I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before – I love eavesdropping. I mean, how can you not?  Real life is so much more interesting than fiction. Stranger and funnier and much more bizarre.

Depending on your perspective, I guess.

New York City is an awesome place for eavesdropping. Unlike other places, we’re out in the open most of the time. Living our lives in public. On the sidewalk, on the subway… Not hidden away in cars for hours every day. Well, most of us.

So the other day I was out and I overheard a great conversation. A bunch of girlfriends, all of whom seemed to be in their 30s. One of them was having boy troubles and the others were telling her what she should do. And they all had very strong opinions about it.

Now, as an aside… another awesome thing about NYC is that if you ask any group of people for advice about anything – where to get the best pulled pork sandwich, for example – you’re likely to get a handful of different and very passionate responses. Because everyone thinks they’re right. And each person will be committed to their answer and will want to convince you that it’s The Right Answer.  For the record, the answer is, Daisy May’s. 

Anyway, each of these girlfriends was very committed to her answer. Call him, don’t call him, text him, don’t text him, don’t return his calls… it was a cacophony of girlymag wisdom. Each of them certain that their’s was The Right Answer.

I didn’t hear the end of the conversation. So I have no idea how, or if, it was resolved. But I gotta tell you, it took every bit of self control to keep myself from butting in and saying, “There is no right answer.”

I’m lucky to have some pretty awesome friends. Awesome and talented. Awesome and talented in ways that I am so not.

It took me a year of living and working in my new apartment before I could figure out what I might want it to look like – furniture and decoration wise. That stuff just doesn’t come easy to me.  Massive understatement.

So after a year of staring at blank walls and living with old furniture that didn’t quite fit in the space, I ordered a bunch of stuff that I thought would work in the new place. And then it all came and I had no idea where to put in all.

Which is a long way of me getting to today’s story –  this weekend, after much scheduling and planning, I got some of my awesome friends to come over and decorate my space. They rearranged furniture, hung pictures and MOST IMPORTANTLY – removed stuff that didn’t belong here. You see, the people who lived here before me left a bunch of stuff (shelves, wall mirrors, curtains…) and me being me – I didn’t remove any of it. For over a year. I just couldn’t be bothered. Even though I hated most of it. I just left it all and thought each and every day how much I hated it. But since I couldn’t figure out replacements, I didn’t do anything about it.

Yeah, I’m a little pathological.

Anyway, one of the things they left was this huge mirror in the bedroom. It took up most of a wall. And, honestly, I didn’t think much of. Considering all of the other weird things in the apt.

But then apartment makeover day rolls around and 2 of my friends (each of whom had seen the mirror many times before) tell me the mirror is bad feng shui = bad for my love life.  They’d never mentioned it before because they’d never been focused on it before.

So anyway… I don’t know if I believe in that feng shui stuff. But my love life could use some help. And I didn’t like the mirror anyway.  So it got tossed.

Speaking of mirrors…I’ve been having issues with mine lately. They’ve been mean. Very, very mean. Which, in some ways is weird.  I’ve been feeling well. My new new medicine is working well and everyone I know says I look great. But they mean that in a, “you look like you don’t belong in a hospital” way. Not, “you look sexy” way. I’m exercising lots more than I have in ages (took a lovely long walk this morning) and have been getting back into yoga.

But every morning I would get up and stare into the mirror and think about how bad I looked. Old and fat. Part of that (the fat) is that my appetite is out of control. It’s a side effect of the new new drugs. I’ve been down this road many time before and I just can’t expend the energy to fight the constant urge to eat. And the drugs work, so fuck it. I’m just going to have to try to eat a bit healthier and exercise even more.

And then there’s the fact that I am, actually, old(er). I’m 41. And at 41 it’s harder to keep weight off. My magic metabolism is dying down. And my youthful face is looking less youthful.

So what am I going to do about it? I can spend a lot of time and energy every day hating myself. I’m very good at it.  Or I can do something different. I choose B.

As long as I was removing things from my apartment, I went a step further. I also got rid of my full-length mirror. I didn’t chuck it completely, as sometimes I might need to know how I look. But I hid it in the back of my closet. So now the only mirror in my apartment is in my bathroom. Over the sink.  With really bad lighting.

So I no longer have anyplace in my home to look at myself in judgement. To think how fat, old and ugly I’ve become.  No more mean mirrors. BTW, I’ve read about other women doing similar things, so I’m not being original here. 

Will this little experiment affect my self-esteem? I have no fucking idea. I just started. Here’s what I do know. I’ve never thought of myself as a vain person, and yet I keep looking towards those empty spaces, where the mirrors were. For some kind of negative or positive validation, I guess. Life is weird.

Happy Thursday folks.  Hope you’re all enjoying your day so far. If not, hopefully this will perk you up.  I have a story from a new-ish, fun blog – Dates With Kate. You should check it out.

