It's Biology, Baby

We all want the same things. We want to be loved. We want to love in return. We want to feel like we have something stable. This is what we say to each other over and over again. But then our actions belie everything we say we hold true.
Why do we set ourselves up to fail?

E calls me at two in the morning. Gushing. She’s met the man she’s been looking for. She calls to tell me she met a boy. He’s great. His name’s Marcel. He was born in the states and raised in the Netherlands and he’s got this old world charm about him. The reason he’s got old-world charm, however, is because he’s old. Marcel is 43. 20 years older than E. And he’s not a successful 43. Marcel is currently the head waiter at Tavern on the Green. But that’s just until he makes his big break on the big screen.
E probably makes more than him each year (Or she’ll claim more than him on her taxes, anyway). She’s successful and, at 23, she’s starting a career. One that will afford her opportunities that will allow her to pick and choose her options at 43. Marcel is 43 and alone at a bar full of 20-somethings on a Saturday night. Why is he so attractive?
Biologically speaking, animals survive because of the “Picky Female” syndrome. The female species is supposed to be selective. We are supposed to go for the biggest males, the alphas of the pack, the ones that will always make the kill, find the water, start the fire, pick up the old bone and use it to beat the weaker males away. But more and more lately, I find my successful friends leaning towards total losers. We’re not supposed to be picky. Everybody’s supposed to be equal. And in the egalitarian community, a 43-year-old waiter should get the same deference as a 26-year-old investment banker. But is that really the case? What’s wrong with being a snob?
My friend J is a snob and we all tend to look down on her for it a little bit, glad that money and a good job and a great family isn’t as important to us. But J is well provided for. She was a selective female and got a great man in the bargain. He’s got a great job, he takes care of her, she doesn’t want for anything. And she got him by being a snob, by not lowering her standards just so she could feel like she was treating everybody the same. Being egalitarian wasn’t important to J. Being provided for was.
While E was being served by the waiter uptown, I was downtown, in unfamiliar territory, namely the west side. I’m a girl who likes to stick on a subway line (easy way to duck home) so already I was feeling out of sorts as I looked out over the Hudson River, being reminded that home (and my high school past) were not that far away. As I was chatting with friends of mine, a man comes over and demonstrates why the alpha male can be a huge problem. Instead of introducing himself with a handshake, he sidles up to me and puts his hand on my hip. Except it’s not staying on my hip. Rather, it’s sliding down and around. While I admit that my total lack of an ass (due to the fact I’m half Irish) is a fascinating phenomenon, it’s not one that should be investigated before you even say hello. As I took his hand away, he got almost nasty.
“Don’t push me away.” He nearly snarled it.
“Hey, just don’t touch me and I won’t have to.” I was trying to be diplomatic, but it was hard when there’s a nasty guy touching you. It’s never the cute ones who want to grab your ass. It’s only the ones that can’t touch a woman’s ass any other way but to grab when they see a free opportunity.
There is nothing more frustrating than when you’re trying to be nice and putting distance between yourself and your attacker and he just keeps coming at you. Eventually, you just want to scream at him, “Can’t you get the damned point? If I thought you were even remotely not troll-like, I would chat you up. But I’m fleeing. Get the hint.”
But if you do that, you’re a snob. As he kept telling my friends. Which is uncomfortable. One of my friends kept trying to tell me he was a nice guy, and maybe he was, but instantly, when I feel someone’s hand where is shouldn’t be, I instantly feel how nice can he be? Instantly, however, I was the snob. The choosy female. And that was wrong.
By eliminating the “Choosy Female” factor, however, we’re eliminating a basic animal instinct that has served thousands of species for more years then we’ll ever accurately know. We’re denying a history that is clearly stronger and smarter than current schools of thought and, as a result, we’re making poor choices that can eventually be more destructive than helpful. We don’t have to be nice to the weird guy with the roving hands. Eliminating a man who approaches you at the bar because he’s a 43 year old waiter is not wrong. It’s animalistic in the strongest sense of the word.

