My Grumpy Gripes about Dating Inequality

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the inequality of dating. Yeah. That’s right. You heard me. INEQUALITY. And it’s not like I’m going to wave a flag or burn my bra (my boobs are too big to go carefree), I just mean there’s some gender differences in regards to dating that really piss me off.

Now, tell me if I’m right here or just being neurotic, BUT it seems like guys my age (late 30’s almost 40) are looking to date hot, beautiful twenty-somethings. Guys in their 50’s are looking to date women my age. So that pisses me off a bit. Not that I wouldn’t want an older guy, but I sort of want to share a life with someone who’s the same age as me, so that when I make pop culture references to The Brady Bunch or The Electric Company of the 70’s that we both get it and feel connected. So that’s my first gripe.

My second gripe is that I feel this intense pressure to be hot. And not like pre-menopausal hot, I mean, I feel like to date anyone at all, it doesn’t matter if I’m smart or interesting or quirky. On the online websites, it’s all about appearance. The question men think when they look lat my picture is: Does she look like hot enough that she could be one of the gaggle of women on The Bachelor? And I wonder: Is my hair long and straight, nose thin, boobs enhanced and firm, skin pulled, teeth whitened. Am I a Mom Someone Would Like to (ahem)? I am not. I’m short. My hair gets frizzy. I have a big jaw and a defined nose. Big boobs, but they’re all natural, and even my son says he can see my wrinkles. But I am also very bright, dare I say witty, and a mean cook. And I’m not kidding when I say I can cook. I really mean it. But these qualities, they don’t matter.

Here’s the cold, mean truth: I’m not hot enough to get the attention of professional, successful guys. I AM hot enough to get the attention of high school educated, salt of the earth guys.

Not that there’s anything wrong with them…it’s just…I’m not the girl for a man who smokes, hunts, and swears and works in a factory. That sounds horrible, I know, and I don’t mean it to, it’s just I need someone who’s educated and likes different food and travel and reading and music and art. I’m generalizing here, but I think you get what I mean.

It seems like guys don’t have the pressure to be hot if they’re successful and have a job: they have the power in the dating realm to choose whomever they want. And whomever they want happens to be girls named Sera or Denver or Amber and are 22. Girls who are tall and thin and well endowed. Girls that when the men think about them, it’s not their brains they’re dreaming of.

Selfishly, I want a guy I’m attracted to too. Not just mentally, but physically. I feel horrible for saying that, but it’s the truth. So maybe my griping about all these men my age looking for plastic women is really envy. Not that I want a plastic man, I just want a man that I feel electricity with, and I want that to be accepted. All the men who seem to be interested in me sort of look like my dad.

Then again, maybe that’s the reality of dating men in their 40’s and 50’s. They all start to look like your dad. A little disturbing to get hot and bothered over that.

The Secret Land Of Testosterone

I recently had a very odd experience and imagined how a crew member of Star Trek would feel after materializing on a foreign planet. The planet I materialized on? The third floor of the MVP gym. More specifically, the weights room. I took the elevator to the second floor (wore my workout outfit and super-Robo-boot) then hobbled up the flight of stairs to the mysterious realm of Testosterone. Seriously. I walked in and it was like a cloud of Testosterone. The room dripped with it. It may sound gross, but it was actually rather pleasant. I had a training session with James and he promised to give me an upper body workout that would get my heart and endorphins pumping.

And there was a lot of pumping up there, let me tell you. I blush to even write about it. There were men everywhere. Using the weight machines, rolling on the floor, jumping up and clapping, playing basketball in the gym, stretching, doing yoga poses (really) and the sound! Oh, god! There were groans, and oomphs, and Aaaaaaahs! I did blush. It was like a porn movie. Like there were all these male-orgasm sounds around me. Where was the Barry White music?

While I waited for James, I had to sit down and fan myself. I was having palpitations. One man stood to my left. I secretly watched him from the corner of my eye (because I have Super Powers and I can do that). He lifted this barbell that I was certain would give him an instant hernia and as he lifted he groaned “UUUuuaaaaaaAAAAHHHHH! Uh!” I gasped. And then just in front of me, another man orgasmed. He was more of an “Ehhhhhh” which was, admittedly, a little creepy. And then : Oh! Ahh! Grrrrrrr! OOOOOWWWWMMMMMAAAAA! All around me. When James came over I couldn’t even stand.

