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.

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.