October 23, 2023

Every time I actually use the little water filter on my refrigerator (which is rare because I don’t have the patience for it when the water from the tap on my sink comes out so much faster) I make the same mistake. Due to my impatience and inability to stand still, I push the glass up against the button that makes the water come out, and leave the glass on the little ledge and walk away. I tell myself that I can walk over to another part of my kitchen and do some other chore – wipe off the counter, throw something away, fill the puppy’s water bowl or whatever – and then I’ll come back and grab the glass before it is full. Yet, I always walk away to do the other chore and then immediately forget that I left the glass on the ledge until I hear that awful sound of water hitting the floor. I shout at myself “Dammit, Rebecca!” every time this happens, yet I never learn my lesson. I’ve done it twice already today. I was cooking chicken for lunch and then turned around to see a huge puddle under the fridge. I got so exasperated with myself, I just threw a towel down over the puddle and put the glass of water in the sink without drinking a drop. That’ll teach you, you thirsty bitch.

This is such a metaphor for my whole life. I make the same mistake over and over and never learn from it and instead have learned not to trust myself. I’m on the path to dehydration because I can’t trust myself to fix myself a glass of water without making a mess. Just as I can’t be trusted with the simple task of pushing a button and standing still for a few seconds, I can’t trust myself in love and relationships. A few weeks ago, I was working on a project on this blog called “Rebecca’s Love Equation”, where I was going to try to make dating more fun and less stressful. Shortly after I published those posts, I met a man in the wild when I wasn’t even trying. We were at a concert for a Led Zeppelin tribute band and I walked up to him and asked simply “Are you here by yourself?” and it was one of those organic meetings that felt like a great story we could tell at parties one day. He pursued me heavily, and we dated for a few weeks. Friday night I was telling one of my girlfriends that I felt so secure with him and felt so certain that he wasn’t seeing anyone else. I was planning to bring up the subject of exclusively dating with him this week. I was so sure that this was the beginning of something special, I deleted my love equation posts on this blog and all of the dating apps. Then Saturday morning, I got a text. “Hi Rebecca, I’m sorry, I can’t see you anymore, I’ve decided to be exclusive with someone else.”

One text ruined my whole weekend and I’ve been so upset. I can’t figure out if it’s because this guy was so wonderful and I really connected with him – this doesn’t happen often for me – or if I am just devastated because I had the audacity to be hopeful this time. He was treating me the way I wanted to be treated and made me feel happy and comfortable with him. I started allowing myself to be excited. I tricked myself into thinking that the way he treated me was special and that the words he said to me actually meant something. I tricked myself into ignoring all the red flags, justifying some of the things he did, and assuming that a father of two with full-time custody couldn’t possibly make time to date more than one woman at a time. I was wrong about all of it. I tricked myself into thinking a future could be possible with someone, just the way I trick myself into believing that I’ll remember to remove the water glass from the ledge before the cup runneth over. I’ve done this to myself time after time.

I told my friend about this and he said “Why are you all worked up? This guy sounds like a loser.” People love to say things like this when they are on your side and they want you to feel better. But he’s not the loser, I am. No matter how on-my-high-horse I can be about the fact that he led me on and wasn’t honest about his intentions, I’m still the loser. Sure, he had to break the news to me and listen to me angrily responding on the phone for a few seconds. But after that, he got to go hang out with his kids and his new girlfriend. The one he chose over me. The winner. They won and I lost. I have a feeling he didn’t take Benadryl at 3 pm on Saturday to try to fall asleep and feel better. I have a feeling that he didn’t exhaust and exasperate his friends and family by trying to call them and tell them about it. I have a feeling that he had a really lovely weekend while I was here in hell. I’m the loser.

I know I sound like that girl who inspired the shenanigans in “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” – you remember, she missed work and was crying into Kate Hudson’s shoulder.

“You only dated the guy a week…“

“It was the best week of my life. *sobs*“

I know it’s ridiculous. I went on a date yesterday and that was also a big mistake. I was trying to run from this disproportionate amount of pain I’m feeling, and thought maybe I’d just go out with someone random from Bumble and we’d hit it off and everything would feel alright. It didn’t work out that way. All I felt was sad and then I felt like a piece of garbage for putting this innocent bystander in the middle of my mess. He was perfectly nice and we split a chicken wrap at the bar, which was the only real meal I had all weekend. I regret wasting his time – I did pick up the check, so I guess he got a free, mediocre meal out of it.

I wish dating were a little more like my job. At work, we get these “Snapshots”, where you work some hours on a project and submit a Snapshot to the team lead. They rate you on a scale of 1 to 5 and then write comments basically saying what you did right and whatever you should do differently or better. Feedback loops like this are never perfect, but there’s not a lot of ambiguity there. If you’re doing well, you’ll know it. If not, you’ll know it. As a team leader myself, giving this feedback is never easy because it can be painful for the person receiving it. But it’s kind of like some of the pain in your body – a lot of times, your body will send you pain signals as a sign that you need to take action. If your head hurts, you might need to drink some water (room temperature water from the kitchen faucet unless you want to make a huge mess). If you accidentally touch a hot stovetop, you feel pain and then you know to get away from the heat. If your knees hurt while running, you might need to change your form or try a different exercise. You get it. I wish pain from dating could be more like that for me. If I’m going to cry and feel this way, how can I take it and learn from it? Can they start filling out an exit survey? What can I do so I can stop being someone’s second choice? Or third choice? Or booty call? I wish I could get some feedback or read an article like “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” that doesn’t end with Kate Hudson proclaiming her undying love for Matthew McConaughey. I’m really sorry if I spoiled the ending of that movie for you.

I keep trying to replay how the last few weeks happened so I can make some kind of list of “what not to do”. So far, my list has one bullet – “Stop ignoring red flags”, and even that one is not really actionable because red flags are so subjective. I think there should be a separate “what not to do” list for how to react in the fallout. I need to learn to resist the impulse to sequester myself off from the rest of the world. That “Do Not Disturb” setting on the iPhone is nice but also dangerous, especially if you pair it with a little self medication. You know how I said earlier that I put my glass of water in the sink? I was really thirsty, but my impulse was to punish myself because I was angry over my mistake. Which is exactly what I’ve been doing all weekend – punishing myself for a choice HE made by cancelling fun plans and hiding under my covers. I feel so disappointed and embarrassed because I told my friends about this person, I’ve allowed myself to spiral into this place of deep shame and regret.

The only thing that gives me a little peace is that I was honest and open with this person. I showed him affection that I didn’t know I still had inside of me. Maybe I’m a full blown crazy person who cries over something like this. Maybe I keep making the same mistakes and getting attached to the wrong people. Maybe I’m more like Kate Hudson’s friend than I’d like to admit and I’m making mistakes in dating that cause men to walk away from me. But maybe the right person won’t be bothered by my mistakes and he won’t think I’m crazy. And he damn sure won’t lie to me or keep me around as a backup plan. Maybe you can’t lose the right one because the right one will stay.

Authored by Rebecca Crouch, PhD

*Peer Review Pending*

Abstract: In this experimental trial, a woman receives a series of text messages from a man who has been known to exhibit symptoms of very high audacity levels. The 35-year-old male experimental unit has not reached out to our female particpant in over 3 weeks and she has lost interest due to a fortuitous meeting with a handsome man at a Led Zeppelin Tribute Band concert in September. The scientific term for this is that she “has no f**ks left to give”.

Body: The female participant received texts from the experimental unit on Saturday 14 October 2023 between 11:48 pm and 12:02 am on 15 October 2023.

Saturday, 11:48 pm – “Hey, things really kicked off at work since the last time I saw you.”

This is the first and perhaps most vital part of the apology anatomy. We call it The Booty Call. He’s waiting until the participant is either nice and drunk on Saturday night OR she is 33 and has already been asleep for 2 hours. Women who are drunk or sleepy or both are therefore more vulnerable to the BS. He wants the participant to respond immediately and invite him over to her Barbie Dream House. The woman in this experimental trial was in fact asleep and did not respond.

Saturday, 11:50 pm – “It’s okay, I get it”

We call this text the How-Dare-You-Fail-to-Respond-Immediately (even though I (the experimental unit) usually take 24-48 hours to respond to your “Hey how’s your week going?” texts, or more frequently, I simply don’t respond at all BECAUSE F**K YOU). The experimental unit is setting the scene for playing the victim card by sending this passive aggressive text.

