I Don’t Want No Short, Short Man

Even though I research issues related to body size and discrimination, I have to admit that I am not above a sizist attitude in my own dating behavior.

I like really tall men. The taller, the better. Six feet is even starting to seem short to me. Most women prefer to date men who are taller by at least a couple inches. For some reason, I want to be dwarfed by them.

I’m not sure when this fetish emerged exactly, but it has been picking up steam lately. If I scan a crowd, I am instantly drawn to the head that is towering over all the other bodies. I have developed a “butterface for him” test in which I ask myself if I would still be attracted to him (his face) if he were a foot shorter. The answer is usually no.

It’s terrible because not only does it make me someone who discriminates based on an uncontrollable physical feature, but it also really gives the short shrift (pun intended) to the vast majority of men in the world. Not to mention substantially limiting my dating pool if it is true that only 3.9% of US men are 6′2 or taller.

The truth is that there are advantages to dating shorter men. You can wear more comfortable shoes. You are always at eye level when speaking and you don’t have to stand on your tippy-toes to kiss goodnight. There are some really attractive celebrities who are very short (I’m not a big Tom Cruise fan, but I sure wouldn’t let Jon Stewart’s size keep me away). If tallness connotes power, then perhaps shorter men are more egalitarian, or I would perceive (subconsciously, where all this psychoanalytic power crap supposedly resides) that we were on a level playing field rather than being treated as a lesser than or worse, as a child. Maybe shorter men are more cooperative and less domineering because of the way that society treats tall men. Short men travel better. They take up less space and won’t complain about the lack of leg room when we travel economically. And tall men have more health problems. For example, the guy I dated this summer was 6′6 and suffered repeatedly from a collapsed lung as a teenager, eventually having to have part of his lung removed. Scary stuff.

So, I know all of this, yet I don’t want no short, short man. (As far as the not wanting no short dick man, as the song goes, research indicates that taller men do have slightly increased length on average, for what quarter of an inch or so that it’s worth). The average man is 5′9 or 5′10. The shortest man I have ever dated was 5′9 and I remember noticing how short he was. I wish that I could be attracted to everybody. I’d never be single again! But maybe it’s not such a bad thing, maybe the world needs people like me to appreciate the towering giants. Instead of thinking of it in terms of discrimination against short men, I could just say that it is my preference to be with exceptionally tall men. I also like moderate chest hair. What can I say, everyone has weird attractions! In the end, we just have to hope that there is a lid for every pot.

Whatever Happy Is

The other day, I was thinking about happiness and questioning my own level of happiness.

Am I happy?

What do I mean by happy?

To me, happiness can mean two things. One, the emotion of happiness – being positive, of good cheer, energetic, and optimistic. Second, being happy with one’s situation in life – being satisfied, fulfilled, content. The two are often thought to be connected. If you are satisfied with the way your life is going, then you will feel emotionally happy.

My problem is that I have a disconnect between what I am doing and how I am feeling. I like what I am doing in life, but too often, I have not felt happy. Why is that? Why am I not always emotionally happy if there is nothing tangibly wrong with my life situation?

Then, I was listening to an interview with Alanis (who I love) and I realized that maybe it is just the nature of emotions, especially in sensitive people, to be changeable. Happiness, on an emotional level, cannot be sustained indefinitely. It’s not like you can fix everything just so, or reach some end point, and then, boom, you are going to feel constant happiness. Hearing someone say that happiness is a mood, a random state, just like any other emotion, was really freeing to me. Of course, I am going to feel a variety of emotions. It does not mean that there is anything wrong with me or my life. The real problem is the way that I react to it and attach all of this meaning to something that naturally comes and goes. It just is, and I need to accept it.

Here is the quote from Alanis:

“I’ve realized that my orientation again is not towards just being happy because whether it’s about a romantic relationship or just about my life in general… I think it’s just another human state, it’s just like being guilty, feeling guilty or being happy or being upset or scared. It’s just a random state. So my thing is to be peaceful with whatever is happening at that moment so if I’m upset or projecting all over somebody or feeling insecure or excited or empowered or whatever it is, it’s to let that be what it is, it allows me to have this underlying peace even if I’m angry or even if I’m devastated or whatever the given state is of the week or month.”

