The Art of the Dry Spell

So, I’m in a dry spell.
And honestly, I don’t really know what to do with myself.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking–as owner and operator of all things #20SomethingProblems, I have written about my bad dates, lack of boyfriend, and dating shortcomings time and time again. These posts haven’t found me in any sort of successful relationship (except for the relationship I’m having with Ben & Jerry) so technically hasn’t my dating dry spell been forever long? Well, okay, yes, in so many words–kind of. But what I’m talking about goes so beyond the boyfriend dry spell that I can barely believe it.
For the first time in a long time (okay, since like February), I don’t even have the possibility of prospects on my side.
Nope, there ain’t a single soul vying for my attention.
I’m all alone on this vast blue planet and I kind of hate it. (And no, that wasn’t dramatic at all.)

Here’s the thing, just a couple of weeks ago, I had some stuff going on. There were men. Well, there was a man. A man and a half, really. Things weren’t exactly going great but I was holding out hope that maybe I was still on the train to Relationshipville. I had deleted all of my online dating apps. I was committed to never returning to the hell that is the first three dates. Y’all know what I’m talking about too–those first three dates where anything can happen and usually (in my case, at least) that anything includes a major ghosting or like, an awkward explanation of why we should just be friends.
 

But alas, that man and a half made his exit (with a highly original excuse. Kudos, my man. Kudos to you) and I was left with my phone in my hand (didn’t Taylor Swift write a song or two about this?). I’ll admit, I was sad. And I vowed to take a break from the dating scene for a while.
Which, of course, lasted about two whole days.

I don’t know about you guys but I’ve gotten to a point in my life where loneliness is kind of intolerable. That sounded hella depressing but hear me out. The thing is, I just want someone to share stuff with. And all the people I used to share stuff with have boyfriends or have moved away or are so busy that I can’t even talk to them all day everyday anymore (I know! How rude!). I’m not in college anymore. People have lives that don’t exist solely in one place, don’t revolve around friendships only. I’m lonely. And if I dig a little deeper, I am, of course, lonely for a very specific kind of something–the something that involves a boy and a girl and hand-holding and stuff.

So, I hopped back on OKCupid and re-downloaded Tinder (yikes, I know) and got down to biz. And I’m coming up empty-handed. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve been propositioned to bang it out approximately 1000 times and the one guy (a mega-hot English dude who was totally out of my league) I was talking to (who called me devilishly beautiful–um, swoon and also gross) disappeared (literally disappeared–okay, totally just unmatched me) after I admitted to going to see One Direction–judge all you want mega-hot English dude. You’re not going to Drag Me Down.

So. Here I am twiddling my thumbs. I check the Cupe. I check Tinder. I weep heavily (just kidding). Rinse and repeat. I am solidly in a dry spell. And I think maybe I’m ready to accept it–maybe.

I’m not going to let this dry spell define me (As if it could. Come on, dry spell). Sure, it sucks to get literally zero texts a day (no, this isn’t an approximation–over the weekend I spoke to no living humans) but that’s the essence of dry spell. It’s like a love prohibition (and nobody’s even created any love speakeasies for me yet).

But as Thomas Fuller once said,  “It is always darkest just before the day dawneth.” (Yeah, I totally looked that up.) The art of the dry spell comes in accepting it, comes in waiting it out. Sometimes, some things just aren’t meant to be. And right now, a man (any man–especially that One Direction judging jackass) isn’t in my cards. I’m gonna do me. Not because I wanna (I don’t) but because I’ve gotta. And in truth, there’s something highly settling about doing stuff just because you have to do it. It teaches you patience. It allows you time to assess what it is you really want. It reasserts your own relationship with yourself. It sucks. It totally sucks. But it’s necessary. I’m thinking of it as a vacation from the anxiety that dating tends to induce. I’m taking a break and I’m going to come back cuter and more irresistible (so yeah, just mildly tolerable, really) than ever before. And when I do come back, it’s going to be so damn sunny out, I’m going to forget all about the dark that Date-Gate 2015 is currently creating.

Anyway, don’t they say Fall is the best time to fall in love?
Or is that Winter? Spring? (I know it isn’t summer. This isn’t Grease.)
No matter what it may be, I’ll be waiting–cute and funny and irresistible and wearing the One Direction t-shirt I’m totally getting at this concert tonight.
Take that, dry spell.

