July 5th, 2009

After a brief stint up the sunshine coast, I’m back in the city.  Being away from the ubran metropolis actually made it more difficult to avoid food – being relaxed and around happy, full figured people who gorged on s’mores and beer made temptation difficult to resist.

Alas, I’ve realistically kept it under 500 calories per day, and it’s not too hard….the strategy thus far being avoid food all day and have something to eat before bed.  That said, I haven’t really exerted any physical effort so I am guessing when the work outs are amped up, I will be famished.

The headaches though…wow.  I expected them, but the low blood sugar is killing me.  I am wondering how long it will last and if ever it will end!?  It has been all too consuming though…I’ve been checking everyone out and am absolutely convinced I’m horrific looking.  It’s pretty bad.

The whole mentality sucks.  It’s almost comparable to pms-ing, and I pity those around me if this winds up being the case for the next month!

And so it begins… {June 30, 2009}

Here we go. 

The last week has been more or less a ‘prep week’ in terms of the mental preparations, focus, and shift in general mindframe.  And let me just say, the project hasn’t even started and I already feel mindfucked.

Thankfully I have rallied a ‘team’ to assist with this ridiculous project.  A friend of mine is studying psychology at a nearby university, and has agreed to help in the project, utilizing me as a guinea pig for her own research.  Others in the troup include a nutritionist, a med school student, and a woman who use to suffer from anorexia and bulemia.  It’s quite a crew of support, and this insane journey we are embarking on certainly has us in wary states.  The nervous lip biting, unconscious twitching, and uncomfortable shifting in the seats is evidence enough that no one is sure how this will work out.

Over the past week, my goal has been to wrap myself in the self-consciousness that typically surrounds a person suffering from an eating disorder.  To make myself uncomfortable in my own skin, I stopped exercising, have been eating whatever I wanted, and have opened the doors to an influx of media pressure;  watching America’s Next Top Model and reading fashion magazine after fashion magazine have made me acutely aware that I am not small.  It’s insane how quickly it has all affected me:  yesterday I didn’t want to go to the baseball game because I felt “chubby”, and wouldn’t you know it, I have been checking out 100% of other females in my walking path, sizing them up in comparison.  It’s ridiculous!  We haven’t even started the project yet and I’m already frowning at my ‘imperfections’ in the mirror.  This project started off as MIND OVER MATTER and has already cornered me into a MATTER OVER MIND. 

A Matter of 'Matter over Mind'

The week of mental prep will be followed by the start date (today), and 4 days of a retreat.  I am boating to an island a few hours from the place I call ‘home’ so it will be easy to avoid those social situations involving food (it hurts to even type that).  Also, I am (fortunate enough to be?) sick, adding to great excuses.  We have only just begun and I am already stressed about the lies I will tell and the excuses I will make.

Oh, and the criticism has started too.  It’s been decided to keep this rather hush hush, and luckily I am on sebatical for two months, allowing me the privacy and discouraging more public backfire.  A few friends are aware, mostly concerned but understanding of the fact I am obsessed with understanding people, and my goal of truly understanding a character that I would create in a novel. I fear my own mental capacity for adjustment though, and am afraid of the isolation I may put myself in, pushing good friends far away….for….God knows what reasons?  I will resort to blog format, unpromoted, with no prize at the end.  The simple satisfaction I will gain from the better understanding I will obtain is good enough. 

What I do fear the most though, having only undergone one week of mental preparation, is how easily I could fall into a legitimate trap of a true, wholehearted eating disorder.  How will I come out of this my normal, sane, confident self?

The July Project: Mental Effects of Anorexia Nervosa

Without question, I live in the most beautiful city in the world.  Of course, with beautiful cities come beautiful people.  in this instance, this stems from the health and aesthetic consciousness that surrounds the city;  mountains for the buff hikers and radical snowboarders, ocean for the sexy surfers and stacked wakeboarders, and an urban edge that resembles a mini-NYC feel, keeping the gorgeous fashionistas satisfied.

Shiny cars, glistening boats, and dazzling attire – it’s honestly quite baffling.  It would be stressful to be a youth in the city, surrounded by the beautiful, the billboards, those beautiful people giving you the bedroom eyes.  There are people in this city who aren’t so beautiful, and there is somewhat of a balance.  I by no means am one of the ‘beautiful people’:  tall, curvaceous, athletic and smiley, happy with the way I am and consistently surprised at the drastic fitness levels my body can push me to.  I am the other side of the balance, but I fucking love myself.  But really now, what is beauty? Who defines the standard?  Dove’s recent campaign promoting beauty in all shapes and sizes was refreshing, but it’s deviation from typically “attractive” females was minimal.  Not to mention, they’re all playing and laughing in their underwear.

The psychology behind beauty has always fascinated me.  It has taken me a solid 23 years to finally understand that I’ve got some great attributes, but those torturous teenage and early adult years were pure hell.  During high school, I recall  wondering how the other girls were so thin, later discovering the anorexia and bulemia that consumed them, puffing out their tiny tummies filled with air.  In University, healthy eating, extreme exercise, and cheating boyfriends motivated the eating disorders.  It seemed like pure assault on one’s own body!  And now, in this glamorous city, it appears that it’s coke addictions tacked on to the extreme exercise and mininal food intake that keep the beauties beautiful.  What I never understood is how these people stick with their regime without going off the edge.  Just how insane must one be?  Is it mind over matter, obsession, mental issues, or a combination of all three?