What We've Come To

My friend M is dating a guy, S, for two months. They spend every weekend together, plus they see each other during the week sometimes. They sleep together, they go on great dates. They are going for their first weekend away together. They are, for all intents and purposes, boyfriend and girlfriend.
EXCEPT:
a) they don’t call each other boyfriend and girlfriend (don’t labels just put a damper on things?)
b) he only calls her at the end of the week to see her on the weekend
c) he hasn’t told anybody in his family about her (he says he doesn’t talk about those things with members of his family) and he hasn’t introduced her to any of his friends or colleagues
d) he’s bringing a friend to their romantic weekend away (the one friend of his she does know, and that’s only because M’s friend, through whom she met S, introduced them accidentally while S was on a business trip)
e) He’s still registered on an online dating service.

This is the era of confused, mixed-message dating. You can be “hanging out” with somebody, “seeing” somebody, “dating” somebody (but this doesn’t mean that you’re in a relationship). It’s all so confusing. And with so many different options, it’s only inevitable that you might up on different pages.
So the question is, how do you know what you are in a relationship?
Sadly, the only way to prove that you are in a relationship is through negative deduction, as the authors of the book “He’s just not that into you” stunningly proved to all of us this past year. The book has become a bible for single women in urban areas just by being a checklist of what not to look for. Everybody knows that if he’s married, he’s not that into you, but for some reason, it took a thin pink book to point that fact out to us.
Women have the most amazing capacity to read between the lines of any situation. And when there aren’t lines, we’ll invent the lines and then invent the subtext to go between them. It is a stunning amount of work we do to create relationships that are not there.
Facts don’t lie. And if he’s not calling you his girlfriend, it’s because he doesn’t want his real potential girlfriend, who he knows is still out there waiting for him, to be scared off by the fact that another bears her title. If he doesn’t tell his family or friends about you, it’s because he knows they’re simple and he doesn’t want to confuse them with Ms. Right and Ms. Right-Now. And if he’s taking you and seven of his closest friends on a romantic weekend, well, just stay the hell away, because who wants to deal with a guy that insecure or immature.
But here’s the kicker: guys also come in the player variety. Players are the ones who know all these rules, play by them, and then leave anyway. Players’ friends and families are in on it, and thanks to that lovely little double-standard, just laugh indulgently, thinking “He’ll grow out of it someday!” Players are too quick to call you their girlfriend, too fast in the professions of lust (they are very careful not to say love), too ready to make that commitment. So many of my girlfriends (and, let’s admit it, me too) have been taken by these guys. We see so many of the other guys, the ones that won’t step up, that take forever to ask for that first date, that won’t make the commitments we want or need, that don’t introduce us around, that hide us as if they’re ashamed of us, that when somebody comes around that’s just too good to be true, we never stop to think that maybe he is. We just allow ourselves to get swept off our feet. And while we’re castle-building in the sky, Prince Charming is off trying to ride some underage princess with big boobs who is, like 95% certain you can’t get pregnant from blow jobs. Because, like, she’s given out millions of them and she’s never had a problem. Yet.
It is a confusing ground that single women have found themselves on in this day and age. Old-fashioned dating seems out of place in today’s society, but this whole “meaningless sex until love” kick we seem to be on right now doesn’t ever work out for anybody (and of course there’s the exception. There’s always the exception. The exception lets you justify your own late-night drunken behavior. But there’s a reason she’s called the exception. And if you have a friend who is the exception, then guess what? You’re not it. Now put your pants back on). We are stuck desperately trying to find a middle ground that isn’t between two lines we’ve created ourselves.

