Girly Bromance

My Bromance with my Brofriend

Honeymoon phase, transitional phase, real life phase. I mean, thus is the usual relationship trajectory, yes? Yesterday, my dude said this: “What if we are all doing it wrong? What if you get all of the hardships and arguments out of the way in the beginning? Then, you know, the difficulties fade and we always enjoy the honeymoon?”

Huh? This sounds crazy. So, you’re telling me that I should put up with unending arguments and travails because you think that we will be a delightful pair in the future? How can you sell me on our longevity? However, what if he’s on to something? He sort of tortures me with challenges, but every time we face failure, that moment does not repeat itself. In other words, it’s like we immediately learn from our angry moments. Maybe we can be on an endless honeymoon if he tests all of my quirks right now and aggressively.

 quirks: he’s almost a Never-Nude, but his torso is ridiculous and his lower half warrants no complaints. However, who wants to cuddle with cotton in lieu of the person? If he had PJ onesies he’d be happier than any clam. In the meantime, he covers his ridiculous physique with clothes. Always. So many garments. Next up: He thinks he’s a DJ. No, seriously, he wants to take over the bro bars on Friday nights. He drinks protein shakes and calls other people “bros.” His idea of small talk is EDM music and sports. His attire is straight out of Forever 21. While it’s cheap and essentially functional, the store’s name speaks oodles about the age of the clientele- unless you enjoy donning your child’s PJs (IE: Bethany Frankel). Should I introduce him to the family? Well, he has an unparalleled tongue, but I can’t tell that to my mama. He is 25, but I can’t tell that to the 27-year-olds whom I convinced they were too young. He is business smart, but socially? There’s a void.

I’m not foolproof either. I’m exceptionally selfish when the moment strikes, I expect exceptionalism via the mind, body and mind:). I look for faults rather than strengths. I’m never satisfied with myself or my partner. My body is no longer a supermodel’s temple. Instead, I’ve acquiesced the reliance on looks for the reliance on friendships.

Sorry, tangents ensue, but I think I’m trying to figure out whether I’m happy because we fight now, early on. Seriously, we’re only like a month into it, but I’ve tried to end it numerous times. Or, maybe we’re happy because he thinks we won’t fight later.

Experience leads me to believe that there will always be tumult. However, I’m inspired by moments of doubt, which may prove me wrong. Hence, the next post will cover Chicago’s local laundromat gossip. Yes, so much greatness arises from my bi-weekly .25 cent expenditures. Also, friendships and families are on display during these reflective hours. Stay tuned for the evolution of the family unit thanks to laundromats .

I’ve probably made a mistake, but I never learn from my mistakes so every choice is a new, poor decision. I’m pretty sure that I’ve repeated these errors, but I keep coming back. It’s official. This Sex, Love, Food, Chicago girl is monogamous. I’m not happy about it. I think I’m probably missing out on something. Or someone. Or some experience. Or some time frame. Or some greater understanding, but when a pretty man demands that I be solely his, I can’t deny him.

I love men. I love them as they flex their strength from behind. I love men as they move me across a bed, I love men as they adore my body. I love men as they respect my opinion. I love men as they furrow their brow because they’re learning. I love men.

For the rare occasions that I allow a man to enter my commitment, there is an innate need. However, I’ve let this guy in, but I don’t feel like before. I don’t need him. What’s interesting is that he may stick around because I won’t tire of his banality.

Somehow, it’s Thursday night and the masses are celebrating. Men clink their coozies to financial successes. Women gossip over manicures because of pregnancies or promotions. I don’t want either.

Is it that time of the decade when everyone finds their “partner”? Probably not. There’s few moments where everything and everyone comes together in honor of the inevitable loneliness.

I guess, there is regret for losing my single state, but not enough penance to truly understand falling asleep underneath down feathers alone. Every. Weekend.

That’s where I’m at. Where are you at?

Fake it to Make it.

When the man opposite you presents his wayward drive and unmotivated passions you suddenly realize that you are 30 years old and asking yourself: “What the fuck are you doing?” I have no bed frame; I tend to purchase new underwear instead of fulfilling my weekly laundry list; I have a culinary degree, but I don’t cook… ever; and, I rarely put the cover sheet on my mattress, which already looks lifeless in a dusty corner of my 2ft x 2ft apartment. My shitty closet has no space for most of my clothes so these wilting items collect dust on a used wood-splintered “table.” Used pans sit, unwashed, in my little-used sink. I’m on an online dating site because I broke up with a man who loved me, but I didn’t like that he wasn’t perfect. Now, I look across my shoulder to this lost soul. A pretty face, but not the man that I can’t wait to find comfort in. He’s not the man that won’t need my emotional or financial support. He’s an adolescent that keeps passing his years with an optimism for the next.

About an hour into this “date” (Chicago’s diviest bar, which makes stiff drinks and offers no false hopes of romanticism), I realized that I’m totally a man. I’m that 30-something dude that still offers a precarious future, has a lecherous sexual appetite, but isn’t exactly exuding sustainability.

The problem is, this is me. I’m a messy, 30-something chick that wants booze, men and Netflix. I’m trying to put every single(ish) person whom I know onto these dating sites. My coworker asked me if “I’m me” on these first dates. Obviously. However, apparently there’s a true, natural inclination to fake it for the first few meet ups. What does this mean? Should I dress my nails with rouge, paint an equally Burgundy dress onto my body, giggle at banal jokes, order a caesar salad and then put out? Perhaps these are exaggerations, but what does it mean to offer a false impression on dates? Yes, maybe a second date would be captured, but for what?