Enough research has been done to prove the damage done to a body through anorexia and bulemia.  What always intrigued me more than anything though was the psychology behind it.  Girls seem to go absolutely, bat-shit crazy without food, and the obsesssion with body image seems to grow with each purging after dinner.  How long can this last?  Do the mind and body finally adjust after an extended period of ridiculously dieting, to level out those hormones and chemicals once again? 

Granted, there are lots of people who are just simply healthy, fit, beautiful, and naturally slim.  As for the rest of us, well, shit out of luck.  We all are well aware that eating those 5 or 6 small meals a day keeps our blood sugar level steady, and keeps us happy.  The internal chemical reactions are fascinating – you know how grouchy your partner or friend gets when she doesn’t get her fix!

So, with that, I am going to engage on a project for the month of July.  I want to experience those chemical imbalances, the mood swings, the edge of complete and utter insanity through extreme dieting means.  Being of the curious mind, I want to be able to understand if it’s possible (better yet HOW it is possible) to limit oneself to the point of unhealthiness that shrinks the body. 

The project will involve me, myself and I, attempting to live the life of an anorexic for the month.  Just one month.  It sounds like fucking eternity, but my close friends know what’s up and they are more or less readily available for support.  Most would deem it crazy, reckless, immature, but we all know we cannot fully understand or comprehend mental states until we experience them ourselves.  I will delve into the mindset of a youth in the city, letting any minor insecurities inflate, and succumbing to the media’s notion that I am not at all beautiful and am infact an atrocious, large, unattractive woman.

I will happily vent my frustrations, document my “successes and failures”, and my inner most (likely crazy) thoughts.  I am not nervous, but I am so damn curious to see what happens! What will it do to my mind? Will the project’s likely drastic effect on my attitude have the same effect on my body?  Will anyone notice my insanity? Will my hair fall out from lack of nutrients?

So the plan is that as of July 31st, I will consume minimal amounts of food and exert a ridiculous amount of energy through exercise, eating no more than approx 300 calories per day and running no less than 3 miles a day.  I am a fairly healthy eater to begin with, and I am extremely fit, but I consume enough fuel to keep me going….I would say I average about 2000 calories per day in the form of fruits, veggies, nuts, and lean animal proteins, and exert about 1000 through running, pilates, biking, plyometrics, etc.

Each day, I will blog the results of the month-long challenge, along with researched facts about the eating disorder and the harsh extremes I will be putting my body through.  I am certain that there will be relationships suffering, work ethic falling, lack of sex drive, and all in all a month of hell. 

But ohhhh I’ll be beautiful on the outside…..?

Let the obsession begin.

A Letter To the Mean Girl

Dear [...oh what will I call you...Silly Twit?  Spoiled Fuck? Lazy-Righteous-Pig-Fucking-Hypocritical-Drama Queen?....nahhh]…

Dumb Cunt:

You know, majority of the time I feel like I’m completely misunderstood.  But when I get this feeling from ‘friends’, it’s much more troubling.  They’re the ones who are suppose to love you… for you.  It’s been made very clear to me lately that you don’t even actually know who I am, thus cannot actually even begin to fathom a taste of love toward whatever it is you view me as.

There have been several counts (and recounts) of your opinions of me.  What’s ironic is that I don’t give a shit about how you view me.  What’s even MORE ironic is that I am still completely baffled at how you remain, without question, this country’s biggest idiot.

It entertains me that you think I’m high maintenance, out to get a rich man, and am always wrong.  I can’t stop laughing when you look down on me because OOOOOOOOOOH your slutty friend called TWO boys last night.  Go gab to all your emo friends who look like MK & A Olsen about it. You think because I actually have a job that I am a capitalist.  This highly entertains me and I would love to sit down and listen to you tell me why I should stop working and be like you.  What I maybe love the most is that you try and preach your relationship morals to me.  Seriously dude?  Really?  You’ve had how many successful relationships in your life?  HAHAHAHAHAHA.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

So the matter of high maintenance – this likely stems from our Fridays and Saturdays out on the town, when I sport a dress and lots of makeup. Do you not understand this is because I look practically obese unless I’m in a dress and like a hormonal teenager with my acne face?  Obviously not.  Some of us actually DO eat. And honestly now, who do you think does my hair?  PLEASE, it’s me you assfuck.  I cut it myself because I can’t justify spending money on it.  You had a $300 cut and colour?  I could have done that with a $4 bottle of peroxide.  Bitch, you give us real blondes a bad reputation.

The jewellery obsession?  Well, since I only ever wear black, and have plain, straight (real) blond hair, jewels are the only thing I ever wear to make things different or spice things up.  Oh, and that’s my dead Grandmother’s ring, and the other one I always wear is my dead Grandfather’s.  I’m sorry, did you just say ‘it’s totally in this season to sport men’s jewellery?’

Good to now.  I’m so relieved.

By the way, I don’t see you continue on you judgement path when you ask me to wear it.   Oooh sparkly.  MINE. MINE MINE MINE.  I can practically hear your brain working out how you can scheme this precious gem away from me and never ever return it.

