Werk It

We're either trying to get laid or trying to get paid. Story of our lives…

A bizarre idea popped into my head last night while I was in bed listening to Ja Rule with a steady draft of cold air blowing over my face. Seeing how my Tinder endeavours have compromised my prospects of ever running for political office, I'm in search of a Plan B. I pondered my job qualifications – adequate at mono tasking, knows how to open Photoshop application on a MacBook Pro, motivated by fear, unconventionally bold and beautiful. “What if I really applied myself…” I thought, “nahh.” But I remain open to your suggestions.

My career path only extends as far as half an arm’s length to date; yet it has already deviated from those of my parents. Theirs was a generation raised to believe practical and secure employment was born out of years of hard work, which – lucky for them – more than paid off when they graduated from being insufferable hippies and fell into the sweet embrace of unprecedented economic prosperity.

Although they managed to milk the most out of Keynesian economics and may now be looking forward to spending their retirement luxuriating in the pension system’s last hurrah, most of them did a horrendous job of juggling work and life. Drawing back to the point about opportunity cost, everything comes at a price.

Young people today are acutely aware that it’s nearly impossible to have it all, unless you’re one of those rare breed of Type A lunatics who actually does. (Eg: Maz) This has consequently led to a paradigm shift in our values and a review of the definition of success. Just FYI: Recently added to the venerable Oxford English Dictionary in their March 2014 update, were the words cunted, cunting, cuntish and cunty.

Time and attention have overtaken money and status as our most precious resource. And there's a growing emphasis on fulfilment, self-expression and social responsibility. We want integrated and holistic lives where we don’t have to behave like corporate psychopaths in one context, and benevolent, conscientious countrymen in the other. It’s through an intricate and highly individual dance of enlightenment, otherwise known as the Harlem Shake, that we are able to discover what our strengths are and use them to belong to and in the service of something bigger than us.

Even though it makes little financial sense, a significant number of us are inclined to work unpaid internships (looking at you, Lucas Leclere, for providing free labour to Chanel for an entire year), do volunteer work, and start ventures we believe in rather than settle into “safe” corporate jobs. And get this – the most talented of us aren’t going to climb the ladders of others. No siree!

It’s no longer kosher to spend decades – let alone years – paying our dues before a middle manager allows us to indulge in a slice of pie filled with slightly interesting projects. Pity. I was really looking forward to pouring 60-80 hours each week doing uninspiring work that lacks meaning. Maybe in another life. The end is mighty nigh for top-down management, as we twist the arms of corporations to amend their rigid traditions and adapt. Or else we simply up and leave for greener pastures.

We live for the moment; it’s easier to relate to Mr. Right Now than Mr. Right. #Pitbull. Our world has proven that everything is transient, nothing is a guarantee – from nationwide layoffs to war to soaring divorce rates to watching our parents’ net worth get wiped out when the housing bubble burst to the precipitous fall of Bill Cosby to the supermarket produce guy constantly moving the nectarines – please stop, life is hard enough. There’s not a lot we can count on. Life is uncertain. We aren't particularly motivated by promotion plans for five years from now. Especially after we've Heard ‘Em Say, “nothing ever promised tomorrow today.” (And nothing lasts forever but be honest babe, it hurts but it may be the only way.)

We’re said to have "poor work ethics." Haters gonna have a semi-valid point sometimes. We definitely have a self-centered approach to our work, but it’s not necessarily the bane that it may initially appear to be. We are dedicated to accomplishing our tasks well, and we’re innovative in figuring out the most efficient ways to go about it. Unfortunately, we haven’t been raised in a manner that demands us to look around and see what should be done next. So we just do what we have to do. And we do it well. Then consider ourselves done.

Are we not just filling the days between the weekends, anyway?

Jeffy And The Brain

Figuring out that you’re probably never going to figure it out, is the first step to figuring it out. Old people need to chill out. Except Jeffy – he’s cool. I don’t usually like to point fingers, but I’m blaming the brain for this one.

My thoughts, though few, are currently all over the place. I think I’ve said too much that I’ve confused myself – happens very often. But basically we’ve come under fire for taking too long to grow up, right?

