“Putting Yourself Out There”

As far as I understand it from context clues, the phrase “putting yourself out there” is a way of reassuring someone after an embarrassing, unsuccessful, or humiliating social encounter of any kind.

“Sure, your date didn’t go the way you planned, but at least you’re putting yourself out there.”

“It’s too bad that you aren’t getting the recognition you deserve, but at least you’re putting yourself out there.”

As if you should be pleased to know that it’s through trying something that you fail, as opposed to those who stay home and can say things like “I bet if I put myself out there it’d go better. Oh well, back to Netflix.”

Whenever I hear someone say “at least you’re putting yourself out there” I don’t see encouragement. “At least you’re available for rejection” that’s what I hear. “At least you were brave enough to have some actually say to you, “no thanks”.”

Also, where is “there”? Most often this phrase is used in conjunction with single people, and used by married people. Married people often talk about the dating pool as if it’s an actual body of water teeming with single folk looking to be in relationships. Just put your suit on, get out there and dive in! But I haven’t actually found this oasis that seems so easily accessible in the phrase “out there”.

I don’t know if it requires a map no one gave me, directions I’ll never be able to follow, or some secret pass code, but there’s no giant single person pool where we can pair up. Mostly there’s a lot of desert punctuated by misleading vistas that proclaim bodies of water but result in puddles.

“There”, in my experience, means “anywhere that’s social”, which covers a lot of ground, and still turns up very few single available humans. The unfortunate reality is that single people look an awful lot like married people because we all tend to look vaguely, I don’t know, human-like. And as it turns out, it’s not just singles going out to socialize, but it’s married people too. So unless you’re prepared to walk yourself to a “meet” market, odds are you’re going to run into a bunch of married people “out there”.

The truth is that while these are all perfectly valid reasons to hate the phrase “put yourself out there”, none of them actually cover the reasons why I personally dislike the axiom. These are the reasons why I find it hurtful for my friends, because when you are trying to find someone it does begin to feel exactly like there’s some cool club out there that’s hidden from you, that’s inaccessible to you, and there’s no way you’ve even got a shot to get in. When even “out there” is frustrating, exclusive, out of reach, it’s certainly no longer a helpful expression.

But the reason I’ve always hated it is that I LIKE the indoors. I mean this both literally and metaphorically. I love being inside. Love it. Always have. Inside has food, blankets, movies, wifi, pillows…I’m happy inside.

But I get the impression this is wrong of me, because so often I’m still told to “put myself out there”. There’s an impression that my life would be better if I just tried to not be single. I’m not a fan of this idea because it strongly implies that my life is inferior by virtue of the fact that it’s singular. It implies that contentment without a romantic relationship is incorrect, doomed to failure, and in need of fixing.

As a society, as a Christian community, we tend to prize marital relationships above the single life, and we could get into the whys and wheres of that, but to be honest, I’m more focused on the fact that as great as marriage is (can be), there will always be single people. And we must believe, we must espouse (pun!) that the single life is valuable in its own right, it isn’t something that needs to be fixed, it isn’t broken (necessarily), and it’s not miserable by default.

So I implore you, friends, don’t throw your single companions out there into the cold. And don’t judge them for staying in the warmth of the indoors. Encourage them to live their life to the fullest, and make sure that “fullest” doesn’t fixate on romantic culmination.

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Baggage Handlers

“Have you ever been abused?” was the question my friend got on her third date out with a non-baggage handler.

It was out of the blue, apropos of nothing, and it stopped her in her tracks. He clarified, “A lot of women seem to come with baggage these days.”

The dream date: the baggage free human. It’s an aspirational goal. It just so happens that as you age that dream date starts to look more like a white whale, a unicorn, a yeti — rumored, but unconfirmed by sight.

My own theory is that after 25 there is no one who is baggage free. By the age of 25 it is impossible to avoid having things happen to you. By 25 life has treated you, shall we say, unfairly and you are no longer the pristine blank-slate dream date of someone else’s fantasy. Or even your own fantasy.