Bachelor #1

Officially this was Bachelor #1. I was not at all feeling comfortable being back in the dating world after being in a relationship for almost six years with a cool guy I was still friends with. As I drove to meet Mr. Robert I felt like I was cheating on the ex even though we had been broken up for almost 3 months. It might say something that I called the ex on the way to the rendezvous spot to let him know who and where I was meeting this strange man just in case I was chopped up into little pieces. There is a reason we called it “Best Breakup Ever”. Even still, I was nervous as hell walking into that Starbucks.

** Aside (the first of what I am sure will be many) – There are a few spots in my neck of the woods that I am sure think I am some sort of librarian-looking prostitute. These spots, and the people that work there, have seen me parade in with a stream of men. When the number of people that you have met creeps into the double-digits you run out of places-to-meet options. I am picky about where I will make the initial contact. It has to be public, obviously, easy to find and a place I am familiar with. I am not walking into a restaurant or tavern or coffee shop or wine bar that I have never been before while trying to locate someone I have never met. That is simply too much sensory overload to manage at once. I like to know the lay of the land so the only thing that could possibly surprise me is how ghastly my date is.

The first thing I notice about Robert is that he looks nothing like his picture. I am expecting a guy that has a hat and glasses and fairly sizable sideburns but what walks up to me has a shaved head and no glasses. He is my height, 5’8″, and fairly stout. I am not overwhelmed with hot lust for him but he is pleasant to look at. We met on a weekend day so he was appropriately dressed – cargo shorts, t-shirt, cool sneaks. We had a pleasant conversation where he expressed a strong affinity for watching female roller girls. I have not been to such an event so it was cool to hear a little about that. Besides the fact that the conversation didn’t totally suck or stall awkwardly it also didn’t really light my fire. I could tell that I wasn’t going to be interested in seeing this guy again. I can’t say too much else about him besides he was ‘my first’ and that was it wasn’t horrible. Robert does have the distinction of initiating my long-time rule of NO PHONE CALL BEFORE MEETING. I am not a huge phone person in general and trying to carry on a conversation totally removed of any physical cues sucks ass. I was careful to brush up on my facts-about-Robert before placing the call but it was just awkward. Long silences, awkward pauses – what fun. There is just something about seeing someone in person and whiffing their pheromones that cannot be replaced. How horrible can anyone be that I can’t suffer through one cup of coffee or cocktail? Granted, there have been some fine men that had me thinking the whole time we met what a great freaking story I was going to tell about this knob, but nothing horrendous. They are just people, after all.

I did get the fishing follow-up email from Robert (it was great to meet me, want to get together again, etc.) but I was not interested in seeing him again. Just not exciting. I emailed him back and told him that I had thought I was ready to get back into the dating fray but I had been mistaken. This taught me another rule. DON’T EVER TELL AN ONLINE DATING CANDIDATE SOMETHING THAT THEY CAN FIND TO BE UNTRUE. Besides the fact that lying is evil and bad it just sets up an awkward situation if you are caught. For instance, I got several more emails and winks from Robert after I gave him the brush-off email. Why, he wanted to know, was I still on Match.com if I was not ready to date? Valid question although I don’t know what guilting me into a date was supposed to accomplish.

I’ve got 3 scenarios for you:

You’re in a public place – bar, restaurant, party… and you make eye contact with an attractive person. S/he comes up to you and says hello. No cheesy lines. Just hello.  Do you have an actual conversation or just flirt? And is there a difference?

You meet someone online and they ask for your number (or offer theirs).  They call you.  Do you talk or flirt? Again, is there a difference?

Lastly, you exchange numbers with someone you meet at a party (or something) and they text you.  Do you attempt a conversation or do you flirt?

THIS is what’s been on my mind lately. I happen to think the 3 situations are actually pretty different. But that’s for another post. Or whatever. I’m really more interested in what you all think.

Well lookie here, an actual guest post. Yes, I am getting this blog back in shape. Or at least, I’m trying. This week’s guest post is from the lovely and talented Rachel Khona. Check out her site for more of her fabulousness.  Um, before some of you decide to jump down my throat, I’d like to refer you to last week’s post Silly Questions/Silly Answers where I stated in no uncertain terms that I don’t think all guys are assholes. 

Are all guys assholes? Or just not sane?

“Are all guys assholes?” I’m sure many a woman would like to think so, but rather than leaving it to conjecture, writer Amber Madison decides to tackle that question head first scientific-style in her book of the same name. In it, she traverses this glorious country of ours interviewing men of all races, socio-economic backgrounds and ages searching for the answer to that much-asked question.

Her conclusion? No, of course not all guys are assholes, dickwads, or douchebags. Just as all women are not psycho. But like ourselves, they don’t always know what they want or if you’re the girl they want that something with, causing them to behave in all manners of bizarre, mysterious and weird as they try to figure it out. Or in my case they may severely lacking in self-esteem, mentally unstable, a pill-popping drug addict, or emotionally closed off because daddy dearest left the fam. The problem is not everyone is self-aware and we end up getting taken on someone else’s emotional roller coaster ride before we even know it. Feeling jaded and used, women end up chalking the guy’s behavior up to being an asshole.

