Risks

When you look back on the year that has just passed or forward to the year you are about to embark upon, there is a certain amount of risk analysis. Did I take enough of them? Were any of them counterproductive? Should I have taken this one instead of that one? Did I put myself out there?

In an effort to become a more social creature, the last several years have seen me taking increasing risks of the small variety.

For example, I went Speed Dating. I met Sasha there. We became great friends, although neither of us ever followed up with any of the guys we met.

Then one Sunday after brunch, Sasha and I went out looking for 4-leaf clovers, where we met Alex and Daniel. They were at loose ends, being new to the area, so we spent the next 16 hours introducing them to the city. Risky? Maybe. But tons of fun.

I also went to the extremely random holiday party of a guy I'd met at Parties in the Park. I brought Tricia, and that's where we met our new friend Ada.

Now, sometimes you put yourself out there and it's kind of a bust. Nancy and I did 12 Bars of Charity last month and it was lame. We didn't meet many new people and it wasn't high-energy at all. Bust.

But sometimes it's a matter of continuing to expose yourself to new situations and just laughing at what befalls you. For example, when you sign up for online dating. Maybe you don't respond to an email from a man, so he decides to get aggressive, like this:

And you just get so angry! Because you took a risk and this, THIS is what the universe has sent you! 

Online dating is a risk. But so is real life. Everything's a risk. Should I spend my savings on a trip to Europe, or does my roof really need to be repaired right now? Should I quit my job and move out of state (or country), or is the retirement plan here too good? Should I give things with that guy a chance or has he already proven he's a flight risk?

I remember a decade ago, Sam and Danny had broken up and Sam was determined to move forward with her life. "Things will be great in 2008!" was her mantra. And they were -- Sam and Danny are married with 3 kids and living in the Netherlands now.

They say that life is what you make it, right? The only thing you can control is your attitude. So yes, maybe there will be some busts. Maybe there will be some Opie13s this year. But there will also be some pretty great things:

* creating a monarch waystation in my garden

* walking all 13 miles of Manhattan to experience the changing neighborhoods

* finishing my double-Master's

* applying -- again -- for a fellowship to study abroad

* new sets of social adventures

* saying "yes" more often, even when I'm not sure

Nothing good rhymes with eighteen, so we'll keep the mantra simple this year: Embrace the unforeseen in 2018!

(And listen, if you're the person who has been obsessively stalking my blog, you better not download that picture. You creep me out.)

The Book of Facts

At Persimmon, we not only sell candles and celebrity sightings, but we also keep a Book of Facts. I started the fact-keeping book during one of our downtimes (which is basically any time that is not October-December). Our boss gave us all these notebooks with the *actual* name of our store embossed on the cover for Christmas last year. No one knew what to do with them, so I threw mine in my car where it has stayed for the last 11 months; Ashley stuck a bunch of business cards in hers and promptly forgot where she left it; and Shirley left hers in the drawer at the boutique.

That is where I found it and turned it into the Book of Facts. The Book of Facts is a large, numbered list we keep of all the random bits of trivia that we -- the peons of Persimmon -- have learned during our tenure with the store. Please note that these factoids are entirely haphazard and do not necessarily have anything to do with the work we do. They are just things that we wondered one day and decided to Google, or else learned from a customer. Facts include:

* 73% of third marriages end in divorce (I looked this up after one too many customers asked me about Khloe and the Real Housewives)

* You can pollinate your own airplants with a paintbrush and make a whole new sub-species (we learned this from a customer)

* Julia Roberts is 5'9'' (no one really remembers why we looked this up)

* 100 icelandic krona = about 1 US dollar (we learned this after Rachel's trip to Iceland)

* If there is a pine tree planted near your hydrangeas, that will acidify the soil enough to turn them blue (when we were trying to figure out why half of mine were purple and half were pink)

We are up to about a hundred facts now. But the point of this blog post is the fact that was added most recently, courtesy of an article that Nugget read.

We are living in the Worst City for Online Dating.  In case the link didn't work, here's a screenshot of the proof: 

So that's awesome. But on the other hand, it does kind of explain a lot. For example, WHYYYYYY do so many men find it necessary to a) take bathroom selfies, and/or b) attach the bathroom selfies in an opening email to a woman?!?! And some just offer 'em loud and proud as their first picture. Observe:

And that's just the OBVIOUS ick-factor. I've gotten emails where the opening line is "Do you cook?" or "Hey baby," followed by whatever pictures the guy feels like attaching. Such as these, with which he obviously took a lot of trouble to highlight his various interests:

I mean, I guess he did take the trouble to change his shorts to show off his abs in a different light? But this guy's opening line to me was "How much do you work out?"

To which my entire email reply consisted of: "Never."

