She got it right. Even the Leo part.

"And the fact that this situation occurred an estimated 20 times in the following two years makes me pretty sure of the fact that I am committable.

I’m sure you’re asking why I stayed.

I could attribute it to being a stubborn Leo, and say that it is my nature to stick something out and make sure I get what I want. I could argue that my penchant for seeing something through to completion got in the way of my better judgment. I could lie and tell you that he was so good to my body that I just couldn’t bear to be separated from that feeling.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was good. But ain’t no one in the world that good.

The truth is, I stayed because I loved him. And I was so sure that, if I kept on loving him with all that I was, that he would come around to feeling the same for me. And so I put all my effort, every good and loving part of me, into loving him. And as seasons changed and his stance remained, I became bitter and nasty—somewhat intolerable.

In my quest to make him love me, I had forgotten that I had to love me, too. As much as I worried about his well being, I had stopped worrying about mine. In efforts to prove my love to him, I had forgotten to prove to myself that I was worthy of love. I let the idea of him not wanting to love me seep into my cranium and convince my mind that I wasn’t worthy of being loved.

And perhaps, the biggest lesson of them all, was that if he didn’t want to love me, I couldn’t change that. Nothing in the world I could ever do would make this man wake up and say “I’m so in love with her.” That was a decision that he would have to make on his own.

So I made the decision to put myself first. To work on my body, pursue my love for writing, and to mend friendships that I had let become broken while I was so busy chasing after him. And once I started loving myself again, it didn’t matter whether he loved me or not.

Because I loved me enough to leave him alone."

Sweet Comic Valentine

I had to Google my own blog, which is dumb, because I forgot the title of it. But look what I stumbled across: The Korean Drama Life Test. So, 1. Korean Penchant for Dramatics is clearly a thing. And 2. I scored a mere 65% - Moderately Dramatic. To one person in particular: HA. Only moderate*.

Gabby modeling my Mom's knitting.

I was in Chicago over Valentine's and President's Day weekend for a couple of reasons. The first was because Gabby turned two! There are too many candles on this cake but look at this face! She is so sweet and smart and just my favorite.

Melissa, Mom, Me

The second reason was because my sisters and I were helping our parents move out of their house of 30+ years. We barely scratched the surface and probably just made more of a mess for them to clean. But look at this gem I unearthed. My mom's stunna shades are amazing and I'm pretty sure if I saw that jumper in a store I'd buy it in a heartbeat. Notice that my mom is holding a leash. That was mine - I was a leash kid growing up.

My brother in law said I look
like I'm crying ice or Powerade

And just because we're doing Show & Tell, I have one last picture for you. All I asked was, "can you recommend a good crayon eye shadow for me?" What resulted is Drag Show Queen Bee. I had a pitch black BART ride home because I kept my sunglasses on, lest I scare the little children. What The Hell, Sephora? Interestingly, one of the employees gave me his number because apparently I looked "AMAZINGohmygod?!" at which I wanted to slap him across the face and yell, "ARE YOU BLIND, FOOL?!" Apparently he used to work for MAC and currently does makeup for the strippers at the Hustler Club. Why he wanted my number, I do not know. As I was getting ready to leave, the girl who did my makeup tried really hard to convince me to buy the glitter she used. Can you tell where she put it?







So there you are. Goodnight and enjoy.



*According to the brilliant minds at OkCupid. They obviously have very sophisticated software, so I am confident in this data.

A little afternoon non sequitur.

I am currently eating lunch at my desk (as usual), which today, is an exciting combination of fennel salad my roommate made last night and my boss's pulled pork sandwich that he didn't want and offered to me. As I shove another forkful of food into my mouth that Miss Manners would cringe over, I can't help but notice the stain on my skirt that I have yet to dry clean out from the last time I ate at my desk (excluding this morning's breakfast). And now I wish David Sedaris were here to help direct this thought train to a witty and delightful end.

Regressing Happily

Do you remember that blog about how the previous title of my blog was a lie, and that I've been seeing a therapist? Well, apparently this was a lie as well. I had to bid him adieu because of a little insurance snafu. Dear Obamacare, thank you for helping me to make sure that nothing unwanted shall pass into or out of my lady parts. If you could also add mental health onto that list, I (and those around me) would be extremely grateful.