Cell Phone Graveyard

I got a new cellphone!

Judging from the population of my contact list, I acquired my last one circa 2005 which in technology years makes my former model pretty archaic. Not that it bothered me until I saw the snazzy new phone that Jill brought along to our road trip. It looked great! It had a keyboard! Constant internet access! That last one is what did me in. I would attach myself to the internet via IV drip if that was possible. I want to be online every possible second of the day. It’s sick, and I’m OK with that.

So I got my new phone, and this afternoon, I went through the surprisingly emotional process of transferring my contact list. As I went through the list of names, it was a graveyard of former boyfriends, former dates, former friends, and former people I have no idea who the fuck they are. Judging from the entry “Mi3ychaeel” I am guessing that was a number I met at a bar in early 2007.

Who makes the cut when  you transfer phones? It really shows your people priorities. There are some people who I have never called, never talked to on the phone in my life, but they made it to the new phone because I like them. Some people probably should have made it over because they are acquaintances and you never know when someone might say, “Does anyone have X’s phone number?” and it might come in handy. But I don’t really like them, so tough luck, hypothetical scenario. Besides if I’m ever confronted by someone who thinks I should have their number, but I don’t because I deleted them, I can always say, “I got a new phone.”  They’ll understand.

Yes, it is a very clarifying process, but also sad. Deleting all of those old flames was an act of ultimate closure. It’s one thing to never call, but to never be able to call is very final. It’s also sad when you come across people who you can never call again because they have passed away. Those are the hardest to delete. But it would be pretty creepy to enter a dead person’s phone number in your new phone, right?

Hmm, I’m out of stuff to say, but it feels weird to end on that note. Um, here’s to all of the cute babies and puppies who could possibly be added to my contact list in the future? Yeah, that didn’t work.

Parenting My Inner Child

This morning, I had my first dental appointment in about 5 years.

Everyone was very nice, but I still felt violated. It’s always weird when people you don’t know start poking around your body – even if it is just your mouth. Or maybe, especially your mouth. What an intimate area, when you really think about it!

I felt like they were judging me – looking for some failure of flossing or evidence of bad brushing. Yes, I realize that it is their job to look for problems, but I still resent it. The experience was so stressful that mid-way through the scraping, I made a deal with my inner 7 year old that if I was a good girl at the dentist, I would get myself an ice cream cone.

This is, of course, indulgent parenting and poor judgment because I found out that I do, in fact, shamefully, have cavities. I suppose that is what happens if you ignore the dentist for 5 years, and I wasn’t all that surprised.

Two things that I found interesting in my conversation with the hygienist:

First, I had to fill out paperwork as a new patient. Yet, the medical questions did not ask anything about my dental history. So, as the hygienist was going through my teeth, she yells out to the assistant, “She doesn’t have wisdom teeth!!!” like it was this extraordinary discovery. I could have told you that. Then, she tells me that she is looking to see if I am missing any other teeth. Um, I could tell  you that, too. Since I couldn’t use my mouth, I shook my head a vigorous no. I have all of  my teeth, thank you very much, but she still felt the need to verify this and shout it out.

Second, I admitted that I do not floss. I can’t even pretend that I do it occasionally or once in awhile. I never, ever floss. Not an interesting conversation, except that it always sticks out to me when people bring up age-related statements. Along with the normal encouragement to floss, she said, “Well, you are young enough to get away with not flossing. But whew,” she whistled through her teeth, “once you get to  your late 20s, early 30s, then it really counts. You run into real problems then!”  This may be the first medical message that I’ve gotten about the way that my health will soon decline based on age. And, it doesn’t even make sense. What is the difference between me being 28 (late 20s) and being 25? She was probably just making conversation, but I think I am going to start flossing now. And taking calcium. And drinking prune juice. I’m getting old, folks!

New Semester Resolutions

Lately, my life has been overtaken with course prepping which means that I have been reading articles about sexual asphyxia (it is as dangerous as you would think) and watching documentaries about ecstasy (not as dangerous as you would think!).  Tough life, huh?  I really think that I have the best job in the world – if you don’t care about money, that is.

