Shake It Off

Slowly coming to terms with liking Taylor Swift. Feel alarmed that I'm relating to 'Shake It Off' at such a deep level. Thank you for your thoughts and prayers during these difficult times.

This mom's parody is pretty on point.

Casual Sex Education

This is one class they didn’t but should’ve taught in school. What’s the point of F=ma when what we're dealing with are Ps and Vs?

I was brought up to believe that sex is sacred. And I still stand by this belief. But, waiting till marriage? Okay… That’s an interesting perspective, a bit extreme even for me. And why has the casual sexual relationship gotten such a bad rep lately? Sleeping with someone without wanting to be in a serious committed relationship with him or her isn’t necessarily an atrocious act. (If you’re going to pull a quote from the Bible, can you just not?) What is heinous though, is Darren Wilson not being indicted for shooting an unarmed Michael Brown. Chew on that instead.

This is just an assumption, but I’m confident that there’s quite a bit of truth in this: lots of twentysomethings either aren’t ready to be in real relationships or else simply choose not to be, but still want to get laid – yes, this one is also you, my sweet Maz. Everyone is at a unique place in his or her life, we’re all spinning on our own axis at our own speed, each person has distinct and differing end goals. I don’t take it personally.

Is it so unthinkable that a girl may find a guy cool, be sexually attracted to him, treat him with respect, and – wait for it – not want to lock it down with monogamy? This girl does not exist! If you know a girl who fulfills all aforementioned criterions, please shoot her in the face immediately. She is spoiling the market for the rest of us. *Ahem* Whore. Oh my god, you guys! I’m just kidding, okay????

Now let’s be realistic and think about it with the roles reversed cuz it’s easier. Is it so impossible? Is it so wrong to have a worthwhile sexual relationship with someone without any intentions of taking it further? I’m asking these questions as if I have the answers, but I honestly don’t. I mean, I just learned how to do sex last week by watching Game of Thrones. So I’m sorry if I was a little oafish under the sheets. And I’m also sorry for killing your whole family.

All I know is that you get to release some – or in certain cases, a lot of – repressed sexual energy. You get to have a carefree, intimate interaction with someone whose company you enjoy. You get to discover new things about yourself and your partner. You get to learn new moves you’d never imagine possible. Who is getting the short end of the stick here, really? Only people who want to cuddle, because it’s apparently not the norm in these situations as I’ve learnt the hard and embarrassing way. (There’s no cuddling in Game of Thrones, just FYI.)

It just seems to me that when nobody is fucking you, you’re fucking yourself (over). Don’t get me wrong, I’m not administering casual sex as the quick fix to life’s woes. But. We’re all adults; we shouldn’t need to feel ashamed about having sex with someone whom we don’t see a future with. Telling a girl you love her just to get into her pants, only to ignore her once you have, is obviously a dick move. You don't need me to tell you that. So is giving her a handshake after sex. It may get your point across loud and clear that ya’ll are just friends, but there are better ways to go about this. Such as, I don’t know, being sincere and talking about it before screwing each other. (As if that’s ever happened in history.) A significant amount of discretion is essential, but as long as nobody is being a moron about it, laying the cards out on the table right from the get-go may actually work to everyone’s advantage.

That being said, even though I do not see any disturbing flaws with the no-strings-attached arrangement, I definitely was not built to handle it. I need the strings – bungee cords, if I’m being direct and specific. My default emotional setting is ‘ALL IN’. There is no possibility of turning it down a notch, or off for that matter. Sex with another person will always mean something – whether “it’s complicated” or you’re “in an open relationship” or “widowed”. Someone is inside you/you are inside someone. Hello??! How is that not a big deal?

Double Dare 2014

The one where I make at least 3 major mistakes. And about 23746873 minor ones. Completely sober 

After we basically dared each other to go on another date by having a really hot post-cycle shag – is that magnificent or fucked up? I honestly can’t tell – it was my turn to be creative about what we could do next Saturday.

