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Maybe She’s Just Not That Into You

3 May

Women aren’t the only ones misunderstanding the opposite sex

As the phrase “he’s just not that into you” is forced into women’s heads, encouraging us to give up on men who seemingly hate us, I find it necessary to inform the male population that they too need some guidance in the move on department.  Yes, women need help decoding men’s signals or lack thereof, but really men?  Do you think you never misunderstand a women’s interest?  Trust me, you do…often.

  1. Do not send a drink over to a woman from across the room and expect to get the happy ending you’re looking for.  I know you still will, so note that her acceptance of the drink does not equal a willingness to a) sleep with you, b) make-out with you, or c) talk to you.  Women get thirsty and accept drinks without being into you at all!
  2. You’re on a date, and you think things are going well.  If she happens to put on lip-gloss during the date, this does not mean she is preparing to kiss you.  Sometimes women are bored and the process of finding and applying lip-gloss will entertain us for a whole minute.
  3. Oh the magical coffee cup, how does it end up in the hand of whatever side of her I’m walking on?  Think about it…think a little harder…you got it.  It’s not a coincidence.  She doesn’t want you anywhere near her hand, which means, she’s not that into you.
  4. A woman will wait from twenty to forty minutes to reply after she gets your text, email, phone call or sky written message.  Expect responses to arrive at times like 2:37 pm, never something ordinary like 2:30 or 2:45.  If you make contact at 10:00 am, and she does not respond for hours, and isn’t spending the day with subway moles, she’s not that into you.

The modern day woman has a life, she has friends, and grab a beer before you read this, she has dating options.  This may also come as a surprise, but sometimes dating nobody is a better option than dating you.  Women are not standing around, counting the minutes between giving you their numbers and the time you send that incredibly eloquent text, “Hey, this is Mark, ripped guy nxt 2 u last nite at the bar.”

But, fear not!  Surprising as it may seem, a lot of women really are that into you.  It pains me to say it, but give us one bouquet of flowers (not roses) and that mysterious coffee cup finds its way into the garbage, leaving you with an open hand and a way in.  Of course, we both know that by the time that happens, you won’t be into us anymore.

No Cockblocks Allowed

25 Apr

When you were little, did you cough on all the cookies in the box when your mother said you couldn’t have any more?  If so, then this is for you.

You know who you are.  Stop trying to scare away all the men that show interest in woman you have no intention of pursuing yourself.  It’s desperate, it’s obnoxious and it’s no longer allowed!

It has taken me years to figure out what you cockblocks actually want.  It’s not that you don’t want your female friends to find someone, it’s clear you care and want us to be happy.  Eventually.  You just need to find someone first.

Don’t insult our intelligence by saying that you are being protective.  You’re not protecting us, you’re protecting your relationship with us, and that makes you a cockblock.  Next time you’re with a female friend at a bar, a party, a baseball game, or any social activity, use the following as a guideline for your behavior.

  1. Do not stare down men who show interest in us.  Do you really think your eyes are so intimidating that they would stop men in their tracks?  Well, the answer is yes!  You scare all the nice guys away, but I have news for you Mr. Protective, the assholes view your demonic stare as a challenge.
  2. When we are out in public, do not put your arm around our shoulders or waists.  We know that you know doing so makes us appear to be taken.  Unless you plan on buying all our drinks for the night, occasional flower arrangements, and weekly dinners, keep your arms to yourself.
  3. There is such a thing as an A-B conversation.  Do not C your way into it.  If we’re talking to a man, that is not the time to come over and ask us what time we are leaving, if we need another drink, or if your shirt looks okay.
  4. You are only allowed to interfere with man matters if and when we send a help signal.  Conveniently, you will ignore the signal and find joy in watching us struggle to escape men with halitosis and chest hairs seeping out of their shirts.

Curb your impulses to keep us single or the next time you find yourself talking to a woman, we’ll seek you out, smile at you, look at her, and say, “don’t talk to him, he has syphilis.”

The Yogalester

22 Apr

Beware of the new position, Copafeel, that’s hitting yoga studios throughout New York City.