You think I want to make you my life sized Barbie doll?  Dear, look in the mirror.  And then look beside you.  I’m my own fucking Barbie doll.  I’m trying to be nice and lend you my fucking clothes because you don’t have any.  Because your daddy cut you off.  Because you’re too dumb to get a job.  And now you’re your own worst hypocrite because you’re asking to borrow my clothes and nail polish and jewellery and shoes.  Did you notice there is a lack of substance in each category? The only ones that fit you are the ones I almost sent to the Salvation Army because I chose to skip the gym and actually live life a little.  Oh, love handles, how could I possibly ever part with you?

You think I want to live in a fucking mansion?  Blow me.  If I could, I’d go live in a hut on a beach in India, and read books and write books.  Away from you.  What’s with thinking I want to make all this money and think I want to have all these things?  Getting rewarded is nice, and [um newflash princess!] most jobs have a monetary reward.  I don’t want fancy shit.  I hate clutter.  The less, the better.  I want to earn space and freedom.  Give me a dog and a big fucking field for my horses, and I’m set to go.  I don’t need a rich ass man – I’ll make my own supporting funds, enough so I can send my child to university and make sure there’s food on the table when guests come to visit my humble abode.

Who do you think I am? Who do I think I am, expecting you to understand me when you don’t even understand yourself?  This is all my fault.  Fuck.

You think I want “things”, expensive shiny things?  Fuck you.  I grew up on a farm, bitch.  You try living in your brothers clothes for 17 years of your life, playing with GI Joes and Micromachines.  Then we’ll talk.

You think I want shiny things?  Fuck no.  I want land and world peace, asshole. What the hell do you think I’m going to do with the money I earn? Spend it on myself? You stupid cunt, if I had a rich ass dentist daddy, then I’d let him spend it on me but don’t be so fucking ignorant.  Just because I desire things and dream for things and CHOOSE TO PRESENT MYSELF PROPERLY doesn’t mean I’m an uptight prude – it just means I don’t want to look like a hussy fuck nut from Florida [kind of like you did at Mothers' Day brunch with your entire family...I'm sure your brother loved your cleavage] for Christ’s sake.

I could act like you or that last ‘tard you brought home.  Maybe then I’d understand…Oh my gosh, I totally understand that I can be totally rad and be like peace man, what up yo, you like my sweats bro? You think my business partner will dig my new kicks? That makes me feel WAY better about myself.  I’m beginning to see the picture you’ve painted.  

What.  The.  Fuck.

You know what I’ll do?  I’ll eventually start my own charity, and probably spend the rest of my life trying to make a difference.  I’ll do it because I want to and it will make me feel good, NOT because I think all my ‘friends’ will approve and pat me on the back and talk about me for 0.52 seconds.  But you think I want to spend it on dresses because you’re so fucking narrow minded and self absorbed that you can’t listen for 30 seconds about what I TRULY want out of this thing call “my life”. 

Nope, instead of listening, you just blurt out that you’re so right about everything, and judge before you give the person a chance.  Fuck off, would you?  That is just truly lame.

Read me:  I don’t want fortune, and I don’t want fame.  Why are you gasping?

Let me say that again, just so we’re clear:  I do not want fortune, I do not want fame.

I don’t even want my name to be known in philanthropic light.  I want kids underprivileged kids to see that people care, and for them to feel happy and giddy.  I want to enrich peoples’ lives.  Give, give, give, give, give, give.  Like I give to you, although with you I doubt I’ll ever actually get a thank you, or a faint realization that you’re being babied because you’d probably die in a ditch somewhere, covered in vomit, tears, and fecal matter if you didn’t have people helping you all the time.

No, my love, I don’t give a flying fuck about sports cars, the newest vodka, Jessica Simpson, expensive lingerie or Tiffany’s (although I do peer in the window occasionally.  I am female, after all).

Do you not think I don’t realize that I dumb myself down?  I choose to avoid big words for your sake, darling, and chat about boys because that’s all you give a shit about.  You want to know the gossip so you can blab to your lame ass, superficial friends about how I do everything wrong and am just generally a fuck up or a whore because I have two guys asking me for a date instead of one guy calling you at 2:30am for a booty call.  Eat shit.

Don’t spread your ‘wealth’ of relationship knowledge on because you happen to have a ‘boyfriend’. So now you’re a pro?  OH FUCK, he dumped you?  Just like the last guy?  Was it because you starfish?  Or because you use your teeth when you give head?  Oh it wasn’t the bedroom stuff? Oh, it was the conversation?  He isn’t ‘successful’ enough.  I see.

But you know what, it’s the only thing I talk about with you because I don’t take it seriously – I can make fun of it and make you laugh about it.   I make you feel better about it.  

Talk about work?  Fuck you.  I get so into it that you don’t comprehend the tension and assume that I’m wigged out about something and try your psycho-analytical bullshit that you heard on Oprah on me.  Plus, you don’t understand dick-all about finance (or anything with depth) so I don’t want to waste my time explaining to you the theories of this financial model.  Talk about books?  Certainly.  Wait?  Can you even read?  How about politics? World affairs?  Oh, you heard about that celebrity affair on E!…great.  Truly genius.  You give the female species (and perhaps our generation) a horrific name.