He asked if I was ready to work out. I said “Oh, yes”.

Now, here was the dilemma: apparently while lifting weights (as I’d observed) one is supposed to make an exclamation that sounds particularly intimate. James put me on this strange machine and handed me some ropey things to squeeze. I lifted my arms above me, pulled down and said “mmmmmmm” and then “Ohhhhhhh” real soft-like. James just looked at me and blinked. “What?” I said. He cleared his throat and said: “Let’s try a little more weight.”

After a while, I stopped moaning. It was too distracting. I was too focused on sticking my chest out so far that my boobs could knock out Little People if they were unlucky enough to be within a foot of me. And I was trying to squat, but couldn’t quite do it because of the RoboBoot. And I was trying to use my shoulder blades and not the wrong muscle group and James kept touching me and all these sexual groans were around me. I couldn’t focus. I needed a cigarette. And I don’t smoke.

An hour later, I hobbled down the stairs, out the elevator, and into the sharp cold air. I’m working out next week Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I’m bringing my iPod. It will be playing Barry White, and I’ll be smiling.

Thoughts on Gender Leadership Class

It’s my first week of the new semester, and once again, I’m energized by my classes. Yes, I’m the professor, but I swear I get a lot from the students like energy, ideas, thoughts. I’m teaching a new class this term, one that dear Ruth O’Keefe (who passed away last semester) was going to teach. It’s called “Gender Leadership”. It’s (honestly) an honor to teach it for her. I wasn’t given much more than a title to go on, so I’m creating the class day by day, based on what discussions are generated in class.

We’re starting with looking at the difference between the words “Sex” and “Gender”…and then charted stereotypes of the sexes. I’ve already learned (or became aware of) the spectrum of diversity in people. We are such complicated creatures. We’ll be reading “Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality” by Anne Fausto-Sterling. Already, it’s pretty enlightening.

The students seem particularly keen on discussing the emotional differences between men and women and why they exist. Nature? Nuture? Culture? The first topic to write about: Write About The Moment You Realized Your Sex. I was curious to see if there was a defining moment when the students realized they were a boy or girl or who they’re drawn to sexually. Most students can’t remember a time of realization; it’s just something they know. It could also lead to some interesting discussions on sexual preference. Is it something you choose or something you just know?

My first realization was in 6^th grade, during a competition with Olympics of the Mind. I was an awkward girl. Very homely. Feathered hair. Boys didn’t like me. And then at the OM Competition, a boy noticed me. We hung out. We high-fived. And at the end of the competition, he asked if he could kiss me. “Sure,” I said. We kissed. Fireworks!! (Or hormones) Then he asked my name. “It’s Tanya,” I said. He looked at me blankly. “My name is Erin,” he said. Wait a minute! She said! We both freaked. Turns out we were both homely awkward girls, and thought the other was a boy. Gender confusion indeed.

Tangent there.

Back to the class.

Is there a War of the Sexes?

I’m also looking for more questions, and I’m asking you, dear reader, to submit one. What’s something you’ve always been curious about in regards to gender or the opposite sex? If you could pose a question for discussion, what would it be? I’d like to know how men think about relationships. Is it just sexual? Is there more than that? Do they think about it? I’d like to know why we seem to have a Rule Book in how men and women are supposed to act. We all know the stereotypes of Manly Men and Flowery Women, but is this TRUTH or is this suggested by our culture?

I don’t know. I may not even be qualified to teach this course. What I can do is ask questions, pose ideas, get them writing, and bring in some books in and movies.

Seriously, though, if you want to help, submit your question below. I’ll ask my class and keep you posted on our discussions.

And, yes, we’ll be moving into leadership too….but not for a few more weeks.

Excuse Me While I Pontificate

My body hurts. I mean, seriously, all over, my body hurts. It aches. I can't turn my neck because there's pain. And my legs feel like they belong to an alien (District 9-like). Even my eyelids hurt. I know the trouble. I think it's a symptom of my heart. I mean that metaphorically. My cholesterol is pretty decent. I mean, I'm having trouble, still, with love. And the absence of it.

Now, yes, that's overly dramatic. I know that. I recognize it. BUT MY HEART HURTS!!