I Don't Want to Be the Funny Girl Anymore

I am a funny girl. I am the funny girl.
Seriously, that is my defining quality. Just ask anyone and they’ll tell you that I’m the sort of girl who can always make you laugh.
It’s just who I am. It’s just who I’ve always been–a jumble of bad puns and good jokes, a mish-mash of witticisms, of social commentary that somehow always seems to hitsome mark (even if it isn’t the one I intended). I’m a girl, that girl, who has turned self-deprecation into an art form.
I’m funny. I’m a funny girl.
And I think I’m finally over it.

Don’t get me wrong, I like being funny. Making people laugh is something that brings me a whole lot of joy. I live for those moments–live for huge grins and accidental snorts, live for knowing that I’ve genuinely made someone happy. It’s a talent, being funny, and hell, even I have enough confidence to admit that. At my core, I’m a comedian. I was born for it.I know this. I accept this. And boy, do I revel in it.
The problem is, I’m so much more than just the funny girl.
I just have no idea how to show it.

Humor is my armor. I pull it on in the morning. I wear it to bed. It protects me, keeps me from letting people get too close, keeps me from getting hurt. As long as they’re laughing, everything is fine. As long as they’re laughing, I’ve done something right. So, I make myself a joke. I make myself a character. Sitcom myself up, become a walking, talking prat-fall that sends milk right out of your nose. I become something so entirely palatable, something so entirely likable that you can’t help but get on board. It’s a shell of who I am, sure–just the very, very tip of the iceberg–but it’s something. It’s something.
And you like me, you really like me.

All at once, my humor is a means of deflection and attraction. I want you to like me. But I don’t want you to know me. Because if you do get to know me, will you still like what you see? So, make ’em laugh and they won’t bother to look, make ’em laugh and they won’t bother to dig. Funny people are happy people, right? There’s nothing under the surface. At least not anything to worry about.

My humor has become something of a compulsion. Every single hurt I’ve ever felt, I’ve made a joke out of. Every insult I’ve received, I’ve just laughed off. My hopes and dreams, my wants and desires, are all discussed in this half-assed, just kidding sort of way. The only emotions I let myself feel (in public, at least) are the type that leave a smile plastered on my face. I don’t go all in, not emotionally. I never have. And I hate it.

This is what I’m talking about. This is what I want to move past.
Because being the funny girl has stopped me from letting myself be seen.

I am both vulnerable and impenetrable. And my personality, my whole personality, has become something of a punchline that never really comes around because I don’t let it. I’m scared, okay? I’m scared. But playing at brave isn’t enough. I want to be brave.
I want someone to see me. I want someone to see me wholly.
And if that’s going to happen, I’ve got to let it happen.

I need to stop clinging to my humor like it’s a life vest. I need to take that leap, dive right in, and be myself.
The thing is, I am the funny girl.
But I’m a lot of other girls too.
And it’s about time they started getting some attention.

Letting Go of Your List: Why Finding the Perfect Guy Is Something You Can't Plan

Everybody has a list.
You know what I’m talking about—that list of all the things you do (and don’t) want in a significant other. And these lists are serious business too—the sort of thing you don’t even want to consider straying from when it comes to finding someone to love. I mean, come on—isn’t complete and total control the key to happiness?

I made my first list around fourteen and OH MY GOD, IT WAS INSANE. I wrote it out with my best friend on a lined sheet of paper and yes, I still do have it to this day (told you it was serious biz).
Anyway, I don’t know what was wrong with me (honestly) but I had some pretty huge expectations.
Some examples:

And that is just a taste of the entirely too-comprehensive list I sketched out of my perfect mate at the age of fourteen. I would like to apologize to Ryan Seacrest and any and all olympic athletes but still stand by the fact that Harry Potter is the best thing ever and if you don’t like it, you sure as hell aren’t dating me (Harry Potter forever!)