Sunday, 12:02 am – “I’m sorry, this is shitty. All my random texting, etc. I just thought you would understand but I guess I was wrong.”

This final text is the richest of the three. First, the experimental unit has a strong opening by saying he is sorry. He then adds a small amount of detail about what he’s actually sorry about by saying “my random texting, etc.” As our female participant was snoozing and could not respond to this, she did not inquire to the experimental unit about what behaviors are included in the “etc.” but one could infer that he does not know and probably could not name any examples. Finally, in the last sentence of the text, he flips the script masterfully and cashes in on his previous attempt to play the victim. Even though he is sorry for his own “shitty” behavior, the fault really lies with the female participant because she “like, just doesn’t understand, bro”. It is unclear what he expected her to understand – perhaps he wanted her to understand that his job is demanding and he has no time to reply to texts or take her on dates. Perhaps he wants her to understand that he expects a response to midnight texts within 2 minutes because he’s worth that boundary. Again, the female participant did not respond, so no further data were collected in this trial. We do hypothesize that at the time of this text exchange, the experimental unit was at a bar or club trying to pick up other women, failing miserably and feeling very sad.

Clearly, further experimental trials are necessary to fully understand this communication sequence. We leave this matter with our peers in the field of study, as we are moving on to other academic endeavors.

September 20,2023

While reading the Washington Post this weekend, I saw an article titled, “Washington is full of rats. These dogs are happy to help with that.” Okay, I’m listening…tell me more. The article was a ride. The first two lines were some of the best journalistic prose I’ve ever read. Listen to this:

“The sound of a rat screaming in the jaws of a terrier is the same sound that a stuffed squeaky toy makes.

It seems so obvious. Of course the toys sound that way, because that sound awakens something deep in a docile dog’s neurons that says: Shake it. Shake it till it’s dead.“

Ugh, that’s so good. Anyway, the article is about a group of vigilante rat killers in Washington DC who call themselves The Ratscallions. The Ratscallions are a group of Rat Terrier dogs and their owners who take to the streets at night in Adams Morgan – a neighborhood in DC that I am only slightly familiar with because I had a first date there once. The story there was that I showed up for my date, and the man (who looked shockingly like Hugh Jackman) informed me that he also worked at Deloitte. I knew the relationship was dead-on-arrival because of this, but we got very drunk together on our own mini-bar-crawl of the local Adams Morgan establishments. It was a good time, but he did make a comment about how I “ordered the only drink that wasn’t on the happy hour menu.” After he made that jab, I went to the bar, started my own tab, ordered him another beer and myself a plate of loaded tater tots. When my tots came out a few minutes later, Wolverine reached for one, and I slid the plate away from him. I made that man watch me eat every tot on that plate. Honestly, 7/10, not a bad first date. Alas, I digress. The rats! Yes, these poor disgusting, diseased, vile rats are murdered in cold blood exterminated on the streets of DC by a bunch of good dogs bois and girls. The dog owners wear gloves (and long, non-baggy pants because “a rat did run up a gal’s pant leg once”, omfg) and place the little rat bodies in a trash bag for disposal at the end of the night. DC District officials made a point to state that they do not support or fund the efforts of the Ratscallions – because all of the rat abatement efforts they DO support and fund are clearly working so well.

You can read the rat article here.

That article had me so enticed, I read it out lout to my dad over the phone and dramatized the most exciting bits. Later that evening, I was trying to pick an audiobook to listen to while falling asleep. I already finished Jill Duggar’s book “Counting the Cost” where she tells the cheerful tale of her dad exploiting her and her siblings on tv for a decade while covering up the misdeeds of the sexual predator who shared her childhood home, Josh Duggar. When I couldn’t think of any new titles I wanted to buy with my Audible credits, I recalled my rat story and made the leap to my favorite book about plagues. The book is called “Get Well Soon” and it is a delightful (pre-covid) joyride through some of the most devastating plagues in human history: Bubonic Plague, Antonine Plague, Typhoid, Syphilis, Leprosy, Cholera and several others. She even has a fun chapter on Phlebotomy – which is not exactly a plague, but was a prime example of medical malpractice. The people who subjected their loved-ones (usually women) to the Phlebotomy treatment to cure mental illness, headaches or “female hysteria” were nearly as monstrous as the physician, Dr. Walter Freeman who profited from the practice.

One of the recurring themes of plague stories, is that throughout history, humans have created some pretty amusing theories on the causes and cures for disease. During the Bubonic Plague, also known as the Black Death, the most widely accepted theory of disease was the miasma theory – the idea that poisoned air or bad smells in the air make us sick. Now obviously, this isn’t that ridiculous because we now know that disease can spread through the air – this is why our moms smack us on the back of our heads when we don’t cover our coughs. But the idea that diseases can vary in the way they spread was unknown at the time. We now know that the Bubonic Plague was primarily spread by fleas carried on rats (hence my inspiration to pick up the topic after my rat article), and that sometimes the infection spread to the lungs, making the disease airborne as well. But the people in the 14th century dealing with the plague didn’t know that. All they knew was that bodies were piling up in the streets. Most of the written accounts from this period refer to the end of days – people who somehow survived the worst part of the plague, believed the world was literally ending. We are talking about a disease so deadly that mothers locked their infected children out of their homes to save the rest of their family.

No one knew how to cure the plague, but that didn’t stop people from trying a number of home remedies, all ineffective, but each of which were varying degrees of horrific. These “cures” typically fell in a few categories: 1) Animal cures: Think things like plucking the tail feathers off of a pigeon and placing it on a Bubo (a sore/swollen lymph node caused by the Bubonic Plague) and allowing the pigeon to absorb the “poison” until it dies. Rinse and repeat. They also did this with frogs, but the frogs allegedly exploded from the poison. 2) Bloodletting. You know this one. We saw how it worked out for George Washington. 3) Persecution of marginalized communities. Jewish people were blamed for the plague and many were subsequently murdered. 4) Freshening up. Cleaning the streets to remove the bad smells. 5) Eating weird things. Some cures called for ingestion of onions. Others called for fruits, vegetables and eggs. A healthy, balanced diet couldn’t hurt, but this cure is equivalent to preventing the flu with Emergen-C packets. 5) Quarantine and social distancing. This is the only one that could work, although, staying away from infected people doesn’t do much about those pesky rats. And they didn’t have the Ratscallions.

It’s easy to look back on the plague as I sit in my master bedroom with a bottle of Mountain Dew and Excedrin PM on my bedside table (which reminds me, I need to finish this up FAST because that shit is going to kick in soon). I know that if I wake up with a sore throat tomorrow, I can go to the doctor and get some of the very same antibiotics that would have been immensely helpful in battling the Bubonic Plague. I can take tests that will identify what kind of germies I have hanging out in my body, and get fast treatment for ailments that might have killed me a few centuries ago. And I’ll still whine about feeling sick and missing work. The treatments they used seem silly to us, but perhaps now that we’ve lived through our own deadly pandemic, we can understand a small degree of the desperation and fear that led them to try anything and everything. I, for one, can see myself being that person who goes “why don’t we catch that frog and see if it will help?”

Another plague-themed book that I love is called “The Ghost Map: The Story of London’s Most Terrifying Epidemic-and How it Changed Science, Cities, and the Modern World.” I know that title is a mouthful but it’s a wonderful story. I listened to the audiobook on my ten hour drive from Virginia to Kentucky for Christmas one year – because there’s nothing as holly jolly as a book about people shitting themselves to death. Sorry for that. The book is about Cholera, and unfortunately that’s the way people died from Cholera. They had diarrhea that was so severe that they eventually died of dehydration. Cholera is still around – thousands of people die from it each year. Luckily for us in our developed nations, it is highly unlikely that we catch it because our water is so clean, and even if we did catch it, we’d probably survive due to unlimited bottles of Powerade and doses of Imodium available at your neighborhood Walgreens (even available at the touch of a finger on Uber Eats).

