Too Through

I have yet to apply to any schools, but I'm so done with b-school. I'm done with MBA Fairs, school information sessions, diversity weekends, resumes, essays, recommendations, EVERYTHING. Every MBA panel I've heard always says the same thing: "Enjoy this journey."
Well, if you want my opinion, this journey is nucking futs and there's really nothing enjoyable about it. There's nothing enjoyable about having to give my "Why MBA" pitch whenever I just want some information about what a current student likes about their school. There's nothing fun about wild swings from self assurance that you just might get in everywhere to paranoia that you won't get in anywhere. There's not a damn thing enjoyable about standing on line in 3-4 inch heels waiting for the freakin college senior in front of you to run out of ways to ask an admissions officer, "So what are my chances of getting in?" And most of all, writing essays sucks!! Screw the platitudes about being grateful for all the introspection. Introspection can kiss my ass when it won't fit in 600 words.

It Ain't My Fault

I spent this past weekend in New York City. Although my all consuming need to live in NYC has subsided in recent years, it's still my happy place. A certain calm envelops me as soon as the crackles of static give way to the clear sound of Hot 97 DJ Funkmaster Flex's voice over my car radio speakers. Even without concrete plans for a Friday night the promise of possibilities always hovers in the air. I get excited knowing not that something exciting will happen but that at any moment it could. Mostly, I just like being in the same place where most of the characters from the collegiate chapter of my life reside.

I ran into one of those characters at brunch last Sunday. She was a class behind me at college and I really didn't know her well while I was in school. Actually, I don't remember even crossing her path once during my four year tenure, which says a lot since all of the black students at school could fit in three long tables at the dining hall. While we didn't socialize in the same circle (within an already tiny bubble), we both had the good sense to pledge the greater than great, grander than grand, best of the best sorority in the land. I did it in Spring 2001 so thus I had the pleasure of getting to know her when she followed in Spring 2003.

What do you Recommend?

It's hot. The Weather Channel says that it's 97 degrees right now and that temperatures will reach 102 by the afternoon. People are being warned to avoid outdoor activities between the hours of 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., lest they want to die. Still, I'm sitting in my air conditioned office thinking to myself that I'd rather go for a 10 mile run at noon than confront what faces me next week.

July is coming to an end and August is drawing near. August brings the release of the LIVE APPLICATION. Although essay questions are released between May and July, business schools don't open the floodgates for thousands of applications to pour through until early August. Round 1 applications won't be due until October, but now is the time to start assembling the pieces. While it's up to each individual applicant to get the the online app filled in, the essays written, the GMAT taken, and the transcripts uploaded there is one critical component that is out of our hands. The recommendations, the part of the application where one to three people corroborate that you are in fact the innovative, collaborative, genius business leader of the future that you've said you are. Recommendations, the one section of the application where someone else can sink your battleship (and sink it hard). Recommendations, the reason for fifty-leven rounds of the always fun "Did you submit it yet?" game. Next week I ask my current manager to be one of my business school recommenders.

There's No Place Like Home

I hate mornings. Let me clarify. I hate weekday mornings. Mornings suck from Monday through Friday. Why? Because weekday mornings mean going to work. Going to work requires taking a shower, wearing pants (or an appropriate length skirt or dress), and making my hair presentable. Going to work requires enduring 40-60 minutes of traffic just to be there. Being there requires staying awake for at least 8 hours, reflexively looking over my shoulder to see if a senior manager is about to catch me on facebook or GMAT Club, and refraining from inappropriate scratching. I have absolutely no desire to be at work.
I have a pretty cool job. I represent great brands, work with (mostly) cool people, and manage to get a free lunch a couple of times a week. The job isn't the problem; going to work is. For five years I had a job that rarely required me to go to work. Nearly everyday I rolled out of bed between 8:30 and 9 a.m., bypassed the shower, staggered downstairs, plopped myself in front of the TV with my laptop perched on my knees, and got to working. I would go for a mid-morning run, take an afternoon nap, and polish off my project list in enough time to take a shower and head to the gym or tae kwon do class. It's been two years since I left that position and I have yet to acclimate.
When animals are left in the wild too long it is impossible to domesticate them. I think the same principle applies to people who have worked from home for longer than three years. At three years people reach a point of no return. Just like that wild animal can't be domesticated, the home based employee can't be office broken. We've been free to roam for too long to be caged by the rules of office etiquette. Why is it necessary to wear shoes? Do my feet really need to stay under my desk? What's wrong with putting my head down for an hour long nap? Why can't I release into the atmosphere the gas that bubbles in my stomach? Is it really a big deal to eat the food in the refrigerator that doesn't have my name on it? For some reason that I can't quite grasp all of the behaviors that were perfectly acceptable at my house are not only frowned upon, but prohibited in the office.
What puts the cherry on top of this shit drenched sundae is having to willingly take myself to this place each morning. Regardless of whether or not I have meetings to attend or assignments to complete I have to be here every MORNING. For some reason it's necessary for me to be in the office by 8:30 a.m. No one talks to me. Hardly anyone calls. Still, it's imperative for me to be sitting here. I force myself to wake up by 7 a.m. (even in the dead of winter when mother nature hasn't bothered to awaken the sun), rack my brain to remember if I've worn that particular sweater vest in the last 7 days, refrain from throwing objects at the car in front of me that insists on going 20 in a 45 along a ten mile single lane road, and spend a small fortune on Wawa coffee just to sit here. Ironically, sitting here is NOT necessary for me to do my job. Because of the wunderkinds in the IT department I could stay in bed and still do my job. What's the sense of having remote capabilities if they're not going to let me work remotely?
Like I said, I have no problem actually doing my job. I just don't want to do it in an office. I can do this job just as well in a t-shirt and underoos from the comfort of my queen size bed while watching One Life to Live. Somebody, anybody please...JUST GIVE ME FREE!!