Anyway, the last topic that my therapist and I stumbled upon was how I am very reluctantly on the verge of adulthood (OH GOD). I do not see myself as a grown person, nor do I want to be one. Whereas my friends around me are married and have children, I spent Saturday and Sunday morning rolling around in bed until 10*.

However, I proved to myself over the weekend that, in fact, I am still a dumbass. I plucked the shit out of my eyebrows. ROOKIE MISTAKE. I "just took care of the strays" using a hand held mirror and didn't stop to check my overall face in a big mirror. I even snickered to myself midway about how "HA! I don't need to make sure I'm not going to f it up b/c I'm a grown ass person who's been tweezing her own brows for years, and I know what I'm doing." HORSESHIT. I look like this guy now. Especially with this lesbian hair I'm currently sporting. Some call it pixie, I call it my male K-pop star look. And I will have a perma-shocked/angry look on my face for the next 4-5 months because my eyebrow hairs take forever to grow.

I once had my eyebrows tattooed onto my face. It was... mildy chola. My friend, Andrea, and I were laughing about our tattooed brows because she had hers done, too. The first thing she said to me when I saw her was, "I'm not mad at you and sorry I look so fierce right now.."

So I guess the whole point of this blog is, maybe adulthood isn't so scary after all. I'll probably always be a dumbass, and that's okay. The next time you run into me, please know that I'm not mad at you. And if my drawn-on eyebrows have smeared off, you should really let me know so I can go redraw them.

* I just lied. It was more like 11, but I rounded down, just like I did on the weight on my driver's license. I will eventually lose those extra lbs.

I understand this study completely.

Title: Missed connections: seen but not spoken to: an atlas of where we're (almost) finding love

Author(s): Dorothy Gambrell

Source: Psychology Today: 46.1 (January-February 2013): p112.

I keep harassing my friend, Matt, to please develop my idea for an app: Facebook meets Missed Connections. Let's say you spy a hottie at, oh.. I don't know.. an airport, bus stop, on a cable car, at a coffee shop, airport again*,  but you didn't get a chance to lurk on them for their phone number? Enter in the date/location/etc. and if that other person is looking for you as well, my magical app would generate a list of potential individuals. All you have to do is send an awkward message. "Hi, um.. Any chance that you were on a flight to Pittsburgh..."

*true stories.

The most spinsterish post thus far.

The other day my shrink remarked upon how my life is basically a sitcom. Evidently Catherine is onto something. He said this after I told him how I was plotting to adopt a dog in secrecy and hide the poor thing in my room. According to the lease, we are not allowed to have pets, so I'm fairly certain my roommates would make me give Toby back. If I were home right now I would take a picture of the green collar (complete with "Toby" and my phone number), and upload it to this post as proof of my neuroticism. (Not that you need it, you can just click through these posts.) He was also pointing to the fact that my roommates are married, and that's apparently atypical. I suppose so. But it's nice to have people around, and the rental market in SF right now is really offensive.

However, I am noticing that I am increasingly surrounded by couples. In fact, at the moment all of my friends that I see regularly are coupled up, and that leaves me the odd nth wheel. There was a party that I went to awhile back where I found myself seated at a table, couples to my left, right, and straight ahead, discussing my singledom. "Don't you want to get married? Are your parents divorced? Are you picky?" I'm not sure about that last one. I suppose if "picky" means that you are waiting to meet someone who is compatible with you on various levels, then yes. The new rule that I recently added is that they better be within a 10-mile radius. I am putting blinders and earmuffs on to anyone who lives beyond that.

Anyway, despite the fact that articles from The Atlantic make me wonder why I'm so bad at life (It's not too early to talk about freezing your eggs, The high price of being single in America, Why women still can't have it all), I keep forgetting about my boycott and scroll through them. This recent one wasn't actually too horrific. At least the author considers Edith the most entertaining: Why is this season of 'Downton Abbey' so boring? Everyone's married now.

"I'm also tempted to make old maidish middle sister Edith my new Downton Abbey heroine, particularly as she is in the process of transforming herself into an opinionated lady writer for the Downton Town Crier, or some such publication. Acquitting herself admirably after being jilted at the altar, Edith may have had the line of the season when she declared, "Spinsters get up for breakfast.""