Mother (this one is actually you, Mazzy) has always warned me against putting all my eggs in one basket. It’s common sense, really, and a good rule to live by, especially when applied to dating and hedge funds. But, as one would’ve guessed, I’ve never been able to effectively adopt this policy into my life, choosing instead to act in favour of my all-or-nothing extremist – I prefer the term avant-garde, but don’t want to come off too pompous; I need you to like me – tendencies.

What I should’ve done was to take up Tom’s offer to grab dinner some time. Or Pete’s offer for coffee, or even Alex’s offer to teach me how to shoot hoops. But what I did was suggest a hike through the forest. And I wasn’t joking. (Really creative, tell me about it.) Thankfully, it stormed. In the spirit of adventure, Sean decided that we would go to the theatre for A Midsummer’s Night Dream.

As is usual, I was a bit dazed during the play. C’mon, you guys, I don’t even know what’s going on in Modern Family half the time. (Are Mitchell and Cameron gay?) Granted, I wasn’t paying full attention to the stage because I was admiring Sean’s face every ten minutes. But they had me at act I, scene i, line 1 with their Shakespearean English (gibberish), that was way too fast and lost in thick accents.

What I did manage to take away from the play was the comforting fact that with the help of fairies and some magic, we can make anyone fall in love with us. (Phew!) And what I found more comforting yet, was the fact that even in the mid-1590s, love was just as erratic, incomprehensible and exceptionally powerful as it is today. Love didn’t evolve over the centuries to become this monster due to our rising carbon emissions or whatever it is we do as humans to ruin beautiful things. It did and continues to inspire people to behave ludicrously; it’s been a monster all along, nobody has been spared.

Hand to God, I haven’t woken up in enough morning-afters to know what the proper etiquette is. I considered pulling an Irish Goodbye, which I’ve done once thinking it would be to my benefit, but I actually felt worse believe or not. So I decided to just wing it at the other extreme by hiding under the covers and pretending to be asleep while Sean went about his morning routine.

Maybe if I lay very still, he’d forget that I’m even here. Or maybe if I closed my eyes and hugged my knees tight enough, I’d wake up back in my own bed. Is there an app for this already? There should be, pretty big market I think. Teleport of Shame, I’d call it. Then he collapsed back into bed saying, “Do you want to get some breakfast? I’m starving.” Despite experiencing a near fatal aneurism while dressing myself, I managed to crack the worst joke ever along the lines of how it was really sweet of him to take his hooker out for Eggs Benedict. Do not do this. Please. Just… No.

7/11

The queen bee has dropped a new beat and awesome video to distract us from the bleakness of reality. Yaaaaaasssssss!

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

This one's for us quirky girls: Go ride a bike and then go fix yourself, hon

I’m not a huge fan of outdoor physical activity, to be frank, or any kind of physical activity for that matter. The old me would’ve gone something like, ‘Dear “let’s go bike riding this Saturday” dude, this obviously isn’t gonna work out. Have a nice life.’ But the new me is much more fun and outgoing, more – for lack of a better word – #YOLO. She can’t be tamed, really.

The thunderstorm I’d been praying for didn’t happen, so Sean rented a 2-seater surrey bike for us. I wasn’t crazy about it initially because it looked ridiculous. But half a minute in, I realized that only he could control the steering, and just one person (Ie: not me) really needed to do the paddling, so it worked out being a fantastic idea.

With no chance to load up on liquid courage, I dug my hands into my pockets to rummage for whatever scraps of charisma and confidence I could use to see me through the coastal ride. He told me about how the surrey bike reminded him of ChuckleVision, a comedy series he'd watched as a kid growing up. In exchange, I divulged stories shedding light on how I’d gotten this great personality of mine. “Did you go to some kind of boot camp where you had a sense of humour drilled into you?” he’d asked me a few days back, which was his clever way of stereotyping and insulting my culture, but at the same time celebrating the fact that I’d somehow come out the other side.