Above Average

Last Thursday I received my 9th annual, "Congratulations on getting through another year without getting fired!" e-mail from the company HR bot. This Thursday I turn 31. The average full-time MBA student at top-tier US business schools is between 26-28 and has five years of work experience at matriculation. Am I too late to the party?

While there are many people my age who choose to pursue an MBA a higher majority go the part-time, executive, or 1 year European MBA route. When I mention that I want to get an MBA many people's initial assumption is that I will pick from one of those options. They scratch their heads when I say I'm aiming for the FT programs. Yes, I'm older. However, that doesn't preclude a FT MBA from being a good fit with my goals.

Ready, Set, GO!

Round 1 has officially started for me. Kellogg School of Management released their application essays last week, three required 600 word essays and one 400 word essay on one of four topics. That gives me 2200 words to show an admissions committee that I belong in Kellogg's class of 2014. No, that I more than belong...that they need me and my 9 years of sales management experience, colorful writing skills, and lofty ideas about building communities through public-private partnerships. I have 2200 words to tell them where I've been, where I am, where I want to go and most importantly why. I have to tell them my story. 2200 words isn't nearly enough to capture 30 years.

Psyche Out

I wasn't getting it. I'd gone through the entire quantitative section of the Kaplan 2011 GMAT Premier study guide. I'd read through every review topic from fractions to geometry to rate/distance/work. The concepts were pretty familiar. I was getting it. "When two or more people/objects are working together add their rates together to determine how long it takes to finish one job." Simple enough, I got it. Bring on the problem sets. "In the economy mode, a printer prints twice as fast as in the optimal quality mode. If after working for 20 minutes in the optimal quality mode and 40 minutes in the economy mode the printer printed 120 pages, how long would it take the printer to print 120 pages in the optimal quality mode?" (C) 2008 GMAT Club. On second thought, maybe I don't get it.

Memories

My old roommate called me the other day. He wanted to share his latest running accomplishment: 4 miles in one hour and ten minutes, an average of roughly 17 minutes per mile. Psshhh! I let him know that I could totally beat that. I can easily clock an 18+ minute mile pace. Ahh, the race to the bottom is cutthroat.

However, our conversation soon shifted to our own respective races to the top. He's looking to find the sports apparel product manager job that has eluded him for so long, and I am seeking entrance into a top-tier b-school. "You know I applied to Columbia when I was applying to b-school," he told me. My ears perked up at this piece of previously unknown information because Columbia is so on my list. "Yeah, that application was harder than I thought. I figured I could get it done in a couple of hours but it took me more like 4 or 5 to complete it." Needless to say, he's not a Columbia alum.

Could've Had a V8

"I think you should have lunch with him."
I stared at Chesty LaRue through squinted eyes, surprised by her declaration. I gave her the rundown on the man who just extended me an invitation via email to lunch the next afternoon. I'd met him on OKCupid. He seemed nice enough and wasn't bad looking. However, he was on the short side and wasn't particularly vibrant or interesting. However, this was his second request to meet and I really had no reason to turn him down.
"At the very least, you get a free meal," she reasoned.

Build That Bridge

I get easily annoyed with people who won't let things go. People make mountains out of molehills and obsess incessantly over things that ultimately are NOT THAT DEEP. They repaint the same wall over and over again because the color just isn't right. They play the same video game ad nauseum to best their already ridiculously high score. They can't move on to other things because they have yet to build a bridge and get the hell over it.

Such is the case with my relationship with the GMAT. The GMAT, that necessary evil that nearly every MBA applicant must endure (although for some it's the GRE). The exam that claims to only test what you learned in high school but somehow never actually serves up a problem any high school student would see. The GMAT, nearly 4 hours of mind numbing, nerve wracking, vomit inducing hell. After suffering through the GRE back in 2006 I promised myself that I would never take another standardized test again. Promises are meant to be broken.