It’s okay to argue, pumpkin, and of course people have a different standpoint.  Just because it’s different than yours does NOT mean that it’s wrong. Why do you insist on making everything a fucking show down at the fucking OK Corral?  You want to be right? Well the days that you feel useless, worthless, and depressed…yes, those days are the days that you, my dear, are fucking right.  Bang-on.  High fives all around.  Don’t worry, I feel you.  I’m a fucking idiot too, and by the looks of this letter, I’m pretty fucked up too…just different.  Yes, different than you.  Grasping the thought yet?  No?  

Oh yes, now you’re fuming.  With you, it’s always got to be a fucking war.  I have a different upbringing, a different education.  OF COURSE WE HAVE DIFFERENT FUCKING OPINIONS you twatlick, what do you think? I don’t have to have the same thoughts or thought process as you, dumb-dumb. You think you’re so bloody righteous because you recycle a can?  Fuck off.  We all try to make our difference sweety, but don’t look down on me because I try differently than you.

So, with that, eat a burger or five, read the news, smile like you mean it and worry about your own opinions, not what everyone else thinks about you.  Get over yourself.  Stop hating me because you’re miserable with how you turned out. Get a new perspective because yours is beyond fucked-up.  

Cordially,

EC

 

Chameleon’s Will Kill You

Isn’t it funny though…

Those clichés, like “the grass is always greener on the other side”, and “you only want what you can’t have”. Does that mean two people have to be entirely uninterested or unavailable before they finally realize they should be together? Because if one party is interested, the other is bound to be macking on someone else. And that someone else probably isn’t even interested. They’re waiting for the person they like to come around and realize they’re the ideal match.

When I meet someone I like, they’re never interested in being with me. And when I meet someone I want to be friends with, they can’t keep their hands off of me.

The ones that don’t want me….well, I tend to over-analyze and think that maybe, just maybe, I go for the ones I can’t have because deep-down, we might prefer to be on our own. And the ones who do want me, well, I like to think that I have an uncanny ability to be chameleon-like and say whatever it is they want me to say, therefore making me the perfect girl for them…and all of the other suitors.

For instance, this musician type that I wound up being chummy with: he’s covered in tattoos and play guitar in a heavy metal band. So, I make a great effort to show him my tattoos, leave my black nail polish on, talk about all the instruments I play and make some Led Zeppelin reference, like how much I love the song “Heartbreaker” or “Bring it on Home”.

He can’t get enough.

And then, the engineer from New Zealand: he has traveled to over 50 countries around the world and designs elaborate waterparks. So, I make sure he hears all about my work with the United Nations, and my civil engineering skills when it comes to well-building in developing countries. He’s kind of a pervert too, so I make sure to make cute but sexual remarks from time to time.

Oh, and I smile a lot. He calls each and every day.

Finally, there’s the Art Director from EA Games: he’s creative as hell, loves cars, and manages the design of video-games. So, my emphasis in conversation shifts to my writing and my creative tendencies, my love for big trucks with big engines, and different conflict resolution strategies in leadership roles. And I ask questions because I’m actually interested.

But, this last one isn’t biting. And I really want him to because I like him and he makes me feel dizzy.

So I try talking about music, and we get to sending some tunes back and forth. Why hasn’t he called? He still emails, but never asks to hang out. So I try to get him into the political conversation, we banter, it’s over (the conversation). He isn’t taking my bait. But I like him. Am I trying too hard? We kissed on our last date, and it was delightful! He was a total gentleman.

What the hell? He must think I’m too chubby or something. Maybe he’s too busy? He talks about how he just moved this past weekend. Oh and he’s got a dog (her name is Kaya) and she’s the most adorable little shit disturber in the world. We talk about tattoos…he says he loves girls who are inked. He has tattoos too. I think I’m getting somewhere, until he sends me a picture of his ex girlfriend covered in tats. I roll my eyes but appreciate his taste in women.

Musician won’t stop texting me. Kiwi won’t stop calling. So I keep hanging out with them and remain as ‘friend-ish’ as possible, waiting for Art boy to come around. The more I don’t respond to Musician and Kiwi, the more they write me. I try, with all my might, to avoid calling/texting/messaging Art boy, and even still he remains uninterested, lacking the hot pursuit I’m dying for him to venture out on.

Shifuck.

Isn’t it funny though…that even if he did come around, and wanted to spend more time with me, that I’d probably start to wonder what it had been like if I just happily dated the Musician, or the Kiwi. I’m sure if he did come around, I’d realize he has some “fatal flaw”, like a really bad temper or some unimaginably small penis. And then I’d run away.

Isn’t it sad though…that mathematically and probably, I will wind up being alone.

At this thought, I email all of my girlfriends, plan an elaborate night out with dresses, drinking, and dancing, make out with some John Doe at the bar, sober up slightly and realizing going home with anyone is a bad idea, cry in the cab home, eat a sandwich, and pass out, only to wake the next morning in a blurry and painful state of depression, vowing to make my life more positive and healthy, to focus on me and my happiness…as soon as this headache disappears and I stop rolling my eyes at the fact I thought I’d find someone valuable and worthy of dating….at a bar where I couldn’t even hear myself think or tell the different between a 45 year old man and an underage boy.