After an hour or so of cycling up and down the coast, we decided to grab some food. Our conversation continued to flow over truffle fries, sliders, grilled salmon and milkshakes. Even though we were reasonably full, a chocolate lava cake at the next table had caught my eye. I’ve never been one to say no to dessert, reason being, I can’t.

This, along with my habit of washing my hair only twice weekly, using olive oil to moisturize my skin, my staunch faith in astrology and tarot cards, my defiance against my parents’ wishes for me to get a bachelor’s degree (in my defense, I’m really working on the bachelor aspect), my distrust of doctors and the healthcare industry, my obsession with growing my own vegetables, my apprehension of microwaves – I could go on forever – I believe, are quirks. And it’s quirks like these that bring to light the fact that I am, however idiotic, an individual. We’re all crazy inside anyway, some of us are just better than others at masquerading as sane people. #phonies

I used to think that if we wanted to find love and happiness, all we had to do was stop caring about what other people think and concentrate instead on staying true to ourselves and validating our real emotions. Because if someone doesn’t appreciate you for being the incredibly real and authentic person that you are, what’s the point?

Yet as we all know, revealing our true self to someone is the first step to marriage, a cozy cottage along the River Thames, 5 kids, and possibly a divorce. So that’s the point, I guess. Maybe, just maybe, we’ve taken the “Love Me For Me” movement a bit too far this time. It’s understandable to want someone who is willing and able to accept that we’re not perfect. But if there’s something inherently off about our lives or person that needs fixing, then a character overhaul may be beneficial to all parties involved.

After dinner, the sky looked threatening. It may have just gotten a bit darker because the sun was about setting, since we’re being completely honest with each other here. But Sean and I needed the excuse of a looming storm to head back to his place for a DVD. Spoiler alert: we all know how that story ends.

Appropriateness and Alcohol

U guys, I made the switch from red wine to white wine for two weeks and now I can’t stand red wine. Not even my beloved and inexpensive Canonico Salernto Rosso! K that’s all I got bye
Wait does no one care about my wine journey? Mary? Is this thing on?

“Let’s go bike riding along the East coast,” Sean suggested. “I kinda like your style, player,” I conceded.

Did I kinda really?

Before Saturday’s cycling, he invited me to watch Interstellar with him when his housemate bailed. Don’t hate me but I’m about to reveal a major spoiler: IT’S NOT VERY GOOD!!!!!! It was a cool movie with pretty impressive visuals, but we walked out of the theater slightly past midnight feeling a bit uneasy about what had just happened. We were literally and figuratively seeing stars. Big mistake not buying the popcorn, I think. Then he stuck me into a cab and sent me on my way home.

The night began replaying in my mind as the cab pulled away. (Spoiler alert: my brain can be quite quick in certain situations.) The time bending kind of felt like Interstellar all over again but a bit more Gravity, now that I was in a cab and felt an element of motion sickness as well. Had my hands been too clammy? Was it because I ate significantly more of the crème brûlée that we’d meant to share 50/50?

At a red light, I spotted a tabby grooming itself next to a trash bin and felt a twinge of envy as I thought about the chillness of most cats. Then my focus shifted to the trash bin, which seemed unfazed by the cat. Oh, to be a trash bin... What could’ve possessed him to put me in a cab and wave goodbye like a decent man? I’m sure we all like propriety, but I definitely wasn’t used to it or very comfortable with it when it involved the opposite gender.

Further complicating matters was the alcohol ban that Sean had imposed on himself, which according to the man was more “a conscious decision to improve his (my) health briefly” than an attempt to “get fit and look super hot for his (my) next Asian girlfriend.” Not having whisky or wine to lubricate our hangouts – dates, if I may be so bold – was yet another foreign concept to me, which I reckoned was going to be a pain in the arse. For both of us. Oops!

Note to self – Cc: Secretary of Dates aforementioned paragraphs when I find one.

Note to Sean – the only thing we’re gonna be getting drunk on is love, hon. Amirite?