Finally, my niece's first birthday approaches. I'm forever thankful that this little lady was born on Valentine's Day because she will always be my go-to date when I am otherwise unoccupied.

Where the hell do you find a bathing suit?

When you haven't been anticipating the need to get beach-body ready, the prospect of running around 95% naked is a little.. unnerving. I had to rummage through my drawers a little, but I found every bathing suit or bikini that I've had since high school, including a Speedo that no one above the age of 9 should attempt to wear. When did I think I was going to be a competitive swimmer?

The problem is that in the last couple of years, my child-bearing hips have been eagerly anticipating birthing something. I almost want to have x-rays taken of my hips to make sure there isn't something amiss. Are you supposed to have your hips protrude out twice? And thank you, Google, for I now know what a "saddlebag" is. I wish my birth control would tell them that they don't need to do that, so please hold off for, oh.. 5 years?

Anyway, I’m kind of lost on where to get a new one, how not to spend $100 (Have they gotten more expensive?! Why do I not remember them being so pricey?), and what shape to even buy. I want something that covers, so maybe this?

Wholesome Wear

I showed these to Karen who told me, "if a man still wants to see you after you wear one of those, he's the guy for you." Sounds like a win-win situation to me.

My Mother again.

For starters, I've changed the title of this blog. My intent was to redesign it as well and do a whole big Tada! but.. meh.

The reason for the change is that for the past year, I've been lying. I have been seeing a therapist, and praise Allah, he's fantastic. If you have ever wondered about what it might be like, go find one, spill your beans, and let the magic happen.

The other reason for the change is that the more I discuss my life happenings with friends, the more we are convinced that my life is Made-for-TV. And because I cannot explain how and why am I such a mess, I'm just going blame it on my Koreanness, and that my people have a penchant for the dramatics.

Case in point: the New Year's phone call from my mother:

Mom: Good morning, Yuree. Happy New Year!
Me: Hi umma, Happy New Year!
Mom: Hm, I'm sorry you woke up alone. You must be lonely.
Me: ...
Mom: Don't worry, good things will happen this year.
Me: Yes, I'm sure they will. I'm gonna go now.
Mom: Okay, byeee! I lub you.

Day 6 of my eight-day Chicago stay.

This was my first trip in ten years to celebrate Thanksgiving at home, and any intent to steer clear of gluten or dairy was promptly set aside the minute I set foot in the city. Oh well.

As I'm sure you've all noticed with your parents or relatives, mine have adopted some interesting behaviors since the house emptied out.

For example, in the shower is a bottle of shampoo from Pantene's Relaxed & Natural line, which "gently cleanses African-American hair without over-drying." My guess is that my Dad picked that one up. I call him the Enabler because he allows my Mom to get away with some very pampered behavior.  Earlier this evening she was laying in bed and her cell phone rang. Did she stir? Of course not. My Dad stopped doing the dishes, ran with her purse from the kitchen to their bedroom, and handed it to her.

Speaking of phones ringing, my parents have installed phones in the kitchen, living room, their bedroom, and one in the family room. (My house is not big). While they have figured out how to turn up the phones to full volume, they have yet to sync up the ringtones. So despite the abundance of phones around the house, absolute chaos ensues anytime someone calls because four different songs are playing at full blast until someone answers the phone.

I am just also amazed by the quantity of food in this house. Twenty minutes and two exasperated outbursts from yours truly later, I was finally able to Tetris in a bottle of orange juice, two packages of Brussels sprouts, and a half gallon of milk. I took a picture of the inside of the refrigerator to show you how much food my Mom keeps for a household of two people. Keep in mind that they have another refrigerator just for their kimchi.

Suburbia scares me.

Who gives a shit where (politician/actor/sportsball player) put his dong*, and why is it taking over national headlines? That is all.

*unless that would be in or around a minor, or other related heinous offenses. In those instances, castration is one solution that I think is quite appropriate.

Koreans are scary.

I rarely watch scary movies because I'm one of those individuals who replays images in their heads, re-scares themselves, and then ducks under the covers to hide (which only makes it worse, btw). Nonetheless, for Halloween, my roommate and I watched a CREEPY Korean movie called A Tale of Two Sisters. Why are my people so good at making messed up movies?!? I only saw 70% because I was covering my face with a blanket through most of it. Actually, make that 60%. For a good portion, I wasn't even facing the screen, and only glanced at it through my peripheral vision. I'm a big baby - I am owning this.