Suave.

Really fucking suave.

There was me, macking with some guy I’m not even interested in (that some girl probably thinks is God’s gift from Heaven) who thought I was his dream girl, while I’m waiting for Art Boy to notice me.

Ooooh shit, it all makes sense now (mathematically); Art Boy is probably waiting for the girl he’s interested in to realize she wants him.

Sigh

Online Dating: mathematical strategy, or shot in the interactive dark?

Who would have thought it normal for a 22 year old to give online dating a serious shot?

You’re absolutely right….no one.

Outgoing and confident enough to strike up a conversation anywhere, I have always tried just that:  if you are a man over 6’0 and have a nice smile, I probably have hit on you (and I’m not sorry).  You name it, I’ve tried it…grocery stores, libraries, lectures, bars, restaurants, ferries, busses, movies (I apologize, I didn’t realize you were on a date), the gym (bad idea), coffee shops, malls, planes…I’ve hit on everyone, everywhere, in search of my perfect mate.  I remember walking up to a crush in 8^th grade and asking if he’d be my boyfriend…he wasn’t feeling that.  During the summer of my third year of university, I went on over 40 first dates…and there was rarely a second.

I’ve dated you all:  tall, short, jocks, nerds, nice guys, romantics, poets, professionals, students, divorcees, old, young. We date, we check things off our ‘make sure he has this’ list, and evaluate our compatibility.  Call me quick to judge or maybe a picky bitch, but alas, at 22, I have struck out more than A-Rod during post-season.

So, shit out of luck and failing haaaaard meeting suitable suitors, and often shooting dirty looks to the sparkly-eyed strangers walking down the street hand in hand, I resorted to my favourite thing: math.  I would dissect it, make it an equation, and solve it. 

It is so damn simple – billions of people, I’m technically keeping it small scale, regardless of the fact I would hit on anyone.  I’m still only approaching people at a particular place at a particular time.  To succeed, I’d have to broaden my audience, my network, increase probability of meeting someone I am truly compatible with, almost entirely removing the negative factor of time/place.  What about cupid?  Well, he can still strike when I physically meet the person.  There still has to be that chemistry, that spark, that moment where you blush and realize that you’re in the presence of a pretty great catch. 

It’s like job hunting – your resume might be great, but if you don’t hit it off with your potential employer, they’ll say nice meeting you and take care.  There is still the need for our lovely little friend with wings and bows and arrows.  Why do you think I always dress as cupid for Halloween? I believe in it.  I still hope for it.

How?  Duh. 

Staring (appalled) at these married couples on television, claiming to have met online, my own curiousity forced me to contemplate the idea of internet dating for a very, very long time.  It’s been a year that I’ve been toying with the idea, secretively, not wanting to share my ‘ridiculous’ new idea for adventure with any of my friends for fear of harassment, no matter how unmoving.

Temptation.  Shit.  Don’t tempt me with the cookie because I’ll bite your hand off, along with the sweet, melting ball of gooey goodness. 

Concerns in tow, I signed up on two sites for testing:  plentyoffish.com, and eharmony.ca.  The former is free and the latter charges a monthly fee (about $40).

One of my guy friends recommended Plentyoffish.com to me.  He’s on it, and has had varied success (and by varied, I mean non-existent…he’s still single).  Up for anything, I gave it a try. This particular site played host to a younger generation of online daters, leading me to believe that free site = craigslist.org feel…as in anyone, anywhere, pretending to be anyone doing anything, and with the potential to be totally fucking creepy can be however they want to be and talk to whoever they want to talk to.  Don’t get me wrong, this could happen on a paying site as well, however I tend to think paying members are slightly less creepy…then again, there are plenty of paying members on plenty of raunchy porn sites, so this theory won’t hold.

I can’t lie about it:  after being on plentyoffish.com for less than a day, I deleted my profile.  The registration form only requires a few questions be answered, mostly on a superficial level, and people can browse your profile…so, let’s say we’ve got Boy #1 and Boy #2.  Boy #1:  occupation…who really knows, but he’s about 45 and is testing the online dating.  Boy #2:  millwright, 27, good looking, jaded, hoping to find some luck online.  Let’s say boy #1 is looking for female between ages 18-35 in the Vancouver area, my profile shows up.  Boy #2 is looking for female, aged 21-29, who has an interest in music, sports, and adventure…my profile shows up.  It winds up being a bummer for each party…girl getting creeped-out by Boy #1, therefore being skeptical of Boy #2.  If you are remotely good looking, expect upwards of 20+ hits in…well, less than a day.  Again, I can’t lie:  I MAYBE would have toyed with the idea of chatting with one, and only one of the people who scoped me out.  Worst idea ever. 

Neeeeext.

Eharmony.ca prompts the user to fill out a multitude of questionnaires, ranging from the simplest question about what you hope for in a partner to the most in depth reflection of your own habits.  After the 400^th question, I was starting to feel disgruntled, but I plugged away and completed my profile.  My answers to these questions create my ‘personality profile’, and ridiculously long and detailed description of…well, me.  After reading it, I realize the thousands of dollars I have spent on a shrink were wasted; staring at the computer, the most psycho-analytical piece of literature ever written about me, and only me, practically mocked me from inside the screen.  What’s more interesting is that this is ‘private’, and won’t be shared with your matches unless you approve it to be.  Hmph.