You’ve been married and then divorced, you’ve had kids, you had one long-term relationship that ended really, really badly. You made mistakes, you were the victim of mistakes, malicious action, idiocy. Life.

Let’s face it, dating in your 30s looks nothing like dating in your 20s. In your 20s I’m not even sure we’re real people yet, we’re just opportunities and options and ignored advice.

By your 30s you’re stocked up with the baggage of recovering from your 20s.

Odds are that by your 30s someone out there is recovering from you, and you are recovering from someone else. Baggage.

Of course, not all baggage is created equal. It’s all about if you’ve learned in that time how to be a grown-up. Some people come with a lot of seriously huge baggage, and yet they’ve sought help for it, they’ve learned from it, they’ve grown, they’ve adapted, they now have character.

Character, good character, is what you should look for in your 30s.

Because those others? The ones who can’t be bothered to look at their baggage, process it, handle it, get help, get advice, change, well these poor morons are the ones you actually want to avoid like crazy. These are the people we fear when we’re talking about baggage.

So maybe the divorcee is not damaged goods, and maybe the dad with kids is not a trainwreck, maybe maybe someone who’s been sexually assaulted is the grown-up in the room.

Find you someone with character. Good character. After that, everything about them will be fascinating, not draining, amazing and not terrifying.

Drawbacks of a Sugar High

I’ve been thinking about jealousy a little a lately, and how it skews perspective, and narrows focus so completely that even the object of our envy is unrecognizable to any realistic perspective.

I’ll give you an example.

This past Saturday I went into a store and bought two bags of candy and a puzzle. I promptly went home, poured both bags of chewy candy into an empty vase, left my phone in another room, turned on the air conditioning in my bedroom, took off my bra, put on a Netflix movie, and started that puzzle whilst dipping my hand into my candy vase every so often for a treat.

I don’t mean to brag, but my weekend sounds absolutely exceptional, wouldn’t you agree? It has everything I could want in a weekend, or at least everything that ten year old me wanted in a weekend.

Perhaps you even fill in a few details that I left out. You might assume that since I have money to burn on puzzles and candy I have few financial worries. Or you might assume that since my plan was to spend the day eating candy I had carefully adjusted my diet and exercise plans to accommodate this splurge. You probably also assumed I had no other important pressing obligations to attend to. And you might assume that I chose do all of those activities being of sound mind and body, filling up my weekend to the brim of funness.

So much of jealous is in the assuming. I’ll take a walk in the evenings sometimes and see these delightful homey scenes in living room or dining room windows. And I get filled with a certain sort of longing. They look like they’re having such fun. And I mentally fill in all the blanks from the TV shows I’ve seen.

Naturally they all like each other and have explicitly chosen to spend this time together. No one is in ill health, nor do they know of anyone intimately related to them who is suffering. They are free from all worries. They are all of like mind or open minded and they are having good, uplifting conversation.

And this is just from quickly walking by a house and seeing its occupants for perhaps fifteen seconds in total. But a glimpse that we build a fantasy on is never close to the reality of that moment.

My great weekend of eating candy and working on a puzzle? The reality is that I hate summer and it was ninety degrees in my apartment most of the time. There was no escape except to sit locked in my bedroom, because I was definitely not going outside. I was exhausted all weekend. Tired from the heat and tired because my arthritis has been more active this past week.

So I was grumpy, tired, in pain and then I went out to buy self-soothing things like candy, and distractions like puzzles.  Reality always ruins jealousy.

Remember when you were a kid and you thought being an adult would be 100% totally awesome? No bedtime, you get your own place, you have cool sophisticated conversations, you get to buy whatever you want, you can do whatever you want!

And then you grew up. Oh boy. This is not what I was advertised. Suddenly as an adult you realize why you don’t see many adults in the bulk candy aisle without accompanying children.

I had that realization today when the sugar headache kicked in and the dentist told me I had a cavity. First cavity in over ten years, too. Jealousy misses results and consequences. It’s always the short view of a very long game.

The Daily Fraidy-cat

Sometimes for me, being single means facing fear every day. It means looking the cultural expectations of the American Dream life trajectory straight in the eye and saying “you don’t define me.”

