. He’s shrugged off his meek mantel and inserted himself amongst the true alpha males. Isn’t it, you might ask yourself, impressive that he has decided to compete directly with males of the highest social standing?

The answer is a thunderous “NO!” These pretenders are immature, incapable, and therefore detrimental to society. The unhappy betta male lives inside a vortex of lies, sucking in women and disrespecting them, picking losing fights that only reinforce his negative behavior, and perpetuating his lack of happiness and satisfaction at the end of the day.

The alpha male is the stronger of the species. He has earned his position. The betta male should be seen for what he is—an asshole. And that brings me back to the blurred picture of the alpha male. When we fix the image, we see that the line between legitimate and false confidence is actually a ‘hole.

So, whether you are a man or a woman, don’t fall for the guise of the betta male. He is not—and never will be—a true alpha male.

Photo by Kristin McKee via Flickr

When my friend is going through a breakup, it becomes my personal mission to mend her figurative heart. The quantity of chocolate ice cream at the supermarket diminishes noticeably. The local Blockbuster’s angry-girl-loses-guy-but-then-meets-even-cuter-one genre experiences a huge spike in rentals. I have all the right tools to combat my friend’s newly acquired depression….

Except the verbal skills.

Some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouths. My spoon is more of a copper alloy (you know, the kind that turns your skin green after you’ve worn it for too long).

A few years ago, after her relationship had come to a fiery end, my bosom buddy and I sat on her couch while she poured out her heart. I tried to keep my terror from showing on my face. What was I supposed to do? What could I say?

She paused and looked at me with those pleading, tear-filled eyes. I had to come up with something both insightful and comforting. And quickly. Hurry, hurry! What always made me feel better?

“Uh, I want ice cream.”

We asked our readers what’s the worst thing a friend can say to help someone get over a breakup. I’m ashamed to realize I’ve used almost all the clichés out there. Miss Bonnified doesn’t want to hear,  “I always hated him,” while Anna cringes at, “he wasn’t that great, anyway.” I used both of these lines on my friend that day.

Next, I tried to be gentle, telling her that “it wasn’t meant to be.” But those are words that Lauren H never likes to hear. I knew for a fact that she was “better off without him,” but that’s something reader Resullins despises.

FatalFlyingGuillotine sums up the general sentiment on clichés:“I basically dislike any clichés concerning breakups, along with needless–and usually baseless–insults or judgments of my former significant other. I’m the one who was close to her. Only I’m allowed to make rude/hostile/insulting comments about her, if and when I’m ready to.”

Once I finished trying to force-feed her ice cream, I started force-feeding her my opinions of her ex-boyfriend. I took every break in speech as an invitation for another judgmental comment. When she paused to blow her nose or wipe away a tear, I mentioned how much of a scumbag he was. I reminded her of that time he hit on the girl who turned out to be jailbait. She stayed silent during my verbal assault, and I figured the grimace on her face was just a part of her healing process. My comments were like gargling with salt water: unpleasant and nasty, but ultimately good for her.

It never occurred to me that my words of wisdom were lacking most of the wisdom. I continued drawing from my stockpile of well-meaning, clichéd diatribes. Diatribes other readers have heard and hated:

“I never understood what you saw in him, anyway.” -Averardoll

“There’s nothing to be upset about. He was a jerk.” -Denice

Despite the black river of tears cascading down her cheeks, I saw how beautiful my friend was, and it infuriated me that this tool couldn’t see all that I saw in her. But even my attempts to be supportive were clichéd:

“It’s for the best.” -Allison S.

“Everything happens for a reason.” -Carly

“You can do better than that.” -Elizabeth CW

I continued to reach for those elusive words that would finally make her feel better. Impulsively, I reached across the couch and wrapped my arms around her.

“Well, I think you’re awesome.”

Her sniffles subsided. Finally, success! I took that as my signal that I was doing something right.

“Let’s watch Pride and Prejudice and compare [insert douchebag of an ex-boyfriend’s name here] with Mr. Darcy, so you can see just how horrible he really is.”

For some reason, the tears started again.