Note to all – I’m currently in the middle of a (alcohol and non-alcohol) cabinet reshuffle. Will someone please hide the Patrón behind the Grey Goose? I’m getting a hangover just looking at it. Also on the hunt for a Secretary of State of My Mind and Secretary of Hair and Makeup, since I fired myself from all three positions. Email CV to sssssomegirl@gmail.com. Republicans and fans of The Jonas Brothers need not apply, thank you.

In truth though, with alcohol now out of the equation, there was one thing less to worry about. Gaining perspective and reaching happy epiphanies about life were undoubtedly going to be a lot harder hereinafter. But I’d already managed to scare Sean off a bit (understatement) by simply being myself, so if we could just keep Viola, my drunken alter ego, in the closet for, maybe… ever?? That would be so helpful and imperative to our union. She just needs one and a half glasses of wine before she’s bouncing off sofas, frantically and uncoordinatedly waving her limbs at the DJ and screaming at the bartender for shots. “Make it extra strong, I’m really feeling it tonight!” (Attn: Chief of Staff)

A lot of us – myself included – find comfort in being able to use the excuse of intoxication to explain our otherwise unexplainable behavior. Luckily for Viola, she’s never actually committed anything that she’s woken up regretting big time. It’s both a blessing and a curse that there’s only a small window of opportunity for drunken fun and mishap to occur. Some say it’s a good 15 minutes from the time she starts climbing on elevated surfaces before she discreetly creeps to a corner to curl up and die. Others have argued it’s 3 minutes, at most. Everyone is drunk, nobody really knows.

Also unresolved and currently unstudied, are the inebriated tendencies of Viola such as binging on McDonald’s fries, which she would never lay a sober finger on. Or reapplying her eyeliner and lipstick with trembling hands and only half a mind, to re-emerge from the ladies’ looking like the Joker in The Dark Knight. Or slamming her bedroom door and tearing her own dress off as though she was suddenly allergic to it. Or the loss of foresight and nimbleness in enforcing protective latex legislations in bed.

As long as we learn from our boozy booboos and make a conscious (see what I did there) effort to steer clear of them in future, it’s fine – I think. There’s nothing worse than getting into bed with a hard nine after a hazy night and waking up next to a soft five the following morning, except getting into bed with a hard nine after a hazy night and waking up next to a soft five the following morning again. Actually, worse still, is making such mistakes under the influence of nothing but yourself. Guilty as charged.

You're all right, Liz. I think.

The Art of Texting

We break down the complexity of texting into text bombs, politics and the 27-minute rule. You're welcome!
 

Sean and I continued to text throughout the week. If you know me – which you don’t, cuz I’m just some girl – you’d know that I’m a maniacal texter when I’m not busy. The only time I’m actually busy is between 8 and 9 in the morning when I do a few rounds of the sun salutation and then eat a bowl of warm oats, so on most days I ended up text bombing him. It’s considerably different than photo bombing, but seems to evoke the same level of annoyance from those who fall victim.

Me: Heyy

Me: Heyyyyyy

Me: Heyy

Me: Hay (is for horses. Lol!)

Me: Hi there

Two minutes pass.

Me: Hello

Another minute passes.

Me: HeyyyyyyOMGIHAVEACRUSHONYOUyyyy

Me: You have ten seconds to say hi back or we are thru!!!!!

Me: 10

Me: 9

Me: 8

Me: 7…7 ½

Me: 6

… You get the idea. Not only did I showcase my inability to countdown (seven and a half comes before seven,) but I also alluded to mental illness. Fortunately, I’ve since learnt how to deal with the afternoon radio silence while he is busy changing lives for the better at work.

Texting has become a main form of communication for most of us and this is a genuine cause for concern because it’s not the most authentic mode of interaction, given that we can edit, gap silences, and even get our girlfriends to craft the perfect message on our behalf. Aside from the absence of verbal and non-verbal cues such as tone, facial expression and body language, everyone decodes messages differently.