But lest you think I'm exaggerating, it gets worse. There are also men in this great city of ours whose first message, when I say "tell me about yourself!" goes like this:

I mean, who says that!? To a woman who is a complete stranger!? Whose opening line is an explanation that they don't like the 70's look downstairs? I just don't understand.

All of this has REALLY burned me out on dating. I went out with Tricia last night. She's in a new relationship with a guy she met online.

"You met Jared a hot second after you got online," I said. "And Heidi at work literally JUST got out of a 4-year relationship and has already met a guy online that she's crazy about! And yet, not me."

"Maybe you're too much in your head," Tricia said.

"I am too much in my head. But I think I also only date my friends."

And there it was. The reality of this matter has taken me a decade and a half to arrive at. Online dating doesn't work for me because it's asking me to put too much faith in people that I have NO experience with. And when I look back at my life, every guy I've dated has been "verified" for me:

* Kurt, age 16. Went to church with all my friends.

* Webs, age 23. Area Director for a youth organization I volunteered with, so all my friends knew him. Also, I went to college with his brother.

* Lybee, age 27. Went to the same seminary as my dad.

* Derek, age 30. I was in a support group with his mother and became very close to her. Also, he was pals with one of my friends from grad school.

* Nick from NY, ages 33. He's the anomaly...kind of. I met him online but I was too much in my head and couldn't force a connection. But then he mailed me a TV for my birthday and I couldn't be the girl who had a TV from a guy she never talked to again... so we stayed in touch. And eventually became good friends. And eventually fell in love.

So there you go. I only date guys a) I'm friends with, b) someone I'm friends with will vouch for, or c) involved in some kind of organization or group that I trust. This probably has all kinds of TERRIBLE psychological meanings, like I don't trust myself or I have issues with strange men. But it is what it is, and at least knowing this will maybe save me from beating my head against a wall and getting emails from 23-year-olds like this:

"Hey beautiful. I'm Tony. how are u tonite?" I wonder what possesses people to do this. I will have to do some research and add my findings to the Book of Facts...

Khloe, et al.

I realized recently that I've turned a corner. First, I noticed wrinkles regularly in all my pictures. But then I noticed I was talking to cats. And answering them. A typical conversation goes like this:

Me: Hello, kitty. You are still looking very gray, I see. How are you?

Graysee: Meow.

Me: And why is that?

Graysee: Meoooooooow.

Me: I know. I feel you completely.

Graysee: Meow!!!!!

Me: I understand that, but we tried repeatedly and it didn’t work.

Graysee: MEOW

Me: I LET YOU OUT SEVERAL TIMES AND YOU CLIMBED THE FENCE AND WERE A VERY. BAD. CAT. The reason your brown friend gets to go outside is because she never runs away!!!

Graysee: Meow

Me: That’s what you say, but we keep ending up at the same spot. 

At this point, I usually quit talking because I am truly horrified that I am not only talking to a cat, but answering for it as well.

This is just one of the many ways in which I am becoming eccentric. In an effort to curb eccentricity, I work part-time at an upscale shopping mall. I figured that being around lots of not-14-year-olds on a regular basis would be good for me and force me to rub shoulders with normal folks, people who don't hold 2-sided conversations with cats.

The problem is that, unlike the other amazing women who work at the boutique with me (we'll call it Persimmon), I am very bad at dissembling. Let me give you a for instance...

We have a reality TV star who regularly endorses us, and the brand rewarded her endorsements by giving her her own product line. Now people come into Persimmon ALL THE TIME and ask me if I know Khloe, if she comes to the store, when her line is coming out, if it's true that her famous husband comes in sometimes and blah blah blah...

And unlike my coworkers, I cannot even feign interest in Khloe's life or habits or the fact that she is famous for being famous. Margaret and Shirley, my two older colleagues, laugh whenever a customer asks me what Khloe's new fragrance line smells like and I make a big show of getting out the clipboard with my "script" written on it and reading my lines: "This signature fragrance is inspired by Khloe's natural grace and elegance. Her truly singular personality is exhibited by the soft notes of..." (I can't even remember the rest). After the customer leaves, I mutter mutinous things under my breath while Margaret and Shirley heckle me.

On Tuesday, Khloe is coming to the store for an event. There are not going to be any appetizers or wine or special discounts, so -- as far as I can tell -- the event will consist purely of people ogling Khloe. And who is the one employee  scheduled to work the event? Me. Obviously. Because Fate is a cruel mistress and I'm the only employee at risk of rolling my eyes during such an auspicious gathering.

All of this illustrates that I am becoming crotchety. When students come to my class without a pencil and ask me if they can borrow one, I cast them a withering glare and then tell them to write in their own blood.

I talk to cats.

I gnash my teeth over celebrity culture. But Khloe has a famous husband and a cute baby and her own reality show and a "graceful and elegant" new product line. So maybe she's actually doing things right and the joke's on me. Who knows.