Being Neighborly

I have this neighbor who is absolutely gorgeous. He’s also the perfect age for me, slightly older, but not too older, and he had a great job and a nice apartment. What he didn’t have were kids, a drug problem, a current marriage/former marriage/live-in girlfriend/live-in boyfriend.
He also didn’t seem to have any interest in me.
He was nice, though, and interesting, and his friends made me laugh. We had hung out a bunch of times and always had a good time. And who doesn’t need a friend? Especially one that lives in your building and, like you, keeps less conventional hours, so might be around for a drink at one in the morning, when you’re completely stressed out and feel like if you don’t get alcohol in you, you might just curl up into one big stress ball.
So you can just imagine my surprise when he kissed me one night.
We were just hanging out, having a drink at his apartment. Originally, the plan was to leave and find a bar, but it was so cold outside and he had a really interesting bottle of wine, so we decided to stay in. All of a sudden, we’re on his bed and he’s playing with my hair and we’re just hanging out and he’s kissing me. It was a good thing we were already on his bed, because you could have knocked me over with a feather, I was that surprised. But it was great, and I felt like we had chemistry and the way he held me so tightly, and would kiss the top of my forehead, it was just so…right. I wouldn’t have ever been able to predict or explain it.
So then you can just imagine my surprise when he didn’t call.
Three days passed. We had made tentative plans to go to dinner during the week following “The Incident” and I was excited to see him again. But he didn’t call. I decided to text message him. Now usually, I am pretty adamant (and pretty good) about not calling, emailing or contacting boys unless they contact me. But this just felt different. He was a nice guy. Clearly, he was painfully shy. And he had been my neighbor and my friend first, for almost a year, actually. So the rules shouldn’t apply here, right? Besides, text messaging is way more casual than an actual phone call. So it’s only really bending my rules, not breaking them. (I can also convince myself that Carrot cake with cream cheese icing is a balanced meal according to the food pyramid if it has walnuts in it…all 4 food groups represented. What can I say, it’s a gift).
Nothing. No text back. No phone call. Nothing.
And this is when I got to wondering: Why do men pursue if they have no intention of following through?
We had a good thing. We were friendly neighbors. We were able to spend time in each other’s company and I felt that we were getting closer. Not “The Incident” closer, really, that was a total surprise. More like “bitch about your family” closer. Fun closer. Not that “the incident” closer wasn’t fun. But I just didn’t expect it. Or, necessarily want it. But it happened and then I did want it. I wanted more, actually. So when it didn’t come, that left me confused.
And, honestly, sad and angry and self-conscious, which made me even angrier. I hate when people make me doubt myself. But that’s what was happening. Was I a bad kisser? And, if I was, why didn’t anybody tell me before? Should I not have stayed over? But it was so weird, he fell asleep holding me so tightly that I don’t think I could have left if I wanted to (and, I’m not just saying this now because things didn’t work out, but part of me wanted to. I couldn’t fall asleep for the life of me. But I felt like it would be even weirder and more wrong to just slip out while he was sleeping. That’s such a cheesy, asshole-guy-in-the-teen-movie thing to do). The doubting went on for all of the third day.
My girlfriends had no answers, so I asked a guy friend of mine, “When guys don’t call, does it really mean that they’re not that into you, like the book?”
He didn’t mince words. “Usually, yes, that’s exactly what it means.” Then he went to watch 24. And I was left alone to obsess by myself again.
Women are given this bad rep about being so confusing, but I have to give it up to the men. They might perpetuate this myth that they’re simple, but when it comes right down to it, there is just no understanding their motives. When I or my girlfriends kiss someone, it’s because we’re actually interested in that person. When we sleep with somebody, it’s because we’re really interested (even if we shouldn’t be). There has only been one time when I kissed somebody to see if I felt chemistry, and I got called onto the carpet for that one by the guy, my girlfriends, my one girlfriend’s mother, who happened to overhear the conversation. But I was 18 and didn’t know any better and I felt so bad for “leading the guy on” that I never did it again. I don’t just kiss and run.
Guys do this all the time though. They will kiss you, make out with you, sleep with you, feign intimacy and then never call again. And it is so hard for women to come to terms with the idea that an entire gender could be that good at faking it that we convince ourselves that he’s scared, he doesn’t know what to do next, we sent off some kind of mysterious signal that has chased him off for good. And we obsess about a guy who has already moved on to another woman.
If we want to talk biology, it’s probably got something to do with perpetuating the race. But since we’re not stuck in the traditional hunter-gatherer roles any more, you would think men would evolve along with us and act more like the current homo-erectus we are (instead of thinking with their erections). And there seems to be no way to tell if the feeling the new man in your life is expressing is real or real fleeting. Otherwise, why would there be so many self-help books on the shelves, pondering and over-pondering these questions? Let’s face it, why would I be writing these essays?
That still doesn’t answer my question though. The question just leads to other questions. Is it curiosity? Lack of savvy? Some morbid desire to emotionally destroy the female gender one kiss at a time? Nobody seems to be able to give me a straight answer on this one. And the one person who might have been able to shed some light on this is still ignoring my text message, three floors down on the right.