Some readers did share a few comments that I would never have dreamed of saying, though. For Helena E., one of the worst things she can hear is the overly optimistic, “he’ll come to his senses. Just give him time. You two were meant to be together.” Sam L. doesn’t want to be told, “I knew he was cheating, but I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to find that out on your own.” Similarly, C.Munro doesn’t care to hear, “oh forget her. She was cheating on you the whole time, anyway.” Admittedly, this is something I would’ve used for fodder during my ex-boyfriend bashing.

Other readers shared tips on how to be a helpful friend. According to Max, “the best that happened to me was my friend listening to me, without saying anything back.” BeccaAnne adds, “just let them vent.” As for bashing the ex, Anna offers this: “Don’t jump to conclusions and say he sucked… unless you hear it from me first! If I’m calling him a douchebag, he probably is. Just wait until I give the okay to insult.”

Hellzno summarizes breakups most eloquently: “the relationship is over, your life is not.”

The next time my friend went through a breakup, I did better. I kept my insults to a minimum. I asked questions, nodding sympathetically at the right moments, offering compliments and hugs at others. Ice cream and going out in public were one of the last stages of the consolation process, not the main event. I took her places, so she didn’t have time to mope. We played Laser Tag and stayed up late doing mindless, entertaining activities. According to Resullins, the best thing anyone can offer her is a “beer (or 20)” and the opportunity to “ogle hot butts.” Well, the latter was something I was always happy to scope out for my friend.

My strategies for dealing with my friend’s breakups are far from perfect, but I’d like to think that I’m slowly improving. I realize now that she’s not looking to hear about how much time and effort she just wasted on someone I consider to be a horrible person. Insulting someone’s ex is like insulting their personal taste, and the last thing a person needs to hear when they feel unwanted is that, not only can they not keep a partner, but they have horrible judgment too.

If they were looking for inaccurate clichés, they could probably find a more efficient list from Google. What they can’t receive from the internet is a sympathetic ear, a comforting shoulder (and my shoulder is pretty comfortable), and a reassuring hug.

And chocolate ice cream, of course.

Photo by pmarkham via Flickr

I decided to do the online dating thing again. And when you’re doing the online dating thing, you get to fill in these little packets of personal information. One self-description that I invariably put down is that I can be a bit of a smart-ass. I put this down because… well, I’ve been known to make girls cry on the first date, so I feel that sufficient warning must be granted to all my potential suitees.

Not too surprisingly, I often get matched up with other alleged smart-asses. What does this mean when I meet up with these women then? Mostly, we spend a large portion of our time barbing back and forth in a proverbial urinating contest to see whose gluteus is more intelligent.

Unfortunately, some people don’t seem to understand the difference between being a smart-ass and being an ass. Hey, I admit it. I’ve had issues with it myself. (Again, I made a girl CRY. On a FIRST DATE.) To be perfectly honest, I still lapse occasionally… er, frequently from smart-ass to plain ass.

You see, there’s a fine line between sarcastic and insulting. Being sarcastic takes intelligence, a quick wit, and some amount of lucky timing. Being insulting is just the clueless person’s substitute for true sarcasm.

Let me tell you about an evening recently spent between two self-professed smart-asses:

We’re hanging out in my room. She happens to have a bottle of Diet Coke with her. She opens the bottle, takes a sip, then drops it and spills a decent amount of soda on my bed. I groan and say, “alright, whatever. Here, get up. I’m gonna change the sheets.”

She says: “Don’t worry, we’ll just cover it up. You can change them in the morning.”

I say: “Ummm, I’d rather just change them right now. I’m not gonna sleep on a Coke stain.”

[SSSSSKRRRRRRTTTTTTZZZZZZZZZZZZ] Time out.

If this article were an episode of some cleverly hip ‘90s sitcom, the action would suddenly freeze, and you’d hear the sound of a record scratching, followed by my snarky voice-over.

Or, even cleverer, I break character, look straight into the camera, and address the viewers, while everything around me—including my date—remains frozen.

And I say something along the lines of:

“At this point, ladies and gentleman, my date has several possible responses. Which do you consider to be appropriately smart-ass? Which do you consider to be walking that fine line, but still somewhat clever? And which do you consider to be just plain insulting?”

Animated text zips across the screen, and you see the following three choices:

[Swoosh] A. “What, is the caffeine gonna keep you awake?”

[Swoosh] B. “Oh, you’re not used to sleeping on a wet spot?”

[Swoosh] C. “What are you, OCD?”

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, which option do you suppose my ever-so-sarcastic date chose?”