Anyway, I thereafter realized my missed opportunity. I have an appointment tonight to cut off my hair. Right now it's halfway down my back, and by tonight, I will look like a 7-year-old boy. After watching the movie, I saw that I have all the makings for a Korean movie ghost: long creepy hair, bitchface, and glaring eyes. The only thing I need is a white gown. This almost makes me want to keep my hair for Halloween 2013.

I searched for some images on Google for those of you who may not be familiar with the Korean gwishin. I happened to find one of me at work on a good day.

I think I am an adult now.

I was just talking with my friend, Karen, about how we should plan a trip to Europe. The last time I was there was in 2005 when I studied abroad in Brussels. Two thoughts come to mind about those 6 months. The first is that I'm both proud and also surprised by how dumb I was. I went on a two week trip through Spain and Portugal by myself. (Youth and naïveté are quite amazing.) My understanding of Spanish: passable; my understanding of Catalán: nil. Thus being mostly in Sevilla, lots of pointing, nodding and smiling.

Portugal was even better. After a 6 hour busride, we arrived at 11PM in Lagos, Portugal. I headed towards the nearest lights I could see, which happened to be a gas station. (I'm pretty sure this is how murder scenes begin.)

Me: Bonsoir, je cherche pour Casa Amarela dans la Rua Infante de Sagres.
Attendant: blank stare
Me: Oh right, I'm in Portugal. Lo siento, buscando para Casa Amarela? La Rua Infante de Sagres.
Attendant: furrowed brows
Me: F*ck. Er. I'm looking for Casa Amarela. It's right here on the map..
Attendant: Yeah, go down this street. It's a five minute walk.

I clearly did not speak a lick of Portuguese, I did not have any cash (ATM card was stolen a few days before my trip), and I was sent walking down a dark street by a gas station clerk, who very well could have sent me down an alley to be robbed. Smart, Nora.

The other thing that comes to mind is that within a month of Belgian fries, cheese, chocolates, and waffles, I tore my jeans. The insides of my thighs resented the constraint of denim, and self-destructed. Do you know how horrible jeans shopping in Europe is? 97% of the jeans didn't come up past my hips, and the 3% that did dragged on the ground. I probably had 6 inches of material dragging behind me. I tried to pass it off as the "rolled cuff" look.

Anyway, I think I am an adult now. However, I just ate a large bag of "chips" for lunch. I say "chips" because the bag says "we don't fry it... we don't bake it... we start with some wholesome potatoes, add a little heat and pressure, and pop! it's a chip." Specious.

I hate being a girl sometimes.

Forget about not being able to pee while standing, or the fact that we may potentially have to squeeze a watermelon-sized child out of our lady parts.

Unfortunately, I left my headphones at home. When you are at a cafe, this means that you are at the mercy of your neighbor's conversations. Today's topic focused on a girl with a "botched tooth job" and her second racecar driver boyfriend ("this must be her thing..") One of the bottle blondes refused to admit that the new boyfriend is hot ("is this a recent picture?"), while the other tried to be a little less jealous ("well, he was nice and he's pretty funny.."). I don't know how you botch a tooth job, but if that's all they can point out as her flaw, she's probably pretty awesome, and just doesn't know how to pick out friends. Then they moved onto The Bachelorette and I really wanted to stab my fork into my ears.

My other thought as I tried really hard not to listen: I miss cackling with my friends and having strangers judge our conversations as childish and dumb. I can't wait for Meena's return to the US in a few days!! I have a lot to catch her up on. Our neighboring tables are going to hate us.

Wanderlust

Since graduating from college I've moved at least once a year. DC (Chinatown, Woodley Park), Boston, Manila, Seoul, SF (Lower Haight, Lower Pacific Heights). This is the first time that I've been in one apartment for longer than a year. I'm getting antsy.

At first I thought it would be nice to put down roots and commit to a place (and to be truthful, San Francisco continues to amaze me every day), but I very clearly am a commitment-phobe (in many aspects of my life, unfortunately). I'm working on it.