Another interesting and fantastic tidbit:  On Eharmony.ca, a user cannot browse profiles.  I cannot ‘search’ for anyone, and no one can ‘search’ for me.  Site administration sends the user potential matches based on the users questionnaire answer.  Fantastic!

Creepiness factor has diminished exponentially already.

Reviewing some of my matches, it became clear that the vast majority of profiles were 30+.  This tickles my fancy, as I’m one for sitting down to conversation with someone with an abundance of life experience.   Is that too old for me?  Growing up in the small-town, country lifestyle, my answer is yes, but I’d be up for testing the water.  Two major concerns:  1)  will the 30+ take me seriously, as a 22 year old professional, and 2) is it creepy that the 30+ thinks it’s okay to date a 22 year old?  The latter makes me shudder.

Deep breath.  Out of the 30 matches I’ve been sent over the past week, I have only really continued the ‘guided’ communication process with 2 Eharmony.ca boys.  So far, so good.  “Guided Communication” refers to the ‘taking turns’ approach.  Eharmony.ca provides a list of questions that I can ask the users – if they like my profile, they can answer my question and ask their own.  Then we send each other our “must haves/can’t stands”…we filled these out during the initial questionnaire. Interesting.  We can then ask ‘open’ questions, either typing our own, or selecting a list – answers are basically essay-format.  Back in University again, only this time it’s more fun!  After a series of question and answer sessions, the users may engage in open communication…email within the Eharmony.ca site.  Did you just hear my stomach drop to my ass?  In my head, the voice chants: why the hell are they even considering a 22 year old?  That number is so low, it makes me look like an infant, in turn making them look like creeps.  Fuck.

Self-consciousness exists online, too.  Wow.

Before writing these little emails, I re-read their profiles, just to make sure I actually WOULD like/date/be friendly with these boys.  Funny, they’re pretty much exactly the same.  27 and 28, engineer and financial advisor, well-traveled, ambitious, want babies, over 6’2, claim to be funny, fit, and fantastic all-around.  Great thing about the internet is the ability to lie or be completely truthful…both are tempting!  Personally, with the jaded history I like to believe I have, I chose to be completely truthful.  It’s so easy to tell a man what I expect in a relationship when I haven’t even met him (not to mention, don’t have to look him in the eye).  One of the questions the 27 year old asked is what I expect/want in a relationship partner…I didn’t hesitate to write exactly what I wanted!  Honesty…wow.  Powerful.  He did the same, and it pleased me to see that there were boys who are just as frustrated as us girls.  Hurray, I love gaining new perspective!

Communication with the two boys continues…they want to know why a girl who seems so interesting, intelligent, and has a striking photo would be trying online dating.  I want to know the same about them.  Why is it that we assume because people are engaging in online dating that they can’t get it elsewhere?  I definitely still am skeptical, but I also think I’m taking part in a huge movement for our generation.  Perhaps I’m just a little early for this age group, but as my girlfriend pointed out, I’m really just increasing my options, not ‘giving up’ at real life encounters.  No matter how I look at this, I’ll be able to justify it…maybe not so much if I’m lying naked in bed with someone I met online...wince.  In all of this, I’m still at the rookie stage of contemplating the different lies I can come up with as to how I met the person, and convince ‘boy’ that he should too.  Maybe I’m an idiot.  My paranoia is enough thinking for an entire community so sometimes it’s easiest to just think for myself an take the opinions of others with a grain of salt. 

So many factors, and whether it be online or in person, the issue of age differences still intrigue me.  Age, like where we meet, should have no matter.  I’m always looking for the best match, the ideal guy for me.  Someone to relate to, someone to share adventures with.  Whether I meet him online or at a hockey game, his smile will catch me, the conversation will sway me, and if he makes me laugh…oh wow, he’s so in.

Online dating acts as a filtration system, basically skipping past the superficial layers of the dating onion.  Imagine only ever meeting the boys that suited your superficial interests: mine?  Taller than me with big, true smile.  Imagine finding out their interests, passions, goals, occupation, pet peeves, all before the first date…pretty much saving yourself the awkwardness and the money.  That being said, you’ve also opted to forego the butterfly feelings, the fretting of what to wear.  If your online communication really goes anywhere and you do wind up meeting the individual, the butterflies will still be there, but so will the potential for possibly having chosen a loser and/or a fraud.

Pro:  it allows the user to decline further communication with an individual, for whatever reason.  Con:  your ego can still be bruised online.  Pro: it’s easier to maintain your own ‘standard’ without the risk of the time/place theory.  Con: online is online…face to face is always more valuable when it comes to chemistry and really getting a feel for someone.