I have been thinking about the traps that I fall into every semester, and I want to take measures to avoid them. I always say this and it always happens anyway, but dammit, I mean it this time!

Here are my new semester resolutions:

1.  Regular sleep schedule – Left to my own devices, I am an incredibly nocturnal person. I really get going at night. Yet, there is a possibility that I could be just as productive in the morning. I’ve never really tried…because I’ve been sleeping. The real problem, though, is that my sleep patterns are erratic. Some nights I get 4 hours, some 7, some 10 to make up for my sleep deficit. This pattern wreaks havoc on my productivity, enjoyment of life, and diet. I resolve to go to bed and wake up at the same exact time every day…or pretty darn close to it!

2. Healthy Diet – Speaking of diet, my problem during the semester is that I don’t cook and I slowly move from healthy convenience foods to less healthy ones as the semester goes on. My resolution is to plan my meals in advance on a weekly basis. This will also help me to eat more vegetables which is something that I should do and can do (because I don’t hate vegetables, I just ignore them).

Hmm, is that it? As resolutions swirling around in my head, it seemed like a lot more. Ok, easy enough. Start small. Done.

This is Modern Love?

I.  Don’t. Have. Words.

Do me a favor. Read  Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear and tell me how you feel about it. Oh, and be sure to read the comments, too.

Because I’ll tell you how I feel about it.

Really? This is “Modern Love?” Your partner tells you that he doesn’t love you anymore and you ignore it while he is a complete asshole to you and your family for months until he changes his mind and then you feel completely justified in handling it the “right” way. You have got to be kidding me.

I am all for people being responsible for their own happiness in relationships. I don’t believe that another person can be the sole source of making you happy -  or unhappy, for that matter. But when it comes to the fundamentals of relationships, when someone says “I don’t love you” and “I don’t want to be with you,” you can’t just ignore it while that person gets their shit together, and exult that as a healthy and wise way to deal with your relationship.

This kind of shit is precisely why I should never get married. I don’t want to make those kind of compromises, if the for worse in “for better or for worse” means that he gets to be a total douche whenever he gets low self-esteem. I don’t want to deal with his mid-life tantrums by looking the other way. I will always be the type of person who freaks out when someone says he doesn’t love me, and I would like to think so especially after 20 years of marriage.

And the comments to this piece? Wow. They were eating this up! They called her brave and wise and amazing. Except for this one comment that said:

“Sorry, I don’t buy it. Infantilizing your partner, playing the martyr, and head-in-the-sand denial–these just aren’t features of a healthy relationship no matter how many op-ed pieces you write to defend the situation.”

I completely agree. Yet, most people were sympathetic. At worst, they were skeptical. Will they still be together in 3 years? Does he really want to be there? And so on.

While people need time and space, not to mention personal responsibility, to work on their own individual issues, those things do matter and do count in a marriage, and you can’t just put that aside and look the other way until he gets it. What if he doesn’t get it? What if he never fixes what is broken in himself and neither of you fix what’s broken in the relationship? That seems like complete hell to me.

I am, I guess you could say, agnostic about marriage. I know that I should never get married, but there is a part of me that wants to get married. At least,  I think I want to get married. Yet if I think about it some more, that desire starts slipping. So when I do get married, I will probably get divorced. I don’t think that I could handle a mid-life crisis like that. More likely, I would be the one who would have that type of crisis.

Perhaps fittingly, I just watched Revolutionary Road, and I found it to be stirring, disturbing, and powerful. I related so much to their situation of giving up the illusion of being special in order to live the life of hopeless emptiness just like everyone else. I mean, I feel restless now and I am completely unencumbered. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I “settled down” in suburbia. I’d probably be planning Parisian escapes as well. Does everybody relate to that or is it a warning sign that I see so  much of myself in those types of stories?

As a side note, I think that Leonardo DiCaprio is one of the most underrated actors in Hollywood. He is just phenomenal at conveying emotion. I recently watched What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? for the first time and I was blown away by  him in that as well.