The book is set in 1854 London, which was becoming one of the first “modern” cities in the world. That summer, the city experienced a deadly outbreak of Cholera. Despite the fact that this occurred several centuries after the Bubonic Plague, the miasma theory is more prominent than ever. Everyone believes that the Cholera is spreading through the air – by bad smells in particular. One of the more convincing arguments is that when you smell something rancid (think corpse smell, bodily fluids, garbage) it can cause you to become physically ill (you might gag, vomit or feel nauseated). So of course, bad smells make you sick. Like I said, we know this is silly today and that just because a bad smell can make you feel sick, it doesn’t mean that all sickness is caused by smell. The powers that be in London at the time took great care to scrub the streets and make sure they were smelling fresh. Yet more than 600 people in London died from Cholera that summer.

Dr. John Snow, (not to be confused with the brooding heartthrob from Game of Thrones, Jon Snow) was an obstetrician who had long believed that Cholera was caused by particles in water, particles from sewage contamination in particular. He kept trying to prove this theory to the medical community, but no one believed him. Snow was not the most popular man in town, which didn’t help his case. He was a teetotaler who was very into his diet – kind of like a fitness bro before fitness bros were a thing. I think he was very…opinionated, and not particularly shy about sharing those opinions with people. It’s annoying, right? But he was certain of his theory and wanted to help put a stop to the epidemic. When he learned of a bad outbreak of Cholera in the Soho neighborhood of London, he started making his map. He noticed that a lot of the deaths in the neighborhood were in the vicinity of the Broad Street Water pump. In fact, about 500 of the deaths in less than ten days occurred within 250 yards of the pump. Seems like a strong correlation, right? But Snow knew that to convince others that the pump was the nucleus for the outbreak, he’d have to explain every Cholera death’s connection to the pump.

He worked tirelessly to track down information from hospitals and public records to figure out if the victims drank water from the Broad Street Pump. He made a map of all of the deaths and then investigated every single case to determine if there was a connection to the pump. Most of the deaths were easy to connect to the pump – people who lived nearby used the pump. Others deaths occurred because people who didn’t live near the pump ate at restaurants that used water from the pump. A coffee shop owner served water from the pump with meals, and 9 of her customers contracted Cholera. Some people contracted Cholera after purchasing “sherbet” from street vendors, who made the fizzy drink with water from the Broad Street Pump. One woman who didn’t live near the Soho neighborhood at all died after drinking water that her family sent to her because she loved the taste of the Broad Street water so much. While he was making his map, he not only found that every Cholera fatality had water consumption from the Broad Street pump in common, he also discovered the first Cholera case in the neighborhood. A mother dropped the dirty diaper of her Cholera infected baby (who later died) into a well near the pump, and contaminated the water supply, resulting in the outbreak. When Snow had finished gathering his evidence, he presented his findings to the city, and the handle to the Broad Street pump was removed – saving countless lives.

People in science often talk about the symbolic “Handle of the Broad Street Pump” when they want to find the underlying cause of something or the simple fix that will change everything. Snow’s map was really meaningful because it was a demonstration to the medical community that the public health is sometimes influenced most by considering all patients/cases as part of their larger environment, rather than individual people needing care. Basically, he was looking at the big picture. He didn’t wait for individual sick people to come to his office for treatment, he instead went out to seek the big, systemic changes that could impact many people at once. We saw these ideas come to life during the Covid outbreak as we all dealt with stay at home orders and mask mandates – these may not have been as immediately effective as removing the handle of the Broad Street pump, but I believe they were inspired by the same goal. John Snow was such a baller-shot-caller and an eligible bachelor. Prove me wrong.

So why did I write so many words about disease and plagues and rats tonight? I know what you’re all thinking. Rebecca, you’re not that kind of doctor. You’re not the helpful kind, remember? Yeah, yeah I know. I guess I often think about my life in terms of the Soho epidemic. Hear me out. I haven’t been doing…well…lately. I came home from work last night around 6, and took some Zzquil and slept for about 14 hours before I got up to begin another work day. To be honest, I was planning to do the same tonight after work but I thought I’d spend three hours writing about this bullshit instead. Things for me personally are no worse than usual. A man I like doesn’t like me back. Friendships are hard to navigate and I’ve been out of practice thanks to a move to Virginia from my home in Kentucky and a pandemic. I don’t get many dates these days, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m getting less attractive as I get older or if it’s because I don’t have as much energy to try. Usually my job is that one shiny beacon of light in my life. I’ve always been so good at it and so energized and empowered by my work. But these days, it doesn’t feel like that. I feel like I’m working hard but not on the right things. I feel like I’m trying my best to impress but still letting people down. I wake up and don’t feel excited to go to work like I used to, but I also don’t feel excited to go home. Because when I get home, no one is there and I just have to face a different part of life where nothing is enough there either. It’s been a tough season. And I think I keep telling myself that I just need to find the handle for the Broad Street pump. If I can find the one thing that makes me happy, everything else will fall in line – or at least nothing else will matter as much. If I find a boyfriend, then everything will be different. Or if I get some validation from my boss, then everything will feel better. Or maybe I need to adjust my medication, then everything will feel okay. Or maybe a different therapist will do the trick. Maybe if I go on a rat hunt in Adams Morgan, I will finally be happy.

But the truth is that none of those things are going to fix everything. Hell they may even make things worse. Nothing like a rat running up your pant leg to make you need to adjust your medication some more. Sometimes life is like one big experiment, where you form a hypothesis, try something out, and then see what the results are. You stick a frog on a Bubo, watch it explode and then grab a pigeon. Rinse and repeat. There likely is no handle for the Broad Street pump here. But maybe that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take a note from Dr. Snow. Maybe the trick is to try to look at the big picture while tracking down individual problems one at a time. Maybe it’s getting to the bottom of one thing at a time (just like Snow considered one patient at a time) and but make some sort of map to see how all of the individual causes/fixes fit together. Small picture action, big picture thinking?

I’m not sure. Mostly, I just wanted an excuse to tell you about the rats. Please read the story about the rats.

September 15, 2023

I got invited to do a “hot sauce interview” at work. We filmed it today. When I read the invite for the initial discussion about the “hot sauce interview”, I shrugged and thought “must be a code name for something.” In my line of work, projects often have funny little names – lots of teams named after wineries or kingdoms in Game of Thrones. I once had a teammate in utter agony, trying to come up with a code name for a dataset we generated synthetically before he named it “slip n’ slide” or something like that. But when I got on this informational pre-interview call, the man on the phone said “Well, it’s pretty simple. I’m going to ask you three questions and make you eat hot sauce on a chicken nugget in between each one. The sauces will get progressively hotter, and it will be funny to watch you give meaningful answers about our Analytics practice at Deloitte while your eyes tear up and your mouth is on fire.” Look, I think he may have underestimated who he was dealing with because I have never met a spice I couldn’t handle. I am a consumer of spicy pickles and salsa made with Carolina Reaper and Ghost peppers. I have never been satisfied by the spice level of a spicy margarita. My mom made me some spicy salsa last weekend and texted me “I thought it was going to melt my pot!” On average, I’d wager that I eat an average of one jalapeño per day. The hot sauces they provided during my interview didn’t bother me at all – the one in the little black bottle called “The End – Flatline” made me take a drink of water, and my mouth watered a little bit. All in all though, I crushed it. My stomach is made of iron. I was also proud of the banter and personality I brought to the interview. I made the interviewer laugh a few times with a few silly topics (e.g., my “pickle guy” who moved to Chile last year, my love for the “Chicago Brown Bears”, and how much sauce on the “chicken nuggie” is considered brave). I really tried to lean into the spirit of the interview, which seemed to be “let’s talk about serious topics, but also, let’s not take ourselves too seriously.”

Last night, I was spamming my Microsoft Teams chat for one of my projects trying to get some emotional support for the hot sauce interview. I was a little nervous about being filmed. The last time I did a video for work, they made me do finger guns and I remember having to watch myself on a giant screen at an all-hands meeting just a week or so after my last breakup. I was feeling…ahem…less than confident. I saw the finger guns and my stupid, ugly face on that screen and cried in the bathroom a few minutes later. So, I found this interview where I was supposed to be filmed looking a little uncomfortable and silly to be a bit daunting. Most importantly, I needed guidance on what to wear. My only instructions were that I shouldn’t wear black because they were going to use a black backdrop for the filming. My friend Lacey said I should wear blue since the hot sauces would be orange (except for one that was actually BLACK)…blue and orange are complementary colors, you see. She knows these things, she’s a graphic designer. After my outfit was selected, one of my other teammates said “I’m going to need a link to this video as soon as it is available.” I replied, “They’ll play it at my funeral. You can watch it then.” Lacey “responded” to my message with the “laughing” emoji, so I knew she enjoyed my banter.