So, without putting on make up or pearls, I could have found out that the guy in the grocery doesn’t eat meat, but I wouldn’t find that out until the 4^th date.  Honey, steak will be bbq’d in my house.  The guy in the library was researching how to make bombs.  Cool.  Too bad you’re beautiful.  The guy at the lecture was actually stalking his ex.  Guy are the bar was into boys.  Man at the restaurant was waiting for his mother to show up – he still lives her.  The guy on the ferry was a magician (totally cool) and married.  Boy on the bus was incredibly shy and turned into a mute after I complimented his tie.  At the movies?  On a date.  Dude at the gym was just that…a total dude.  At the mall, well, he just wasn’t interested.  On the plane, the beautiful stranger loudly announced a few negative opinions on a variety of races and religions.  And you, in the elevator, well you thought I wasn’t in it for the long-term…when really that’s all I’m looking for.  You would have known that if you met me online.  But then I would have realized you are someone who is quick to judge, and I wouldn’t have been interested.

Online?  Reality without having to take a shower.

Class: Just Another Day in Trashy Paradise

7:30am:  chowing down on some oatmeal and sitting in my office, waking up slowly, surely, sans-caffeine.  Gives me headaches.  George, the accountant for one of the two companies I provide consultation for sits in the office next to me and plays his spirited cultural music (he’s veeeerrrryyyyy spanish) and it makes me laugh because, well, I cannot concentrate and he’s a terrible singer.  Cranking Kate Nash…now.  You’ve got to love the enthusiasm though.

8:15am:  shoot off an email to some girlfriends, with lots of “eeeeeeeeks!” and “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah’s!” re: date tonight with lawyer boy.  Ridiculously excited and trying to control my ever-bouncing knee. 
 
11:30am: get a catty call from an observer at the conference I just attended, offering ‘feedback’. To quote: “just look at it like constructive criticism”.  There was absolutely nothing constructive about it.  Apparently I have a shitty attitude and a potty mouth.  Fuck that shit, man.  After 10 minutes of staring at my desk and fighting the tears welling up in my eyes, I decide my low-level of confidence can only go down so much more, so the slap in the face (mathematically) has a short sting.  I can get away with having ’none’ as oppose to ‘limited’.  Plus, these are outsiders’ opinions and not my coworkers so whatever.  Bad attitude? Whatever does she mean?  Stressed, picking at my face and biting my nails.  Wow that it going to be a maaaassive pimple.  She was right though…I went into it with a massive set of balls, but (I’m guessing) due to my lack of familiarity with the material, they were nowhere to be found.  Le sigh.
 
1:00pm:  get the courage to talk to my boss and my two coworkers about my performance at the conference.  We agree that someone stole my testicals an hour before my flight out there. We agree to send a search party so that it doesn’t happen the next time.  Everyone is laughing.  We discuss potential etiquette classes…for all of us.  Totally fine.  Still no confidence.  Stressed.  Picking at my face.  Plotting my first Tanya Harding-esque plot.
 
3:00pm:  wanting to die of sleepiness, so I sneak out of the office and walk home.  Good to get my heart racing and nice to get a little sweaty.  It’s an hour speedwalk so I have lots of time to reflect upon whyyyyy I turned into such a coward and howwww to be more of a lady.  Then I burped.  Aaaaand farted. Oh fuck off, I’m only human.
 

5:05pm:  get up off my floor, realizing I passed out while doing pilates.  I laugh at myself, and hop in the shower.  No conditioner.  How did I not notice that yesterday?  Really sucks because I had my hair in a fluffy bun and may very well look like Madonna in the 80s on this date.
 
6:05pm:  have been taking my sweet ass time, not realizing what time it was.  Start pushing the speed, cuz the date starts at 7pm.  OOoooooOoooh my new makeup! YAY!  It’s this ‘mousse’ foundation by Rimmel.  What the hell, it’s kind of sticky.  Makes my stressed-out craters stick out.  Grrrreat.  Where’s a sponge to blend that shit?  Mother fucker I have no sponges.  Stop swearing, you’re a lady.  FUUUUUUUUUCK.  Massive crater on my right cheek – not on the SIDE of the cheek, the FRONT of the cheek.  Hope the lights are dark in there man.  No confidence, no pretty face.  That’s all I had going for me today.  Poop (not actually – that’s just me trying not to swear).
 
6:40pm:  black pencil skirt laid out nicely, black short-sleeved blouse, michael kors peep-toe pumps from spring 08 – howwwww fresh of me to buy myself…laaaaady shoes!  Pantyhose on, pencil skirt on, blouse on.  Can’t help but stare at my crater in the mirror.  Zipper catches half way up.  YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME.  I twist the skirt around to try to place with the zipper, and RRRRRRRRRRIP goes the liner.  I curse out my ’supervisor’ hard and ask why he/she has decided on torturing me today.  I find  another pencil skirt, although it’s not nearly as nice.
 
6:52pm:  waiting for the bus.
 
6:59pm:  waiting for the bus.
 
7:05pm:  stare at the cabs going by and still waiting for the bus.
 
7:09pm: bus arrives.  PHEWPH!  Call a girlfriend and leave her a message because I’m freaking out and laughing about how much this day sucks balls.
 
7:19pm:  off the bus.  Need to crab some cash and am SOOOO late.  My right heel catches in the crack on the sidewalk.  Michael Kors should make sturdier shoes because the heel breaks really easily (doesn’t help when you weight a half-tonne).  What’s better? My pantyhose snags on the rough sidewalk and run half way up my calf.  The homeless man laughs at me. Sneer.
 
7:20pm:  ditch the hose and buy glue at shoppers to glue my heel.
 