In August 2010 I found myself at Borders purchasing the Kaplan GMAT 2011 Premier study guide (w/ CD-Rom). Over the next 2 months I also purchased the Official Guide for GMAT Review 12 edition, five Manhattan GMAT math strategy guides, and $79 worth of practice tests from www.gmatclub.com. I pored over fractions, prime numbers, and probability. I spent hours trying to comprehend the intricacies of data sufficiency. "Is x greater than 0?" Who the hell knows?

I would come home from work and attack practice problems until after midnight. My Saturdays consisted of practice exams followed by a detailed review of all of the questions I missed. There were a lot of them. I was consumed by the GMAT for well into the fall until one phone call rendered a November test date irrelevant. I got a new job...a job on the East Coast. After more than 8 years in the Midwest, I was finally coming home. Well close to home. Philadelphia is NOT New York City, but it's closer than Grand Rapids, MI and Minneapolis, MN could ever be. I packed up my GMAT study books along with my living room, bedrooms, dining room, bathrooms, and kitchen. I didn't look at anything GMAT related for months.

GMAT studying resumed with the new year. I planned to take the test in the spring so that I would have plenty of time to work on my applications. While I knew taking it early gave me time to retake it if necessary my plan was to make sure it would not be necessary. The GMAT is a $250 investment and I only wanted to invest once. With that in mind I was aiming high. When I first started started studying back in August I would have been happy with a 650 and elated with hitting 700. But trolling GMAT and MBA forums has a way of raising the bar. A 700 was no longer good enough. I wanted the holy grail: the 99th percentile. I wanted to go where only 1% of test takers go. I wanted to enter the exclusive club dominated by Indian engineers and Chinese finance jocks. I wanted to be more than great. I wanted to be exceptional. Plus, I realized I needed that kind of score. In full disclosure, my undergrad GPA left much to be desired (that F, second semester senior year was the nail in my GPA's coffin). I knew that I'd need a nosebleed score to truly offset it.

Studying became my life from February through May. I even enrolled in a prep class through Veritas Prep. On May 21, 2011 I headed to the testing center ready to annihilate the GMAT. After 2 essays, 37 quantitative problems, and 41 verbal questions I'd say it was a draw. 710. Q48, V40. 92nd percentile overall. Womp, womp. It's a decent score. Hell, it's a really good score. But I wanted more than really good. I wanted jaw-dropping. What I got was plenty good enough.

That's the dilemma. Do I take good enough and run with it? Or do I cough up another $250 (that my employer will NOT reimburse) and go for the score I really wanted? Now that I've seen the live test I'm pretty sure that I can improve my score with some more focused studying and lots more practice tests. My Verbal score can definitely go up. For the first time in my life I didn't reach the 90th percentile in the verbal section of a standardized test. It hurts my pride because Verbal is my thing. It's what I do. Ironically, I performed surprisingly well on the quantitative portion of the exam. While I usually hover between the 60th and 65th percentile in quant, all of my studying moved me into the 82nd percentile on the GMAT. Ahh, there's the rub. There is a very distinct chance that I could retake the test and raise my verbal score but lose ground in the quant. Plus, retaking the test doesn't really do me any good unless I can raise my score by 50+ points. Getting another 50 points out of the GMAT is much easier to do at a 650 than a 710.

I also know that there are many people who would kill for my score and can't catch a whiff of it no matter how much they study. However, every time I see someone with a higher score, especially a 760+ I know that that could be my score too. Yes, I worked my butt off for that 710. The amount of work I put in should tell me that I performed to my ability level. Yet something keeps nagging at me, telling me that 710 is just a baseline. Something keeps telling me that I didn't take as many practice tests as I could have, that there are other study guides I could review. However, people (very knowledgeable people) tell me to focus on my application essays and let the score ride. Maybe they are right. But there's something about the GMAT that just wont let me build that bridge and get over it.

The Prodigal Daughter

I'm embarking on a journey. Five years ago, if someone told me that I'd be taking this journey I would have punched them in the face. Well, a lot can change in 5 years. Some how the girl who wanted to get an MFA in Creative Writing is applying to MBA programs. Was that the sound of a record scratch? I think it was.
How in the hell did this happen? Have I turned to the dark side, lured away from the beauty of words by the seductive call of cash? Have I finally resigned myself to stop fighting the inevitability of becoming a company woman after nearly a decade with my employer? Have I finally realized that I can't beat them so I might as well join them? Yes and no. Is this about money? You bet your ass it is. But it's also about breaking out of the monotony that has become my professional life. You ask how can I break the monotony of my professional life by pursuing a degree that entrenches me further into it? I asked myself the same question for a long time. In fact, I often viewed an MBA as an additional shackle, chaining me to spreadsheets, bottom lines, and cost-benefit analyses. Ironic that it was my pursuit of an MFA that ultimately led me to change my mind about an MBA.

