How to Pick Up Girls

I was walking down the street. In a dress. A man approached me. An older, slightly scruffy gentleman with a European accent. Because I was listening to my iPod, he had to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention.

"Excuse me. You have no idea how elegant you are. Here's my email. I want to show you how desirable you are, too."

With that, he handed me his card.

Make your next sexual experience a sensual adventure.

PaveltheLover@*****.com

I smiled, took the card and thanked him. Because I could think of no other appropriate response. I don't hit strangers. Unfortunately for him, I rarely email them either.

Oh, Pavel the Lover, thanks for giving me a great story to tell. Good luck with the ladies.*

*Withdrawn.

A Disney Love Life: Cinderella + Aladdin

Last night. Dinner party with the girls. There were six of us. Three of whom I didn't know. I was the youngest. The oldest was 61. All of us single. It didn't take long before we were swapping hilariously awkward tales of infatuation, biological clocks and "platonic" male roommates.

As I finished off the crackers and triple-cream cheese, I dropped a bombshell. I believe in blurting out shocking statements when among strangers.

"Unemployment is not a deal-breaker."

Yep, I said it. And I almost meant it.

One of the women had been ranting about how both artsy men and "church men" seem to lack career ambition. That musicians and Christians rank among the worst husband material as they can't provide stability or security. So according to her, I have disastrous taste in men. At least there's no competition. (I'm still confused by that conversation. Some of the most ambitious men I've ever met happen to fit both categories. But I guess we travel in different circles.)

I'm not scared of poverty. And as I make decisions about my own career and future, I try to prioritize creative fulfillment over security. Passion over fear. Not that I'm being irresponsible with my finances, but I'm not going to approach my life from a "but will I retire comfortably?" perspective. So why would I expect that of someone else? Why would I shift from trusting God to provide to expecting a man to provide? I'm pretty sure God can provide for two. I don't need a superhero. Or a knight. Just a partner in crime.

Maybe it's because once upon a time, in a land not that far away, I had a crush on Aladdin, not Prince Charming.

Disney's Prince Charming was rich, reserved and without personality. He was handsome but rarely spoke. There was no banter, no spark, no charm (ironic, no?). He didn't even pursue Cinderella at midnight; he sent someone else to run after her. He merely turned a lovely girl into a lovely princess. Sure, I wanted to be Cinderella, but I wanted to be the poor version of her: the gal in a brown dress with the ribbon in her hair. I wanted to sing while scrubbing floors. I wanted to wear a dress made by mice. The poufy ballgown? The lifeless waltz with royalty? Um, pass.

And any guy who'd marry someone for her shoe size has issues.

But Aladdin was different. He was passionate about life. He had a pet monkey. He was a complicated mix of trustworthy soul and wanted criminal. He had wits, street smarts, agility, fearlessness. He shared his loot with the even-less-fortunate. (Sure, he struggled with pride and insecurity, that need to prove himself worthy, even though Jasmine was smitten with him regardless of status or title. Sigh.) He didn't need to be a prince; love and the adventure of survival was enough.

I may not be swooning over the guys who sleep all day and play Guitar Hero in their parents' basements all night, but I also don't want to be lumped in with the generation of girls who still count on Prince Charming to heroically rescue them from every financial concern and non-glamorous circumstance. I'd rather tackle life together. Living-room picnics over four-star restaurants any day.

Dating Thoughts From 11-Year-Old Me

I used to write every journal entry as a letter to God. And apparently, at 11, I spent considerable amounts of time trying to make sense of romance.

And yes, I set my own dating rules. I actually remember telling my parents I didn't want to date until I was 16. I think something was wrong with me.

I was the oldest 11-year-old EVER.

God,

You know about everything in my life at home and at school. You've also seen what the Gr. 7 girls do all recess. Hug their "so-called" boyfriends. I think it's awful. They don't even know the guy very much, but if they think he's cute and he likes her, SNAP, they're so close you have to pry them away from each other.

I'm not even going to think about dating before I'm sixteen. I want to have a longer childhood, stay away from the pressures of being a virgin, and when I start dating, I'm sure I'll be ready for the pressures and stand strong because I have you. Please help me stay away from the world's view of dating and sex.

~Journal: Nadine, 11 years old

I love that I wrote "SNAP." I was cooler than I thought.

If I ever have a daughter, I hope she's a bit like the young me: a thoughtful, nerdy, boy-free journaler. (But I hope she doesn't wear tapered royal-blue corduroy pants with a pink-and-purple Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. Or threaten to divorce her brothers.)