7:22pm:  call lawyer boy to apologize and tell him I’m aaaalmost there.  He lets me know he’d “given up” and left already, so he’ll come back.
 
7:23pm:  I’m bright red, sweaty, and have never felt so mortified in my life.  Try to put my hair up because it’s ratty and fuzzy and, you guessed it, the elastic breaks.  Curse out whoever yet again.
 
7:29pm:  I walk in the door, 29 minutes late for my date that had already given up on me. 
 
It certainly made for a good laugh and good conversation.  He’s definitely one of the sweeter (and pretty understanding) guys I’ve met, and we kept each other laughing for the next 3 hours.  Shared some apps, had some Stellas (out of glasses, not bottles…whooooo is a lady?!?? meeeee!!!).  Kiss on the cheek goodbye…hoping for a call soon.  YAY! A nice, sweet, professional, funny, outgoing, athletic, and extremely nerdy boy for me? Maybe someone IS looking out for me.

Update: he didn’t call, but he wrote me a lovely email explaining that he thought we’d make better friends…that I was most everything he was looking for, but didn’t see me as a long-term lady – and he is only looking for his long-term lady.

 Balls.  Maybe I should have painted my nails pink?  Meh, I was myself.  Take it or leave it.

 Neeeeeext!

Off a Mother’s Tit, and Where to Now?

There?

It can’t be. Why not here? Shouldn’t it just be here?

After finishing up a grueling internship with the United Nations in New York, I should have known exactly what the next step was…where to go. Why then, did I feel lost? This was a new low, a new panic surging through my tired veins. A galaxy of thoughts and choices and fears and worries that choked me with each breath.

It had all been so planned: elementary school, piano lessons, ballet, highland, voice lessons, middle school, basketball, volleyball, kiss a boy, write your first song, get braces, hate parents, high school, make enemies, make friends, lose braces, get boyfriend, get boobs, basketball, volleyball, rugby, track, piano (still? gah…), voice lessons, University, freak out about finances, get bigger ass, study, study, study, study, network, study, make friends for life, learn to hate men, love them anyway, graduate, love parents, move to bigger city, internship……

Internship. And then? Pause for awkward silence.

Slowly but with a fierce certainty, life seemed to unravel before me. No control. Zero. All of a sudden, no one was coaching me, no one was watching me, and no one was guiding me. Shit, I’ve got to do this on my own.

I am the dog. My folks waved the tennis ball and TOTALLY psyched me out this time, not even throwing it at all. So I’m stupidly chasing the ball to where? There? But where is that? Tease!

Silver platters were never the way of serving things in my big, country-loving family. We earned it, we worked hard for it, and we got was we deserved. The whole unravelling of the beautiful life I’d envisioned just didn’t make sense. The idea of working for and trying to earn something unknown seemed rather far from normal. You wouldn’t pay for a car if you didn’t know what it looked like, would you?

You see, during that whole ‘planned’ portion of my life, if I wanted to quit piano, the deal was that I had to quit sports. And if I wanted dessert, I sure as hell better do the dishes. Always a goal set out for me. Always an ultimatum. And this time, there is no ultimatum. Me, little miss insignificant me, has to decide what to do and how to do it in a manner that makes a difference in the world, no matter how small.

And what is this rush, this panic I feel? The need to be the best, and the quickest at getting there. The competitive nature that comes and goes, and comes back again with a furious hold over my decisions. Breathe. Hurry up and wait, why don’t you?

Us anal-retentive types, in this case, need to make a plan. So I did just that! What am I good at? Music, writing, finance, people, business, property/fiscal/economic development. What do I care about? Developing countries…economic sustainability…sustainability…music….writing. What makes me smile? People. Music. Writing. A finished project. Teamwork.

From this, I’ve wound up living on the outskirts of an urban situation, a hefty manuscript – a fiction-coming of age novel, a few recorded songs, continuing to build my worldwide network of fantastic peoples, whilst whoring out my talents to the mining and construction industries’ need for dynamic consulting types.  The positions mostly deal with corporate communications, investor relations, with a touch of sustainable practice consulting and developing social programmes for the developing countries in which we work. With the market flailing around like a dead fish, I figured commodities is probably the most secure industry to be in. And, with my dynamic interests (law, accounting, finance, economics, environmental studies, etc), I shouldn’t blow the thousands of dollars chasing a degree or designation I don’t truly desire

Plus…I’m 22. It is all going to work out, we’re all going to be fine, and we may as well smile about it. What’s the rush? Why the long face? It is SUPER important to remember that you’re doing this for you – my graduation from law school would consist of me getting my diploma and handing it to my folks. Why take three years of something I don’t want (or need) to do, just to calm the stormy seas with the parents? A few nasty emails and harsh phone calls and sobering dinner conversations, as painful as they may be, will do that.  Why can’t they be happy with the fact I want to write? To play music?  If I’m happy, shouldn’t they be happy?

Obviously there are boundaries to this “do what makes you happy” idea. An income is necessary in order to survive, and doing something productive equals getting an income. But hey, I’m guessing there are people without an income that are happy too! I could live on a beach in India, no problem. However, at this time in my life, the preference is to work in order to live, and to work so that others can live. To each his own.

So, where to? Anywhere and everywhere.