The Single Girls' Table

My girlfriends are some of the most amazing, talented and gorgeous girls you could ever hope to meet. I’m not just saying that because they’re my girls and I love them. My friend E is working at a major news network (like me), climbing her way to the top. My friend M was sent to Rome to work on a major studio production that is currently grossing bucket-loads of money. My friend D is a huge pr rep for one of the largest department stores in the country. My friend K is going to grad school at a top university, majoring in English literature. My friend A has a degree in physics from an Ivy-league school. You get my point. They are all accomplished women in their chosen fields. But they’re not nerds. These are also girls who you could sit and watch a game with, who could go out in jeans and a tee-shirt and sneakers and drink you under the table, girls who have been known, on occasion and when it is necessary, to dance on bars. These are girls you, male of female, would want as girlfriends.
But all of us are single. We don’t understand it. We are shocked by this when we look at each other (ourselves, we can understand, but these girls are single? How do they not have men knocking down their doors? If I was a guy, I’d be trying to put a ring on their collective fingers!)
My friends K and E and I went out to a bar one night to hear K’s ex-boyfriend play. He’s a musician, so one would think that he would be more sensitive, more in tune with his feelings. One would be wrong. K’s ex is so beyond stifled that the light from stifled won’t hit him for another hundred thousand years. So there we are, in a bar in the Village, listening to him sing love songs to K (and he is singing DIRECTLY AT HER. There’s no misunderstanding this one. He’s looking at her the whole time he’s performing. And although the audience is small, we are not the only ones there for him). He’s even singing a song to her about how he’d like to be able to write a song to sing to her. If it wasn’t so darned cute it would be damned pathetic.
It also made me want to shake him. Here he is, writing these beautiful lyrics, singing these amazing melodies and HE STILL CAN’T COMMITT. The answer is quite literally written write in front of him. And still he’s struggling for an answer. You just want to hit him on the back of the head and say, “Really?” How can he not get this? He’s got it all neatly written out in front of him in his own handwriting.
We move on quickly after his performance. K doesn’t need to torture herself anymore, and besides, the act that follows the ex is a woman who feels that she will be provocative as an artist if she makes her audience her gynecologist. Pictures of her last pap smear would have been less offensive. We travel to a bar down the street where K laments into her very strong drink. “Why?”
I’m asking myself the same question for all of us. Why are we unable to find men that commit? Why are men unable to step up and be men? When do men stop being little boys and become men?
When you look over the course of our society and the path it has taken in terms of education alone, it may be easier to understand this prolonged adolescence. Even as late as the 1980s, college was a choice, not a requirement. You could still get a decent job, work your way up, make a decent living on a high school diploma. Nowadays, that is just not the case. And whereas men would have to stop being little boys at 18 in days of old, that age is now pushed forward to 22. At the earliest. Grad school is almost a requirement these days. That’s at least 2 extra years of school, 2 extra years to be the immature asshole you’ve always wanted to be. You’re still in school. Might as well live it up while you’re still there. That’s K’s ex’s problem. He says he feels that he didn’t get to live out his twenties, so he’s living them out now, in his thirties.
Unfortunately, girls have always been more mature and this extension of foolhardy youth is getting in our way even more. For men, 35 is the new 25. But it’s kind of creepy when the 40-year-old at your parent’s cocktail party is your best bet. So we try to turn the pieces of coal we find at the kiddie table into diamonds. The problem with that is it takes a lot of pressure and a lot of years to turn a lump of coal into something you could wear on your finger and who has the time for the work and the pain and the heartache it would take? Especially when you’re on your own high-powered career path. So we wind up being the highly accomplished single-girl table at a cousin’s wedding.
Later on that night, at the third bar of the evening, we meet some guys our own age who seem fairly normal. They’re in the city for the night from Jersey. They’re all doing well, or so it seems. One has a house in Jersey that he bought himself. Then it comes out that he bought the house with the earnings he made by selling a whole lot of cocaine. Suddenly, the 40-year-old doesn’t look half as creepy as he did. Maybe it’s time your parents had another cocktail party.