When Tolkien Does the Blogging

I came across this quote today. At first, it didn't make sense. And then I realized that maybe speed-reading when I'm sleep-deprived is unwise. I was pretty much only absorbing every other word.

Here's what fascinates me. Tolkien wrote this to his son. Do fathers and sons really correspond this way? Do you? Please, gentlemen, enlighten me. Do you have heart-to-hearts with your dads about "guiding stars"?

If not, perhaps you should.

How quickly an intelligent woman can be taught, grasp his ideas, see his point — and how (with rare exceptions) they can go no further, when they leave his hand, or when they cease to take a personal interest in him. But this is their natural avenue to love. Before the young woman knows where she is (and while the young man, when he exists, is still sighing) she may actually 'fall in love'. Which for her, an unspoiled natural young woman, means that she wants to become the mother of the young man's children, even if that desire is by no means clear to her or explicit. And then things are going to happen: and they may be very painful and harmful, if things go wrong. Particularly if the young man only wanted a temporary guiding star and divinity (until he hitches his wagon to a brighter one), and was merely enjoying the flattery of sympathy nicely seasoned with the titillation of sex — all quite innocent, of course, and worlds away from 'seduction'.

....Don't be misled by the fact [women] are more 'sentimental' in words — freer with 'darling', and all that. They don't want a guiding star. They may idealize a plain young man into a hero; but they don't really need any such glamour either to fall in love or to remain in it.

~From a letter to his son, Michael Tolkien 6-8 March 1941, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien

Freer with the world "darling"? Hmm. Perhaps I should update my vocabulary choices to make Tolkien more accurate.

Boy Meets Girl: A Character Study

I don't know where to begin. Oh, I know. Here. Seriously, you're going to need a recap. Because my life is one fantastic soap opera. And it's all my fault.

As I type this, I'm not sure how I feel about technology. About social networking. About the instant and all-too-easy access I have to strangers. Because when my interest in piqued, I may find them. And then find myself in some tangled web of awkwardness that has me breaking up with someone I don't even know.

We went for non-coffee coffee. (We met at a coffee place where we skipped the caffeinated options). Conversation came easy. Perhaps too easy. I caught myself thinking, "Wait a minute. There's no way I'm actually this charming." But maybe I was. I'm learning. An hour later, as I headed home, I knew that something was off. That even just a non-coffee coffee was inconsistent with who I am. And was an awkward nonnegotiable rejection waiting to happen.

It's fun stepping outside of the comfort zone, embarking on a little adventure that involves flattery and intrigue. But when I acknowledged that my initiative in the situation was out of character, a loud voice echoed in my swirly-whirly head, "It's called character for a reason."

When my heart is firmly in one place, ignoring it for a moment or two is pointless. Eventually it will rear its head. Yes, my heart has a head. Which is confusing, considering my heart and real head are often at odds....

So I chose to be the jerk rather than the liar.

I had nothing to offer. I had no business chatting up a much-older stranger I saw-but-didn't-meet in a bar. I had no intentions beyond a hello, and there I was, suddenly being pursued by someone who had every reason to expect otherwise.

So I apologized and let him go.

He was gracious, subtly hurt, cut me free, and we reverted to stranger status. A de-friending on Facebook was included. Which I find oddly amusing. I'm not sure why. I'll probably need therapy one day.

I will slowly learn my lessons the hard way, waiting for that miraculous two-way street where affection is reciprocated and awkwardness is at a minimum. Or at least forgiven. And where missteps and gaffes aren't significant enough to get in the way of the real adventure.

Ah, girls are confusing. To every guy I've ever known, I apologize for my contribution to the mixed signals and inconsistencies that my sex has thrown at you. For the sudden shyness, the over-thinking, the cynicism, the coyness....

I am tired of the game. I always lose.
Men, if you stop playing, so will I.

Boy Doesn't Quite Meet Girl

I'm passing the bar, on my way back from the washroom, when I notice him smiling at me. So I smile back. And keep walking.

I return to my little tucked-away booth where I resume the random conversations between two friends who don't see each other nearly enough. Hours later, after a heart-to-heart accompanied with massive water (and minimal white-wine) consumption, I head back to the washroom. Which I swear was renovated since last year's excursion. My friend disagrees. Yes, these are the important matters worth debating.

While I'm away, he approaches my friend. He asks her if I'm single. She doesn't lie. He tells her he thinks I'm cute. And then he walks away.

I'm not long in the ladies' room (no need to freshen up when you're not trying to impress anyone), but when I return, he's gone. He doesn't quite understand the bathroom strategy. Essentially, you want to intercept someone returning from the washroom. You don't actually miss them and use the facilities yourself. The strategy has served me well in Stratford. But that's another blog entry.