It means responding with kindness and presence instead of embarrassment when people make inadvertently rude comments about feeling old-maidenly at age 23, or when married friends say equally insensitive things like “you don’t know what tired/wisdom/anxiety/joy/frustration/love is, until you have kids/a husband.” Recently at a family wedding, I was standing next to my brother-in-law watching my niece play, when the photographer walked up and said “let me get a picture of you two!” Not that I don’t like my brother-in-law, but I could tell the photographer thought we were a couple, so I smiled awkwardly, and when he was done with the photo, I said “do you want to take a picture of him and his WIFE?” “OHhh, sure…” said the photographer, realizing his mistake. It’s hard to know what to do in those moments. It takes constant attention to respond out of grace instead of sadness or fear.

Part of that fear is related to really giving up on family. The obvious interpretation is the giving up of a ‘family of my own.’ But it also means giving up my birth family in some senses, because I cannot be healthy and remain a dependent child forever (at least, so my counselor tells me); and yet in so many ways I still identify and feel needs for family support, advice, and influence, especially when making larger life decisions.

Being single means accepting that those decisions will never truly matter as much to anyone else as they will to me. When it comes to what jobs I do, or where I live, or what financial choices I make, I’m the only stakeholder. And yet, making big life decisions like moving, buying a car, or career decisions in a vacuum just doesn’t seem wise. I crave investment and wisdom, perspective and assistance in a very noticeable way. Self-sufficient as I can appear at times, it’s (a bit of) an illusion. No one is totally self-sufficient, nor should they be. Just because no one is present to witness my breakdowns of helpless fury, grief, or how-can-i-get-it-all-done low points, doesn’t mean they don’t happen.

One thing I’m afraid of is fitting into the stereotype of being self-focused and selfish. The truth is, trying to stand on my own two feet does take a ton of energy. I balance work, housework, finances, househunting, lawnmowing, future-planning, traveling to family events because they’re never at the single person’s house…and so on. And while I say this, I can hear my married and parent friends laughing ruefully and unbelievingly. But I’m not joking. I realize that taking care of kids is a more than full-time job, and that part of the reason my married and parent friends are laughing has a lot to do with sleep deprivation and exhaustion, and all they really want is what I have plenty of…a few quiet moments.

But when, for example, my car breaks down, my life becomes singularly devoted to the task of getting to work, the car shop, and home. It takes up all my spare time, all my spare money, and all my spare focus.

So, am I self-focused? YES. I am. Because very few others are focused on my life in a real, practical way. People are around, and happy to have me around occasionally. But when it’s tax time, I’m in the trenches alone. No one is going to sit down (at least, unpaid) and muddle through the tax code voluntarily. When I have to decide whether I’m going to live with a roommate or pay the higher rent to live on my own, no one’s going to make that decision with as much at stake as I am.

Doing these big things alone is scary sometimes. What if I get it wrong? What if I end up bankrupt? What if I lose my job or  get sick, who would help me? What if I die in my apartment on a Friday night? NO ONE WOULD FIND ME FOR AT LEAST 3 DAYS! They might wonder where I was…they might comment that I hadn’t shown up for work. but they probably wouldn’t start raising the alarm for real until Tuesday morning. You see? These are the morbid, real possibilities of singleness.

While being single certainly has its advantages, and it can look luxuriously quiet and self-focused from the outside, especially from the position of a noisy family, it still carries at least its fair share of daily fears.

Single and Selfish

Single living is a double edged sword (the same could be said of married living, but I’m speaking from experience on a blog for single people, so we’ll set that aside for now). On the one hand, you are entirely and completely responsible for you. Your health, your funds, your activities, your habits. It’s hard work not being accountable to someone else for your own survival, let alone thriving in an environment with no other guidance than your own decision making habits.

At the same time, due to an intense, natural focus on yourself, it’s easy to become too self-involved, too self-focused, too selfish. It’s hard to keep it from happening, because again, it’s just you deciding these things. Am I tool selfish? Do I put myself before others too often? What’s too often? What’s “putting myself before others”?