Banter is my favorite form of communication. Whether it’s on Teams chat, in person, on dating apps, via text message voice memos, or through inappropriate one-liners in the comments section of every picture my friend John posts on Facebook (one time he posted a picture saying he smuggled bacon into his country and made Carbonara and I posted “I wish you’d smuggle me into your country and take a big bite out of me”), I love it. I was dating the nicest man I’ve ever met in July – he sent me flowers, he planned cute activities for dates, he cooked for me, he brought me dinner one night when I had a migraine – the man brought me my own loaf of bread. He was like a handsome ass Uber Eats driver that I didn’t have to tip. NO man had ever given me a loaf of bread before him. He was just so kind and was always calling me beautiful and stuff like that. But I had to break it off with him because there was no banter. That’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in my 30’s: If you can’t make me cry from laughing, I will not be attracted to you. It was horribly unfortunate because this guy was a saint and there are a lot of other men on this planet who love to make me cry from anything but laughter. He was so graceful when I told him it wasn’t going to work out. That situation was a huge bummer. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that having a sense of humor is extremely important to me and I’m sometimes all too eager to make fun of myself and the people around me. I love telling stories about myself and frequently tie my own trauma up in neat little packages and present them to the people around me as banter. Men love to put “I’m looking for someone who doesn’t take herself too seriously” in dating profiles, which makes me very uncomfortable because it’s toxic-date culture language for “I want to treat you badly and have you not get upset.” But, despite my feelings on this, I do think I am a person who generally doesn’t take herself too seriously. I love to poke fun at me and other people, and it’s sometimes how I show affection. My humor is one of the things I like best about myself, followed closely by the warmth I can provide when I am comfortable with someone.

You know who was “taking herself seriously”? This woman I met at a bar the other day. She was absolutely lovely. One of those beauties who walks into a room and all the men stare. She saw me scanning the bar for a seat, and waved me over, “this one is open!” I sat down, and she introduced herself. She was wearing this stunning little white jumpsuit, and I complimented her on it. She said “OH it’s so soft” and grabbed my hand to implore me to feel the fabric. It was soft. She chatted with me for just a few moments before she abruptly got up, told me to have a good night and left the bar. I looked over, and saw that there was a man who had been sitting on the other side of her all this time. He tried to strike up conversation with me by saying “I left my crew to come over here and talk to that girl and it was like talking to a fucking brick wall.” Hmmm. A brick wall. I wondered if we were talking about the same woman. She was vibrant and fun and warm. Anything but a brick wall. I wasn’t around to see their interaction, but my best guess is that something about her conversation with him caused her to build a brick wall around herself. See the difference? She’s not a brick wall, she’s standing behind a brick wall to protect herself. I think these moments are often the ones that prompt people to beg others not to take themselves too seriously.

Have you ever experienced this? When you’re meeting someone for the first time or perhaps seeing someone under new circumstances and every part of your being colludes to build that brick wall that stalls productive conversation and all hope of enjoyment. If you’re like me, you know who you are when you’re comfy. I know I’m funny and sweet and vibrant, just like the woman I met in the white jumpsuit. I know I’m intelligent and witty and can make you double over with laugher. I know it. Yet I’ve found myself interacting with people with a personality that is blurred by that brick wall. All the good things about me, all the parts of me that make me warm and interesting get numbed by…something. Is it fear? Panic? General discomfort or unease? Lack of tequila? If you have a dog, you may be able to relate to this. Sometimes Maudie gets uneasy about things, and I don’t think she could explain it to me if I were able to get into her doggie brain and hear her speak in plain English. When I take her to the groomer, her whole little body starts to tremble and she foams at the mouth. No treat, no hugs from mom, no sweet reassurances of “It’s okay, baby, you’ve been here before” will calm her. I don’t think she’s capable of reasoning “I hate taking baths, therefore I hate this place. I am uncomfortable.” but her body reacts. She builds a brick wall. I’ve seen a more frightening version of this when we go out on walks, particularly at night. Typically she’s such a people-dog. She loves to give snuggles and kisses to everyone around her. But sometimes we pass a person on the street and she stares and growls and pulls on her leash as if to get me away from them. I’m sure she doesn’t know why. She’s just reacting to her environment. Something about a person’s vibe – their stature, posture, walking tempo, voice, clothing, whatever – puts her on high alert.

I experienced this the other night. This man who was about my age was at a bar with a man who was about my father’s age. They walked up to me, obviously trying to hit on me. Now, believe it or not, I have been approached a time or two by men who I did not find attractive. In these cases, I have always been “myself”. I’ve always politely responded to conversation starters, answered questions, politely declined free drinks. I can smile at them and laugh when they are funny. It’s all very human and normal. But when these two men approached me, I felt my body start to build that brick wall. I stared at my shoes. I did not smile. I did not respond to their questions in any meaningful way. I remember my inner voice telling me to be polite and then excuse myself, but it was like I was paralyzed – not physically but like…my personality was paralyzed. My heart was beating fast. I wanted them to walk away from me. At one point, the younger man got frustrated and said “Oh well, it’s obvious that I am the only good looking person in this group” to which I said “Hey, why don’t you go fuck yourself?” He laughed and said “Lady, haven’t you ever heard of banter?” Man, yeah, I have. I just physically can’t do it, not with you.

Even now as I reflect on this moment, I can’t describe it. I don’t think these men threatened me in any way. They were no more unattractive than the many men I’ve had polite conversations with in crowded bars or on bad dates. They didn’t offend me until well after I had finished construction on my brick wall. But my gut told me to keep my distance. And as we established above, my gut is made of iron. Maybe I should just trust it and move on. I should add this to my dating profile. Rebecca, 33, Atheist. My gut is made of iron and I am sometimes as easy to talk to as a brick wall. I have many opinions on aioli and various creamy sauces. Small boobs, big heart, bigger ass. I’m a writer.

September 11, 2023

Sometimes I think my entire personality is just a series of quotes from Gilmore Girls. For the uninitiated, Gilmore Girls was a show that ran in the early 2000’s about a single mother and her daughter who are incredibly close. It’s set in quintessential New England (a fictional town called Stars Hollow in Connecticut), so the entire show gives off “cozy fall” vibes. The characters in the show are quirky and they talk fast – resulting in some very silly quotes that don’t make much sense out of context. I think a significant portion of the pie chart that represents my personality is one slice labeled “Gilmore Girls Nonsense”. Every single time I do my makeup, I think about Lorelei Gilmore telling her daughter, Rory “You have skin like a baby’s ass, hit yourself in the face with a giant powder puff and let’s go.” That one becomes funnier and funnier to me as I get older and my skin becomes less and less like a baby’s ass. I once heard a teammate at work explaining to someone that the plural form of “cul-de-sac” is “culs-de-sac” and I shouted “YOU GOT THAT FROM RORY.” There’s one scene in the show where Emily Gilmore (the grandmother) calls Rory and makes a passive aggressive comment, “I was going to wait until you called me, but my life isn’t as long as yours”. I use that one when I’m getting impatient with people at work (frequently). Every time I eat a slice of pie, I think to myself “I’m attracted to pie, but I don’t feel the need to date pie.” I can’t even remember the context for that one, but I entertain myself with it.

I think I’ve written about the Gilmore Girls before in this blog. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote (and would rather die than go back and read it now) but I probably regaled you with tales of how I’ve been identifying more and more with Lorelai than with Rory recently – something I thought would never happen. When the show originally aired, I was the same age as the teenage/young adult daughter on the show, Rory, so naturally I felt compelled by her exciting young adult problems. SHE GOT KISSED BY A BOY IN A GROCERY STORE?! THERE WAS A NAKED MAN OUTSIDE OF HER DORM ROOM (Marty, the one man party)?! LOGAN FINALLY CALLED HER HIS GIRLFRIEND?! WEEEEEEEEEE. You get it. Of course, now I’m the same age that Lorelai (the mother) was in Season 1. Okay, okay…Season 2. Lorelai gave birth to Rory when she was sixteen, and the show kicked off when Rory had just turned 16 herself. Throughout the seven season run, Lorelai was moving from man to man in search of her forever person. She had a lot of bad dates, some serious relationships that ended dramatically, and two on-again-off-again relationships with Christopher (Rory’s dad) and Luke (the charming diner owner in town). But she was doing all of this while also trying to make big moves in her career in the hotel industry, trying to maintain friendships and a tricky relationship with her own mother and father, and raising a kid. Obviously I can’t relate to all of this – my parents are living saints and I am sans child. But I am trying to make all of my dreams come true while keeping my young dogter, Maudie on the right path. Close enough. Oh! I also go on dates and have a fabulous wardrobe similar to (and inspired by) Lorelai.