Anyway, to conclude my rambling rant,  maybe the feelings that the article and movie evoked in me are merely a snapshot of where I’m at now in my life and not the whole of my character. To be honest, who knows how I would feel or react if I were in that exact situation 20 years from now? And if it worked for her, then it is one possible way, out of many possible ways, to navigate the treacherous pathways of human relationships. Who am I to judge?

Chick Lit Venting

I spent this morning catching up on the NYT and other newsfeeds that I subscribe to and sometimes read when procrastinating. I came across a few articles about the book and movie, Julie and Julia.

Having recently read the book and watched the movie, I was interested to see what others thought. You see, these types of books are my own form of chick lit. I don’t read those pastel covered, cartoonish books about slightly overweight urbanites finding love while working at a crappy job. I probably shouldn’t judge because I watch really, really low quality television sometimes, so I am quite likely the exact type of person who would buy and like those books if I actually allowed myself to do such a thing.

Instead, when I read for pleasure, I opt for the nonfiction memoir stylings of angsty women who trot around the globe to find themselves (Elizabeth Gilbert) or do something gimmicky like cook their way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Julie Powell).

Here is my vent. I really dislike Julie Powell. I disliked her in the book, and I disliked her character in the movie. My complaints after reading the book were that she wasn’t a very good writer (anyone can make a sex joke or reference, it’s easy to be brazen. To be effective, those things need to be subtle and witty) and that I could not connect with her. I felt like she was holding back in terms of being self-reflective and honest about her relationship with her husband. Elizabeth Gilbert, on the other hand, does both things really well, although I still think it was a cop out that she found love at the end of her personal journey. But since it was her real life, I guess it can’t be helped.

While going through the articles, I found updates on both Gilbert and Powell. Apparently, Gilbert has written a book about finding that love at the end of her journey – a meditation on marriage, it’s called.

Powell, on the other hand, found another gimmick:  join a butcher shop and cheat on her husband – and write a book about it.

I’m not mad that she cheated on her husband, but I’m mad that she made it seem like they had a perfect marriage in the first book. You can be dishonest to your spouse, none of my business, but don’t lie to your readers! Second, I get the feeling that she had the affair just to have something to write about. Or maybe she is the daft, vapid person that she seems to be in the book – a smug married envious of the sex lives of her empty-headed, sex-crazed friends who has an affair because she thinks it will make her seem more interesting.

The question is:  will I continue to read the next books from these authors? Or is it time to switch to The Devil Wears Prada and its ilk? Maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to vent if these were fictional characters.

Actually, I do want to read Julia Child’s memoir, but I refuse to buy a copy with the movie tie in across the front. Judging from  the movie – ohmygod, Meryl Streep! – she seemed like a pretty cool gal. Chick lit, even nonfiction chick lit, is a hard habit to break.

The Trip: Pacific Northwest

Pleasure.

Pleasure would be the one word that I would use to describe my time in the Pacific Northwest. The water, the wine, the spectacular views, the pleasant places, and the laid back (except about being green) people – all very pleasurable for me.

This trip marks the turning point in my feelings for wine. Before I liked wine. Maybe I even like-liked wine, preferring his heady, yet crisp intellectualism over the All American football star of beverages (beer) or the let’s get smashed, heavy metal punk of hard liquor.

But now, dear friends, I am in love with wine. To the point where I might even consider monogamy…

We did a lot of wine tasting in Northern California (an all day wine tour of Napa and Sonoma) and Oregon, and I feel like I am beginning to gain a grasp on what wine is and how to differentiate between types of wine and how to really enjoy it. Wine is fun because it feels like a hobby and a delight. You can use your mind and your senses to move  beyond just drinking some liquid into an actual experience, an event.

Sadly, I have to say that expensive wine is actually much, much better than the wine that I can afford. But it will be a fun adventure to find cheaper -I’m sorry, less expensive – wines that taste really good.