Sometimes a girl just needs a little namaste.  I live in New York City, and there are days (usually ones where I almost get killed by a cab) that I need to re-center myself with self-reflection and, apparently, flexibility.  Those are the days I whip out my pink yoga mat and head downtown to the mental center of the village – Yoga to the People.

Like you’d probably assume, the studio is interesting and minimalistic.  The classes are phenomenal, but the lack of space makes me cringe during a busy class.  I’m just not a fan of getting squashed like the dreams of a Jets fan, hoping to win a Super Bowl.  Shoot me.

I’m sorry, but what happened to a first come, first served mentality?  Just because one straggler comes in five minutes before class doesn’t mean the rest of us must suffer with two inches of space between our mats and the random strangers’ beside us.  Is tough love not part of yoga?  Clearly, I’m missing something because I have a genuine concern of neighbors falling, smelling, or even worse, wearing shorts the size of a toddler’s.  (Maybe that’s because last week a man in front of me wore little girl shorts that exposed his mini-me during, oh, every pose.)

Although I’m skeptical, it’s during this one-hour class that we, the people of United States and yoga, are not supposed to judge others (cough, total crap).  We’re told to bow our heads in silence, breaking only for the occasional moan, and not worry about appearances, troubles, or anything other than the sweatbox we’re inside.  I ask you this, though.  How am I supposed to become one with the floor, give myself to an inner chi, and reach nirvana when the man beside me smacks my ass during Child’s Pose?

I always knew my fear of neighboring Yogees would be validated, but when the man who reeked of body odor and city grime elongated his three and a half foot, sweaty arm and touched my left cheek, I was stunned.  He didn’t acknowledge the grope – not that an apology would have made the gesture acceptable, appreciated, or forgotten – and I, being in the spirit of yoga couldn’t do a thing.  I wanted to kick him in the nut-sack and say, “Om this, asshole” but could I?  No, because there’s no talking in yoga.

Damn rules.

With no retaliation in sight, an inner spirit forced me to continue onward – that or the fact that I was packed in so tightly that I physically couldn’t escape.  Within minutes, I was back to thinking about how lucky the bendy, front row women’s boyfriends are and completely forgot about Geepers Creepers next to me.  How short lived that was.

Somewhere between Warriors I, II, and III, while I was focused on breathing and not falling over, a hand came flying toward me and landed on my chest as if it were saying, “Miss, I’m tired and need a place to rest for a few seconds.”  I don’t know what kind of yoga this guy’s been doing, but where I come from, Touchaboob isn’t an executed position.  What was he feeling around for?  No touch!

Seeing as how my boob didn’t develop a mind of its own, jump the twenty-three inches between our mats, and interfere with his Downward Facing Dog, there was no reason for skin to body contact.  I mean, excuse me, but did my left chesticle accidentally get in the way of his practice?  Did it!?  Because, if not, he was a Grade A Yogalester.

As if the incident wasn’t bad enough, the plot thickened when I noticed his girlfriend was yogacizing to his left.  What was he doing, stroking her boob with one hand and mine with the other?  My gluts during Child’s Pose and hers during Half Pigeon?

When the class ended, he ran out faster than a ten year old toward a Justin Bieber sighting.  I sat there, shocked, violated, speechless, and wondering why it’s always the unattractive guys who always hit on me – not that I consider any of this getting hit on.  Namaste my ass.

Are Those Uggs?

13 Apr

With age comes beauty, not game.

I would have expected a better opening line from the man in black leather gloves on the subway.  He had been watching me on the platform while I waited for the train to come.  I took out my crackberry and checked Facebook for updates, he was still watching.  I played Brick Breaker, he was still watching.  Watching, watching, watching in his black trench coat while holding a mysterious shopping bag.

Why is it that when there is a hot guy standing next to me, the subway comes immediately, but when a non-attractive creeper shadows behind me, I’m forced to wait ten minutes?  What did I ever do to you Mr. Subway Operator?

When the train finally came, I pushed inside to find a niche of solitude.  I failed.  As the train pulled away, I was trapped between the creeper man with yellow teeth and the subway doors.  I didn’t know which way to stand.  Either my face would be inches from the doors or inches from his decaying teeth.  Both options seemed so unsanitary.

Between 59th and 66th, I was accosted by a man who gave me “the look.”  Unfortunately, this “look” was accompanied by his questioning whether or not he had any little blue pills left in his secret wallet compartment.