Over the years, my list has matured. I no longer really care about a majority of the stuff on that original list. It was too limiting and left me literally no room to find a living, breathing human male.
That doesn’t mean the list doesn’t still exist though. It still lives at the back of my brain (no, I didn’t write this one down) and includes things like non-smoker, must love dogs, college educated, dorky but in a cool way (Harry Potter forever). And I really do try to stick to this list when it comes to my many dating endeavors. I don’t trust a guy if he doesn’t like dogs. I assume things aren’t going to work if he doesn’t get my Star Trek jokes. I have never, ever been on good date with a vegetarian (burgers, y’all). There’s just certain things I look for in a guy that seem like major dealbreakers–either they fit the mold or they don’t. And if they don’t fit that mold, how could they ever be my perfect guy?

The thing is though, as time has gone on, I’ve found that sticking to my list hasn’t really done me any favors. I have been on a lot of dates with smart, college-educated dog lovers that have bored the shit out of me. I have been on dates with Trekkies who are just a little bit too weird. I have gone out with perfect-toothed, hairless men who are smart but aren’t smarter than me, who love Harry Potter and Doctor Who and have made me feel nothing. 
But when I’ve branched out and embraced dates sans list? That’s where I’ve hit the sweet spot. I went on a couple of dates with a shorter-than-me, bartending, smoker and had the best time ever (I mean, we even went to a strip club together. Can you imagine me in a strip club? No. No, you cannot. But it was hella fun). I’ve been out with an open-relationshipped, mega-nerd and have never felt more. I mean, for goodness sakes, I even went on a date with a cat person who didn’t like Harry Potter and I really, really enjoyed myself.

Okay, so those relationships haven’t really worked out either but they certainly were more successful than the ones with guys who seemed perfect on paper. Because, and I’m just figuring this out too, there is no such thing as perfect, on paper or otherwise.
We don’t get to decide what makes someone good for us (or what makes us good for someone else). Sometimes the people we least expect are the best. Life is weird and it’s something that you cannot plan, no matter how damn hard you try.
The same thing goes for love, even more so.
The things that set us on fire, really and truly, are not the things we pick for ourselves. Fire and lust and desire and love are found in the things that catch us off guard.  That’s the best sort of stuff.
It always has been.

So, that’s why I’m ditching my list. I’m not going to focus on college educations. I’m not going to think about dog lovers or freckles or floppy morning hair. I don’t need a list to help me decide what makes me feel good.
I want the person that’s unexpected. I want the person that gets me laughing–belly-laughing, the good kind–at two am. I want the person that makes my heart sing, that makes me feel so much that I think I might explode.
I want someone I love for everything they are and everything they’re not, no check list required.
(And yes, I still want the person that loves Harry Potter because some things you just can’t compromise on.)

It's Okay to Care More

I’m always the one that cares more.
Seriously, always.
And you know what, I think I’m finally okay with that.

The thing is, somebody always has to care more. It’s just the way things work. Without that extra little push of affection, nothing would ever get done. Nobody would ever get asked out, nobody would ever get married, hell, nobody would even get divorced. We would all just be stuck in one slow indifferent trudge towards death. Which, yeah, does sound lovely, doesn’t it?
If you ask me (and you obviously did ask), indifference is pretty much the worst thing. There’s nothing passionate there. There’s nothing alive. It is just nothing. And that sounds really damn boring, IMHO.

So instead, I care.
I care way too much.
And it has hurt me about a billion times over.

Caring more always leaves me feeling like some sort of desperate, pathetic loser (ahem). I feel like I need to justify myself, feel the need to justify my entire existence. It makes me want to stand on some mountain somewhere and shake some boy’s shoulders and say, “Hey, look at me! I like you! I like you a lot! And I am a normal, nice, semi-funny girl whose hair looks pretty good today! Please notice me! I am right here.”
And when you look at it that way, when you really break it down, I guess it is kind of pathetic. In my life, I have been so desperate for someone to feel as jazzed about me as I am about them that I have lost sight of what actually matters. I comb through all the reasons why they just aren’t feeling the same. I muddle through all of the ways I can make them see the light. And then, I decide I’m going to care less. Because caring less means hurting less, right?

Well, okay–yeah, probably.
But it also means feeling less.
And that’s not really something I’m prepared to do.