What does that even mean? Too long?? Sounds pretty subjective to me. Did you learn ANYTHING from watching Interstellar, mate? That perhaps time is relative? Or that love is a force in Science, which transcends dimensions and can’t be quantified? Or that we can use the force of love to guide us through a baffling array of time-rooms, find our 10-year-old daughter, and communicate with her using Morse code (because our daughter is that smart. And the force of our love will help her understand)? Or at the very least, that setting fire to a cornfield is a good way to distract your brother?

Picking up where we left off in this grand Gen Y discussion, it’s an honour to introduce you to my main man, Jeffery Jensen Arnett. Even though Jeffy (yea, we’re on nickname basis now) is not actually one of us, meaning he’s old – judging from his hair, I’d say a baby boomer – he’s actually a pretty sweet guy. He hasn’t participated in much of the psychobabbling and name-calling nonsense that’s been hurled at us. Quite the opposite, he’s dedicated only like, his entire life to research in the new phase of human development he discovered and coined “emerging adulthood.”

That is, when he’s not vegging out with his wife (Lene) and twin daughters (Miles and Paris) in Denmark, which he does every summer, by the way. Imagine if the guy actually worked through his summers – like the rest of us. He’d probably have discovered by now, some scientific theory explaining how and why we Millenials seem to believe the sun shines out of our arses, which is really what we need to clear our names once and for all.

And I have a feeling the truth is going to make everyone else feel so guilty for ever kicking up such a huge fuss and calling us “aimless” and “selfish” and “entitled”, that they’re just going to let us have our inheritance already. I mean, I dunno about you, but I feel emotionally ready to be the heir of a very large sum of money right now. This may have something to do with the Christmas sale going on, I can’t say for sure.

Ok, so: neuroscience data suggests that our brains are still changing and developing well into their third decade. It’s kind of like how we’re empathic towards the teenagers with weird facial piercings, long and greasy fringes obscuring their faces, and black varnish on their nails. Oh, poor lambs. The pixies are already working overtime to put the other half of their brain together. They simply can’t see what we see.

Until very recently, we (not you and me per say, but our parents and older) had to make some pretty life-determining decisions about education, career paths, who to tie the knot with and whether to go into the military, at a time when parts of our brains weren’t optimal yet. The prefrontal cortex, an area responsible for planning, prioritizing and controlling impulses, is one of the last brain regions to mature. Having earlier established that we’re going to live till 200 – I know the number seems high, but it’s in the ballpark – it makes biological sense that the 20s have shifted from being a time for setting your life in stone to a time for self-discovery.

Just between you, me, myself, and I, what does it mean to be an adult, anyway? When I was 15, I scribbled ‘Criteria for Adulthood’ on the top of a napkin. The list went: one, visit Paris; two, learn to wear lipstick like a real woman; three, get a tattoo; four, stop using swearwords as counterarguments; five, eat chicken liver.

I’ve managed to do two and a quarter of those things, so I’m clearly almost half an adult now. That’s how you become an adult, right? By ticking off boxes on a checklist, even though there may be some grey area of fuzzy maturity and wisdom measure that’s not so easy to ascribe.

In my oh-so-limited existence, I’ve come across a number of 40-, 50-, even 60-somethings, who don’t have all of their boxes checked. (Have you been to Europe?) They’ve either started their careers over or never quite settled into one (in big people language: career reinvention, entrepreneurship). They are either single or divorced (in big people language: fear of commitment, irreconcilable differences). They either don’t want kids, or just behave like kids (in big people language: personal choice).

Are they adults? One thing’s for sure, we aren’t the ones pointing fingers and throwing pejoratives at people with half-formed brains.

So, we have half-formed brains. Fuckkkkk………………. We can either use this as an excuse and prove the baby boomers right, or cash in on this handicap and prove them wrong.