The last dude was sweet, but I want more than a nice guy with zero direction. Wow, apparently I’m an “adult”, whatever that means and to whatever extent that goes. Granted I partied so hard last night that I couldn’t make it to a 1pm dance class today, but all belligerence aside, where’s my put-together counterpart so that I can find direction to pick up my own pieces?

Here's to next week. 90% arrested development, 10% optimism!

The Ex Wins

That moment when you discover that your ex is having sex again… monogamously. Somehow, it’s understandable when you learn of one night stands, two week flings, but longterm love? I now have two of these ignominious moments under my belt. They both suck. The worst part is, I instigated the end of both of my big loves. I suppose that this should mean an easier recovery, but when you confidently declare the end of a relationship, there is always a subconscious belief that you have won a small victory. You’ve freed yourself of responsibility and arguments and paved the way for new, “better,” boyfriends. These unknown men will begin sprinting toward you without pause. However, that pause is real long. Like that time that Arrested Development or Futurama stopped airing. Years later someone found the gumption to woo them back to life, but once again, years later.

Perhaps I sound a bit melodramatic, but it tends to happen when life hands you a nasty taste of Karma. With the bitching behind me, how will I crawl out of this relationship black hole? Online dating sexting of course! Yesterday I signed up for OKCupid. I feel silly, quite silly. However, I’ve always been interested in psychology and sociology and all of these online dating sites provide plenty of social fodder and intellectual inquiry.

The good news is: I’m not a total dating pariah, but the bad news: there are a lot of crazies to combat out there. Case(s) in point: prospect number one: “Are you strict on your age range?” Me: “Yup.” Potential Dude: “Too bad, I’m one of the rare men on this site who are looking for something serious rather than hookups.” The inclination to remind a 23 yr old that he has his whole life ahead of him is tempting, but I’ll let him discover this for himself. I want to remind him that he’s 23, life is going to be grand. Second encounter: seemingly normal until… the inevitable shirtless pic. I inform the unnamed gentleman that he looks creepy with his black and white half naked photo. It was a polite reminder, but not well received (shocking). Potential suitor number 800 reminds me that I “should feel thankful that he is even talking to me.” Aside from the numerous grammatical flaws that punctuated our brief and uninteresting online relationship, his enthusiasm to drop trow and sophomorically belittle me were further affirmation that online dating is going to be interesting. Real interesting. More to come, but as for now. Who knows what tomorrow’s Charlie834 has in store. Here’s to endless dates with, hopefully, endless stories.

How Not to do IT

If you remove what’s heavy, the lightness of being is overwhelming; therefore, counteracting the original motif- where does sex fit into this? Sex is relaxing and strenuous, assuring and uneasy, freeing and cloistering. The polarities of every action are potent. When I woke up next to him these handcuffs were more obvious than all of the other 18 before him. Why do I still feel the need to pursue something that was so bad (literally, the worst sex of my 12 years of sack action), but so addicting?

I’ve had porn star sex, rom com sex, breakup sex, sex that makes him cry, sex that makes me cry, boring-as-hell sex, exciting-as-birthday sex. In other words, I’m no different than any other woman, but I’ve recently encountered bad sex. Please note: boring does not connote bad. Boring is just that moment where you have sex, but you’re indifferent to the act. Maybe the TV is on, maybe you’re killing that Sunday afternoon malaise, maybe you secretly hate the person, but you want to get yours just to spite him (I hope this is “a thing” for others because I’ve definitely been there). Whatever the reason, sex has it’s place. I prefer it to habitate my life daily, but I’m cursed with fidelity and an undesired desire for partnership. Therefore, being single poses challenges to my preferred daily ritual.

The elephant in my, and his, room is: why do I want to be with you when you suck at sex? I suppose this should also be examined from his perspective: is she the reason that the bed is feared? Let’s start with what’s going down on the mattress:

He only likes one position. Only ONE! There is no foreplay and he goes until he finishes. There are no breathers, no sounds, no communication and no effort. PS- I’ve talked about, and tried, other positions, but he only likes uno, singular, one position.

Sex partner #19 has only been with four other women. I suppose that I should forgive these many aforementioned shortcomings to his inexperience, but by partner number four I had been having sex for years and it was almost always unique and exciting. Mr. X mentioned that he has never experienced anything different. I’m not sure if his tutelage was a failure on behalf of the female species or a failure of his. Regardless, his experiences sound awful. With him, I’ve tried other positions. I’ve tried pretending to be excited, I’ve tried talking about it, I’ve tried changing my own idea of sex. The point is our sex sucks, but he -as a non sexual person- is awesome. There is no way that I can continue toward anything with Mr. X, but the question is: is he bound to this path of seemingly heinous coitus or is there redemption? The subsequent question: am I the factor that does not equate or is it him? Or, even more obscure: are we both awesome separately, but terrible together?

After a little reconnoissance, it seems like there is no clear answer. I think that “good” or acceptable sex lends itself to a base connection. While the psychology of sex still underlies every encounter, the execution is inherent to the partner in passion. Therefore, I dispel any internal anger and will try and laugh off this whole bad sex experience to his inability to perform. Wait, I’m using the word “perform.” This is a loaded term and implies expectation. However, why can’t we have expectations from our partners? I expect respect, foreplay and enthusiasm. This isn’t asking too much. Or is it? From this recent bed fellow, I have received none. Believe me, I have given plenty. However, I’m actually thankful for this experience because I have tutelage in how to not do it. This is just as valuable as an education in awesome sex.

I realize that this is turning into a bit of a Carrie Bradshaw post, but talking about sex is one of my favorite past times (aside from actually having it). With number 19 in the past, I’m excited to begin my Chicago-based quest for great sex. A partner would be nice too, but in the meantime, I need to get laid. Here’s to a, hopefully, interesting journey.