Now I’m going to try to use my brain for a bit because people are starting to accuse me of just letting it sit there and take up space in my head. According to Stuart Hall’s encoding/decoding theory, people interpret messages quite uniquely and personally based on several external variables, most notably life experiences and cultural background. And in a medium such as text messaging, which is often devoid of clear context, the receiver shapes the meaning of the message much more than the sender.

Don’t you find this so terrifyingly dangerous? Even though it was probably a massive waste of money and must’ve been such a pain travelling all the way to Brisbane, I guess this is why our world leaders have these annual summits instead of just trashing everything out in a Whatsapp group chat, right? Sure, u may now b able 2 mute us for a yr, Kim Jong-un, but tht’s not gonna stop us from gossiping abt how u just had ur stomach stapled in Beijing. We know what u did last summer, son. Haha!! N Obama is betting a nuclear missile tht ur gonna fix ur nose next, btw.

And those read receipts? Seriously???? As it is, there are already a multitude of ways I can experience rejection at any given moment. I don't need to know you read my text 8 hours ago and couldn't manage a simple reply. But could manage a retweet about some Manchester United player.

Then there is the issue regarding our overuse of humour, teasing and bantering, which is a classic approach of communicating without really saying anything of real significance. This is most typical of English-speaking cultures (read: British), as they tend to use sarcasm and irony as a means to imply affection rather than actually showing it.

“How about you go (sarcastic) at the end of your messages when you’re being sarcastic,” I proposed, after he sent me down the second-guessing spiral of doom once more. “No. How about every time I message you, you read it, and then flip a coin. Heads I’m sarcastic, tails not. Work out about right,” he retorted. “How about I just flip you the bird?” I quipped.

We’ve given texting the power to dictate much of our relationships. Overkill can ruin a potential relationship before it’s even had the chance to blossom, whereas not being attentive to one’s phone can send a message of indifference, particularly in the primordial stages of a burgeoning whirlwind romance. Finding that balance can be tricky, especially in this age where texting is now a necessary component of establishing human intimacy.

I’m still learning how to turn on my charm and negotiate between witty banter and meaningful conversation. But one thing I do know is that no talk is always better than small talk. Live by this rule. Cut the “Hey.” “Sup.” “NM, you?” Throat clearing (and climaxing) can be achieved autonomously.

I absolutely despise how we seem to determine who has the upper hand by playing the game of who-is-going-to-text-who-first. (No prizes for guessing who texts first 95% of the time.) I’ve never understood the connection between being the first person to text after a lull and being considered weaker and hence clearly no longer worth pursuing. I've been conditioning myself to be too cool to care, but I still don't get why we have to wait three days to call, blow them off to keep them at a distance, purposefully show up a little late, or let the phone ring at least eight times before answering.

We place so much weight on seeming detached and unavailable until the last possible moment, afraid we might scare them off by revealing our interest in them. “Wait, like, 27 minutes,” was the advice given to me by my sage friend, with all the world-weariness of someone who had clearly mastered the art of texting.

“Are you free this Saturday, for something completely unrelated to pasta and DVD?” he texted on Wednesday evening. I endured 2-Mississippi seconds – felt like eternity, mind you – before asking, “What would that be?” It’s always nice when a date is set up more than two hours in advance, suggesting that it involved a degree of forethought.

My First Date Ever

OKCUPID SCARES ME. SAME WITH TINDER. I DONT UNDERSTAND WHY ITS SO HARD. OUR PARENTS WERE MARRIED AND PREGS BY 22.

I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22 – because that is my actual age, ha ha! Do I believe that “everything will be all right if we just keep dancing like we’re 22, 22?” Maybe. But when my mom was 22, she wasn’t grinding and shuffling her way around problems. In fact, she’d already been married to my dad for a couple of years and given birth to their first child. Nothing really illustrates a generational shift quite like comparing your life to your parents', hey? Freakyyyyy…

The dating landscape has definitely evolved over the decades. Things aren’t what they once were. Wouldn’t it be so weird if it hadn’t changed, though? Almost all other aspects of life has changed, why should the way we date be an exception?