As it happens, an unfinished brain allows us to competently acclimatize ourselves to changing environments and pick up new skills quickly. Adaptability is key in a world where Orange Is the New Black, Cronuts are the new donuts, Uber drivers are the new cab drivers – and they are freaking out big time, in case you didn’t know (who wants to be the first one to break the news to the cabbies about driverless Google cars that require human intervention only once every one million miles?).

It’s vital that we make sense of what kind of world it is that we’re living in and then decide what we need to be really good at. And neuroscience proves having half a brain is just ideal for this. So tell your folks to chill out as you expose yourself to new things, change your mind often and seem very unstable in your life. Just remember to practice independence and maturity in other ways.

Peter Pan: The True First Avenger

Ain’t nobody got time for that, except him. The boy least likely to – not the English pop duo (I mean, they could if they wanted to, I guess) – is going to change the world. Slowly, but surely.

Since we’re all BFFs here, I’m going to take this opportunity to admit something vaguely mortifying. If there’s anything I’ve learnt about being single, it’s that this world isn’t meant to be experienced alone. No doubt I can polish off an entire pan of seafood paella meant for two by myself, someone still needs to cook it! To a certain extent, it helps having 1,782 Facebook friends – that’s kind of how I got you to read this blog thing in the first place anyway. No man is an island after all.

I’m not saying people in relationships lead better lives or are happier than those not in relationships; what I’m saying is that we were made to love. (This sounds like something God would say. If you wanna pull a quote from the Bible, now is the time. LOL! Laugh out loud. Lots of love. Whatever.) We can love anything and everything, really, but if we find one thing – preferably a person – that we really, really love, everything just becomes a bit more magical. And difficult. But magical, nonetheless.

With that cat out of the bag, it should come as no surprise that my purpose for dating in the first place is to be in a relationship that hopefully leads to marriage. This stance seriously disturbs and freaks people out, more often than not, to the point of defecating in their pants. I just want someone who wants to hang out all the time and thinks I’m the best person in the world and wants to have sex with only me. (And then marry me one day.) FUCK SAKE, IS THAT ASKING FOR TOO MUCH?

Back in 1970, men typically got married at 24 and women at 22. Today, the average age at which people wed is 32 for men and 30 for women, with an increasing number of us deciding not to marry at all. BUT, BEB??!?!?!

Back in 1970, the average life expectancy was about 70. Today, if you’ve managed to escape mass shootings in elementary school, you’re likely to live to a ripe old age of about 200. Unless a white cop shoots you for being an unarmed black person, or your passenger plane vanishes without a trace/gets blown out of the sky by rebels, then you’re back to being dead at a relatively young age.

The longevity megatrend has a rippling effect shaking many sectors of the economy and aspects of our lives, which we are not fully aware of just yet. Could the Peter Pan syndrome be a result of longer life expectancy? Wise men say only fools rush in; would it be a sin then, to extend our time for exploration, adventure and discovery beyond the recommendations of our forefathers?

When my mother got out of college, she had three options: she could become a secretary, a secretary, or a secretary. My life is vastly different. I was brought up with a sense of unbounded possibility and was told there was nothing in this world that I couldn’t do. I had – or rather, still have (Peter Pan complex, y’know?) – the chance to go to university, which I didn’t; I’ll let you know in a few years how that’s worked out for me.

I’ve basically been handed on a silver platter, a myriad of opportunities and an invigorating freedom that my mom could only imagine. But so often I am spoilt for choice to the point of paralysis – touché. I have the world at my feet and numerous doors wide open before me, but not even the slightest clue as to which direction to step in.

We were promised everything growing up. And that’s exactly what we’ve been served. But it’s a rude awakening and a real dilemma, having just realized that there’s only so much our hands can hold. (There’s always a catch, innit? Those fucking pricks.) We’re suffocated by choice, responsibility, and our insecurities; we’re terrified of taking risks, because settling on one thing implies forgoing so many other things. #opportunitycost. We’re bent on putting off big decisions like investing in our own place, picking a career and falling in love, for however long the world will allow us to. Omg, is it just me or do we actually kinda suck?