Get On My Level

"You scare me."
My eyebrow shot up and I adjusted the phone against my ear. "I scare you?" I repeated, wanting to be sure I heard him correctly.
"Yeah, you scare me."
Laughter erupted from my gut, loud and uncontrollable. In my 27 years I have elicited quite a few reactions from quite a few men. However this was the first time I'd scared one of them, at least within the first conversation.
I had met him two days earlier at the car dealership where I got my key fab replaced.
"You know your tail light is busted," he had said as he handed me my keys.
"A basketball pole hit my car," I informed him. A smirk played at the corners of my mouth. "I'll get around to getting it fixed."
"Um, okay."
He disappeared around a corner, and I headed to my car. As I pulled out of the service garage I saw him wiping down an SUV in the parking lot. He held up his hand to get me to stop for a second.
"What's up?" I asked, rolling down my window. I was hoping he hadn't noticed anything else wrong with my car.
"I just wanted to tell you that you are a very attractive woman."
I took a second to look at him. His skin was a smooth mahagony and he had a shy smile accented by a slighly crooked bottom tooth. He was tall and slim, yet not skinny.
"Thank you. You're cute too," I replied.
We exchanged phone numbers and agreed that we'd speak whenever either one of us called. When my phone rang 48 hours later this wasn't how I expected our first conversation to go. Small talk, yes. Abject terror not so much
"How exactly do I scare you?" I asked.
"I've never met anyone like you before. You're intimidating."
"How so?"
"You're on a whole nother level than me." He explained that it was shocking to meet a woman who was educated, had her own place, could put together three sentences without cursing, and displayed absolutely no signs of ghettoness.
I got the feeling that he thought of me as some mythical beast he'd only heard about during story time at sleep away camp, never imagining that this rare creature existed.
"Trust me, I'm really very nice. Not scary at all. You'll see tomorrow when we have lunch," I said in an effort to allay his fears.
"Actually, I don't think I'm ready to hang out with you yet."
Once again my eyebrow shot up. "What do you mean not ready? How ready to do you have to be to eat lunch?"
"I can just tell that I'm not on your level and if I hang out with you, you would run right over me."
I twirled my index finger through my twisted hair, mulling his words over in my head. He was definitely right. I could steamroll him easily. It hadn't taken long for me to assess that it wouldn't be difficult for me to confuse and manipulate him. His conversation skills were basic, going no further than simple question and answer. He lacked a sharp wit and wasn't too quick on the uptake. Still, he was sweet and mildly amusing. Plus he was respectful, so I had no intentions of taking advantage, not even designs on a free meal.
"But you were the one who asked me to chill tomorrow, remember?" I reminded him.
"I know, but now I don't think I can do it. I mean don't get me wrong, I want to hang out with you. I just have to prepare myself first." He offered to reschedule for later in the month.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The man was breaking a "date" (and I use that term VERY loosely) within an hour of making it, not because he had a prior engagement that initially slipped his mind, but because he was scared of a woman who could function as an adult. Something was very wrong with that picture.
"Oh come on, it's not that big a deal. It's just lunch. It'll be fun." I spent the next half hour trying to convince him to change his mind. It wasn't that I was dying to go out with him. Far from it. Although he was a cutie, he wasn't my type at all. He lacked the charisma, charm, and borderline arrogance that I find attractive in a man. Still, it would've been cool to go to a restaurant with someone other than myself for once. Besides I should've been the one skipping out on him, not the other way around.
He held firm and eventually, I gave up. I could take the L because I wasn't really losing anything. Any guy who admits up front that you're too good for him isn't worth the wasted breath. Since he made such a big deal about a simple lunch, I'm not too keen on the idea of being friends. There's too much expectation attached. It's too bad we won't be homies. He could've detailed my car.

Now What

It's official. I won't be spending the latter half of 2007 the way I envisioned. No classes, no workshops, no papers. I held out hope until the last rejection arrived this afternoon. At least now I don't have to be scared of what's in the mailbox. But then again, there's nothing to look forward to when I check the mail either.
If I said I wasn't disappointed, that would be a lie. It hurts, badly. I wanted this. And not just because it was a way out of a life that closes in on me a bit more each day. But moreso because if I got this it would be confirmation that I really do have a talent and that my words could take me places I can't even imagine. Right now I feel deluded, like I fooled myself into thinking I'm better than I am. I can already hear my parents false comfort when I tell them. "Oh I'm sorry....so how about business school?"
The worst part is now I have to make other plans. I can't continue where I'm at. I've been trying to move on for more than a year, yet I'm still in the same place doing the same thing. Yes, I can keep writing and apply again next year. But in the meantime, I need a change. I'm so desperate for something new I practically bang my head against walls in frustration. There are no job prospects, query letters are unanswered, and grad school isn't going to happen this fall. With no options, what's a girl to do?