Really, is there anything clever or ironic about that last comment? (Because, in case my ass is too smart for you to figure out, that’s what she said.) Or is it just… well, rude? What if I really did suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder? What then?

As it is, I am somewhat anal, so I’m used to the OCD comments. If I was bothered at all, it was mostly because she’d warned me that she was extremely sarcastic, but all she’d done up to this point was pepper our conversations with comments like these, none of which I found to be particularly witty or clever. Still, it wasn’t that big a deal, so I let it go.

It only became a big deal when she decided to reference my supposed OCD-ness at least seven times over the next hour. Really? She couldn’t come up with anything new to say?

That’s where she crossed the line from “smart” to “ass.”

Okay, so where exactly is that line then? Do we automatically click over from funny to annoying between the sixth and seventh times we make the same comment? Is there some rule that will draw the definitive distinction between sarcasm and insult?

I don’t think so. I think we have to be take it on a case-by-case basis… like the Supreme Court’s assessment of pornography: “I’ll know it when I see it.”

That’s how it works with sarcasm, too: “I’ll know it when I hear it.” And in this case, she was definitely being insulting, especially when she kept bringing it up over and over and over again.

Of course, the worst part of all this is that I now have a permanent brown stain on my mattress….

Pop quiz: what’s an appropriate smart-ass response to this?

A. Whoa, I think you’ve got way more than just a bed-wetting problem.

B.  Suck it up. It’s just a stain.

See? I told you there’s a fine line between smart and ass.

Oh, and it’s not the hyphen. Smart-ass.

Image by SingleParentSpecials.com

For the vast majority of us who’ve had to wade through the proverbial dating pool, it’s tough out there. I should know this. I was a perpetual drowning victim.

But if there’s one lesson that I gained through my experiences, it’s how to put my best foot forward when approaching the opposite sex. I learned how to keep her marginally amused enough to grant me another date. I learned to make myself desirable in her eyes, then attempt to hold that awkward pose for an inordinate amount of time, while she slowly deliberated whether or not she wanted to ravage me.

Though I consider myself somewhere between “Quasimodo” and “not-quite-so-Quasimodo” in terms of attractiveness, I realized early on that looks weren’t all that important (as long as she didn’t scamper away like frightened wildlife). What mattered was what I said and how I acted. I mean, the proof is in the pudding: I’m just your average looking schmuck… who just so happened to score his fair share of second dates.

Of course, I have to remember to hold on to these lessons. I have to remember that they don’t end after the second date… or after marriage… or even after the birth of a child.

I never undervalued the importance of a man’s desirability in the eyes of his leading lady. Not during courtship, and certainly not during marriage. I can’t definitively say if I ever was a ladies’ man: rich, successful, or even modestly charming. I won’t even claim to be any sort of love guru. But despite all this, I was still aware of the thorough evaluations that were taking place inside the mind of every woman I had ever dated (including my wife), while I was just simply sitting there, innocently sipping away at my ridiculously overpriced coffee.

Because, in the end, that’s really what dates are to a woman: evaluations of whether or not our sperm is suitable enough to create offspring who won’t die lonely virgins. And, of course, she’ll also be evaluating whether or not she can put up with us for, oh say, the next 60-70 years.

Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t write the rules. Mother Nature did.

As fearless bearers of the Y chromosome, we try in earnest to impress our potential mates with the complexity of our mating dances, the beauty of our peacock feathers, and the size of our… um, moose antlers—all the traits and qualities that we think they desire. We work out until our lungs collapse, take up hobbies that would automatically revoke our man-cards, and make reservations at pretentious restaurants when all we really want is an unassuming Big Mac and a shake. We shave, we tuck in our shirts, we shower regularly, and we’ll even cook an occasional meal, if only for the sole purpose of transforming ourselves into that one singular object of her desire—that same faceless man who’s been giving her foot massages and cooking her dinner in her dreams ever since she was a twelve year-old girl.

Yet, just as soon as we embark on our own journey towards happily-ever-after, we forget how hard we worked to nab that catch of all catches. After years of complacency, we conveniently forget how to exercise, how to be a gentleman, and how to help around the house. We unconsciously abandon all the wonderful qualities that made us desirable to our mates in the first place. We forget how to open car doors for our leading lady. Or, even worse, we forget to unlock her side once we get inside the car. We let her carry the grocery bag with the milk in it (because, after all, she’s the one who drinks it). We leave the toilet seat up, we stop refilling the toilet tissue, and we unceremoniously pass out after two minutes of mattress acrobatics.