I very specifically have not written about this in my life. I'm teaching now and I'm divorcing and there's a whole host of other reasons. But because I'm not writing about this, I feel I can't write at all. Now, fuck it, it's time to put my cards on the table, lay it all on the line, dance the watusie so everyone can see my bad, terrible awkward moves.

Here's the thing: in May, I left my husband. There are a million reasons for this, but the biggest reason is simple: I wasn't happy. I wasn't honored. I wasn't cherished. And I believe that in a loving relationship, you should be loved, wholly, for who you are. I was not.

Since then, it's been wonderfulterrible. And now, with the paperwork filed and the custody with the kids worked out, I find that I am single again, and still, as I have been my whole life, in search of love. Now my ex is already in a fully-committed relationship. He met her June 4th and they're already talking marriage. Instant presto! Wife #3. I'm not bitter about that, exactly, just bitter that it was so easy for him. I have had two practice mini-relationships that have only bruised the outer edges of my heart. Why does it seem so much easier for men? Why can my ex simply sign in on Match and find another soul mate? Why can't I even get asked out on a proper date? Why, yet again in my life, have I heard the words: "You are an amazing person, Tanya, and if it were any other time in my life...."

Bollocks. That's what it is. It's all bollocks. (I use the English term here because they're so good at fun words that make you feel better.)

Love should be easy. It should be joyous. It should transport you out of your own life for a few moments into something magical. As each day passes, I remind myself that I'm doing good things. That who I am as a person doesn't need to be confirmed by someone else. Still, I want someone to look at me, only me, and be grateful I'm there. I want passion. I want conversations over dinner, nights at the movies or theater, I want someone to call me unexpectedly just because I am on their mind.

Maybe it's too early anyway. Maybe I just need to focus on my kids, my work, my life. Maybe I need to just watusi a little more in the privacy of my own home.

You can know what's good for you, but it doesn't make it any easier. Who really wants to eat Raw Food and drink kale smoothies simply because it's better for you. Being alone is probably a kale smoothie for me. Great for my heart. But what I want, what I really want right now is a donut. With frosting. And sprinkles. In short, I just want a little of everything. I don't think that's too much to ask.

If A UPS Man Can Be Sassy--Why Not the Garbage Man?

I've noticed a peculiar thing happening lately: men. Not just men in general, you know, walking on the street, high-fiving each other, flexing their muscles while they wait in line for a latte. No. This is altogether stranger. I've noticed men noticing me. This is an epiphany. Truly. And I'm not sure if it's something that's always happened or if this is a recent occurrence. Lately, though, they're being awfully nice to me and I don't think it's because my t-shirt says "Please Don't Kick Me". Nice men are popping out all over the place, and really, it's starting to freak me out.

Today I stopped to get lunch at Marie Catrib's (lentil samosas and tabulli) and the guy behind the counter with tattoos decorating his arm like evil lace, talked to me about this old hig school buddy he just saw and he hasn't been in high school for 13 years (which means he's 31) and said buddy is married to his high school sweetheart and isn't that amazing because relationships are so hard, aren't they, and communication, well, that's what it's all about. I nodded dumbly, then handed him my money "Here." I said. He said "You make sure to come back in here soon, okay?"

Then I walked out into the weird universe I'd just entered.

Went for a run.

Came home to the garbage truck idling in the driveway, and the garbage man pulling away my green can. Hmm. That sounds mildly naughty. So I'm going to get in my house and he stops me: "Hey! Are you the owner? I just met your mom. She's really nice. Where'd you move from."

Before I answered, I noticed that he was looking me directly in my eyes and that he was very very handsome, in the way that a UPS man or a mailman or a construction worker is handsome. It has something to do with the uniform and the ability to lift heavy things (which could be you, naked). But the garbage thing was a bit of a turn off. I told him I was separated from my husband. "Hey! I'm just getting a divorce! If you need anything, let me know. Seriously. It's a long road, but you'll be glad you walked it."

Then we had a five minute conversation in which we found out our kids are the same age and that relationships fall apart if you don't have good communication.

Then the guy at La Cantina asked me if my margarita was all right. 

Oh. I guess that wasn't weird. He was just being a waiter. Still, weird kindness is going on...and at the reading I gave last night, I did feel like eyes were on me. And they were, because I was standing on a stage alone with a spotlight on me, but it's more than that.

The point is: I'm not invisible anymore, and it's awfully nice to be seen.

Cheers, all.