As much as I believe that I’ve moved significantly toward team Lorelai, sometimes I find myself still feeling like Rory. I was thinking about her today. There’s one episode in particular that always stuck with me. Rory is in college and she has been on several dates with a very handsome, intelligent (and rich) young man named Logan Huntsburger. They even had a cute little adventure where the jumped off of a tower holding parasols while shouting “In Omnia Paratus!” (Latin: ready for all things). Anyway, you don’t need to know that. All you need to know is that she’s been on dates with him and is a smitten little kitten. In this episode, she hasn’t heard from Logan lately, and decides to take a trip home from Yale to see her mother for the weekend to take her mind off of him. She is followed home by her roommate, a very abrasive girl named Paris. Rory, Paris and Lane (Rory’s hometown bestie) end up going to the opening of a museum in Stars Hollow – where one of the town matriarchs, Miss Patty is serving up “leftover Founders’ Day punch”. Apparently this punch packs a…punch, as it is spiked with alcohol. The underage girls skip the museum visit and find themselves standing outside, indulging in Founders’ Day punch all afternoon, while each agonizing over the men in their lives and imploring each other to leave their cell phones (flip phones!) in their pockets.

By the end of the episode, Rory is drunk and crying on the bathroom floor of Lorelai’s house. Her mom comes to check on her and Rory puts her head in her lap and asks through sobs, “Why doesn’t he like me?” I honestly think about this moment all the time. I wonder if there’s a woman alive who hasn’t looked desperately at a friend, a sister or her mom and asked this question. If you’ve ever been on the other side of this question, you know it’s a powerless position to be in – kind of how I imagine a mother feels when her child is sick with a stomach bug, knowing there’s nothing she can do and no medicine or comfort she can offer. You don’t know the answer and the man in question probably doesn’t know the answer either. That’s because there is no clear answer and there is also nothing you can say that will help. We all logically know that. But personally, I know that knowledge doesn’t stop me from getting in a bad place and pleading with someone across from me to just tell me why. Tell me what I’m doing wrong, tell me what I can fix about myself so that I never have to feel like this again. Why doesn’t he like me? On the proverbial (or literal) bathroom floor again, begging my mom/sister/friend to help me figure it out.

In the next episode, Lorelai revisits the bathroom floor situation while talking to Rory on the phone.

Lorelai: Rory, two days ago you were on the bathroom floor crying about why he won’t call you. Why doesn’t he like you, what did you do.
Rory: I was drunk. I was sick.
Lorelai: You, my beautiful, brainy, fabulous daughter, were lying on the floor of the bathroom, wondering what you had done wrong! Which is disturbing to me on several levels, including the fact that I can’t remember the last time I cleaned the floor of the bathroom.

That’s another Gilmore-ism I have used before. I literally cried on the bathroom floor over a marine named Chris once, and I told my own mother that the really scary part about that was how dirty my bathroom floor was. It made her laugh. But I swear to you, I’ve had the above conversation with myself a million times. I had it today. Walking from the parking lot into my office after realizing it’s been 4 days since the man I had been seeing briefly has acknowledged my existence, I found myself thinking “It’s okay, babe. He is the one who is missing out. You ARE brainy and fabulous, and he’s not worth crying over. You’re not going to beg anyone to like you ever again. Don’t you dare text him. HE IS PRACTICALLY HOMELESS!” Note that I DO call myself babe sometimes. The brilliant, pretty, confident, successful Lorelai inside of me tries to speak logic to the insecure, young, and hurt Rory inside of me that just wants to fall apart and ask the universe what I’m doing wrong.

I think people get exasperated with me, and I get exasperated with myself too, over how bad I feel about being single sometimes. I joke about being a walking Cathy comic – like I’m the most single person on the planet. I once had a friend kind of yell at me “IT’S ALL YOU EVER TALK ABOUT.” Maybe that’s so. Maybe I obsess over it and keep trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong and why I haven’t found my person yet. Maybe my friend doesn’t know what it’s like to be 33 years old and thinking about child-bearing years slipping away. Maybe he does. Maybe I talk about it a lot because it’s the only real interesting part of my life – without funny dating stories, what else is there for me to tell you about? The generative adversarial network I’m building at work? The pricing negotiation I’m writing tonight? How Maudie’s poop looked this morning? Maybe I’m looking for someone to just tell me “yeah, I’m struggling with that too.” I don’t know. All I know is that sometimes my Lorelai life is a little hard – I come home after a long day of chasing my dreams in my fabulous clothes, and I wish I had someone to sit down with me at dinner time to talk about it. And sometimes my inner-Lorelai turns into a Rory, and I end up on that bathroom floor again. Luckily, I’m always there to get myself back up.

September 9, 2023

I’ve had the same bottle of perfume since 2011. It probably cost me $6.99 at Bath and Body Works or maybe even less if I got it on sale at Christmas time. It’s called “Country Chic” and I honestly couldn’t tell you what it actually smells like. It smells like Fall to me…but like, not in any way I can identify. I don’t wear perfume very often (hence the longevity of my single 12 oz bottle), but it seems that every time I do, someone comments on how nice my Country Chic smells. I can remember sitting outside at Coastal Flats (a very mediocre Great American Restaurant in Fairfax County that has an excellent cosmopolitan martini) on a third or fourth date with my ex and the waitress commented on how lovely my perfume was. I felt really proud. I had a fake boyfriend in graduate school who thought my perfume had a stupid name and loved to call it “Country Chick”. When I was getting ready to go out, he’d lower his voice and say “I GOTTA HAVE MY COUNTRY CHICK” and I would giggle and giggle. Honestly, it was a good 7 dollar purchase….notably back when 7 dollars was a lot of money to me on my $14,000 per year graduate school stipend. Back then, I lived in a nice little apartment that had yellow appliances from the 90’s and was infested with giant wolf spiders – who became my loving companions in that home. I had a $299 couch that I bought on credit from the Lexington Overstock Warehouse – and as life is, I’ve spent my adult life searching heaven and earth (with a much more generous budget) for a couch that is as soft and comfy as the bargain sofa I had back then. I was so proud of my little one bedroom apartment in a quiet spot just past Richmond Road (just outside of New Circle, for my Lexington homies) and I had my first kiss EVER from a man named Brent on that warehouse sofa. Adult shit. Country chic.

I had a man over for dinner the other night (please don’t worry, he has since lost interest and I’ll never see him again), and he smelled good. I told him so and he launched into a very long monologue about his cologne collection. He has a clean, crisp scent that he wears at work and a bolder, more “saucy” scent for dates and nights out at the club. He apparently has friends who seek his counsel for cologne purchases – it’s his thing. I get it, we all have our things that we care about. My thing is earrings. I pride myself on my fun and vast earring collection, and like to tell myself that I have absolutely flawless taste when it comes to ear decor.

Anyway, the conversation turned toward me and he asked me what kind of perfume I wear. I told him about my Country Chic and he threw his head back with laughter. I stared at him, my fork frozen in front of my mouth (Shake n’ Bake porkchop floating midair like a little delicious drone). He shook his head, “I’m sorry to laugh, I just thought someone who makes as much money as I assume you do would have a nice perfume collection.” I told him about my attachment to the little bottle that has traveled with me to 4 new homes over the last decade and about all of the compliments. “Yeah you always smell very nice, but like…what would happen if you tried something different?”

