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Let’s Get Physical

March 14, 2010 by lwarrell

My friend Rebecca and I noticed something strange about men when we were living in Spain.  Despite the care we took to cultivate our respective “looks” whilst on the prowl (I went artsy, sex kitten Boho, Rebecca was a naughty tomboy), our greatest romantic triumphs never happened when we were all dolled up.  During one sweaty afternoon, my friend and I came to realize we were most attractive to men when we were, of all things, jogging.

Rebecca and I made it a habit to run around Madrid’s Retiro Park on sunny days.  Always, we went without makeup.  Unshowered.  Hair in messy ponytails.  Mismatched, though admittedly snug, running shorts.  Not exactly the most glamorous of looks, but from the cat calls given to us by male passersby, you’d have thought we were Halle Berry and Julia Roberts on Oscar night.

Back in the States, men seem to be equally bowled over by female joggers and, in general, get googly eyed around exercising women.  Of course, when women work out, our cheeks are flushed, our lips are moist and we’re panting.  Plus, everything female and pretty on our bodies bounces around.  Doesn’t take a Freudian scholar to figure out the fantasies the sight might stir in the male mind.  Maybe we’re running slo-mo in guys’ heads as they imagine us like Pamela Anderson, Baywatching across a Malibu beach rather than hoofing it on a Bally’s treadmill.

The other day, I went to pick up my one exorbitantly priced beauty expense: a $35 bottle of shampoo.  In my world, this is costly but I know there are legions of women who would spend three times that just for the bottled water with which they wash their overly pampered manes.

Anyway, I hadn’t done much to pretty myself up that afternoon.  My face was naked save for a line of lip gloss, my hair was in a tight, somewhat fuzzy bun, and I was wearing a bland T-shirt over a boring ol’ pair of leggings.  Still, I got checked out more than I had the previous night painting the town red.  Two men asked for my number.  By the time I got to the store and held that $35 bottle of shampoo, I couldn’t help but ask, “Why in God’s name am I spending this money?”

An article I read said women spend $13,000 on makeup alone in their lifetime.  Imagine the green we’re spending on haircuts, bikini waxes and, Lord help us, clothes.  Used to be all the luxury makeup and beauty products were for rich, old gals, the rest of us went to CVS.  Nowadays, entire cosmetic lines and boutique shops have opened up to sell us $50 eye shadow kits and $120 moisturizing cream.  Lots of gals feel they can no longer get away with lip gloss and a cute haircut; they gotta get their eyebrows sculpted, teeth bleached, foreheads Botoxed, biceps and thighs yoga’ed into oblivion.  The American cosmetics industry makes over $20 billion a year, while beauty salons alone gross $72 billion of our hard-earned cash.  And for what, if dudes can just as easily drool over us doing downward facing dog?

Still, there are two dazzling conclusions to be drawn from this discovery.  First, maybe we don’t need to spend the money and time to look like we’re walking the red carpet with Halle and Julia when we’re living normal lives.  Men want us to look good, but they seem to like us just as much when we look real.

Perhaps the more fun conclusion to draw is that men no longer have a leg to stand on when they complain about the money they spend on dates with women.  These days, a guy may spend $150 bucks on dinner, drinks and a movie.  Jack that up to $200 if anyone wants a snack at the theater.

While some of us gals look decent without breaking the bank, think of what those trendy, über-stylish women spend to go on that same date: mani/pedi ($60), facial ($90), eyebrow sculpting ($25), bikini wax ($70), hair style ($65) and pre-date yoga class ($20).  A $330 price tag for one night.

Dudes, you so need to be the ones putting out.

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Lost in the Land of Old Boyfriends

March 7, 2010 by lwarrell

I keep dreaming about my ex.  The Big Ex, everyone’s got one.  Y’know, the person with whom you had the longest, most emotionally labyrinthine romantic attachment?  My Big Ex keeps sneaking into the theater of my mind, hassling me while I’m trying to dream about cream pies and booty calls with Lenny Kravitz.

In the dreams, Big Ex wants me again or I’m asking if he still loves me or we’re making out like teenagers.  In a dream the other night, we were at an amusement park in Tokyo.  He was wearing a police uniform and I was riding a camel (my dreams have always been colorful).  He comes over as I’m doing a tap dance on a picnic table and asks if we can become reacquainted in the biblical sense.  I say, “Man, you’re married now.  I don’t think you should be putting your thing anywhere near my situation.”  But I do it anyway.

Strange, because my relationship with Big Ex is ancient history, it’s positively Byzantine in its ancientness.  Besides, I was the one who left on account of his workaholism and mélange of personal issues.  So why has he suddenly popped back into my psyche?

A few weeks ago, I dreamt of my college boyfriend, a handsome, erudite gentleman whose greatest flaw was a slight problem with gas.  In the dream, we were drinking coconut milk out of a cantaloupe and fighting about the woman with whom he was also sleeping.  A few nights later, I had a quite amorous dream about a 22-year-old hunk o’ burnin’ love I was crushing on back in ‘07.  In it, we were in Spain and he was my boyfriend.  As we walked the streets, all the Spaniards looked skeptically at us as if they knew I shouldn’t be dating a dude whose greatest accomplishment in life thus far was turning legal.