Thank you, New York Times, for publishing an article on Chicago that only adds to my flightiness. I hinted at an opportunity to move in a previous post; the move would have been to go back home. I was just there for work a few weeks ago, and was reminded of how beautiful and lovely the city is. The architecture, the neighborhoods, the hospitality - it was all so good. I have mixed feelings at how things turned out, but I'll chalk it up to growing pains.

I also blame Ruth Reichl for my itchiness. She filmed a series back in 2009 called Adventures with Ruth, where she learns fly-fishing in the Smokies, bread-baking in Bath, the cuisines and cultures of China, Brazil, Morocco - they're fantastic. If money was of no concern and I could choose my dream life, this is it.

Another article from the Sunday Times described so-called "Offbeat Tour" websites that feature personally-guided tours around the world: Canaryhop, Gidsy, Sidetour, Vayable. If I can't have Ruth's life, I guess I can always cough up some money and pretend to be her.

I'll add one last website to this mix. Tripierge - this guy is a delight.

Hi Kettle, It's Pot.

I judge it, and yet I continue to partake in the activity. Last night I took a picture of a pot of macaroni and cheese.

Homeroom Mac + Cheese @ Underground Market

Caught in the act

How I feel when I see food pictures:
McSweeney's: An open letter to people who take pictures of food with Instagram

And yet, I am genuinely afraid of seeing my own face on here:
Tumblr: picsofaznstakingpicsoffood

And simply because McSweeney's is so irresistibly entertaining, and in keeping with the theme of this blog:

McSweeney's: Things therapists say when they realize you're a lost cause

McSweeney's: My therapist thinks I did my vision board wrong but I'm pretty sure I nailed it

Happy reading, and Happy Friday!

Torturetunities

I'm a lucky girl. I have great friends who graciously share their wisdom with me, time and again. One of the members of this treasured group is my friend and blogger extraordinaire, Abby. She gave me some food for thought the other day: torturetunities. Before I even thought to ask her for the genesis of the word and her definition, I immediately applied the idea to two recent developments in my life.

"You’ve officially been selected to run in the 2012 Nike Women’s Marathon in San Francisco. Congratulations!"

Merde. I did not want to win this lottery. Who wants to hand over a bunch of money to run 26.2 miles? Moreover, this race is in San Francisco so there are hills involved. I don’t know who this Nora is right now, but the Nora from a few years ago is very perplexed. Torturetunity. 

However, the minute I cross that finish line and pick up my Tiffany’s necklace from a handsome SF fireman dressed in a tuxedo, not only will I cross off a bucket list item, but I get to retire from my illustrious running career!

I’m serious.

The second torturetunity requires more explanation. I apologize in advance for the overabundance of links.

This past week has been amazing. I could not ask for a better cross-section to describe what my life in San Francisco consists of:

• Thurs: Bon Iver show. He is so talented, and Midwestern (and therefore automatically my friend), and I could sit and listen to him with my eyes closed for hours.
  
• Sat: Sat and read for hours in Alamo Square and definitely sun burnt nooks and crannies that have not been aired out in a long time. Afterwards, Julia’s birthday at Local Edition, where we created the Bloody Nipple. Being the occasional drinker that I am, when my friends told me to order a shot, the first thing that came out of my mouth was “bloody nipples?” Apparently the word I was looking for was “buttery.” The bartender came back with 5 shots of tequila and Bloody Mary mix. You throw back the tequila, and chase it with the mix. Ask for one the next time you go out.
• Sun: Took the ferry out to Angel Island, more sun burn.
• Tues: Surprise breakfast from Sightglass, went to Sketch Tuesday at 111 Minna and helped my friend promote his upcoming adventure, Notes to New York. Please participate!
• Wed: Went to Pop Up Magazine
• Thurs: Surprise breakfast from Tartine

That was information overload, I know. The reason why I detail it is because I love my life here. I don’t know if I am ready yet to leave. However, the opportunity has come up, and I’ve been mulling over my decision. I will go into more detail on this later if/when something comes of it. But until then, I will simply say that I have great reasons to stay here in San Francisco. I also have great reasons to move.

I thought that I had all but decided on what to do, until Abby offered up her definition at the end of our conversation. “Torturetunities: opportunities that come along at moments when we can't really take advantage of them, but they torture us because we agonize over whether to try to make it work or not, but really shouldn't do it.”