But then again, a drawn-out chapter of experimentation and introspection may not be such an outrageous idea in the book of life for our generation, who will have to address and solve many of the environmental, social, and economic problems bequeathed to us by previous generations – thanks a lot, by the way. I mean, I don't even remember asking to be born in the first place.

Children are esteemed for their imagination, candour, and high spirits. And it strikes me that these are the precise qualities we need to get ahead in this age of agility. Perhaps the traditional benchmarks of adulthood are gradually losing its relevance today. Orange is the new black, is it not? Get with it already – Peter Pan may just be on the brink of curing Ebola.

Forever Young

It’s the latest trend to live in the past and in your parents' basement. Are you doing it too? Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat, what are they feeding you? Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat, it’s not your fault…

We postpone commitment and shudder at the thought of responsibility. “The Peter Pan Generation,” they’ll say. “Inheriting your mess since the ‘80s!” we’ll retort without missing a beat. Our society is full of lost boys and girls, known as Millennials or Generation Y, who’re being accused of not wanting to grow up.

The economy being total shit today is often cited as the biggest stumbling block obstructing our road to adulthood. Taking the first step towards maturity – securing a job, buying a house, settling down with a partner – has become harder than before. A growing number of adults (myself included) don’t move out of their parents’ home to save on the colossal deposits now required to buy a property. (I just really love my parents a lot, ok??????)

In 2012, it was reported that 32% of Britons aged 25-40 are living with their parents, where the pressure to grow up can be so easily tuned out with a simple flick of the TV remote. Not having to worry about putting a roof over my head and having someone else take care of all the cooking and cleaning has definitely bred an inertia in me, that seems to defy Newton’s first law.

However, inflated property prices, recession and economic depression are not circumstances unique to our times – our attitude of taking the easy way out and making excuses is. While I think we’re just being really smart and practical about it, sociologists – who are obviously Baby Boomers – believe there are much bigger psychological factors at play here. They’re claiming that the root of the ‘infantalisation’ of today’s adults can be attributed to a fear of growing up.

We’re apparently scared to think of ourselves as adults, especially when hardly any good seems to come with being a grownup – apart from the cheap thrill of purchasing cigarettes and alcohol with our own ID. The media’s glamorization of teenage years more than any other life stage has placed most of our cultural values with youth. And the further we move away from it (ie: grow up), the more jittery and tense we become, they’ve observed.

Most of us spend our entire childhood looking forward to this period of sleepovers, acne and snogging, which – as it happens – passes in a blink of an eye. Only 5% of our lives take place in high school, working on the assumption we live to be 80 years old. (Live long and prosper, you guys. We got diz!) It’s only natural to feel somewhat crestfallen when the curtain comes down.

Considering the number of TV shows and films devoted to high school drama or coming-of-age plots, which cater to our fixation on reliving the good old days, it’s hard to deny this phenomenon. IT’S HAPPENING! AHHHHHHHHHHASDKJHSDFKJ!!!!!! Another trend indicative of this desire to escape adulthood is the growing popularity of books and entertainment aimed at children and teenagers (such as Harry Potter, Hunger Games, Twilight, Frozen, computer games) among adults.

Some of us are completely immune to this line of thought, though. Not likely the cocky captain of the football team, who peaked in high school where he was once adored as a hero, but now wastes away working the cash register at a 7-Eleven as he reminisces his glory days. But a strong contender is the nerd, who had an unfortunate high school experience and would never consider going back because he’s become the CEO of a TNC today, certain that what's about to happen will only be rosier than what's already happened.

It seems riding it out at the bottom of the high school food chain may have its silver lining after all. While some of us are too busy feeling nostalgic for the past and afraid of what the future might hold, the rest of us know that there’s only one way things could go from here – up and forward. (Is that two ways?)

Daddy Issues

Sometimes my father takes me out for food and we talk about my life – or rather, lack of.

Every three months or so, my father takes me out for dinner, just the two of us. Even though we pretty much sit down at the same table every other night of the week to eat with the rest of our family, these dinners hold a special meaning for the both of us. “Dinner date with my dearest baby! Together we would have clocked only 82 years on this blessed earth!! No prizes for guessing who contributed to most of that number… But can’t help but feel younger tonight (grinning face with smiling eyes emoji)!!” was a Facebook status he posted after one such tête-à-tête meal.