“So when are we going to grab that slice of pizza?” Sean asked.

First things first: Contrary to popular belief, a first date is not the first time a man asks you to hang out to grab coffee or beer (or pizza). A first date is when a man asks you directly to do something with him – just him – and it’s a time that he has specifically set aside and made special. The reason I’m making this clarification is that I myself was a bit confused. “Let’s hang out tonight, I have a nice bottle of wine we can share”, “let me cook you dinner, I will make you amazing pasta”, “wanna come over for a swim and DVD?” seem like sweet date propositions – which they are in their own right – but if you hardly know the guy, don’t fall for his creative variations of “DTF?”

Although Sean’s extension of the olive branch was not a straightforward suggestion for us to bone on a Friday night, it was not an invitation to a date either. “I hope you aren’t taking me to a Pizza Hut,” I replied. “I’m not taking you anywhere. It’s a joint venture,” he shot back. My enthusiasm immediately waned and our planning stalled. We live in a tight economy and go on an average of about 7 ‘dates’ per week, so there is a dire need to keep them cheap and casual. A fancy dinner? You’d be so lucky to get a drink, hon.

At 7:30pm, he suggested an Italian place that was a 10-minute walk from his place to which I politely declined. Don’t ever let yourself be fooled by a man thinking, “how little effort can I put in to convince her that I’m putting in a whole lot of effort so that I can get…dat ass?”

The next day he asked if I had an Instagram account. I was hesitant at first because those filtered squares are quite literally the windows to my soul (aka Crazy Town) and would surely scare him off. But I couldn’t care less. What’s one less handsome British boy to talk to? A huge relief, to be honest.

I wasn’t expecting to hear from him again but on Sunday afternoon, he tried to lure me to his place for a swim. Again, I politely declined. “Let’s find a time we are both free then. That’s how this usually works,” he said. “Sure, which day is good for you?” I asked. “Do you wanna get lunch on Tuesday? I’ll take you to a Lebanese place which is deliciousssss,” he responded. “Sounds good. You’re taking me?” I asked, both intrigued and skeptical. “Yes. My darling, it would be my honour,” he replied coolly.

In retrospect, that was the defining moment I went from being a girl whom he’d only attempt to sleep with to being a girl he’d consider dating. (Kudos to me.) But, why? And how??

Ultimately, it boils down to the simple fact that our goals determine our actions. It’s a fatal error on our part when we expect our goals to adjust and adapt to our actions. In other words, we must always act to fulfill the requirements for our goals. If your goal is to go on a date – and I mean a real date – then behave the way a girl worthy of a date would carry herself and play the game the way the game should be played – not unhealthy mind games.

This is not about playing hard to get or being mysterious and ever so elusive. This is about having a purpose for your love life. Trust me, the knowledge of just knowing what you want will be your Magic 8-Ball in knowing when to walk away and knowing when you have a proper chap in your hands. It’s how I’ve avoided getting caught up in sloppy booty calls because I know that it is a relationship that my heart truly desires.

Sean scheduling a couple of hours in the middle of his workday to take me to have kebabs was just about the most romantic gesture any man has ever done for me in this modern age. (It’s no big secret that I haven’t been very lucky with men.) We both lived up to our witty virtual personas. He was just as, if not more, dashing seated across me than in his pictures. We exchanged stories; I discovered that he’s unusually family-oriented, doesn’t particularly fancy our local hawker fare and is much more mature than any 24-year-old I’ve met.

"I knew you were never going to come swimming at my place, by the way," he said with a smirk while enjoying his hummus. Similar to how we like to administer tests on the sly to gain insight on a man's true nature and evaluate his character, men are also sizing us up with every word that rolls off our tongue and selfie we post on Instagram, among other things. We need consistency in the people we date, because it's hard to take anyone who is inconsistent too seriously.