Shit. He’s right. My therapist says this to me all the time. If you read my last blog post, you saw what a tizzy I was in when I had to go see a new hairdresser. I walked away from my appointment with Sabrina, who was so so lovely, initially believing that I really did not enjoy my visit with her. After some reflection, I realized that I actually enjoyed my visit immensely while simultaneously lamenting the fact that is was different. Her hands felt so different from Liz’s when she was shampooing my head…but not…bad different. Just different. My blowout looked different when I walked out…but it was so pretty. CHANGE IS SO ANNOYING AND AWESOME.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up in Ulta, trying out every fancy perfume they had. It was an agonizing experience. It was like I walked into the store with $100 earmarked for “try something different”. I kept thinking about all the times I’ve been nauseated in elevators and Ubers by perfumes and colognes that overpowered the air around me. I threw up once on the steps of Ford’s Theatre in DC because of the combination of one bad headache and one Uber driver who had bathed in cologne before he left his house. I’m sure people saw me wretching on the street in my fancy dress, and thought “what a shame that the young lady mixed tequila and whiskey so early on a Tuesday evening.” I don’t want to be that person who leaves a smell behind in creaky elevators in old government buildings. I don’t want to make people vomit in front of National landmarks.

Okay, so I may have been overthinking it. I finally bought a nice bottle of perfume. I won’t tell you the name of it here because this is HASHTAG: NOT AN AD. I really like putting it on before work. Something about the ritual is nice – the deliberate way I apply it carefully to the spots that google instructed me, careful to avoid over application makes me feel elevated and fancy for the work day. I almost understand why my date was dribbling on and on about his cologne (she said un-ironically as she dribbled on and on in her blog). But honestly, I woke up this morning and curled my hair for a day out at breweries with my friend and reached for my tried and true Bath and Body Works bottle. I guess you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take Country Chic out of the girl.

September 5, 2023

I saw a new hairdresser today. Or…new to me anyway. I think she’s been doing hair for a few years, but today she touched these locks of mine for the first time. Momentous, I know. Most women (and some men, I’m sure) can relate to the stress of trying out a new hairdresser. Your hair is such a big part of your look and trusting someone to wave scissors around back there can be difficult. About 2 years ago (Friday September 3, 2021 to be exact) I walked into the Eclips salon in South Riding and had my very first appointment with Elle. I later learned that Elle’s real name was Elizabeth (Lizzie, Liz) but the salon called her “Elle” in their online booking system to avoid confusion with all of the other Elizabeths at the salon. I sat down in her chair and looked at myself in the mirror. The person I saw in the reflection was someone who had been up all night crying, had struggled through a half-day at work, and then took the afternoon off for a last minute appointment.

When I had scheduled the appointment the day before, I was planning on asking Elle/Liz for a trim and maybe a root touchup of the single-process brown color I used to hide all three of my gray hairs. But the evening before I met Liz, I had spent all afternoon cooking and baking for a date I had with my then boyfriend. We had an amazing dinner, some drinks, dessert, and one big fight at the end of the night. I cried and asked him to stay the night and he said no and left. I woke up the next morning knowing for sure that it was over. When I sat down in Liz’s chair I asked her to cut six inches off of my hair and dye it as dark as it would go…so much for that trim and touchup. Crisis hair.

Chopping off all of your hair is such an exciting mistake. The hairdresser cuts it all off and fluffs and shines it until you look like Emma Watson, post-Harry-Potter. They use the fancy hair products that make you smell way nicer than your normal self. You’re surrounded by other women who are getting their heads massaged and shampooed in the sink. Everyone is talking about life – kids, men, men with kids. You know, gossip. The best kind of gossip – stories about people you’ll never meet who made bad decisions or got screwed over. You treat your stylist like your own personal therapist, telling her things you wouldn’t even tell a friend or your own sister. The scissors glide across your hair and as the excess falls to the floor, your head literally feels lighter. Cooler. Bouncy. You feel bouncy. You’ve gotten all of your pain off of your chest and all of the dead-split-ends off of your head. The grays are gone. You look at yourself in the mirror and see change. And the change makes you feel like other parts of your life could also change and maybe feel as painless and intentional as a haircut.

Unfortunately, you get home, and realize that Liz isn’t in your bathroom to help you style the damn bob every morning. You also learn that you can’t hide a bad hair day with a ponytail or a messy bun, and that the slightest change in humidity or the way you sleep or Mercury going in and out of retrograde can alter your hair’s behavior. Your morning routine becomes a struggle and you curse yourself for subjecting your hair straightener to this much strain. What did that Chi do to deserve this?

Change is a real pain in the ass. We love it and hate it. It feels so good when you buy those new sheets and comforter on sale at Target and shake up the look of your entire bedroom. That is, until you realize the new sheets are itchy and the comforter clashes with the dog (Seriously, an apricot colored dog on a rose colored bedspread? Puke.) That brand new car is a real treat until the first monthly payment hits your account and you also realize that you’re still as messy as ever and your new car looks disgusting just like your old one did in record time. We all come back from the dentist with shiny clean teeth, plaque-free and we tell ourselves that this time will be different. This time we will floss every day and the dental hygienist will be sooooo impressed with our healthy gums. Yeah. Right. You get your stupid Ipsy glam bag for August and dare to try the new night cream they sent you. The next day, your face looks like you spent the evening running away from the Children of the Corn. Change is really difficult, and when you can pull it off, it can still feel like a horrible mistake.

Do you remember the part in “Remember the Titans” where the coach makes Sunshine cut his hair? If not, I guess you don’t remember the Titans after all…heh heh heh. Anyway, Sunshine sits in front of the mirror in the locker room, rubbing his fingers through his soccer-mom hair and Petey Jones (the running back, THE running back, y’all) says “Hey now, all that rubbin’ ain’t gonna make them golden locks grow back no faster.” Isn’t that the truth? I’ve never had a crisis haircut that I didn’t regret within just a few days, but at that point, it’s done. All I can do is wait for it to grow back. I wake up and use that straightener until it quacks from distress (seriously, a worn out Chi sounds just like a duck with a hernia) and days go by, and hair grows back little by little. The crisis passes and the only evidence that it ever happened is…well, 8 million pictures on social media, including a few in the pages of this blog. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t waste a little time running my fingers through it, wishing I were a Kardashian who could afford to have a different hairstyle every day. Shut up, Petey Jones – I know dwelling doesn’t help, but I can’t help dwelling.

I was in so much pain as I sat in Liz’s chair for the first time, but it’s one of my favorite memories. I was desperate for a friend that day, and the universe delivered one. I needed someone to listen to me and be on my side and she was there. I needed a change, I needed to walk out of that salon feeling lighter and different and she gave me that. She catalyzed the season of change that I was about to endure. That night, I went home and got dumped by someone I loved and thus began a really long journey of trying to feel like myself again – trying to get back to some equilibrium…trying to move on…trying to get my hair to be long enough to put in a damn ponytail.

Two years have passed and a lot has changed. Liz has taken me from dark brown to blonde and every shade in between. She’s fluffed my hair and my ego at the same time, calling me beautiful and telling me I’m hilarious. She listens, she hugs me when I leave. I’m not saying correlation equals causation, but I’ve had 4 GREAT (not good, but great) dates in the two years since I’ve been single, and they all happened on days Liz did my hair. The guys obviously didn’t stick around for very long, but hey, she’s a hair stylist, not a magician. And now, she’s moving far far away from me. I’m going to miss my friend. I’m going to miss sitting in her chair. I’m going to miss the controlled change that she has helped me achieve when control was the one thing I felt I could never have. I’m going to miss her encouragement and her light. But I can’t help but think that there are some women in Texas who are about to come to her for their own crisis haircuts and that she will be there for them in their time of need. And for me, I’ll be over here begrudgingly accepting change once again. Starting with my new hairdresser.

December 18, 2022

Warning: Potential spoilers for Love is Blind Season 3 ahead. Ye be warned.

One of the things that got me through the first few weeks of the pandemic was Netflix’s entrance into the “trashy reality tv” market. They kept releasing these ridiculous reality shows like The Circle, which was a social media simulation where they brought people to live in an apartment complex and interact with their neighbors through a Facebook-esque platform. That show was particularly appropriate for the time because contestants lived in complete isolation, with only their “friends” in their tiny social media world to provide relief from loneliness – which really mirrored my real life as I was quarantined in my studio apartment in Pentagon City. Then there was the even-trashier show, Too Hot to Handle. The premise of that one was that several really attractive people were sent to live on an island and were promised that after their time on the island, they would get to take home a big chunk of money. They thought they were going to spend a couple weeks in paradise, drinking unlimited cocktails and banging other hot people in the shower every night and also take home a shit load of money for their trouble. The plot twist was that there was no hanky panky allowed on the island, and each time they kissed, cuddled, held hands with, or boinked one of their fellow contestants, the entire group paid a monetary penalty. I watched this entire season on a series of virtual dates with a guy I met on Tinder through the magic of a “Netflix party”, and we each ordered ridiculous food on Uber Eats (Oreo cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory stands out in my mind) while we tried to navigate being single in a world where you couldn’t go on dates or touch other people for fear of a penalty. I guess that show was also appropriate for the time.