He’d make a reservation for half past seven at our usual spot, where the waitstaff warmly greet him by name, the menu is consistently fresh and good, and his daughter is never mistaken for his mistress. The evening kicks off with a round of passion fruit martinis as he'd imitate someone intently contemplating between appetizers. When our waiter comes around again, he’d place orders for the same three starters that we always share – raw oysters, crab croquettes, and a Niçoise salad.

Once the last of the oysters is slurped down, it’d be time to address the elephant in the room. He’d wave our waiter for a second glass of martini before launching right in to ask me about my plans for life. The first few times, I failed to pick up on his gestures for another drink as one’s cue to get those ducks in a row. Taken by surprise, I’d responded with a shrug and glazed eyes. And of course the infamous phrase cherished by teenagers all over the globe, “I dunno.” Usually this would be cute. But seeing that I’m no longer a teenager, my father remained utterly unimpressed for the most part.

But these days, I don’t need to be prompted. With a mouth full of crabmeat and a drip of tartar sauce on my chin, I gush to my father between bites, about what my next step in my career is going to be (big shot yoga pants designer), that I’m saving up to buy a house (but handbags and shoes first), that I see myself settling down and starting a family at 26 (current companionless situation is not ideal, but I’m choosing to stay optimistic.) This amuses him, to say the least.

As if mimicking the world we live in, my ambitious plans seem to be ever-changing. Having seen me through just about my entire life, my father describes me as his “erratic, wayward and unpredictable child.” In his eyes and in his words, I’m “a unicorn that cannot be trained.” He knows all too well that the next time we chat, I would’ve probably decided to become a nutritionist instead and be seriously flirting with the idea of celibacy. He has begrudgingly accepted that my ‘life plan’, as he so sweetly calls it, really only goes as far as the day after tomorrow.

Reckless, impulsive, irresponsible, and immature? Yaaassss. But I take comfort in knowing that I’m not completely alone. If there’s one scenario that’s become endemic amongst a sizeable group of 25 to 40-year-olds today, it’s our collective decision to turn our backs on the milestones of adulthood to exist in a state of prolonged adolescence instead, where we can avoid the ball and chain of responsibility – marriage, mortgage, children, career – for as long as possible.

If by the end of the night I appeared to be on the verge of tears, my father would order us ice cream. If I didn’t, he’d order a cheese platter. Whichever was served, I ate my heart out anyway over the grimness of my future.

Sunday Kind Of Love

Wives saying goodbye to their loved ones in the Navy, 1963. The reality of love and marriage continues to ruin my life.

When it comes to matters of the heart, it seems that I’m not just old-fashioned. Apparently, I’m very nearly prehistoric. I’ve always depended on my parents’ enduring marriage as the barometer of true love. On one hand, I feel extremely blessed to have such a solid example of love and marriage existing under the same roof as myself to aspire after. But as I venture further out into the wilderness, the fog is beginning to lift. And it is scary, you guys.

According to data published in 2011, the average length of an American marriage is 8.8 years and more than 5,000 couples were getting divorced each day in China that same year. Professor David Popenoe of Rutgers University mentions in an article that some 40% of American children are living apart from their biological fathers, and majority of these children aren’t in the habit of seeing their fathers regularly or often, if at all. Worse still, a third of children are now born out-of-wedlock, many of who grow up without ever knowing their fathers.

It’s become painstakingly clear to me, marrying your childhood sweetheart at a young age and staying by each other’s side even after 40 years, is not a common occurrence in the real world even if I may be coming home to it every single day. I repeat; it’s a complete fluke. Back then, if you found someone you could stand who could stand you, you’d hold on to him or her for dear life because meeting someone new wasn’t so easy.

Today, we’re just a swipe, like, retweet or click away from someone better because any social media app or website can be used as Tinder/OkCupid if you’re good looking. It’s distressing how similar the Internet algorithms for ordering mini skirts on ASOS and finding a life partner are. By trying to emulate my parents’ relationship all these years, I’ve basically set myself up for failure and condemned myself to envisioning life as a hopeless romantic.