We made our way back to his office tower when we were done with our food and he bent at a right angle to peck me goodbye on my cheeks. I elbowed my way through the lunch crowd of the business district, feeling out of place but flushed with delight.

Lust At First Swipe

The blossoming of a modern day romance. A severe case of genital ADD. The importance of pizza. A love for British boys.

With a long track record of being in a series of unfortunate but serious monogamous relationships almost back-to-back, jumping head first into the deep end of the dating pool has proven to be not my wisest decision yet. (Why am I not surprised?) My experience thus far fluctuates between giving me butterflies in my stomach and between my legs, being a culture shock, and an endless stream of anxiety, confusion and frustration.

This modern day romance began when both our kindred Tindered spirits decidedly swiped right. “Nice smile,” he texted. “Nice abs,” I replied, almost three hours later. (For the purpose of this article and in honor of the name given to him at birth by his parents, let’s call him Sean.) It was our 21^st century rendition of “did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”

With online dating gaining mainstream acceptance and its taboo dissipating quickly to zilch, more people are meeting each other through this medium, on websites such as OKCupid and mobile applications such as Tinder, which have now become the unofficial playground for twentysomethings who aren’t typically into online dating but are tired of being single. (Hey, what’s up? You too?) Frankly speaking, I’ve only been single for something like 4 months, so I’m not sure if I actually belong to this category of bored singles. Online dating is certainly not for everyone, but it’s an option at our disposal today.

This phenomenon has greatly broadened our horizon of potential dates we have at our fingertips. Consequently, reinforced our hyper-casual dating attitude and given most of us a severe case of penis and vagina ADD. Meeting new people has never been easier and it’s become super trendy to cycle hastily through lots of suitors and to date multiple people at any given time. What else is one to do with a seemingly endless catalogue of singles who are ready to mingle? (Eat Pringles?? I didn't think so.)

Getting to know new people adds spice to the adventure we call life. You don’t have to marry the guy or even kiss him; just talking to him will open your eyes to new experiences and outlooks on life. What makes this situation even more appealing is that there’s no context at all; you owe them nothing. You don’t know their family or friends. You’re in, you’re out. Good chat, mate. Don’t Facebook me. Cya later/never.

Admittedly, I wasn’t very interested in continuing my conversation with Sean at the beginning. He called me “dull” after I’d confided that my favourite pizza topping was Quattro formaggi. At the other end of the spectrum of the bold and exciting were his picks, BBQ chicken and pineapples, so you kind of already know that he’s a real daredevil himself. #sarcasm #Britishhumour #funnynotfunny

Aside from how people speak of their mothers and treat waiters, it’s my personal belief that you can tell a lot about someone by his or her favourite pizza toppings. Ie: at first glance, I'm just glorified cheese on toast. But a couple of bites in, you slowly learn that I'm four types of cheese, and pretty intense flavours at that. The devil is in the details after all, is it not? With regards to Sean, I don't know him well enough to churn out a complete character analysis at this moment, but what I do know is that he is kind of old-fashioned when it comes to courting, fancies routine or some sort of structure, finds comfort in familiarity, and always wears his seatbelt even in the back of a cab unless he is too drunk.

In reality, I was worn out from repeating the same “getting to know you” conversation, which initially started out like that catchy tune from The King and I but was fast becoming vapid. I was also almost brain dead from deciphering cycles of text messages all day, which – not to brag – requires the code-breaking skills of a cold war spy. Now don’t get me wrong, I love checking my phone and reading nice messages from four different guys at once (Maz, especially, just cuz he is SO FUNNY AND SMART), but always having to be on my ‘A game’ and constantly dishing out flirtatious and witty responses can be pretty taxing.

To add to that, I have a super soft spot – reportedly located 2-3 inches up my anterior vaginal wall between the vaginal opening and the urethra – for British boys. Talking to them is extremely exhausting, mentally draining even. If you’ve had a conversation with one, you’ll know exactly what I mean by that. You’d have either loved it or hated it. I just so happened to absolutely love it and was talking to a handful of them. (And they are a handful.)