Anyway, I said in my last post that I did not develop a city-crush on San Francisco. I could, however, see myself living quite happily in either Portland or Seattle. I liked Portland a little better but I would probably give the edge to Seattle because it is bigger, and I want to live in a big city again. As I walked down the streets, I fantasized about what my life would be like if I lived there. I would adopt a puggle and write in coffee shops and buy a snazzy rain coat and boots. I would eat fresh fish and meet fabulous people. I would get to be close to the water which has some primal calming influence on me that I can’t quite describe. It just seemed right.

Seattle is definitely at the top of my Post-Bloomington Places to Live list.

The Trip: California

I am sorry that I was not able to update my blog on The Trip, but I will make it up to you now by providing a semi-complete rundown of what went down.

San Francisco

Prior to this vacation, my only venture to the west coast had been to San Francisco. I wasn’t very sure that I needed to return, but after some hemming and hawing, I decided that I did indeed want to see the Pacific Northwest and so I would tag along for the conference with the condition that a road trip to the north would follow.

I am glad that I gave San Fran a second go-round because I really did not see much of it the first time I was there. I now have a better sense of what the city has to offer. Not that it impressed me much. Sometimes when I travel, I develop city crushes on places where I could envision myself living. San Francisco is decidedly not crush-worthy. I can’t put my finger on why I don’t like it, but it feels very precarious to me. The hills, the homeless, the earthquakes, the bay – it seems like a city tottering on destruction and difficulty. I don’t find it beautiful or inspiring.  It is simply not my kind of place.

Perhaps some of my sour impressions could be due to the lingering illness clouding my judgment, but healthy others seemed to share my disdain. Maybe third time’s a charm?

Northern California

We rented a car in San Francisco which turned into a 3 hour debacle because the rental company ran out of cars by 10 am. How that happens, I have no idea but we got a bit of a discount to offset the inconvenience, so all was not lost. And we ended up getting  a bright blue, punk rock 2009 Chevy Aveo that we promptly christened “Zoe.”

And within 5  minutes of attaining Zoe, I was able to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge which was really cool.

Then we took Highway 101 up the coast until we got to the Redwood trees and took a brief detour at the Avenue of the Giants before arriving in Crescent City to sleep. I must have overimagined how big the Redwoods would be because although they were big and giant, I was not awed by them. Trees are trees. Eh.

The next morning we attempted to get brunch but could not find a suitable establishment. At last, we just threw up our hands and turned to a boxy diner that looked to have been an Arby’s in its not so distant past life. As it turned out, we had inadvertently stumbled upon the grand opening of this reincarnated dive. The food took forever, but it was kind of fun to be one of the first customers there.

From there, we drove to the Oregon coast which I found to be astoundingly beautiful and rugged when it peaked through the fog. The sand dunes were absolutely incredible and breathtaking. I have been fortunate enough to see many famously beautiful places all around the world, and I think that the Oregon Dunes deserve a place in my Top 5 Awe-Inspiring Sights.

…..I will write about the rest of the trip in tomorrow’s post…..

Money, Money, Money (must be funny in the rich man’s world)

This will not be another poor grad student post. Ok, yes it will.

Because it is August, and that is the worst financial month of an already dire fiscal year. But I shall not linger on reality.

Instead, I want to fantasize that I did not just pay my credit card bill at 12:18 am on August 18 when it was due on August 17 and was hit with an automatic late fee. 18 minutes!!!

Nor will I regale you with the woeful tale of a lost credit card that was set to expire this month and I now must decide whether to cancel it or just chance it with my brand new card that should be in my mailbox.  14 days!!!

Lest you think that I am negligent with my credit, I have to say that both of these events are first time experiences for me, and I feel a tightening of the chest every single time I think about it.

Pleasant thoughts, ok? Someday, when I have money, I will drink expensive wine. I will furnish my apartment in style. Hell, I’ll buy a house and furnish THAT in style. I will have the latest technology in phones and computers. I will not blink when my restaurant bill exceeds $30. And, of course,when I no longer share the income bracket of those targeted by charities, I will give money away to every heart-wrenching wretch that I can find.

Until then, what little money I have will slip through my fingers like sand, and I will make anxiety inducing dumb mistakes with my credit cards, and I will feel sorry for myself that I am poor when other people my age have nice things…or will have nice things sooner than me.

Poor impoverished me.