Comfort Food

It's past 9 p.m., closer to 10, and I have yet to shower today. The smells emanating from my crevices occassional waft past my unsuspecting nostrils. My bed sheets stink. I should do something. Hours ago, I contemplated working out, popping in the DVD featuring sleek women with taut abs and a visible line between shoulders and biceps. "Squat, round your back, flatten, and stand," the leader always instructs. I told myself I'd follow her cues after an afternoon nap, then after a snack, then after one more page read. With those tasks complete, all I want to do is eat a brownie sundae. My tongue can taste the warm sweet chocolate cooled by even sweeter vanilla ice cream. I can feel the thick fudge coating the back of my throat. I want it, badly. But I want to look like the women on the DVD even more. Besides Pizza Hut at breakfast time did enough damage for today.
If I sit here long enough the need to fill myself should pass. I'll think of my full stomach, protruding against my too large sweatshirt and remind myself of the guilt that will stay with me long after the sugar, fat, and calories have passed from my system. That should tide me over, knowing that I won't like myself after I enjoy myself. Worse, I'll still have this craving that decadence can't satisfy. I'll still need to know that my life will head where I want it to go, while door after door shuts in my face. What I want most in life can't be served on a plate, and if I can't have it, then I'll settle for the body a brownie sundae won't let me have.

Por Favor

Dear ABC:

YouTube has compelled me to ask you for a huge, ginormous, astronomical favor. I could possibly be asking for too much, but what the hell. I'll never know unless I put it out there. After way too many nights spent staying up until 4 a.m. to watch just one more episode on my computer, I beseech you to bring back My So Called Life. Yes, I realize that it's been about twelve years since the show aired and you assume that everyone has long since forgotten that Angela got into Jordan's car immediately after Brian Krakow admitted that he was the one who wrote the letter that made Angela forgive Jordan in the first place. Well, I haven't forgotten and after more than a decade of wondering what happens next, I don't think that I ever will.

Now I know it seems a little far fetched to bring back a show that has been off the air since the Clinton administration and pick up right where you left off, but I guarantee that there is still an audience that has been waiting with baited breath for this series to continue. In fact, I went to high school with a girl who looked just like Angela, from the red shoulder length bob to the Doc Martins and tight lipped smile. She even had a crush on this boy with chin length air, stubble, and an unbelievable ability to wear the hell out of a mechanic's shirt - totally hot. I know in my heart of hearts that she still pines for more MSCL. Don't worry about a time slot. Just cancel that melodramatic, horribly acted, ill conceived joke of a show, October Road and it's all set.

Of course you'll have to get the same actors and use the same sets. I've already googled the entire cast and they're all still alive. Now you should hurry and get the relaunch together because I don't know how much longer Jordan Cat- err I mean Jared Leto is going to exist in the land of the living. Besides, anything could happen (car accident, earthquake, freak lipo accident) and any member of MSCL could be gone before this undertaking even begins. Yes, I do realize that Angela, well Claire is no longer 16 years old, and Jord- damn it I mean Jared may not even be male anymore, but that completely doesn't matter. I'm totally willing to ignore the fact that Danielle will be the most adult looking 10 year old EVER just to know what happens after Angela gets in the car with Jordan. Plus I need to know if Graham sleeps with Halley Lowenthal. Thought I forgot about that little subplot? Nope, I didn't!!

Just to clarify, I'm not asking for a reunion to find out what Angela, Jordan, Rayanne, Sharon, and company are up to now. No, I want the next episode to pick up where the last one left off. Additionally, I'd also like the remainder of Season 1 to air. Wrap up the story nice and pretty so that I can finally sleep at night.

Granted, it may be a little bit difficult to successfully pull off this production, but whatever difficulties you may experience are really of your own making. You dumb asses never should've cancelled the show in the first place. And for what? So you could bring us real winners like Brothers Keeper, Two of a Kind, and Vengeance Unlimited. At least people remember and miss My So Called Life. Prematurely pulling the plug was one of the biggest travesties in all of television history and honestly, it's up to you to rectify this egregious mistake. Do it for me, do it for the flannel and Doc Martins generation, do it for Brian Krakow!