This past week I got what I assumed was a very nice letter from a young friend (how did I become old enough to have young friends??). I love getting letters. Letters mean someone took time out of their day to think of me. It’s the ultimate sign of affection and friendship. Alas, it was not a letter. It was a mission’s trip request for financial assistance.

It did however have a nice handwritten (legible) note at the bottom which is almost worth more than a typed personalized letter (I have very strong opinions on letters).

But this request put me in one of the ultimate single person conundrums: How much time and money should you/do you spend on taking care of yourself, vs how much on others? I’ve got a tight enough budget as it is, can I afford this surprise mission trip? How much can I support it? SHOULD I support it?

There’s a popular conception that single people have oodles of time and money on their hands. This is of course, wrong. But try arguing that to a married new parent. Money and energy drip out of their lives quicker than a sieve.

That being said, it doesn’t leave single people, or older retirees, holding the energy and money bag for everyone else. Honestly I don’t want to spend a lot of time here comparing singles and married and their financial or energy levels. I’ve talked a little about that already. Here. and Here.

No, I’m here to address what happens if you don’t have a partner to bounce your perspective off of on a regular basis. Someone who checks your impulses and your ideas. Someone who says “get outside your comfort zone” or “babe, that’s not in the budget.” Or even my favorite, “we’re watching Netflix that night, we can’t go to that thing.”

In my case I needed someone to give me some perspective on financially assisting in a trip. It’s a small enough thing, but it mattered to the friend going and it mattered to me. But I worried that like Michael from the office I’d end up contributing $20/mile instead of twenty dollars total. It’s great to have friends that act as safety nets.

Sure, you can make a budget, you can be aware of your time, but how do you know the limits you’re setting are good limits? After all, you’re deciding them for you. And you, though knowing all about you, are kind…how shall I say this? Of limited and singular perspective.

I find myself gut-checking frequently with my friends. They know me well, but they also see my flaws in a clearer light then I can. So on the days when I’ve got strong opinions (shocker) on something, they’re the ones I go to for a “did I overreact” evaluation.

Sometimes we disagree. Sometimes their response is more along the lines of “put yourself out there”. Or sometimes it’s a “no, you made the right decision. They’re asking too much of you.” Just yesterday I had a small meltdown and my friend informed me that I was being just a touch “self-involved?” was how she delicately phrased it, as if it was a question and not a very obvious fact. Thank God for people who have guts to say things that sting.

But if I didn’t have these friends?

I know just enough to know I should probably get a second perspective. So go out there and get a second perspective, or a third. Just make sure the voice in your head isn’t just your own, and that every once in awhile, every once in a great blue moon, you make yourself a little bit uncomfortable.

Well anyway, that’s just one perspective.

Giving Up and Getting Over, Part 2

In last week’s post, I shared, frustratingly, half of a story. Now you get the rest.

So here I was, on the brink of a potential–something. A relationship? A friendship?

We exchanged notes a few times a week. Long letters.

The notes got briefer as we both ran short of time. Soon I was sending paragraphs; he was sending sentences. I felt a slight prickle of worry. But it was a busy season.

And then the responses stopped.

I waited for two months. Two months that included my birthday. For the past years, even though we had never met, he had always wished me a happy birthday. But there was nothing this year.

Thanksgiving passed. Nothing.

I spent much less time composing my next letter. I sent him a note giving him a graceful out.

He responded quickly; “I’m sorry, I’m bad at keeping in touch long-distance.”

That was it. What, after all, did I have to lose? Hope, that’s what.

Year 36. Having asked out the only person I had truly liked for a span of unspecified years, I felt curiously hollow. In Hannah Hurnard’s allegory Hinds Feet on High Places, Much-Afraid asks the Shepherd to remove the ‘plant of human love’ growing in her heart. She knows it will be painful, as its roots grow deep, and it is. The deep roots are torn out, leaving a jagged wound.