All in all, playing the field took a lot more brainpower than I’d imagined, and I commend those who do this regularly or for extended periods. (Let’s not confuse this with cheating, you guys.) Despite all the sleazy people you will probably have to encounter en route to finding prince charming, taking a (skinny) dip in the dating pool is worth the experience. My month-long stint moonlighting as a professional serial dater has taught me a lot about who I am as an individual. And even more about my own personal tastes, preferences and standards for the kind of person I want to involve myself with in the future. Although, for sanity’s sake, I would recommend sticking to a smaller number than 18 men in 30 days – that was a bit overwhelming.

“What are you doing right now?” he texted. “Devouring a chocolate bar,” I replied. And then my phone rang. The notion that nobody picks up the phone and calls anyone these days suggests that if someone does actually pick up the phone and call, he or she is a gem – a keeper, if I may. Yet the very act of calling someone on the phone takes about a whooping three seconds of extra fingering. Worth the praise? I don’t know. But this was a unique selling proposition (USP) of his and it made him stand out, which I would later learn at lunch that he quite literally does stand out in the crowd at an astounding 193cm.

The Dating Games

This picture pretty much captures my attitude towards dating

This is my first real foray into dating and I’m actually having a lot of fun despite not knowing any rules of the game. Before I go any further, my ego is demanding I mention how touching and inspiring it is to see myself putting myself out there again; to get loved or to get burned by love; and to get my heart undoubtedly smashed by the beauty and terror of dating. Side note: I’d say I’m pretty self-aware and do this often – step out of my own body and watch myself going through the motions as an impartial spectator – don’t look at me that way, it’s not weird at all. It’s exactly what you need to grow out of the paradox of insecurities and arrogance that define youth.

Up until 6 weeks ago, I was in denial about the demise of my relationship. I will admit. I wrote about “waiting” and “trusting your gut” and “crossing your fingers” and “hoping for the best” because honestly, when your buoyfriend leaves you to drown in a pool of desperation, what else can you do? I mean, aside from taking one too many tequila shots and spamming one’s now-exboyfriend’s inbox with psychotic and pleading emails, of course.

He broke up with me because he “didn’t want to be in a relationship”. Seriously, babes? Sometimes, we have to open our discerning eyes and read between the lines. It’s the sole reason we study Literature in high school. He didn’t want to be in a relationship, maybe true; but more specifically and more importantly, he didn’t want to be in a relationship  – here comes the punchline  – with me. Fair enough, but this is a hard-hitting fact to accept. Especially when you know that you’re the best person ever and why doesn’t he realize that? But once the crying is done, organize that messy bleeding heart, jump back on the high horse and wreak havoc. The only way forward is to be reconciled with the past and pursue personal growth (and men with ridiculously chiseled bods) with vigilant optimism, amirite?

Going on dates is both thrilling and stress inducing – mostly stress inducing. What I have to constantly remind myself, in order to Keep Calm and Date On, is that a date isn’t a performance, a competition or an audition for a role; it’s merely a means of getting to know somebody. Nobody should be trying to make a statement or meet some arbitrary standards to prove themselves worthy of a second date, of sex, of a relationship; we’re all in the same boat, just trying to form a meaningful connection with another fellow human being.

And just FYI, if you get invited out or if, heaven forbid, you should ask someone out and they say “yes”, half the battle has already been won. People – gonna make a sweeping statement now, but generally – don’t go on dates with people they don’t like. In fact, it’s quite the opposite; people go out with people they are interested in and want to get to know. Now comes the groundbreaking revelation: your date wants everything to go well just as badly as you do. So don’t worry about that stupid piece of salami that was supposed to go gracefully into your mouth but ended up falling into your lap. You are still the cool, witty, charming person they’ve been hoping to meet. And honestly, you’re both hoping for the same thing. As the saying goes, may the odds be ever in your favor.