After months of ex-boyfriend dreaming, I finally phoned a friend getting her PhD in psychology.  ‘Why,’ I wanted to know, ‘were these men assailing me in my sleep?’

“Other people in your dreams are not actually themselves,” said my friend.  “They’re aspects of yourself you’re unwilling to face.  The dreams help you figure out what you want from the current challenges in your life.  When you dream about Big Ex, you’re really dreaming about you.”

Dreaming about these men shows me what I want at this moment in my life.  So, I want to be a manic workaholic who cries every morning during winter?  I want to become a snotty academic with irritable bowels?

My friend suggested there were deeper issues I had to extract from the plots of these nighttime reveries.  She invited me to consider what qualities these men symbolize.  The qualities I came up with were anxiety, fear and immaturity.  For certain, these qualities have been some of the jewels around which the treasure chest of my relationship life has thus far been built.  Even more certain is my current resolve to steer clear of any human being who would bring said qualities into an interaction with me.

Generally speaking, I’ve never felt more on the verge of a breakthrough.  The last couple years, I’ve seen people come and go, seen some windows close while others stay open ajar, had fresh insights and spiritual discoveries, new dreams replacing worn-out ambitions, unhealthy patterns exposed and toppled to the ground.

So lately, I’ve been enjoying one of those delectable moments when you watch the book called “The Past” close for good.  Ever have those moments when you feel the direction of life changing because you want different things, because you feel yourself drawn to new kinds of people?  You know something’s changing, some day soon life will no longer be the same.  The moment is pregnant with possibility.

Maybe this is the point of these boyfriend dreams.  I don’t want to rekindle things with Big Ex or cozy up to the flatulent professor.  Maybe I’m revisiting the past so I can step away from it once and for all.  Maybe these men are visiting so I can say one last goodbye.  A door is opening and though I’m unsure of what’s on the other side, I know few of these people, these bad habits or old ways of doing the business of life are coming through it with me.

Hallelujah…

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A Night with American Psycho

February 28, 2010 by lwarrell

The other night, I saw Nicolas with a new girl.  He seems to go through them like Kleenex.  When I see him around, I get a raunchy desire to press up against him.  But I also feel relief that I probably, quite literally, dodged a bullet.

Our story went down like this:

I meet him at a bar the night after Christmas ‘08.  I’m with friends, he’s drinking alone.  He’s tall and gorgeous with black hair so dark you’d think it would chill your fingers to run them through.  When I sit beside him, he says, “whoever gets the bartender’s attention first gets to spank the other.”

I should slap him or at least roll my eyes.  I don’t because he makes my knees quake.  He says he’s French, name’s Nicolas.  I ask what he does for a living.

“Mergers and acquisitions.”

The hair on the back of my neck rises.  “Have you ever read ‘American Psycho?’”

“Yes.”  He flashes a sinister grin.  “And I’m going to pull out your fingernails with pliers.”

Two strokes of crazy, but I’m still there.  Nicolas is beguiling.  He speaks in caustic melodies as if the words are coming too quickly, he moves as if his soul is on the verge of eruption.  He’s brilliant, funny and intense, centering in as if I’m the only other person on the planet.

He tells me his family didn’t call from France to wish him a Merry Christmas and he spent the day alone.  But this isn’t the worst that’s ever happened to him.  If I want to know more, he says, I have to go on a date with him.

And there I am the next night, transfixed by this icy hot tower of masculine perfection and social dis-ease.  Nicolas talks a mile a minute about the hunt of big business and the sweet taste of success.  Suddenly, he’s fascinated by me again and asks about my family.  I describe my kinfolk but he’s intrigued most by the father I never knew.  Nicolas, turns out, is a father himself.

After years of Nicolas devoting himself to merging and acquiring and moving back and forth to the US, his ex felt neglected.  So she took his son to some remote French village and forbids Nicolas from seeing him.  They’ve been battling for half a decade.

“She and her family make lies about me.”  His teeth are gnashing.  “They said I fed him ice cream when I know he’s lactose intolerant.  They say I cheated on her, this isn’t true.”

Nicolas is talking about this much longer than appropriate, his voice rising, everyone around us getting edgy.

“Now,” Nicolas continues, “they have taken a restraining order against me.”

I back away.  He questions my nervousness so I say, “you can’t just ‘get’ a restraining order on someone.  There has to be a reason.”

Nicolas glares.  “Can’t you give me the benefit of the doubt?  I’m trying to confide in you, to let you see who I am, not everything is perfect.  But you put me in a box.  I ask only for compassion.  Do you know what it’s like to have your child taken from you?  I told you because I want you to understand me.  And because you don’t know your father, I want you to know there are men in the world who care about their children.”

