Wednesday, May 5, 2010
She's Just Not That Into You
Between three men I have been in a relationship for almost eight years. This is most of my adult life. I suppose this makes me a relatively uninformed and unreliable source of dating world observation. Furthermore, most of these observations have already been made ten million times, by ten million women, over the past ten million years. But here are a few new (or at least recycled) words from someone who is new to these phenomena and new to this brave new world called dating.
You have to admire the persistence of the male species in his attempts to sequester female attention. I can only ascertain that they see it as a grandiose romantic gesture rather than begging, whining or stalking. Guys listen up. Despite what the movies tell you, his isn’t romantic. I digress here for a moment to argue that movies know no gender lines. Conventional wisdom holds that only women, in their overly emotional states full of budding neuroses and easy tears, succumb to the fairy tale fodder of Hollywood. The penis is just as susceptible. The testosterone slinking around the local bar (or library, or grocery store, or cubicle, or classroom, or gym, or pool, or yoga studio, or chairlift, or gas station, or drugstore, or restaurant, or bachelorette party, or class reunion, or grandmother’s 80th birthday party, or church, or temple, or synagogue, or country club, or mall, or boutique store, or Christmas party, or New Year’s Ever bash, or office party, or Tupperware party, or sex toy party, or gay pride parade, or night club, or beach, or amusement park, or need I continue) has gone all soft and romantic. They have forgotten how to properly demean and sexually harass women. Where is a good old-fashioned ass slap when you need it? Now don’t get me wrong the meat market at the local watering hole is certainly alive and kicking. All I argue is that men are trying too hard to woo women. There is a certain point – reached much faster than most males seem to understand – when persistence ceases to be romantic and progress to annoying and then to restraining-order-grade stalking. Which brings me to my first point of advice.
1. Take a hint. Don’t make us resort to being rude. If she just doesn’t seem that into you please take the hint. If she checks her watch, Blackberry or iPhone more than once every three minutes during dinner, she’s just not that into you. If she answers, “Mmm hmm,” to a question that required at least some sort or articulated opinion, she’s just not that into you. If you’ve received variations of texts, phone calls, emails or BBMs that read, “Rain check on dinner? Soooo sorry. My Mom/best friend/ex-boyfriend/grandmother/dog needs my help! Emergency! Xoxo!” Guess what? She’s just not that into you. And the kicker is - this really happened, I shit you not - if you lie down in/pass out in her bed in an I’ve-been-drinking-in-the-sun-all-day stupor and ask to have sex with her and she politely declines, she’s just not that into you. If you wrap your arms seductively around her waist (most women view this sloppy drunk move as vaguely pathetic and akin to a two-year old grabbing his mother’s leg) and she less-politely removes them, she’s just not that into you. If you try slobbering on her face in an attempt to relive the earlier make-out session and relight her supposed passion and she much less politely pushes your face away, she’s just not that into you. If you suggest that the two of you might, “Just fuck. Have some hot rowdy sex. Have some fun,” and give the seductive waist grab another try and she pulls away while making that I-just-threw-up-in-my-mouth-and-swallowed-it-back-down face, she’s just not that into you. If she informs you that she just wants to shower and go to bed and you suggest that it become a group activity and she walks out, she’s just not that into you. If you ask for a goodnight kiss and she says, “Only when you’re standing outside my front door,” she’s just not that into you. And then she must resort to being rude. “Look I am not going to have sex with you. I have not going to hook up with you at all. I don’t even really want to be within ten feet of your penis right now. I don’t want to shower with you and I don’t want you in my bed.” Point taken, you must now slink out, tail between legs. This embarrassing situation could have been easily avoided had you taken the fucking hint.
2. Pathetically fake compliments don’t work. The compliments have all been used and abused. Yes I know my eyelashes are really long. No they are not fake. Yes I know I have large lips. No that doesn’t mean I look like Angelina Jolie. And no likening me to her when we look so blatantly unalike does not flatter me. Yes I know that my ass is nice. So are a lot of other booties. Yes I know I have a nice smile. How many other women did you tell that to tonight? As one of my favorite Silver Screen good girls once spat at one of my favorite Silver Screen bad boys, “Listing my qualities on your fingers is not going to get you anywhere with me.” (Don’t judge me. I know it didn’t win an Oscar but my best friend Elyssa and I can quote every line).
3. Fancy dinners are a waste of money. If you want to pay for sex I hear some very nice women are working the corner tonight. They are a lot cheaper and more efficient than a five star dining extravaganza. Taking me out to a grotesquely expensive dinner that could pay my rent for the month (I’d rather just have the rent check without the small talk) and feed a family of four will not guarantee my naked body in you bed. It is even less likely to guarantee your naked body in my bed. The hip quotient of the restaurant will not help your cause. I am more impressed by seedy, hole-in-the-wall dive bars on Colfax Ave (please see future post for further discussion on dive bars) than the hottest, hippest, newest mastication establishment. You have a brain. Use it to come up with something more creative.
Three simple rules. Please heed them. Please don’t make me resort to rude behavior. It’s unflattering and not very post-feminist. I don’t want to have to stop returning your phone calls. I don’t want to ignore the 19th text message you send me at 1:27 AM on a Tuesday. I don’t want to tell you to “get the fuck out of my bed.” But you leave me no choice.