We forget how to be the man of her dreams.

Whatever happened to Prince Charming from those blissful days of yore? Why should a man stop being desirable for his lady simply because he put a ring on her?

Everyone can benefit from a little bit of DILF training, if only to remind us to continue being the same man our wives married, not one who transforms into some unrecognizable beast 10 years from now. With a son on the way, I realized a great opportunity not only for him, but for myself as well. He’ll need to learn how to be a gentleman, how to be a decent human being, and most of all, how to become a Future DILF for the woman of his dreams. Because I’ll be darned if any progeny of mine dies a lonely virgin!

As far as my own DILF standing goes, it’s currently a work-in-progress, hence all the training. And it will likely remain a work-in-progress for years to come. But that’s the whole point, right?

Thankfully, though, I’ve got a MILF at home cheering me on. And who needs any more motivation than that?

Photo by Marley Musella

One of my pet peeves is the single person who hates being partnerless. Hollywood loves to play up the stereotype of the woman who is desperate for anyone to love her. Sadly, a lot of my friends fit right into this cliché. They hate going to special occasions without a date on their arm. Or they complain about being the only unattached person on the planet, which is how life appears from their perspective.

So, I’d like to offer a different perspective. While I look forward to meaningful relationships in my future, I enjoy dating. Yes, someday I hope to find “the one.” But, in the meantime, I relish the chance to get wild on the dance floor and represent “all the single ladies.”

Here are a few reasons I love being single:

1. Social Currency

How often does anyone ask if there are going to be any nice married couples at the party? I’ve yet to hear it. Instead, my very presence as one of the cute single women (or at least one with a great personality, hopefully) increases the potential fun of any social gathering. Parties have a different energy when people have the possibility of meeting the man or women of their dreams… or at least finding someone cute to talk to or make out with later on. Simply being available increases our value as social currency.

2. Ogling Season

The entire season of summer seems designed with the single person in mind. Surfers out of their wetsuits. Guys jogging without their shirts, and girls in bikinis. Cute neighbors by the pool. Basically, it’s ogling season, and when we’re single, we can look and appreciate without anyone getting jealous.

3. Crushes

One of the fun things about being single is developing all of the little crushes. Just about everywhere I go, I have someone to look forward to seeing: the guy at work who impresses the kids with his dinosaur sketches, the cute guy on my soccer team who always compliments my defense, my friend’s friend who teases me at all the parties. The joy of crushes is that most of the time, we don’t even have any expectations of pursuing a relationship, but sometimes we’re delightfully surprised when one forms.

4. Friend time

We all swear we won’t dump our friends once we get involved in a relationship. Yet, the more we hang out with someone, the more our calendar fills up with activities with that person. Sometimes, we stop making our own plans altogether and just assume our weekends will be spent with our significant other. When we’re single again, that first weekend can be a wake-up call, as we realize we didn’t make any plans, and our friends no longer invite us out. So, we’re forced to pick up that phone and reconnect with our friends. We rediscover how fun quality friend time can be.

5. Productivity

Relationships often take a lot out of us emotionally. When I’m truly single, I get so much more done on all my projects. It’s as though all that brain space dedicated to dating, relationships, or breaking up is suddenly freed up for other interests. We have time to take those classes, write that book, or do whatever it is that became less of a priority when we were spending quality time with our guy or girl.

6. Self-reliance

When I asked a friend what he loved most about being single, he gave me a very succinct answer: self-reliance. When we’ve been in a relationship or even serial dating for awhile, we forget what it’s like being alone. We get used to doing a lot of the things we love or even those chores we loathe with someone else. Being on our own again means relearning that alone doesn’t have to mean lonely. Not only is it okay to watch movies all by ourselves, we can finally watch the ones we wanted to see, but which had always been voted out.

7. Endless possibilities

My favorite part of being single is the feeling that anything can happen at any moment. I love the idea that life is full of potential. Being in a serious relationship can be wonderful, but when we are with someone, the future can become somewhat limited. Where we’ll live, what type of job we’ll have, where and how often we’ll travel, how long we can get away each time—these are all serious considerations when we are involved with someone. Without the extra dimension of a significant other, much of the world opens up to us. We feel like we can go anywhere, do anything, and dream as wide as we wish.