The best show was Love is Blind. The premise of this one was that contestants went on dates in “pods” where they couldn’t see their date. The two daters were separated by a wall, and they tried to make real connections without physical attraction playing a role. Contestants went on dates with all of the members of the opposite sex and started trying to narrow down the playing field based on making strong emotional connections. The only way to make it past the “pod” level of the game was to get engaged to someone. Engaged to be MARRIED. Once someone popped the question, the couple would get to meet face to face for the first time and start the process of reconciling an emotional bond with a physical being. Then they got four weeks to live together and decide if they were going to actually say “I do” at the altar, or part ways. The game was further complicated by interactions with the other engaged couples (meaning you could possibly be hanging out with your fiancé and an ex from the pods who didn’t make your final cut). In season 1, we saw a love triangle, a man who was rejected by a nut named Jessica for being too short, a really beautiful couple that needed to be protected at all costs, a telenovela star who told her fiancé that the sex was bad, and a square named Kenny. The whole thing was a good time.

Recently, Netflix dropped Season 3 of Love is Blind, and I couldn’t resist tuning in. The show is a mix of compelling and depressing for a single gal like me, because so many of the conversations they have on the show, both in the pods and outside of the pods are the same conversations you have over and over when you’re dating until you meet someone who likes you, or you die – whichever comes first. The pod part of the season lasts about 3 episodes and you get to watch some of the awkward dates that lead to no where, and you also get to start seeing the “connections” form through these blind dates.

Here are some things people “connect” over in the pods (and on dating apps):

1. Food. Omg you love food?! I love food too, I can’t believe it! Let’s debate pineapple on pizza. “I’m a foodie” is not a personality trait, but we love to treat it like it is. Everyone loves tacos, I don’t know why we need to say that.
2. Fitness. This is a way to cheat the Love is Blind system. Even though your dates can’t see you, if you talk about how you’re super into fitness, people already start imagining how smoking hot your body is. Bartise and Raven from season 3 spent most of their time together talking about fitness, and they even did a little yoga ball workout together. It was actually pretty cute.
3. Traveling. Personally I think listening to other people talk about their travel stories is usually super boring, but people love to connect over shared love for traveling. One of the contestants this season was chronicling his travels, talking about having transcendental sex in Mali or something like that. It was like Eat, Pray, Love but even more gross and pretentious. I’ve been on some dates before where the guy was judging me a lot for never traveling out of the country and very proud of having been to 20 plus countries or whatever. Look, not everyone has had the time or the money to travel that much, and I just don’t think it makes you less interesting or attractive if you haven’t. I would love to start planning some trips though – what a great thing to look forward to with a partner!
4. The Office. Ugh. You could put all kinds of entertainment into this bucket – sports teams, theater, favorite tv shows, board games, video games. But my experience on the dating apps has proven that The Office is very, very important to 27-40-year-old men in the DC area.
5. Hiking. Apparently we all love to hike.
6. Trauma. This is the main thing the couples seem to connect over in this show. I think a lot of people call it trauma-bonding. You tell your date something that you’re insecure about, or some traumatic event from your past and POOF you’re in love.

These little lightning rods of connection make the contestants giddy and excited at first. But ultimately, in the pods and outside of them, the contestants have to face dealbreakers. As their “connection” with a potential partner grows, they start to learn more about each other’s values and goals. Sometimes values and goals are different in ways that are less consequential. Other differences can’t be overlooked. Here are some common dealbreakers:

1. Religion or lack thereof. I get this, because this is becoming more and more of a dealbreaker for me. I was dumped for “not being Jewish” several months ago. Having different religious views can either set you up to be a disappointment to your partner and their family from day 1, or it can be used as a really convenient exit ramp.
2. Desire for children/family values. My favorite character of this season, Nancy wants 10 children and made sure every man she dated in the pods knew that. My answer when someone asks me if I want children is: “I’ve always thought that if I met the right person and he wanted a child AND I thought he would be a good dad, I would have one. But I’m not going to force it or bring a kid into the world with someone who isn’t into it or cut out for it.”
3. Lifestyle. I think this term encompasses a number of things, but the thing that comes to my mind is active vs. inactive. Many people are super outdoorsy, or very focused on fitness and nutrition, and they often can’t fathom sharing a life with someone whose lifestyle doesn’t align. I think cleanliness can fall into this category too. One of the contestants on LIB season 3 walked into her fiancé’s apartment to find that he was a huge slob. He had flies in his toilet and the camera person zoomed in on the flies like it was the Amityville Horror in there. If you’re going to lose your shit over messes and dirty towels on the floor, this can be a dealbreaker for sure.
4. Monogamy. One of the things I’ve noticed on dating apps is that many people are practicing non-monogamy. You’ll see couples on the apps trying to find people to connect with as a pair. You’ll see men who put “ENM” on their profile, which means they practice ethical non-monogamy and their partner knows they are dating other people. I matched with a man once who told me he was married and looking to cheat on his wife to get back at her for cheating on him. This was definitely a dealbreaker for me. My point is, if monogamy is or isn’t important to you, it can be a filter.
5. Politics. I’ve found that I can get along with people across the political spectrum, but I definitely think it makes things difficult. I’ve found myself in positions of having to defend some of my partner’s ugly political values to my friends and it was embarrassing. I regret a lot of those interactions.
6. Height. This is non-issue for me because I’m 5’0”. There are a lot of women who refuse to date men who aren’t taller. Some even have a 6’ or taller requirement. This one isn’t fair, but it’s the world we live in.
7. Must love dogs. If someone can’t get on board with your pets (or desire not to have any), you have to keep moving.
8. Finances. One thing the LIB show really addresses well is finances among the contestants. More than once, a couple has gotten engaged only for one partner to find out that their love-interest is deep in credit card debt, or has no desire to work, or has expectations for a lifestyle they can’t afford. Other times partners are pleasantly surprised to learn that they chose people with lots of savings and badass careers. Division of labor in the household and workforce expectations (stay at home mom/dad, workaholic behavior, etc.) also belong here.
9. Smoking/drinking/drugs. I made out with a smoker one time and it was something I personally couldn’t get over.
10. Sex. People have different preferences, cadences, and desires in the bedroom. Being on the same page as a potential partner can be a dealbreaker.

There are others, but I think these are the big categories that dealbreakers fall into. People do sometimes have weird ones that are less applicable to the general population. I got unmatched on an app once because I said I didn’t like to climb trees. Another time, a guy ghosted me when I told him I like to eat hush puppies. Once I made the mistake of telling a man I didn’t like to cuddle at bedtime. I wonder what he’s doing now.

If you make it past the connection stage and dodge all of the dealbreaker questions, the rest all comes down to physical chemistry and the way you treat each other. In three seasons of Love in Blind, the one thing that is categorically true across the board is that love is NOT blind. In every season there has been a couple who met in person and didn’t connect physically. Jessica from season 1 couldn’t get over how short and not-Barnett her partner was (Barnett was another contestant on the show who rejected her). Shake from season 2 said the lovely Deepti looked like his aunt. In season 3, Bartise couldn’t help but compare the beautiful and spunky Nancy to Raven “the smoke show”. Looks matter, and physical connection matters. I can’t demonize these people for their feelings on the matter – I CAN judge them for the tactless and hurtful way they conveyed these feelings on tv. I’ve been on dates before with people who were perfectly lovely in pictures, and for whatever reason, meeting them in person caused my body to be like “that’s not the one.” It doesn’t mean they aren’t perfectly lovely in reality, but something about the chemistry between us wasn’t right. Love has never been blind in this way – if it were, life would be so much better though.