Every opportunity does not need to be seized at the moment it presents itself. Life is about choices, not opportunities. Moreover, it does not mean that the same (or better!) opportunity will not present itself again in the future.

If Abby is the dictionary, I volunteer myself as thesaurus. Torturetunities = growing pains.

Time for a Facebook Detox

"The problem, then, is that we invite loneliness, even though it makes us miserable. The history of our use of technology is a history of isolation desired and achieved. When the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company opened its A&P stores, giving Americans self-service access to groceries, customers stopped having relationships with their grocers. When the telephone arrived, people stopped knocking on their neighbors’ doors. Social media bring this process to a much wider set of relationships... Loneliness is certainly not something that Facebook or Twitter or any of the lesser forms of social media is doing to us. We are doing it to ourselves. Casting technology as some vague, impersonal spirit of history forcing our actions is a weak excuse. We make decisions about how we use our machines, not the other way around... "

Stephen Marche, Is Facebook Making Us Lonely?
Atlantic Magazine, May 2012

It's not often that 1) I see an Internet article longer than a page scroll, and 2) that I have the patience to read it. But this article hit a few nerves, and I think the author poses some thought-provoking questions.

I defriended 643 people on Facebook; some of whom I didn't even recognize because of a new married surname. If I had no idea someone got married, I had no business being "friends" with them. Relationships require a lot of work. I don't want Facebook to stand in place of that.

The Barkley

The entry procedure is a well guarded mystery. Ask a veteran how to enter and you are likely to be sent down a rabbit hole.

The cost to enter is $1.60 and a license plate from your home state or country.
The course is five loops around the park, totally unmarked, mostly off trail, with a time limit of sixty hours.
There are no manned aid stations. You must carry everything you need to survive “out there” including a map and compass (no GPS allowed) to navigate the course.
There are no rescues. You must self-extract, however long it takes, and get back to camp. There is no official race start time.
The race begins when the Race Director decides to light his cigarette.

Before and After | Race Images

Me Time

I was just telling my coworkers yesterday that I’m always coming up with ideas, and then finding out that someone else just did it.

• My title for a food blog
• My name and idea for a dog seatbelt
• My idea for a public health website (Mine would have been called micromending.org. Hi, Johnny Tucks!)
• And, now, my latest idea for a blog topic

Dumb.

Being alone scares a lot of people. You start talking to yourself, dinners come out of a can, you begin lurking on acquaintances’ Facebook pages and mentally high-fiving that awkward girl that somehow got it together and is doing really well with her good-looking husband and new baby. It’s scary.

But it’s also Me Time. You let your neuroticism get out of control, and no one is there to judge. I read aloud in a British accent because it sounds nice. But then I'll have read pages that way, and forgot to actually pay attention to what I read, so I always end up going back and rereading. Or I don’t pick up the hair I shed on my bathroom floor for days. My hair is long, and I shed a lot—it’s pretty gross. And I go on cleaning binges. I’ve crawled across my cream-colored carpeted floor, picking up individual hairs. Again, I shed a lot. And I’ve been doing the carpet thing since high school. I also like to draw without my glasses or contacts and then look at what I created. Someone might think I have schizophrenia if they looked at those pictures.

I surveyed my friends with the same question, and this is why I love them:

• SAK: Power ballads--I am like, who is that, Beyonce or me singing? Facemask time, plucking those unsightly hairs you don't want anyone to know you have. And I walk around in my heels to see if I look sexier in them, usually in my underwear, or I put on my favorite ones I don't get to wear that much.
• LR: Apply dramatic makeup that I would never wear in the outside world in a million years. I go way overboard--total tranny. Especially with the eyeliner--a Persian tranny.
• CD: Video games where I kill people. Yes, killing. In the past, clean my shoes with an old toothbrush.
• NS: Vegging out and reading a book, or just vegging out, period. And secret McDonald’s and ice cream dinners. Oh, and watching mindless and trashy rom coms.
• MS: Oh God, so many things. Watch rom coms, put on my zit cream, eat a roll of cookie dough, and maybe listen to David Gray and cry. And I drink wine out of the bottle and put on my cow shaped slippers.
• NF: I talk to my dog, wear my lesbian socks, and tight pants.
• ML: Farting unapologetically and eating Nutella out of the jar with my fingers (but I do that with K too).
• RL: Talking to the tv—“oh snap, no you didn't!", air drum—hardcore style, and I use the bathroom with the door open. (M: he does that anyways)
• BT: I make weird faces in the mirror to try and make a face that doesn't look like me anymore, but not in a silly way, just naturally a different person. I find that drastically different lip-formations can really change who you are.