Perhaps it’s good that I didn’t get a flat rejection. I don’t know that I could have handled it. Rather than having the deep-rooted plant yanked up violently from the earth that had fostered it for so long, it was more like a bird leaving the nest. I’d coddled this little bird of hope, and kept it safe and warm, and fed it on little scraps of conversations, reading between the lines of comments and ‘likes’. I faced my fears when it started flying, little hops and trips from the nest, and was glad when it came home to rest. But that was only temporary; and one day, the little hope-bird didn’t come back home. A gentle leaving, but still, the unworded pain of losing something precious that I never owned anyway. The pain of watching the horizon for signs. The pain of resignation to the unwanted truth.

I still sometimes wonder how and why it happened, like everyone who’s been disappointed by the outcome of a failed relationship. What happened along the parallel journey from Very Interested to Not Interested Enough? How did we start out from the same point and arrive at such different destinations?

So, here I was, hollowed out, empty of my long-term hope at the end of a short-term blind date of sorts, and pondering the new/old problem of what long-term singleness really means to me, this time at age 37.

I’m now in my late thirties, having been somewhat unwillingly single most of the time. A friend recently told me that at age 27, having heard the whispers that she was being maybe too picky, maybe waiting too long, she decided that she would go out on every date she was asked on, unless it was clearly an insincere or negative situation. She made herself give each guy two dates, at which point she was free to say no, if she chose to. And following this protocol, she fairly soon met her husband. I thought that was great. Laudable. Smart. Kind. Important to make that choice. Bit difficult to make that determination if you’re never asked out. It’s kind of like giving up cigarettes for Lent when you don’t smoke anyway.

I have, in fact, said yes to probably a similar percentage of dates, in far smaller proportion, to my cute-as-a-button, outgoing, bubbly friend. So ‘never’ is slightly hyperbolic–but only slightly.

I lived in the Bay Area after college for three and a half years. Young, single, employed, urbanish–the ideal single years, right?  I was never asked on one date. I had friends, jobs, meaningful side projects, a church, volunteer activities. I wouldn’t trade those years. But not one “could I take you out for dinner sometime?,” nor yet a “wanna catch a movie?” in my post-college days. (speaking of college–I don’t mention it because at my smallish university, the ratio of females to males generally ran at about 3 >1, a common situation for small religious institutions.)

Upon returning to the Northwest in my late twenties, again, I went out on a few dates. Some, I certainly turned down. Again, I had friends, jobs, meaningful side projects, a church, small groups. In Seattle, I went out on several dates over a period of 6 months with “The Deacon,” a kind, smart, thoughtful friend of a friend. We had many good conversations, and talks. I just couldn’t connect with the relationship, and I drifted away from it–much like my online friend drifted away. Ghosting, it’s called. Perhaps it’s Karma.

It’s difficult to understand how I can want marriage, and family, and love, and yet not be able to make them happen. Perhaps some will say I could and maybe should fight harder. I wish I could say, ‘this is what I want, here are my options, I choose door a, b, c,’ and figure it out from there.

I have to remind myself sometimes that I’m not where I am in life because it’s an accident. I wasn’t overlooked by God, somehow. I did choose, somehow, to be where I am. I said no and yes to opportunities and made decisions that got me here, to 37, to a life without some of the relationships I thought or assumed it would include. It’s also a life with relationships that are good, and surprising, and wonderful in ways I never could have predicted.

So perhaps I can remind myself by writing this, that there is a reason to write still about singleness, even if it’s as simple as because I am single today. And what it means to be single, and how it changes and shapes how I think and learn and love and interact with the world should be honored, and expressed, and questioned, and corrected, and understood, and even–maybe–loved.

Giving Up & Getting Over, Part 1

Some of you may have noticed that I haven’t been writing much lately. Some of you probably don’t even know that this blog is supposed to include posts from two people who agreed to do it together, and I am the lame duck half of this arrangement.

We can pin it on work, which has been busy and absorbing for the past year-and-a-half, a move or two or three, and other things which are boring to list because they’re really just life things that everyone deals with. Add to that, TV that must be watched because…well, it must.

