Tag Archives: DC

For E: An Extended Sports Metaphor

Yesterday morning I went biking with my friend E, who, along with a former colleague coming in all the way from DC, has convinced me to train for a 100 mile ride in May. (I am writing this, by the way, in hopes of minimizing the likelihood that I will flake out.)

E and her boyfriend are native New Mexicans, and hence take their outdoor sports very seriously: they ski, they ride horses, they cycle. I’m sure they have more gear in one square foot of their garage than is owned by all of Upper Manhattan.

Fortunately, their temperament is also classic New Mexican: easygoing and patient. So when, yesterday, I went careening into E’s bike after she unexpectedly slowed down and caused both of us to topple over rather dramatically, she didn’t give away a whiff of frustration.

In fact, the first thing she said–the two of us still inspecting ourselves for skinned hands, knees and elbows–was: “At least you can probably make this into a good metaphor for dating!”

Preoccuppied with an aching quadricep, a miniscule patch of ripped skin on my right thumb and the realization that I didn’t, actually, know how to use my brakes, I dismissed her idea.

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Notes on Dating, and Friending, while Blogging cont.

When I picked up my friend J from the airport last night and tried to fill her in on my past week, I found myself beginning nearly every sentence with the phrase “I blogged about this, but…” Or, alternately, “I’m going to blog about this, but…”

One of the ways I finished the latter version was to tell her what I’m about to tell you: that I fear I don’t have enough material in my life to be interesting both online and in person. I am only partially joking about this.

And I wonder, in this era of constant communication: how do people have enough to say to say things on so many different platforms? You want me to blog, Twitter, Facebook, blog for other websites, write some decent, non-digital long-form prose and manage to have any good anecdotes left for face to face contact?

In other words: by attempting to keep people entertained on my blog am I dooming myself to a much less entertaining reality?

I don’t mean to get too self-indulgent here: I think many of us have had the experience of telling a friend something funny or interesting, only for them to dismiss us with “yeah, I saw it on Facebook.” People, I fear our ability to communicate with each other is far outpacing our actual need to communicate. Please: tell me you disagree.

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The Stench

Since I last wrote, I have acquired two new pieces of evidence–in case anyone needed it–that the universe is conspiring to keep me eternally celibate.

First, the other night I was walking to meet to friends for dinner when I passed a cute young Brit standing outside an Irish Pub and looking rather lost. As I walked by, he stopped me and asked if I knew of a good local dive bar; I directed him, he said “thanks” and went on his way. Readers, he barely even waved.

Then, yesterday–conveniently, on the same day I post that HuffPost blog linking to my Twitter page–my Twitter account is hacked so profoundly that all day I was inadvertently sending “direct messages” to my Twitter followers announcing that I am 24 and horny and would like to continue the, presumably illicit, conversation on IM. I’m not even exaggerating.

It’s in moments like these that I recall the sage words of a good friend in Washington, after reporting that she had, again, slept with an ex-boyfriend who both of us knew was about as dateable as John Edwards.

“I know, I know,” she said, in good-humored anticipation of my scolding. “But at least,” she went on, “I’ve gotten rid of the Desperation Stench.”

She did not need to explain. But, for you more well-adjusted monogamist readers, I will. This scent as something like a dog whistle: perceptible only to members of the opposite sex (and, apparently, certain social media networks) and occurring in men and women who have gone several months without intimacy.

We all know how it works: you’re in a relationship, unavailable and therefore desirable. When you’re actually single and looking to date, no one wants to talk to you. If you’ve been single for more than a few years, forget about it: I don’t care if you look like Blake Lively and dress like Tara Reid–nobody is interested. It is the cruel Catch-22 of dating: if you’re available, you might as well smell horrible.

So what are us single folk to do about this, short of resigning ourselves to a lifetime of pets, baking and chastity? Go around sleeping with slutty ex-boyfriends?

This is not something I would like to condone on the Internet–or, as a matter of fact, do. But really, I don’t know the alternative. If I did, I would be enjoying this beautiful morning by going on a run with my boyfriend and medium-sized mutt instead of standing in my kitchen, drinking bad coffee and writing this blog in my pajamas.

Suggestions welcome.

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On Dating Republicans, Hippies and Expectations

Update: so, yesterday, I had another sighting of that guy I briefly interacted with the other day–the one who is possibly underage and possibly dealing drugs. I was at a coffee shop near campus and he came in, appeared to see me, turned immediately back around and left. So much for me acting out.

This coffee shop is one of approximately four in Albuqerque. I don’t go there very often due to the overwhelming and distinct scent of patchouli that is generally wafting through the place. But it’s bright, relatively quiet and has big tables, so it’s good for getting through the massive pile of grading I’ve got before me this week.

Plus, it seemed like a good idea to switch up my environment a bit. You know, see some new faces…you catch my drift. You never know who you’re gonna run into at a coffee shop frequented by hippies. What you won’t find, I’m fairly sure, are Republicans.

You like that transition? Good. It took me all morning. You try being coherent every day.

Anyhow, I wanted to get into this for two reasons. One, I have a new reader named J who lives in DC and complained on the blog about the dearth of men there who aren’t married. I concurred, and bemoaned the similar shortage of men–at least, while I was there–who aren’t Republicans. I told her that–thankfully–I had experience with the latter, but not the former. Although, frankly, I’m not sure which certain members of my family would think worse.

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