I wouldn’t give up Me Time for anything. It makes me who I am. And as my wise and beautiful sister-friend, Sabiha, said, “If you can learn to be happy and content alone and doing your own thing, you can def be happier with someone else.”

A Corollary Study*

My love life amuses my friends to the degree that they have plans to write scripts based on it for sitcoms. We aren’t sure of the evolution quite yet; whether the TV show will come first, then movie (ex: Sex and the City) or vice versa (ex: Buffy the Vampire Slayer).

Anyway, I bring this up to explain why I have given up on the dating scene. Meena told me that I give more attention to puppies on the sidewalk than I do to potential men. This is true. I just don’t have the energy, patience, stamina, or cutthroat competitive drive. You see, I conducted a non-scientific, data-poor, assumption-based study, relying on prejudiced observation and hearsay. And because I’m certain the greater public will benefit from such groundbreaking work, I present my findings below. Feel free to leave your feedback and thoughts before I submit this to the New England Journal of Medicine. I will list you as an Editor. (Special thanks to Ham N. Sargento, MD, L. Lee, PhD, MBA, MSW, DrPH, and Leana Men, Esq., BAMF)

Purpose/Question: 
Will my penchant to pounce on seemingly available men increase the longer that I am single?

Research and Methods:

• Observations from “Girls Night Out,” both as a participant and third-party bystander 
• 11,028 hours over 4.7 years of G-chat conversations with expert testimony and analysis from lots of women, and some men “for the male point of view”

Hypothesis:
Duration of singledom directly correlates to aggression displayed during flirting.

Experiment: 
One evening I went out with a group of girls, most of whom I did not know and met for the first time, to a sportsball event. The average age was 30 (95% CI, 27 to 33). I, and my close friend—we’ll call her “Sheena”—got down to business and left the larger group immediately to locate food and beverages. When we returned, I was surprised to see that our group of 7 increased to 12. Upon entering the sportsball stadium, the others in the group focused their attention on gathering men. For the remainder of the outing, while Sheena and I concentrated on beasting garlic fries, the other members of our group displayed impressive flirting skills, drawing in increasing numbers of men. At any given time, each girl was in sermone(1) with a man. When one stopped to catch a breath, another swooped in and diverted attention away from the first.

On a separate occasion, several friends gathered together to celebrate a birthday. As the evening progressed, an auxiliary friend joined the group. I began to notice how this latecomer was handsome and brought this to the attention of others in the group. When the group turned to affirm my observation, we saw that “Charlotte” (age 34) was already on it. Upon relocating to a second venue, Charlotte disappeared with the boy, who later reemerged flushed and bewildered; she smiling. We did not ask questions.

Analysis:
The first example shows that in order to separate oneself from a group, girls will and must out-flirt each other when surrounded by competition. Moreover, catching male attention must be the first priority, especially in a sportsball setting. You should not allow yourself to be distracted by other interests, such as food.

The second example illustrates that as you grow older, the orbitofrontal region of the brain, which plays a role in making appropriate social responses (particularly in situations involving fear and aggression), evolves to shed any sense of hesitation. This gives the older brain a clear advantage when responding to even the slightest detection of an attractive man.

Conclusion: 
The hypothesis is correct. As one ages, they become increasingly aggressive in their tactics to capture attention. However, this has led the author to the realization of a Dating Catch 22: the more aggression you display, the more likely you are to scare off potential mates. The increasing frequency with which this occurs, the longer you are single. Aggressive girls get the action, but not the man.

The author is not saying that aggressive behavior in females is negative. I, myself, have aggressively lurked on a few occasions. However, I have agreed to “reign in the crazy,” and will therefore retire such behavior.


*Names and events changed to protect the identity of the study subjects, as no forms of informed consent were obtained prior to this study.
(1) conversating