Sincerely,

MSCL's #1 Fan

Ready and Willing

I have a laundry list of wants: a thin body, huge hair, admission to grad school, a life in New York, a new BCBG dress, and a littany of other things. He isn't on the list. Yes, I want a man, but not him. When something good happens to me, I don't feel the urge to share it with him. On a horrible day, he's not the person I call to vent to. Thoughts of him do not fill my idle time. My visions for the future do not include him.
Then he called, and I ran straight to him, 140 miles down the highway just because he asked me to hang out. Within two hours I was running from him, livid after yet another retread of the same argument we've been having for the past six months. Friends tell me I never should have gone to see him, remind me that I had said I was done with him. They're right. I am done. I'm done with arguing with him, missing him, and yearning for us to be like we were before the insanity set in. I don't want to go back to him.
But if he asked, I would. And he has asked. Each time he does I enter the ring for another round and get knocked out harder than the last time. Even though I don't want to work things out, I'm willing to try if he is. With him, I'm sixteen years old again, making decisions based on what others will or won't do. If he's not talking to me, then I'm not talking to him. If he wants to spend time with me, then I'm willing to drive to the ends of the earth to spend some time with him.
Is he worth it? Probably not. It's just that I can't seem to bring myself to give up on us. He's a hot mess, but Team Us is amazing. I can definitely live without us if us isn't a possibility. However, each time he comes back around it's as though he's saying we are definitely possible. And my gut never fails to tell me that passing up an opportunity to get us back is plain wrong.
I can't keep doing this. The fight gets a little worse each time we have it and the damage that much more evident. I'm done, for the third time (or maybe it's the fourth or fifth). I am not speaking to him. I am not missing him. I don't want a damn thing from him. But what I want to do has never been as big a problem as what I'm willing to do.

Talk To Me

In the five years since we met I had never seen him as anything more than a short (5'9"), obnoxious, constantly inebriated Jamaican who made an unsuccessful attempt to woo my best friend. All characteristics I try to avoid in men. Then one night, as the hours mounted on my cell phone screen, I found myself drawn to him and thinking to myself, "Maybe..." He wasn't saying anything special, but I didn't want to get off the phone. One topic flowed smoothly into the next with nary an akward silence. We finished each other's sentences and traded sarcastic one liners, claiming, "You left yourself open for that one." Even when my bladder was about to burst I couldn't bear to put him on hold for a moment and break the steady rhythm of conversation and laughter. After four hours and countless "I should go to bed"s that turned into another half hour of chatter we managed to hang up. Pressing END, I no longer thought about all that was wrong with him and considered the possibility that he could just be Mr. Right.
More than five months of melodramatic bullshit proved that he was all wrong for me. Still, as I sat across the restaurant table from my date with The White Boy two weeks ago I found myself missing that Alcoholic West Indian. The date wasn't bad. In fact it could actually be considered good. Yummy food, lots of compliments, funny jokes, no embarassing mishaps. However, something imperceptible was askew. Actually, that something was so indiscernable that I don't think he noticed anything was kind of off. Although the only time we weren't talking was when our mouths were full of pasta or steak, for me the conversation was still lacking. Sure, he asked questions and I answered in detail. He told me all about combat in Iraq, bootcamp, and his many military maneuvers. We got to know each other.
And that was the problem. It wasn't a conversation. It was an info dump. While most of what I learned about The Whiteboy was definitely interesting, it was nothing I wanted to know right away. I understand that the purpose of a first date is for two people to get to know each other and I'm fine with that. But for me, getting to know someone should be like a mining for diamonds. The thrill lies in the unexpected discoveries that are buried underneath the superficial sand. Where's the fun if everything is presented up front?
As he told me how attractive he thought I was I couldn't help but think to myself, The Alcoholic West Indian wouldn't say that. And when he recounted tales from his misguided youth I thought, The Alcoholic West Indian would save that story for a later date. Then I racked my brain to figure out what The Alcoholic West Indian actually would talk about and it finally hit me. NOTHING!
The entire reason why I fell for The Alcoholic West Indian's short, obnoxious, constantly inebriated ass in the first place was the exact same reason I fell for The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. We could spend hours talking about absolutely nothing. From the physics behind deoderant chunks on armpit hair to the unending quotables uttered by my future husband Jay-Z we could talk about anything without ever having tell each other about ourselves. Who we are came through loud and clear so there was no reason to ask or answer any questions. And if a certain topic led to the telling of a personal story that was great, but nothing was ever told just to have something to say.
Don't get me wrong, I did have fun on my date with The Whiteboy. We even hung out the very next day and I'll probably spend more time with him in the future. But it won't go anywhere. Chemistry is created in conversation and he just doesn't know how to talk to me.

Trial and Error

If anyone asks me why I did it, I can give them a lot of reasons. It was 3 a.m. and delirium had set in hours ago. Boredom led me to it. My friend was laughing and I wanted to laugh too. Hello, it was a joke. I had nothing better to do. Morbid curiosity is a bitch. Everyone else was doing it. I was in an emotional downward spiral. Or I could just blame Beyonce for making me keenly aware that I couldn't say he wasn't irreplaceable if I didn't have a replacement for him. Ummm, it was free.