We can blame it on whatever we want to, but the truth is I’m not writing much these days for my own personal enrichment about being single. In my twenties, I had a lot–too much, actually–to say about being single. To be fair, there IS a lot to say about being single that needs to be said. I’m just a bit tired of it all, these days.

Part of the reason these stories must be told is because the cultural narrative of ‘the life well-lived’ in the American Dream sense is quite narrow. It leaves many people in the margins, wondering what that vision means for them once they go off the rails of the well-trodden path of childhood-teenagedream-collegepartyanimal-sexysingle-married-marriedwithkids. Speaking from the margins, reminds people–me included–that they are not the only ones who live there. And they (me) need to be reminded, to have those “oh, me too!” moments.

So all that is to say that I still believe writing these stories and experiences down and sharing them matters. And yet, I find myself struggling to do it. I wonder sometimes if I’ve just given up on the whole issue of my personal struggle with singleness. Given up trying to make sense of it. Given up trying to fight it. Given up trying to change it.

The truth is that I stopped writing right around the time that I ended a very brief online friendship/conversation/flirtation with someone I had secretly been interested in for a very long time before that. (I don’t want to tell you how long, but let’s just say it’s a “you’re justified for judging me” length of time). We had never met in real life. (it took me forever to write that sentence and I changed it 27 times, and it never got better. So I’m now just putting it in there as bald truth.)

There it is. I had fallen in love with a hope. It wasn’t a fantasy, either. The dream had a connection to reality, which actually made it worse than if it was total fiction. It was possible. Not probable, but possible. So when I fell in love with hope, several years earlier than last fall, that small sense of potential kept me a little bit insulated from the ups and downs of being single and lit my path through the darker elements of being alone, struggling in a career, navigating difficult roommates, and surviving the marriages of two younger siblings and twenty-five or so friends.

The fall of 2015, for some reason, was the time for change. I started a new job, was preparing to move to an adjacent city, and one day I simply decided that the half-hearted letters introducing myself that had piled up in my drafts folder had to stop. Potential wasn’t good enough anymore. I kept asking myself “what have you got to lose?” After all, he didn’t go to my church, wasn’t someone at work, he wasn’t even in a community nearby–if it was an awkward “no thanks” in response to my carefully crafted question, it would change nothing in my life, and disappoint no one in my immediate circles. This may seem like an odd benefit, but it’s difficult enough to develop good friendships in your 30’s without then alienating those friends by dating and/or dumping their friends. I’ve damaged near-lifelong relationships by disappointingly not falling in love with a friend of a friend.

But back to the crucial moment of hitting send. After all, I was 35. It was about time I asked someone out on a date.

So I wrote the note, and sent it. Then I shut down my computer and went to bed. I even deleted the app from my phone. I couldn’t bring myself to open my inbox the next morning, so I waited for my lunch break. I couldn’t melt down in the office, after all.

There was a response. It was kind. He was flattered. He was funny. He appreciated the note, and said “I would be very interested in getting to know you better.”

VERY INTERESTED.

I was suddenly the incarnation of joy. I’d never felt so elated. For one thing, I was right. I am always afraid of my reads on people, especially men. But I had read the situation correctly. Maybe my intuition was actually working in my favor this time.

I had been brave, thought I, patting myself on the shoulder, and sacrificed potential on the altar of truth. I had killed my darling. It had taken me years, and tears, and wondering, and doubting, and being afraid to exchange the phantom potential for a concrete answer. I had words, actual words. Words of affirmation, and appreciation, and kindness.

I wondered why I had been so afraid. I think I smiled for days. So this was it. This was what I had been waiting for fifteen years. It all seemed worthwhile, where in the past this long-term single situation of mine had felt arbitrary, desolate, and punishing.

Next week: Part 2

Advice to High School Me

I hated getting advice in high school. It was never practical, it was always world weary.

  • “You thought high school was hard? Wait till college.”
  • “Professors aren’t like teachers. They don’t let you get away with anything.”
  • “Forget about your high school friends, you’ll make better ones at college.”

What I wouldn’t have given for something like, “You don’t have to ask permission to go the bathroom in class. Just leave.”

