We’ll Say We Met at Starbucks.

“I think I’m pretty cool.”
“I am very busy discovering the world we live in.”
“Duty is a turn-on.”
“I love to smile.”
“I’m looking for someone with pretty hands and feet.”
“I love epiphanies.”
“If u have a problem with me being 5’4″ then ur are missing out!”
“I live to inspire people and be inspired. I would like more of everything.”
“I’m not good at describing myself…you would have to talk to me, or meet me to know me.”
“You should message me if you love intellectual gymnastics, but you understand that the poetry of the everyday can not and should not be forced.”
“How can I be better than I am today? A better teacher…. a better lover… a better human being…”
“The woman I’m looking for: She loves to talk but observes long silences peacefully and appreciatively.”

Oh my. Who the fuck were these guys? Continue reading We’ll Say We Met at Starbucks.

Sanity in Sweat.

I’d really let myself go.

Two months ago, I’d been in incredible shape. This was because I was going home for my 25 Year High School Reunion and also because my long-distance high school boyfriend was going to be staying with me in the hotel the whole time I was there.

I’ve literally never been so excited.

I am incredibly disciplined when I’m happy. During the weeks leading up to the trip, I would smugly post one word updates on Facebook like ‘SPINNING’ or ’30/60/90′ or ‘METCON3’ and regularly check myself into every Equinox across the city. I was eating better, exercising a ton and wearing the shit out of my skinny jeans. Continue reading Sanity in Sweat.

When life gives you lemons, send that shit back and demand champagne.

“I’m sorry I drunk texted you all night last night.”

“Trace? What the hell time is it?”

“Um, ten o’clock here so I guess seven o’clock there?”

“Trace, I don’t care if you drunk text me all night. Drunk text all you want but don’t call me at seven in the morning on a Saturday and wake me up to apologize for it.”

“Okay, um… But do you still have an OkCupid profile?”

“Oh shit, okay. I can see you’re not going to go away. Hold on.” I could hear Zeke pull himself out of bed and move to the bathroom. He clicked the door shut. Then he reemerged and I heard the familiar flick of a lighter to light his cigarette. “Alright, what’s going on?”
Continue reading When life gives you lemons, send that shit back and demand champagne.

Wait. So you mean crushed-velvet blazers are not the look for Fall?

The next night, three of my closest girlfriends burst into my apartment like a fashion SWAT team – high heels clicking on the wood floor, bangles clanging against each other, chic bags slung tightly over shoulders. I looked down at my chosen outfit for the night: a faded, too tight pink Motley Crue t-shirt, black jeans that accentuated my muffin-top and black knock-off Uggs.

This was why I needed their help.

After I finished up my profile, I’d immediately sent out an emergency distress signal to my friends. They’d kindly canceled whatever plans they’d had and showed up toting bottles of wine and enough food to feed us for a week-long sequestering. They knew this was an extreme situation that warranted extreme measures.

An extreme closet makeover was in order.

I hate to shop. I always end up simultaneously dehydrated and also having to pee and never able to find a bathroom. I easily get overwhelmed and so I find myself sweating and breathless, feeling claustrophobic as people shove by me, scratching my arms with their hangers. I just don’t care about clothes and therefore don’t give them a lot of attention and time. As a result, I go shopping about twice a year and try to buy a whole season’s worth of wardrobe in one morning. I’ll find a few things (usually dresses because I am too lazy to try on separates) and then, already aggravated with the whole thing, I’ll just purchase each item in three different colors. Inevitably, I’ll not buy enough so I end up wearing the same outfits for many, many years. Long after they’ve gone out of style. That is, if they ever were in style to begin with. This was not suitable for dating in NYC.
Continue reading Wait. So you mean crushed-velvet blazers are not the look for Fall?

The Beauty is in The Details. Or At Least a Good Profile Picture.

My back hurt. I was starving. And my blood alcohol content was getting dangerously low. It was 8 o’clock that Friday night and I was just now getting to the part of actually filling out my profile. This was not going as planned.

I’d already made it through the anxiety-producing process of creating a username. It needed to be fun, flirty and positive without seeming too artsy or naive. It also needed to not sound too desperate, bitter or inadvertently pornstarish. After discarding many choices, I felt I’d come up with something that sounded relatively interesting without seeming as if I was trying too hard to sound relatively interesting. So that was done. The next step was to upload profile pictures.

I am hopeless when it comes to anything technical. In truth, the only reason I was able to even put this blog together was because my co-worker, Lux, tirelessly built it for me and then walked me through each small, painful step to actually utilize it. (Her: “No, stop clicking on the actual site! Click on the Dashboard!” Me: “What’s a Dashboard?!”) I was trying to pull pictures from Facebook but they were all too small. After an hour and a half of exasperation, I put my head on my desk and wished I could just call Lux and have her do it for me. The only problem was that she had a new baby so it seemed totally inappropriate to call her at 8 o’clock on a Friday night with such a ridiculous request. And also, I didn’t have her phone number. Continue reading The Beauty is in The Details. Or At Least a Good Profile Picture.