After reading the book, I decided to download the accompanying iPhone app, the “A-hole tester” to see if the guy I was dating, (we’ll call him Adam), had any subconscious predilections for assholery. After taking the 18-question quiz, it deduced that he only had a 10% chance of being an asshole. He was in the clear; for awhile.

Unfortunately I soon realized that while he wasn’t quite an asshole, Adam wasn’t all there either. Social anxiety and a long-standing relationship with popping anti-depressants made him one beer short of a six-pack. This is not to say all people with mental disorders or who take anti-depressants are batty, but in many a case it does and this one was no exception. Especially if the said party is unwilling to deal with it.

As I tend to attract all manner of depressed, bipolar, emotionally unavailable, and panic-attack prone, I couldn’t help but wish for a sister app called “Is he mentally stable?” As someone who has grown up around people who do have mental instability issues, the red flags that would signal someone else to run in the other direction often went right over my head. A mental stability app would surely be a service to someone such as myself. I imagined it would go something like this:

1.      Are any of his friends closet alcoholics?

2.      Does he exhibit any sort of nervous mannerisms?

3.      Does he take anti-depressants?

4.      Is he scared of the phone?

5.      Is he capable of telling you the truth or does he have serious avoidance issues?

Perhaps such an app would have prevented me from even bothering with Adam?

Or maybe I should have just paid attention to the signs.

Exhibit A:

I had invited Adam to a birthday party. He eagerly agreed to come and then try to slowly back out of it.

It would be obvious to a blind chicken that he was full of shit. I knew full well that he was freaking out about coming to my friend’s birthday. Frankly, I thought it might have been too soon, but with our busy schedules it was the only night we could hang out that week. With his late hours, alternate weekends with his daughter, and my traveling, we had to make concessions in order to see each other.

Besides, I had suffered through meeting all of his very immature friends before we even had our first official date. We had met at a bar and coincidentally both happened to be going to Philadelphia the next day. For the entire weekend, I got to hear his best friends howling about Adam had been jerking off every waking second. Every time Adam tried to get close to me, his friends with hoot like a bunch of monkeys making fun of us for liking each other. So as far I was concerned, his ass could come to my friend’s very civilized and un-hooligan-like birthday party.

Now if I had been paying attention to the red flags, like the fact that he considers a raging alcoholic, who can’t stand his wife  a friend, I might have cut Adam out sooner.

But I didn’t. Like Pamela Anderson to a rocker, I kept going back to the kooks. Had he told me from the get go he didn’t want to go, I wouldn’t have cared especially as we had just started dating. But his inability to be straight with me was what was seriously pissing me off.

After these getting exasperated with the texting, I finally called Adam.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The train isn’t working and there are no cabs,” he responded.

“Can’t you call a cab?” I asked.

“I don’t have the number for a cab and it’s raining so I probably won’t get one.”

It was as though I was dealing with a 10-year-old. It reminded me of the time I stole a Smurfette pin when I was six and I did everything in my power to convince my mother that I did not in fact steal the pin. She saw right through my cockamamie story. And I saw right through his.

“Maybe we should just hang out another night then.”

“No, no I’ll come!” Nothing like reverse psychology.

“Great.” I hung up the phone.

He did finally make it over. But if I had been smarter I would have nipped that in the bud a lot quicker. Turns out Adam had social anxiety, a real and serious disorder that causes people to become very uncomfortable in social situations. I tried to be understanding, but his anxiety quickly unraveled soon thereafter. He couldn’t deal with smallest of issues without turning into a blubbering nervous mess. And as much as I would have like to see myself as the June to a man’s Johnny or the Sharon to an Ozzy, the reality is most of the time that shit just doesn’t fly.

When it finally ended between us, I was bummed. I kept wondering what I had done wrong, in spite of the fact that he made it clear that he was missing a few marbles. Suspicious that he hadn’t really told me everything that was really going on, I did what anyone would do; I googled him. What I found shocked me:

I’ve been in an on and off relationship with a BPD woman for almost three years. Time seems to stood still for all this time, as if I was held prisoner…. I’m feeling apprehensive. I’m feeling miserable. I’m feeling “toxic shame”, as someone put it. I need to build my self-esteem and stay away from this venomous person.

The message was posted a year ago on a forum for people with borderline personality disorder. The proverbial icing on the cake? He’s a therapist. Now it all made sense.

I realized someone who is mentally unstable with no desire to change is not going to do so no matter how fabulous you are. Their issues are more likely due to their own esteem than anything you’ve done.

So is he an asshole? Is he just not that into you? Maybe he’s just not that into himself.