Season 3 of LIB also shed a little light on how much love can be affected by how YOU feel about your body and yourself in general. One of the most stressful couples on the show was Cole and Zanab. They connected over religion in the pods, met in real life and seemed to really be into each other. But when Cole met another contestant, Colleen who had also been at the top of his list in the pods, he was really taken by her cute ballerina body. He made comments to Zanab about how he was physically attracted to Colleen, but emotionally connected to Zanab. He really stepped in it by saying this and had an awful moment of flirtation with Colleen at a pool party. 25-year-olds, man. What didn’t help was the fact that Zanab was incredibly insecure about her looks. She’s the type of girl who won’t swim at the beach for fear of messing up her makeup, and she was constantly making little digs at herself for her looks and how she looks like a different person without makeup on. It was also really clear that she had some food issues. I recognize all of this in her because I’ve lived it.

At the finale of the show, after Zanab left Cole at the altar and made a really scathing speech about how awful he treated her, she spoke about Cole constantly making remarks about her body and weight. She brought up a story about some cuties where Cole allegedly criticized her for eating too many clementines before dinner, as if worried about her calorie consumption. Cole sat on the stage, absolutely stunned with a big dumb look on his face as if she was speaking German. At the end of the show, they aired the footage from “cutie-gate” and it became clear that her description of the event, while not untrue, was told through the lens of someone who was extremely insecure and misunderstanding intend behind someone’s words. While Cole did ask her about the cuties, the context was that he was apparently taking her to a big dinner at 7 and was telling her that she should save her “appetito” because they were going to go to town on some steak or whatever at the restaurant. But what she heard was “stop eating, fatass!”

I wish I could talk to her, because I know what that’s like – to view the world through the colored-glasses that come with bad body image and disordered eating. It destroys your self worth, but it also creeps into your relationships and interactions and affects them in ways that you can’t see unless you’re on the outside looking in. Reality television gets a bad reputation, and I’m not saying it isn’t trash. But sometimes you can see yourself in the hot messes on the screen, or really relate to all the obstacles of dating and relationships, or motherhood, or “Fill-in-the-blank”. I can’t wait for season 4. I also heard they are filming a season in DC soon, so maybe I’ll be married and instagram famous by this time next year – hopefully hated by the masses for being a true reality tv villain.

December 13, 2022

I was driving down Loudoun County Parkway after work this afternoon trying to get to Walmart to buy scotch tape and hot sauce, as one does on a Tuesday. Am I the only one who buys scotch tape once a year to wrap three presents, only to store it in a drawer somewhere, and forget which drawer I chose – then one year later, I go to use the ample amount of scotch tape I bought the year before, and can’t find it? It can’t just be me. Anyway, I’m on my way to Walmart and the car behind me honks while I’m waiting for some kids to cross an intersection. I instinctively throw up my middle finger and start grumbling about how “I should just run over these kids because the prick behind me in the Prius is in a hurry.” Then I pull into my parking spot at the store and hear another, identical honking sound. Then it hits me. The podcast I’m listening to is playing honking sounds for some godforsaken reason and I flipped off that nice man in a Prius for no goddamn reason. Because I’m the asshole.

I tell you all a lot of story about the abuses I suffer in the DC dating scene (which is a lot), but to be fair, sometimes I’m the asshole. Last night, a guy asked me for my personality type and sign and I told him I’m a Pisces, and before I could stop myself, I said “But I don’t believe in that shit.” He said “You’re a little guarded, which is ok because life is traumatic. But the stars can heal you.” Again, before I could stop myself, I said “You’re not going to like me, man.” Because I’m the asshole. I know I’m the asshole, because I had already unmatched this poor guy once before. He asked me why I did that, and I honestly didn’t remember. I think he was a victim of a meltdown I had on Thanksgiving where a guy I’d been chatting with all day asked me for some of my turn ons and I said “Men who plan nice dates, men who go to therapy, and kisses that taste like beer.” He immediately unmatched me, and I started crying very quietly, because my two-year old nephew was asleep in his crib just a few feet away, and proceeded to unmatch with every man on the app. Fast forward three weeks later, and I desperately want to unmatch this man who thinks the stars will tell him anything meaningful about me, but I can’t. Because I’m the asshole.

The last time I went on a date was in early November and I felt like the asshole in that scenario too. We had a nice first date on Halloween – niceish I would say. He did tell me that I had red flags and that my suggestion that I like to cook dinner for the second or third date was super sexist. We also went to the worst restaurant I’ve ever been to in my life – everything there was made of kale. What I’m saying is that my standards are in hell, so by my standards, it was a nice date. And he was super into it, so I agreed to date number two. He put in a lot of effort for this one. He bought tickets to some surprise event in DC and told me to dress nice. I made a big deal of it and got my hair blown out and wore a really stunning dress. We ended up going to see the Madrid Opera do flamenco dancing, which was divine. It was a totally wonderful evening…except…I wasn’t really enjoying myself. I kept trying to be funny and tell stories, and he would just nod as if unamused. I would talk about my family and no follow-up questions would be asked. He held my hand in the car, which freaked me out because my personal opinion is that holding someone’s hand is wayyyyyy more intimate than kissing or even sex (maybe I do have red flags). Anyway, I just wasn’t comfy. So on the way home, I had to tell him that I wasn’t feeling a very strong connection – only I did this way too soon in the ride and we ended up driving down the never-ending ramps of his parking garage in total silence. He had to awkwardly let go of my hand that he was holding when I broke the news to him, and his face just fell. I also reallllllly had to pee, so this poor guy had to walk my little ass up to his apartment – the one where I’m sure he had been convinced that he was getting lucky that evening just ten minutes earlier – so I could pee before my 50 minute drive back to Aldie. I’m the asshole.

Our saga didn’t end there. A few days later, I was doing some reckless swiping on Bumble. I have this rule that I always swipe right on people I know, because it’s just polite, ya know? So I saw his profile and instinctively swiped right. A couple hours later, I got a notification that he matched with me. Fuck. So I got a text from him. “What are you doing?” I literally thought he was asking me what I was doing, so I told him I was trying to learn how to use my Cricut machine to make ear warmers for my little running team. He said “no, on Bumble?” I told him about my always swipe right on friends rule, and he said “Don’t fuck around with me. If you want to go on a date, go for the throat. Life is too short to fuck around.” And I didn’t know what to say, because I absolutely didn’t want to go on a date, so I just said “I’m sorry.” Now, I’m definitely the asshole here. But I’d like like to point out that the only way that he should have known that I swiped right on him was if he swiped right on me, so technically he was mad at me for doing the same thing he did. You know, like when your little brother would tell on you for opening your eyes during the dinner prayer, and you’d be like “your eyes were open too if you saw me looking, jackass”? You get it. Anyway, I’m still the asshole.

I haven’t been on a date since that one because I hate being in that position – the position of doing the hurting. I cried the whole drive home and had to call my parents for a pep talk. I caught my dad in a funny mood because the Assholes (oops, the Astros) had just won the world series and he kept telling me to Venmo him a chicken sandwich because he was hungry. But for the next few days I was just as depressed as I have been so many times when Taylor, John, Dan, Kyle, Gannon, Chris, Brent, Evan, Jarred, Nate, Andrew, Cory, Joshua, Ryan, et. al. have rejected me. I hate being the asshole. It’s the worst part of dating – way worse than the ghosting and getting stood up, and wasting money and energy and crippling low self esteem that comes from all of the rejection. Hurting people sucks. Not only that, but making a choice for yourself that a perfectly lovely, thoughtful, kind human with beautiful white teeth and huge traps is just not a match for you is incredibly difficult, because you have to make a decision that you are worthy of finding exactly what you want. Not almost what you want, or sort-of what you want, but exactly what you want. In addition to feeling like an asshole for walking away from a perfectly nice person, you also let all that rejection from your past get into your head and whisper “Are you really in a position to be picky here? Maybe you could get used to him not laughing at your jokes. Did you see the traps?”

Anyway, I don’t really have an uplifting moral to this story. I’ve been walking around a little Grinchy this holiday season because I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t want to hear about your Christmas outings and all the cute stuff you bought for your girlfriend. Because I’m the asshole. I’ve done a good deed here and there, and got the scotch tape and drank some hot chocolate, so I’m doing my best-ish. I am convinced that most of us are Scrooge from time to time and that’s okay, and maybe it’s fine to be the asshole every now and then so you can empathize with all the other assholes and try not to take it too hard when you have to deal with them. Idk. Bah.

For real though, Happy Holidays from one asshole to another.