Thus, I say that we enjoy this time to ourselves. Being single now doesn’t mean being lonely forever. So we should savor it.

"All My Loving" by wczoraj wieczorem

I know the popular saying contradicts what I’m calling this piece. I’m here to argue otherwise.

Ladies, admit it. There’s something about the bad boy that’s a complete turn on. He brings danger, a sense of adventure, and total drama into your life. Rarely a day goes by where you’ll actually be thinking to yourself, “wow, this day was boring.” It’ll usually be the complete opposite.

But with all this excitement comes a price usually paid for in tears and hurt feelings. For some reason I’ve still yet to figure out, we’re under some kind of crazy misguided notion that we’ll be the ones to change him! We magically delude ourselves into thinking that we’re somehow special enough to be the one who’ll turn him around.

Yeah, right.

I’ve been there and done that. By “done that,” I mean that I was a card-carrying member of the Delusional. I’m also way over it because I’m onto something way better. It’s called NORMAL. (More on this in a bit.) Whenever I think back on this period of my dating life, I recall Fergie’s wise words in her epic song “My Humps”….

You don’t want no drama
No, no drama
NO NO NO NO DRAMA

Fellas, I know what you’re thinking. If you’re the nice guy, you’re probably thinking I’m smoking some goooood [fill in the blank] because you’re always the one holding the short end of the stick. You’re the one who spends hours upon hours comforting girls like the one I used to be when our rebels-without-a-clue stomped on our feelings. You’re thinking we’ll come around one day when we see how nice and sweet you are. You start believing we actually mean it when we say, “God, I just want a nice guy!”

When you hear those words, you’re probably doing the happy dance to end all happy dances. You’re about to make your move… only to have the music come to a screeching halt when we run off with our bad boy the second he shows something that vaguely resembles remorse.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

So what’s my point? My point is that I used to be one of those clueless girls. I wanted to save them like they were some kind of wayward puppy. But, you know what I realized? They’re not wayward puppies. And even if they were, puppies have teeth. And they bite. And they’ll eat your shoes after they pee all over them.

I’ve seen the light because I don’t want to babysit anymore. That’s essentially what dating a bad boy is like. I felt like I was babysitting a manic eight-year-old boy and trying to house-train a not-too-bright puppy the entire time:

“No, you can’t do that. Why? Because that’s battery and assault, and you don’t want to go to prison, do you? Good boy. Here’s a treat.”

“No. Don’t drink that entire bottle of wine! No!! Bad!!! BAAAAAAD PUPPY!!!! BAD!!! GO TO YOUR ROOM! I SAID YOUR ROOM!! NOT MY ROOM!!!”

Fast forward to today. My boyfriend is a nice guy. He’s thoughtful, sincere, genuine, and all kinds of awesome. He brings me little treats like ice cream (I think it’s more for him, and he’s just ensuring he has a supply of ice cream at my home. I eat it all when he’s not looking, and then he brings more! Just like magic!! Haa haa haa!). And to this day, he opens my doors. He treats me like a lady, and I think he’s the best thing since humans figured out how to make fire.

You know what? I have to thank the guys I dated in the past because they showed me exactly what it is I don’t want. They showed me how I don’t want to be treated and that I don’t like crying. They taught me an invaluable lesson because now I know what I do want. I appreciate Clyde for the man he is and for everything he does for me. Thanksgiving doesn’t come once a year. It’s an everyday occurrence for me, and I let him know every day that I am thankful for everything he does for me.

Granted, I have no idea what kind of person he was before we met, but that’s irrelevant because that’s not whom I’m with now. People change and people (hopefully) grow. I know he’s not perfect (Heaven knows I’ve got my own issues and am pretty weird, but he’s still here…and he likes it! SCORE!!!!!), but I’m not looking for perfection. I’m looking for someone who’s broken pieces will fit with my broken pieces. Through trial and error, we learn what works for us and what doesn’t. Whatever doesn’t pass muster gets kicked to the curb as fast as my stiletto-heeled feet can make contact.

Whatever is left standing is therefore considered the winner. And guess what? In my case, the nice guy won. Which means he also finished first.

Case closed.