Back at our table, my friend tells me everything. Because that's what friends do. It's surprisingly exciting. Mostly because such attention is a rare thing. And it's nice to feel like a woman sometimes. I mean, I WAS wearing a dress. It's lovely to be noticed.

I'm not facing the bar, but she is. She tells me when he's back.

Secret of the day: I don't know how to play the game. I don't flirt. I send mixed messages, not "come hither" ones. I don't know if I should wait three days for a call, or if you not responding to an email means something or not. And you telling my friend that you think I'm cute is not enough. If you want to talk to me, TALK TO ME. Because I'm a clueless mess.

He doesn't come over.

A few minutes later (and long after last call), we get up. We slowly walk past where he's standing. I smile at him again, this time self-conscious and slightly awkward. He smiles back.

I half expect a Hollywood ending, with him running after me as I step into the cool air. The town is asleep, the traffic lights flashing. Very Notebook-like. We could lie in the intersection and talk about painting. But I don't paint.

He doesn't follow me.

The next night, I'm watching the closing performance of All's Well That Ends Well. He's there. Pacing on the open stage.

He can perform for thousands, but cannot approach the cute stranger. Oddly, I understand, but wish he had the guts to say hello. Because it would have made a more interesting story. And because Stratford is the only town where these things happen. Now I must wait an entire year before another evening of garlic fries and handsome actors who don't speak to me.

Facebook Knows Me So Well

Christian Single?
Then what are you waiting for? Join ChristianMingle!

~Facebook ad

Why is Jesus winking at me?

Someone Else's Prince Charming

I was waiting to cross the street, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of blog entries, Pilates and massive salads, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. He was on the other side of the road, waving wildly. Suddenly, despite the red light, he starting running through the intersection, dodging traffic, toward me.

He spoke with his hands, which did little to distract me from the tie-dyed neon mess of a tank he was wearing. All that was missing was his fanny pack. I'm sure he just forgot it at home. And while I'm not opposed to scruff, his was more "sleazy midlife" than "cast-of-Lost ruggedness." In his thick European accent, he enthusiastically asked me (while nodding his head, a sneaky strategy when trying to convince someone to agree with you):

"Would you like to take me somewhere? I am a baby-making machine."

I have nothing against babies. I quite like them. And I hope to have some of my own one day. But I'm not sure I could have someone who wears a neon shirt typically described as a "wife-beater" as the father of my children. Nor could I explain to my young'uns that their daddy first met me by jaywalking. I cannot endorse lawbreaking. Besides, I'm old-fashioned; I would prefer to be taken rather than do the taking.

So I smiled and politely declined the opportunity. Fortunately, a lovely lady in a lovelier dress than mine arrived at our little corner.

"Ah, she's nice, no?"

I had to agree.

The light changed. I walked away. And even while waving goodbye to me, he was eying his new object of infatuation.

Flirtation 101: Streetcar Edition

Today on the streetcar, I had a rather fascinating lesson in the art of flirtation. Let me set the stage.

The boy: a cute, clean-cut Mormon (name tag and all) who could probably get a job modeling for a JCrew-style catalog. A lesser-known version of JCrew. He could be a part-time model (to steal an observation from my Conchord boys). I'll call him PrepBoy.

The girl: a crazy woman who sounds like a man. I'll call her LocoGirl.

LocoGirl: But you look so nice. I'm surprised you haven't been asked by Playgirl to be in the magazine.
PrepBoy: Nope. Just church stuff.
LocoGirl: Wow, you got such huge muscles. Do you use Crest Whitestrips? Your teeth are like pearls.
PrepBoy: No. I just brush them.

See how she complimented him? Engaged him in conversion? The next question to subtly spew out of her mouth was inquiring as to his marital status. And because he answered that he was single, she proceeded to tell him that she would marry him.

That's how you get to the point. No beating around the bush. She was interested. She complimented. And she proposed marriage.

Perhaps I make things too complicated.


Note to self: Next time you're hanging around a man who's captured your fancy, bring up dental hygiene, marriage and Playgirl. And do so loudly. In a public place. And according to today's lesson, be sure to sound like a man. It's sexier that way.

Love Is in the Air?

When I was in junior high, spring weather meant puppy love. The moment recess was blessed with mild sunshine, all the boys got cuter. It was a pretty hilarious phenomenon. Naturally, I stood on the outside of the happenings, amused by the budding romances around me. One year, a boy I played touch football with during lunch (yes, I played football daily -- for a very brief period of time) told a friend of mine that I made his blood boil. That was the end of my athletic career.