What a master of the mind fuck!  How has this person managed to make me feel guilty, judgmental and heartbroken in one fell swoop?  I realize I’ve been there for hours, listening to him leap from one subject to the next.  He says inappropriate things to other patrons, makes weird comments about my body and sex, then chastises himself as if even he’s shocked to hear himself make such remarks.

“I could get laid whenever I wish.”  Nicolas scans the room.  “But these women are like biscuits in milk.  They dissolve immediately.  But you are solid, you understand me.”

I feel as if I’m standing at the edge of the tornado in Twister, watching things get sucked in and chucked out.  I’m waiting to get hit by a stray cow.

“You’re my soul mate,” Nicolas says.  “I’ve told you everything and you’re still here.”

Nicolas takes me in his arms and I become the pussycat trying to get away from Pepe LePew.  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ I wonder.  ‘Is being alone worse than this?’

I take a cab home, Nicolas sends a text letting me know we’re finished.  Despite considering me a soul mate less than an hour before, he now feels emotionally unavailable.  Relieved, I spend the next several months joking about him with friends, imitating his manic gestures and referring to him as ‘French Psycho.’

But seeing Nicolas the other night, trying to endear himself to yet another woman wasn’t such a hoot.  Everyone has reasons why they can’t make relationships work.  They’re insecure, too picky, damaged.  But these are things we have control over.  Imagine being a stunningly handsome, whip smart, super successful man who can’t keep a woman, a wife, or even his own family and child in his life because of a sickness he can’t control.  That’s not funny.  That’s sad.

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Studies Show Your Mom’s a Jerk

February 21, 2010 by lwarrell

I love my mom.  But I think I’m going to have to cut her loose.  Apparently, she’s destroying my love life.

Lots of women have mothers who nag them about their figures, wonder aloud why their daughters haven’t found a decent fella or tsk disapprovingly about the way they raise their kids.  Not mine.  For the most part, my mother leaves me to my own devices.  Or so I thought.

According to a study by the University of Western Australia, the overt ways mothers try to influence their daughters’ personal lives don’t hold a candle to their more dire biological hand-me-downs.  Scientists studied the DNA of 150 college students and found “the more varied [her] genes…the more boyfriends a woman was likely to have,” the assumption being genetic variation leads to attraction.

The study was cited in an inspiring online article called “Still Single?  Not as Skinny as You’d Like?  Blame Your Mom.”  While few activities are more satisfying than condemning others for your own personal failures, the article is misleading, considering any person’s genetic makeup depends on a mother and a father.  Still, the theory is this: if your dumb mother mates with a man whose genes are too similar to hers, dudes aren’t gonna dig you.  Conversely, if she’s sharp enough to breed with someone from the other side of the genetic fence, well, attach a revolving door to your bedroom.

I’m no scientist, but this theory has lots of holes.  How does having more boyfriends necessarily ensure commitment and marriage?  I know at least five women from my high school who married, and are still married to, the guys who pinned carnations to their dresses at senior prom.  They’ve only had one “boyfriend” during their entire adult lives.  On the other hand, I know tons of women who’ve gone through men like Tiger goes through porn stars, yet still cry themselves to sleep each night because no guy presents a ring.

The study, or more accurately the article based on the study, suggests women with a melting pot for a genetic code should have men beating down their doors with marriage proposals.  But if you believe other stats, most marriages in the US are still made up of people from like backgrounds.  People may wade across the gene pool while dating, but unfortunately, they seem to go back to their side of the tank come settlin’ down time.

And here’s poor Jennifer Aniston again, the go-to girl in any discussion about women relationship-hunting men avoid like the plague.  The article uses her to prove its point that uninteresting genetics doom one to singledom.  But further research shows Aniston’s dad was of Greek heritage and her mother was Scottish and Spanish.  Thus, she should have lots of boyfriends.  And well, hasn’t she?  Why, come to think of it, she’s also had a husband.

Comparing oneself to Jennifer Aniston feels like romantic suicide, but admittedly, there are similarities between us.  I’ve got a genetic mix, too, with African, Italian, Irish, English and German blood coursing through my veins.  I suppose I should thank my mother for her procreative wisdom.  And, like Jen, I’ve had a marriage, and a handful of relationships intermingled with periods of romantic drought.  I’d say that’s par for the course for most people.  In fact, I’d say Jen and I have had fairly robust romantic lives thus far.  Is this because of or in spite of our blend of DNA?

I think universities and magazine writers just want to create controversy, so come up with flimsy facts and build worlds of truths around them.  I mean, I just disproved this DNA theory in seven hundred words.  Where’s my six-figure research stipend?

So many reasons are blamed for the state of our relationships: feminism, genetics, male psychological dysfunction, women in the work place, the advent of birth control, economics, education gaps.  It’s hard to accept we’re having so much trouble making relationships happen.  Love may be about scientific truths and social realities, but it’s also about luck and just following the natural course of life.  Ultimately, we’ve got to accept this, ignore the research and leave poor mom alone.

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