Forty years of dating experience should have provided him with a better opening line than “Are those Uggs?”  How was I even supposed to respond to that?  “My yes fine sir, great observation, let’s go hook-up in those empty seats next to the mysterious liquid floor stain?”  I said yes and uttered a silent prayer that his focus would shift to something shiny.  It didn’t.

He smelled old and talked about the weather and works in finance.  Gross, awful and predictable.

Apparently, it’s acceptable for him to hit on twenty-somethings because he was attending some Gucci party later in the night.  Was I supposed to ask if I could come?  Substitute Christian Louboutin for Gucci, and maybe I would have swooned…that is, over the potential of having my very own pair of red-soled shoes.

As we approached the 86th street station, he asked for my name.  I panicked and forgot to give my fake name.  It wasn’t my stop, but I bolted.  I couldn’t risk another ten minutes in the subway car that resembled the movie, Cocoon.

When I got home, I immediately crossed gold digger off my list of potential ways to select a man.

Confessions of a Taxi Driver

6 Apr

Find out what real men think from a not so luxurious backseat.

For $7.90, New York City cab drivers can teach you a lot about the world, life and men.  In between trying to figure out what’s causing the rancid smell in the backseat and starting to breathe after speeding through a yellow turned red light, I get my money’s worth by talking to drivers about their lives.  It turns out, when they’re not on the phone talking about me in languages I can’t pronounce, they love to talk about themselves and their opinions, giving a huge amount of insight into the male mind.

I was unusually bored on one particular night, so I asked Mr. Cabby my signature question, “How’s life?”  If only I could take back those two words!  In the time it took to get from the Upper East Side to Midtown west, I not only learned that this particular driver was single, but also why he spent cold winter nights alone.

He unloaded.  And I mean unloaded.  Between Third and Fifth, I learned that men are single-a-phobic too.  Priceless!  Between Fifth and Seventh, he disclosed his depression due to the lack of a dating life, and between Seventh and Eighth, he told me that he hated when women get fat after you start dating them.

Hold up.  Excuse me?  We’ve known each other for what, eight and three quarter minutes, and you decide to talk about weight?  There are people I’ve known for years that don’t discuss weight with me.  Immediately, I mentally decreased his tip by 10%.

Having assumed that I had a ridiculously shallow boyfriend or a boyfriend in general, Mr. Cabby, or should I say Mr. Crabby, began to tell me that my so-called boyfriend would dump me if I got fat.  In lieu of punching him in the face, I tried to explain that studies have been done that explain why women gain weight in relationships, and that it’s typically  the man’s fault.  Surprise, surprise.  He, even more disgruntled, rejected the idea that men had anything to do with women’s weight gain – shocker – but I was determined to justify my point.

I explained that men make women fat because of their unrealistic intake expectations.  They want a woman who “eats,” but they want her to be thin; they want to order bottles of wine, but they want a woman to be thin; they want to order dessert and benefit from chocolate’s aphrodisiac qualities, but they want a woman to be thin.  How can anyone maintain a size four if she’s downing 1,000 calories at a romantic dinner?  Remind me again why men can eat like pigs and not gain weight till they’re 40.

Although I told him that I understand his annoyance with the added kush in the tush, I was rather insulted and moderately self-conscious.  I encouraged him to stop being superficial because it’s likely to be his fault if his “woman,” or so he called his future love interest, gains a few.  Perhaps I went overboard, and yes, women are in control of what they put in their mouths, but I had to defend my kind.

To all this he responded, “Women should learn to keep their mouths shut.”

If only you could have seen my face.  I’m still not sure whether he meant I should shut up or that women should eat celery and egg whites for every meal, but it’s clear that what Crabby really means when he says, “Let’s share the soufflé,” is “Once you put a spoon full of that chocolate decadence in your mouth, you best put on your gym clothes and head out for a double spin class.”  Jerk.

When we finally, and I mean finally, reached my apartment, I handed him a ten and decided to give him the best tip I could.  I told him to keep his manpinion to himself and hit the gym.  Then I ran out of the cab and into my building, because as much as I like to think I’m a badass, I was scared for my life.

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