Mind you, it isn’t just the concept of love that this wonderful bubble I’ve been living in has sugarcoated – it’s the concept of life. Allegedly, dresses aren’t just pressed, foie gras at brunch isn’t just served, and gallivanting around Europe for several months doesn’t just happen. How far removed from reality have I been all this while? That deserves an essay all to itself.

Dating is just trial and error after all, isn’t it? We actively seek out people we’re interested in, we try these people out for a bit and see how they fit into our lives, we learn about ourselves and grow from the relationship, we bounce once we’ve had enough or discovered it’s not for us, and then we start over again and slowly figure out what it is we do and do not want. This operation does get tiring and disheartening at times, but I’ve found that by just appreciating the honesty and simply moving on, we can avoid becoming blasé. As the Japanese proverb goes, "fall down seven times, stand up eight."

Bottoms Up, It's A Wrap

Life can’t be all Taylor Swift and rainbow sprinkle cupcakes. Mama said there’ll be days like this, there’ll be days like this mama said.

It takes some balls to initiate the “What Are We” conversation, because it’s become the make or break factor of all modern relationships. One wrong word, and the sorta-kinda-illa-defineda-relationship could be done for. It’s always easier to evade the necessary questions and stick to the status quo, than to probe and be faced with the possibility that the person you’re seeing – or worse, sleeping with – is just not that into you.

On top of that, our nerve to stand up for ourselves, our ability to exercise protectionism over our own interests, and our chutzpah in demanding respect from others for our limits and wishes are often confused with aggression and delirium. When in reality, all it speaks to is confidence and, quite critically, will help ensure that we aren’t being pathetically needy in a bid to get people to like us. Not having firm boundaries and not knowing when or how to put our foot down only leaves us vulnerable to passive-aggressive manipulation and at the mercy of emotionally abusive scumbags.

Admittedly, popping the question when I did is comparable to a premature ejaculation. It’s not usually advisable to grab a guy by his collar, shake him a few times and then stare into his eyes saying, “Listen, homie, do you mean business or am I just wasting my time here?” But given my manic disposition and how we’d already kind of jumped the gun by jumping into bed before we'd even clocked 12 hours of rendezvousing, he should’ve seen it coming.

Apart from saying “I told you so,” after I’d recounted the unfortunate episode to Maz, who has more recently taken on the role as my masculine voice of reason, he brought up an interesting analogy that struck a chord with me. “You’re like a really good Moscato, that people would enjoy if you’d just give them the chance to sip slowly. But you’re also the waitress serving it, and you’re just shouting at these people to ‘Chug! Chug! Chug!’”

I’ve more or less made peace with the fact that I’m a really, really, really, really, really, really intense person. Do I see this as an area that should be improved upon? Yes, definitely, and also, no. Of course not, are you kidding me??

I’ve been around the block with enough people to know that anyone can and will want to sip on really good Moscato, should the opportunity arise, but not many can and will want to chug it. It’s times like these that I don’t make a big effort to hold back on the crazies, because it’s only through a protracted and often agonizing process of tests and feats of physical and mental strength that we’re able to discern between the sippers and chuggers. To reiterate my point with the colloquial expression that I taught you some days back, Sean, “bo ta bo lam pa, my dear.”

In light of my latest misadventures in lust and love, I’m amending my dating guidelines in two life-changing ways. Effective immediately is a new strategy to help me take on casual sexual relationships with a bit more poise and serenity, which involves me gluing my legs together. I haven’t thought about how I’m going to get around, but I’ll improvise along the way. This would help me preserve some levels of sanity and dignity while falling head over heels, allow me to get to know the person I’m seeing, and – most importantly – allow the person I’m seeing to get to know me in a much less terrifying way.