Under normal circumstances I never would have typed my full name along with other personal information, chosen a screenname, and joined ChristianCafe.com, an online dating site. But with all those reasons working together to conspire against me I couldn't help myself. All of the girls at church were doing it. And although their searches yielded less than stellar results, I figured, "why the hell not?" Did I mention it was three in the morning.

Within seconds of registering I received a confirmation email.

Step 1: Complete Your Profile

Q:"What are you looking for in a mate?"

A: I'll know it when I see it

Q: "What role does your faith play in your life?"

A: God's my homie!

Q: "What are some of your hobbies and interests?"

A: Boys and shopping

Step 2: Add a picture - picture must be approved by site before it becomes visible to members.

I'm thinking this picture might not pass inspection . So I'll go with this one. Nothing says wholesome Christian chick like Sesame Street.

Step 3: Sit back and wait for the men to flock.

Easy peasy. Or maybe not. The first two days of the two week trial were uneventful. My profile received several views, but no winks, instant messages, or "hey baby, will you marry me" emails. I'm not into the online dating thing (it's too structured for me. I hate knowing a man's intentions up front), but I was kind of disappointed. I get hit on all the time on non dating websites (social networking is NOT dating so myspace doesn't count), so I was expecting guys to see the fro and the smile then fall in love. Not that I was looking for love or anything of the sort. But somewhere in the back of my mind I kept thinking that maybe, just maybe someone great would sort of find me and we'd sort of hit it off and just when I least expected it I'd be in a sort of quasi relationship with the man of my dreams.

I wanted to make the most of my two week trial. So I went back and edited my profile. I lengethened my answers and tried to temper my wry, sarcastic wit (which Christian guys apparently aren't into) with some straightforwardness (is that a word?). I quoted my favorite scripture (Deuteronomy 6:4), gave a brief description of why my last "relationship" didn't work (he's an asshole), and delved into my love of tap dance and tae kwon do. Satisfied that I had given an accurate, slightly humorous, and detailed account of myself I sat back and waited for the magic to happen.

Well not quite sat back. More like checked my account every 10 minutes to see if I got any hits. Sure enough my profile views increased. And several hours later I received my first message. It was from an overweight 60 something female in my area looking for pen pals. Not quite what I was looking for, but possibly a springboard to better possibilities, no? Better came in the form of an emaciated 40 year old from Sweden who saw my profile and immediately wanted to explore a serious relationship. That little thing called the Atlantic Ocean didn't deter him at all.

When I first signed up for ChristianCafe I promised myself that I would NOT utilize the site's search function to find attractive, eligible men in my area to stalk...umm, I mean contact. I was only using the free trial for experimental purposes and I have a very firm "no trolling for men" policy. Promises are meant to be broken. Looking through the profiles of every 24-34 year old man in the Great Lakes region over 5'10 with a picture, I quickly realized that not searching would've yielded the same results.

By Day 5 I was completely baffled as to why anyone would pay to be a member of that site. I'd received numerous messages from men with bad teeth and no command of the English language.

"Hi. You look nice womn. I very much like too meet yu. I from Nigeria and now life in France. Call so we get married. Love you, Jasper."

The rare men who actually could get his subject and verbs to agree were still a hot ass mess.

"Hi. My name is John. I'm 34 and work for the Department of Corrections in Macon, GA. I enjoy long walks, candlelit dinners, and reading poetry by the fire. I like your profile. If you'd like to email me we can get to know each other via email for exactly 2 weeks. If at the end of two weeks things go smoothly, we shall proceed to talking on the phone. Then we will spend quality time together as just friends to see if we are compatible. Within six months we should be engaged. The wedding will be six months later. Can't wait to hear from you."

Like I said, I have issues with clearly stated intentions.

By day 10 I'd pretty much lost any hope of success. Then something interesting happened. Late one evening while I was surfing the net to get my mind off the fact that the Alcoholic West Indian wasn't speaking to me, I received an instant message.

"Hi! I like your profile. Write back if you want to chat."

It wasn't clever nor witty, but it was in readable English and didn't contain a marriage proposal so it was good enough for me. I wrote back. Something short, polite, and marginally flirtatious. During four days of correspondence I found out that he worked in the Navy and was currently at sea, enjoyed cooking, and was looking forward to hitting dry land. Unfortunately he didn't look enough like Denzel for me to ignore the fact that he was in his mid forties. His time was up when my free trial ended.