Alas.

Anyway, the advice I found particularly grating was that “forget your friends” pearl of wisdom.

I’m stubborn by nature, and I’m hard to advise, but I think anyone balks at the idea that those who are closest to you at this very moment might not be so close to you in a year, or four years, or ten years. It minimizes the effect these people have had on you, and you on them. It detracts from the value your youthful friendships have on your adulthood.

It also makes fate out of something that is in fact a choice, as most relationships are. It’s always your choice to stay close to friends who may be distant from you. It’s also hard as hell, which is really what the problem is. People underestimate how hard it is to keep friends once you stop seeing them daily.

We also underestimate the appeal of finding friends in college who are categorically different from high school friends by virtue of several criteria. College friends have the common ground not only of school, but of living and dining quarters. And by the time you graduate, most of your friends are in a related career field by virtue of all your common classes.

High school friends are not always chosen, sometimes (particularly at a small school), because of shared interests. Often you find yourself content to befriend people who may actually be quite different from you, but you flex toward each other because you crave the relating that comes from friendship. This makes these friendships unique, sometimes odd when you look back, but also harder to maintain. What do you have to talk about once you lose that common ground of…literal common ground.

In truth, and in part because of the advice I got to ditch my high school friends, I clung to them with sharpened claw-like nails. I called everyone, all the time. I wrote letters, I had them visit, I IMed everyone all the time. I was obsessed and paranoid, and as a result I didn’t make a lot of lasting friends at college. But post-college I also was able to come back home and resume many of those high school relationships with ease. (However, it’s almost easier to get lazy about friends in proximity and lose them through virtue of “I’ll see them next week/month/season”)

Here’s my turn at some “friend” advice for college. Make good friends where you can. There are a shortage of perfect people in the world, so if you find one of those gems, hold on to them (maybe not with claws). It’s entirely possible you found one (or many) of those gems in high school. While that means you had an awesome high school experience, it does mean college will be tricky for you when it comes to finding a way to balance your history with your new life.

Try. It’s never bad to at least try and put effort in to holding onto good friends, wherever you find them. If anything, it builds some kind of decent character.

Yeah okay, there’s a reason “ditch your high school friends” is much more liberally sprinkled about. It’s shorter.

How about this, then: Make good choices. I think that says it all, doesn’t it?

 

Romancing the Introvert

There’s always two types of people in the world. Those who like lima beans and those who do not. Those who drink loose leaf tea and those who drink bag tea. And then of course, introverts and extroverts. Never the twain shall meet, and yet always cursed to follow hopelessly in love (like those anti and pro lima bean lovers).

I was chatting with a friend just yesterday about the difficulties in wooing the extrovert and the introvert. With the extrovert the challenge seems to be that an extrovert is often nice to everybody and it’s impossible to tell if they’re flirting, because they may just always be flirting.

My friend asked me how I, as a consummate introvert, showed my own romantic interest in anyone. How might one expect to find out that an introvert was interested in a romantic relationship, was the question.

My flippant response is, “you don’t”, but this is a blog and not a punchline, so we’ll strive for something a little more in depth than that.

There’s an old favorite movie of mine, Romancing the Stone about a romance writer who goes to Columbia to find a mysterious treasure to exchange in ransom for her sister’s life (I’m going somewhere with this, hang on). Along the way she meets up with an opportunistic fortune hunter who says he’s helping her, but are his intentions good? His motives pure? The title comes from this conflict: is he romancing the stone right out from under her.

This is basically how you romance an introvert, from what I can tell. Introverts have deep focused interests — like our romance writer and the buried treasure. They’re usually perceptive, and always fascinating people. If you can find out what fascinates them, and genuinely share in it, I think you’ll find any introvert a willing recipient of your attentions.

Introverts like to be heard. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But for the most part introverts are people with worthwhile things to say, they just don’t think anyone’s really listening. If you listen, that goes the distance.

What’s doubly intriguing is that once you start learning about what an introvert is intrigued by, you’ll get sucked right into it with them. Much like our fortune hunter and his romance writer (oops, spoiler alert!).