In addition to that, I’ve revised my cut-off deadline. If my Moscato-chugging pal simply won’t call it after eight weeks, then I’m out of there. My rationalization being if someone doesn’t feel strongly enough about me after a couple of months, then he’s never going to feel strongly enough about me to make any of my investments worthwhile. That’s my line, my boundary, the one I will not let others cross or drag me over. I feel like I'm really putting my neck on the line here, you guys – it used to be four days, would you believe it?

There’s always the chance that I may be wrong – that’ll be a real shocker. Maybe eight weeks is too early to throw in the towel. Maybe I’m going to miss out on throngs of brilliant but slightly indecisive men who need longer than a couple of months to contemplate if they want to be in a relationship. Maybe I’m being old-fashioned and unrealistic by wanting someone who’s actually interested enough to want to chase me, who is just as eager as I am to lock it down, who doesn’t need to be brainwashed into the bloody thing.

“It’s not like it won’t go anywhere, I just haven’t thought about it,” he said. “I’m about to go for a team dinner. To be continued.”

I laughed hysterically to myself, as I always do in the face of danger. “Looks like Mama’s still got it!”

Or not. Sean never texted me again.

Good Chat, Mate

The sequel: How to lose a guy in less than 10 days (2014)

Real talk: there are two things a woman can say that will ingrain ball-shrinking horror in every unwed man’s heart. The first is “I’m pregnant.” The second is “Where do you see this relationship going?”

How long do we have to date someone before we are allowed to drop these bombs on them? I think it’s clear-cut for pregnancy. Anytime between seeing the double pink lines on your pee stick and the due/abortion date seems pretty appropriate. Anytime outside of that window, you’d just be a sick liar.

But when it comes to dating, even the experts (don’t ask who, I don’t believe in using real names here) have varying opinions, citing time frames that start anywhere from after the first time you sleep together to after you have gone on something like eight dates to six months into the ‘relationship’. One can only presume that the true answer is probably: after you have binged on fudge for nine consecutive nights and can no longer bear not knowing where you stand in the liaison anymore.

And there we were, fretting about just finding a potential suitor. Well, congratulations on your match and welcome to dating purgatory – make yourself at home! This is where the real fun actually begins because your prospect isn’t super keen, yet isn’t entirely disinterested either. Often, there’s still visible enthusiasm, but not nearly sufficient to pass off as conclusive evidence for anything.

Most people claim to know within the first three seconds if they would fuck someone or not, according to a bunch of psychologists at UPenn. (Who are these people?? Did the study only sample 13 year old males?) But deciding whether to be in a relationship with someone, to firmly invest in making a purchase instead of just window-shopping, now that can take, umm… Forever.

I’ve a knack for looking for love in all the wrong and very hopeless places – mainly dingy bars and Tinder – I do it for the story, really. Even though Rihanna released a super catchy single about it back in 2011, which topped the Billboard Hot 100 for ten weeks, if you pay attention to the lyrics, all she has to sing about this predicament is some “yellow diamonds in the light” and then repeats the phrase “we found love in a hopeless place” only about 350 times. And if you actually play the song backwards, you’d hear her singing, “don’t do it, don’t do it.”

I find the commercial success of this song a bit misleading. Finding love in a hopeless place is far from ideal, gurrl. What we’re more likely to find are one-night-stands and friends with benefits. And – speaking from experience – what we’re even more likely to do is expect unrealistic things from perfect strangers. Most of these people aren’t looking for relationships. Plot twist: some of them may already be involved in one. Use these people as bodies, and then leave it at that because that is all it is.

“What do you want from this?” I blurted (over text) without warning one day, emboldened by my excruciating need to manage my expectations about bungee chord possibilities in the distant future. At this point, I’d like to highlight that there is indeed a difference between what I asked and the navigational enquiry pertaining to relationships that we'd discussed.

“Honest answer: I don’t want anything out of this. I don’t even think about it. We’ve seen each other like, 3 times. I just like seeing you,” was the response I got after some nudging. Earth to Sean, we’ve seen each other like, 4 times. Not that I was counting. Expert tip: responding to rejection with violence is never the answer and my research has shown that firing gunshots by way of texting “pew pew pew” is not particularly helpful in such situations.