ChristianCafe didn't want me to go. They plied me with emails of special discounts and notifications that my profile was still being viewed by wonderful men who could only contact me if I paid CC $90.95 for a three month membership. And for a second, the wheels in my head turned and a little voice said I could be missing an opportunity with a man who really wanted to get to know me but couldn't because I'm not a ChristianCafe member. Then I remembered that that man was probably 5'6" with less than stellar oral hygeine who rode a moped to his job herding goats in the hills of Norway. There's not a good enough reason in the world to make me sign up for that.

Not That Kind of Girl

I have a date. I don't know where or what time. Just a vague agreement to get together on Friday night. I should probably shave my legs, do some laundry, get a bikini wax, stay away from food for the next 72 hours, tweeze my eyebrows, and get my nails done; but I won't. I'm not compelled. There are no butterflies in my stomach, no daydreams of candlelit dinners in my head. I'm not nervous, nor am I excited. My reaction is no reflection on him. He seems nice, amusing, and generally cool. It's not him, it's me.
I hate dating. Actually, I loathe it with every fiber of my being. The idea of spending two hours or more with a practical stranger playing "getting to know you" while pretending to have fun makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Conversations about what I look for in a man peppered with compliments on how great I am make my head hurt. Getting picked up at the beginning of the night and trying to determine whether or not to kiss at the end of it does nothing but raise my blood pressure.
So then why did I agree to go out with this guy? No. It's not for a free meal (although I will not turn one down if offered). I'm bored and I need something to do. For the past six months my Friday nights have consisted of grad school applications, television, fast food, and web surfing. I can go days without seeing another person and figured human interaction would do me some good. Now I'm not so sure. My couch is much more appealing than a date.
Don't get me wrong, I definitely desire male companionship. It's just that I prefer to get that companionship without going on a date. To me dates are stifling and forced. You're obviously out with that person to see if there is "something there." It's like the entire night has an objective and meeting that objective is a huge cloud over everything that's said and done. No thank you!
Obviously, I've gotten close (very close) to a few men here and there in my 26 years. Interestingly, the men I've been closest to never asked me on a date. We wound up together accidentally. I fell for the Idiot Who Made Me Cry when I went over to his place to watch a movie. I knew the Alcoholic West Indian for years before I even considered him a viable member of the opposite sex. The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry....well I don't even know how the hell that started, but I know it wasn't with a date. All of these "relationships" developed unconsciously. We were hanging out, talking, and chilling when all of a sudden something clicked. There was no pressure to like one another because that was never the original intention. None of them asked to get to know me better, they just did it. No one stated any intentions, made any overtures, or set anything up. It all just happened. I guess they spoiled me. When everything starts so easily the idea of trying to put something in motion is exhausting. True, none of those situations ended very well (although I'm not sure that two of the three have actually ended). Hmmmm....maybe that approach doesn't work too well over the long haul. And while it is true that doing the same thing over and over with the same result is the definition of insanity, I think I'd prefer to drive myself crazy for a little while longer. It beats the hell out staring across from a perfect stranger as he asks,"So what are you looking for in a man?"

Same Old Story

I have an irrational fear of relationships. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being snuggled up on a couch with a 6'0 piece of man candy as he gets his fingers tangled in my wooly fro. Whispering words of endearment over the phone gives me butterflies. I love being in serious like. My problem is the actual idea of a full fledged relationship. The responsibility of having to consider someone else besides myself, the commitment, the labels. It makes my skin crawl. No matter how much I like a guy the idea of him being my boyfriend scares the shit out of me.
And yet whenever something "new" starts, I always envision it lasting for a long while. In those daydreams I see the gift exchange at Christmas, me giving him something personal with tons of sentimental value that shows that I've been paying attention for the last three months. I envision the soft, lingering kiss at the stroke of midnight on Jan 1. And of course I see the most romantic movie night, complete with 80s blockbusters and extra cheese pan pizza on Valentines Day (hey, I'm a cheap date). Mind you all of this will of course occur without an actual relationship.
Oh, the best laid plans. I have a great habit of getting into something new during the summer and falling out of it right in time keep those visions of winter holiday snuggling bliss as strictly visions.
And this year is of course no different. Valentines day came and went with not a phone call, card, or gift from any man expressing his undying devotion (at least for the day) for me. I don't know if I'm disappointed or not. See, I don't really know if I was supposed to expect anything this year. The possibility of the Alcoholic West Indian making a reappearance for Cupid's day was a longshot. He's still got another two months of not speaking to me before he shows back up. But The Guy Who Shouldn't Make Me Cry (and lately is NOT) is definitely back in the picture. The thing is this time, everything is a lot more casual. And not because I'm playing casual just so he won't think I'm a clingy chick and maybe stick around for a while, but because honestly I don't want to be that serious and neither does he. Yet, it still would've been nice to get more than a chain text message to the effect that if I get this rose @>------- from 10 people then I'm really loved. One out of ten, what does that say?