For an example: half a dozen years ago a friend of mine introduced me to a foreign film that was so exceptional that I half fell in love with him right then, as the credits rolled. Shared mutual interests create much of the connection for the more introspective of us.

I can’t tell you how an introvert shows their interest in return, however because in this respect I’m fairly certain nothing I have ever done is what should be done to encourage romantic pursuit.

But, hey, I can tell you fellow introverts what doesn’t work, in my experience. Definitely probably avoid making fun of them. If you ignore them, I guarantee they will not notice your affection. Teasing sounds like a good idea, but it usually works itself into sarcasm. Probably avoid this. And whatever you do, don’t stalk them on social media. I can’t explain why, but literally no one will find this romantic. Crazy.

Best of luck to all the introverts and extroverts out there looking for love, or romance, or a relationship with someone intriguing and amazing.

 

How to Grow Your Own Mold

I don’t believe in writing a lot of “how to” blogs, but I do believe in sharing my wisdom and experience. And if you want to know how to grow your own mold it’s very simple, be single and buy food at the grocery store.

That’s it. Well, and wait. It doesn’t take long, just a couple days of “no one can eat that much pesto in five days!” and “I thought I’d eat more salad than that.” And “it’s impossible. Cheese IS mold.”

I can’t understand how people keep full refrigerators. How is anything safe to eat?? I keep a couple staples in my fridge, and even those I need to make sure I consume regularly, almost daily. Including tortillas (which dry out) and cheese (which is highly resistant to a second growth of itself in a different form). I eat a lot of quesadillas is what I’m saying.

I keep throwing out condiments too. And I’ve yet to have a loaf of a bread that didn’t wind up in my freezer to stave off any mold. And this from someone who eats at least once slice of toast per day. And it has to be toast, because something has to thaw out the bread!

Tonight I realized I had seven eggs about to go bad. So I boiled them. All well and good, but a boiled egg goes bad too! (Not to mention you get tired of them eventually) so I made egg salad. You know the google estimated lifespan of egg salad? 3-5 days. Which means I’m eating egg salad every day if I want to make good on my investment at the grocery store of all the additional ingredients I bought to make one recipe so my eggs didn’t go bad.

Eating when you’re single is a fine balancing act between “I really love home cooking” and “this isn’t worth it just for me”, and “I thought I loved this until I ate it every day for a week” and “cheese and crackers is a meal, right?”

My biggest weakness, however, is the friend who says, “I’m bringing pizza” or “let’s go for dinner after work”. Because the truth is, it’s hard to say no to anyone because “I need to eat some leftovers.” And it’s hard to defend to someone else that you’re rejecting them for day or week old anything. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have ham that’s going to go bad so I need to go home and eat a sandwich. You can have one!”

On my birthday I had a salad because it was going to go bad the next day. This is the kind of sad world single people live in.

To remedy this abysmal condition we singles suffer with, a friend of mine suggested that we combine forces once a week and share a meal. My instant selfish response was, “yay, someone making food for me!” closely followed by “I have no idea how to make something that someone else WANTS to eat”. I mean, I make food I HAVE to eat, but it’s because I made it. I’m under no illusions here.

The trouble is that there are serving sizes for single people out there. Don’t Hot Pockets come one serving to a pocket? And yet, buying one of anything is somehow depressing and isolating. Not to mention wasteful. Have you seen the packaging for a solo product? I might as well start my own lonely landfill.

So I buy things the way husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, dutiful children, and grandparents buy things. I buy them from the grocery store as they are normally packaged. And then I plan my week around the things I bought. I plan my days around the meals I need to prepare and where I need to be to prepare them adequately. Can I take it with me in my lunch? Do I need to have it for dinner? How many dinners is it good for?

It’s an exhausting new neurosis I didn’t know I could have. And it’s MATH related. All those story problems from algebra might be handy after all.

And then of course, there are the days when you buy a Marie Callender casserole of scalloped potatoes and ham, throw in a bag of steamed broccoli and call it nutrition, because math is just too hard on a Wednesday.