Look, acting like you don’t care makes you feel all Rico Suave cool. I get it. I don’t care so I can’t get hurt. I don’t care so I’m a mystery. I don’t care so somebody else has to. But, in truth, that’s a cop-out. In truth, that doesn’t even begin to hold a candle to the way it feels when you do care, when you meet somebody you are so excited about you can actually feel it right down in your toes. We all deserve someone we can be crazy about, someone who we wake up thinking about, someone who lights up our whole damn day, someone who gets us all weird and goofy and stupid in all the best ways. Feeling that way is exhilarating.
Feeling that way is sort of the best.

The thing to remember (and it is a hard thing to remember), is that our feelings belong to us. Our feelings are ours to give. So give them! If you feel them, feel them. If you feel them, give them. It’s up to you to decide where to place your care and you shouldn’t stop yourself from feeling the way you do solely because you’re afraid you’re going to look the worser. It’s up to you to decide where to invest yourself. And hey, sometimes investments can turn out to be really shitty. But it doesn’t mean, it never means, they weren’t worth a shot. You’re going to get burnt (time and time and time again–believe me) but you’re also going to get to live your life with a sense of certainty and purposefulness that is seriously badass.

The world doesn’t need any more indifferent people–it’s got plenty. Have passion and go out there and use it all up. Get spent, get bruised, get pushed around, and feel it all. Go out into the world with the certainty that you gave it everything you had and didn’t hold a single thing back. Let go of your should-haves, say goodbye to your maybes. Because it’s an infinitely more fulfilling way to live than the alternative, I promise.

 Yeah, sometimes you’re going to end up looking a little stupid.
And sometimes you’re going to end up getting a little hurt.
But hey, that’s life.
And you shouldn’t want to live it any other way.

Why I'm Giving Up the Chase (and You Should Too)

Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.
This quote has stuck with me for a good, long time and I think I finally understand why.

Beautiful things don’t ask for attention. They exist, they flourish, they grow. They exude something—a boldness, a confidence, a grace that simply can’t be ignored. Their beauty isn’t simply skin deep–it’s internal, it’s everlasting. It doesn’t need to ask.
This is the way I want to live my life.

Now, I’m not saying I think I’m beautiful. I, just like every other living, breathing human being, have things I would really, really like to change about myself. I have the nose of a hobbit, I have the face of a moon, and those thick thighs I was talking about yesterday, hell, I think I’d be way better off without them.
But still, I have worth.  I am grand.  I am important.
I deserve love.
And one day, I want someone to tell me that.

This is something everyone, absolutely everyone, should experience in their lives, at least once (and more than once, if I’m being completely honest). Every single one of us deserves to have someone stand in front of us, their feet firmly planted, their voice unwavering, and say, “I want you.”
I want you. I want you. I want you.

That is, perhaps, the most beautiful thing this life has to offer. To be desired by another human being, fully, unapologetically. To just be wanted, to just be loved.

It’s something I want desperately.
And it’s something that, up until this point at least, I have searched for and I have searched for hard.
I constantly think about the when and how and why of my falling in love. And I have thought about it for years. I’ve thought about it since the time it was appropriate to think about it—we’re talking 7^th grade, we’re talking forever.
I’ve been so fixated on it—this thing I want most—and as years pass and I continue to not get it, it’s started to hurt and burn and ache.

But beautiful things don’t ask for attention. Beautiful things cannot be chased. And for the first time in my life, I actually get that.
I’m giving up the chase, guys.
I’m giving up the trying to fit square pegs into a round hole. Every single guy I’ve ever gone out with (the number of which is, admittedly, almost embarrassingly small), I’ve put on this pedestal. I take personalities I like, traits I like, faces I like, and bodies I like, and I try to turn them into love.
It never works. And it never will.

Because beautiful things don’t work like that.
Love doesn’t work like that.

Love and that beautiful, carnal, unstoppable pull you feel for another person can’t be built. It simply exists. It simply survives, it keeps fighting and breathing and grasping against all odds. It flourishes. And reaches out and grabs you just when you’re least expecting it—only when you’re not looking. It’s the sort of beauty that just knows, the sort of beauty that lives in the center of your chest (or a little bit to the left), the sort of beauty that thuds against your ribcage—a heavy, unrelenting bump, bump bump. The sort of beauty that desires, and yearns, and wants.

It doesn’t ask.
It doesn’t have to.
It’s just there—this beautiful thing that wants you and finds you (yes, you) wholly beautiful too.