I'm still that awkward girl, completely unsure of how to deal with unwanted affection. (Or, frankly, how to capture wanted attention.)

I was at the library today, browsing through the stacks, when I heard someone say, "Hi, how are you?" I naturally assumed the man behind me was on the phone. Because strangers don't actually talk to me. Not in libraries. That's too romantic-comedy world. Not reality. So he said it again. I smiled. We exchanged perhaps two sentences, and I walked away. Because I don't flirt. It's not my area of gifting. And I don't typically give off that "approachable" vibe. Maybe it's insecurity masked as aloofness, I don't know.

On the bus ride home, a Frenchman said hello. And then began a full-on pursuit. Not just friendly chitchat, but he wanted to know my name, what I did for a living, what my nationality was. In less than two minutes. Everyone around us was listening. My first reaction was, "I am not a visa bride." Maybe it's unjustified paranoia, but the last French gentleman who followed me out of an elevator ("When will I see you again?") was looking for a way to stay in the country. I reserve the marriage-for-immigration-purposes strictly for Prince William or young, single Bono-types. Not bus strangers.

He was about to get off the bus when he asked me out. At least, I think he asked me out. It was loud on the bus and I couldn't hear him very well. I heard him say something about how it's a beautiful day and that I'm very pretty. I was instantly flattered and uncomfortable. He asked if I have a boyfriend. I didn't know what to say.

I have never, ever not known what to say to that question before. It's a pretty black-and-white question. With a black-and-white answer. But I couldn't tell him I was single. I don't know why. I knew I was going to have to reject his advances. And I froze. I just looked at him. He asked again. "Are you seeing someone?" I lied. "Sort of."

Sort of. What does that mean? "Yes, sometimes, when my eyes aren't closed, I see people. Fifty percent of the people I see are male."

He smiled and got off the bus.

This, my friends, is why I'm single. Because I'm sort of seeing someone who doesn't exist.

image source

eDisharmony

"The endless string of first dates is unlikely to result in a lasting relationship, but it can occupy a woman's attention enough to distract her from killing herself."

Online Dating Helping Pathetic Women Get Their Hopes Crushed More Efficiently

Shortly before Valentine's, this video made its way around my workplace. And since then, I've had numerous discussions on the topic of online dating. And I'm still uncomfortable with it. I've made lame excuses, scoffed at the idea of marketing yourself, pointed the geek finger (which really can't be justified, as I'm a blogger), and accused users of being desperate or misrepresenting themselves. I've known people who now live "happily ever after" thanks to this thing we call "the Internet," but I still can't wrap my little head around it.

Okay, so fear of rejection aside, I think I've somewhat figured out my discomfort, whether legitimate or not:

• I want to be pursued. Filling out a profile feels like I'm doing the work. "You won't come to me? I'll come to you. With a comprehensive list of everything you might want to know." I'm all about the John Eldredge "dangerous" hero. And dangerous heroes don't email; they show up on horses, brandishing swords, screaming "Freedom!" Plus, as mentioned in the last blog, I don't know that I'm all that capable of capturing the essence that is Nadine in a single paragraph.
  
• I want to trust God. I'm uneasy with the idea of spending inordinate amounts of time (mostly head time) obsessing over a future that God already has mapped out. I don't want to be taking matters into my own hands. Because, quite frankly, my hands suck. I don't want to set myself up for even greater heartache if God wants me to be single. Really, in the grand scheme of things, whether I have a date Friday night or not is pretty insignificant. And I can still love and be loved without an "other." Not that I'm dreaming of a life that's solo. I'd just rather watch a greater plan unfold than worry about a catchy screen name. Because, really, coming up with something like WitChickWonder83 will totally stress me out.

(The only real pull is the curiosity factor. I think it would be hilarious to have a group of friends all submit personality profiles on eHarmony and see if the site matches up people who already know each other).

I don't know. Maybe I'll soften to the idea. But not yet. It's the same reason I can't tell you how many single guys are at my church. Or if the guy at the pub is looking at me or past me. Because I don't hone my radar like that. I am rather content to wait out any season of discontent.* I don't know that I could pull a Ruth and lie at Boaz's feet. I'd rather he just notice me out in the field.

We cannot fight for love, as men may do;
We should be woo'd and were not made to woo.
Helena ~ A Midsummer Night's Dream

*The def'n of "content" here is subjective. Sometimes it just means "not suicidal." And yes, the radar does make the occasional appearance. In fact, it goes through stages of overuse and malfunction....