Diary of a Quarter-life lover (not a hater. Ok, sometimes. Usually Mondays mornings.)

On the heels of the demise of my last relationship, I wavered between eating my emotions in the form of Ben & Jerry's / an endless pit of Kix (don't ask) cereal / cocktails my friends likened to an emotional form of Robitussin (recall Chris Rock and his "Pour that 'tussin in there!"), and examining my relationship and relationships as a whole with the eyes of a forensic pathologist.

Ok, it was either that or gain 10 lbs in mopey sad-girl weight. And after years of spending $$$ on pairs of skin-tight skinny jeans and yoga classes, that was not an option...

So I decided to toss my pint of Cherry Garcia, and start a little research. Anyone who has ever taken a course in journalism knows that it only takes a tiny spark to ignite a flame of curiosity.

I started with my friend C, known for his...prowess, shall we call it? His brain was mine to pick. I asked him, "So what's your deal? How many women are you seeing now?"

He responded with a smirk, "Well, 9."

"9?! What do you do, track them in an Excel sheet?" I couldn't remember the last time I had 9 ofanything simultaneously. Maybe a 9-pack of toilet paper. 

"Well, not Excel, but I do have a system for remembering who I went out with when..."

I wondered if this kamikaze dating method was a result of his last relationship--2 years of tumultuous monogamy. So he decided to pillage a village of women after the shackles came off.

"Ok, so you're just playing the lottery, then, right? Upping your chances of meeting someone cool by dating as many women as humanly possible at once?" Seriously, how many protein shakes and 6 Hour Power Energy Shots does that take?

"Well, they're kind of time killers. I may meet someone cool out of the batch; I may not. And you may judge me, but I'm fair with all of them." I saw a debate coming.

"Fair? How's that?" I could sense my eyes rolling, followed by the furrowing of the brow. Knee-jerk reaction. Unstoppable.

"I'm upfront and honest with all of them from the start," he justified.

"So each of them knows they're 1/9 of the C Equation, eh?" I wracked my brain, trying to remember the last time I had a conversation with a woman while she boasted of her multiple conquests a la Alexander the Great. Yup, nada.

"Well, they don't know the numbers, but each of them knows she's not the only one."

"Hm, ok. Fair enough. They know what they're signing up for."

"Listen, it's really just this new thing I decided to try. I mean, I manage portfolios for a living. And I try to diversify. That's my job. And I mitigate risks. So why not apply the same methods to dating?" 

Ok, here we go...

"Go on...I'm ready for this. Now pitch me this revolutionary idea you have," I said.

"Well, I'll give you an example. One of the girls I was dating, I actually thought I'd want to be in a relationship with. She was really cool. And it's been awhile since my last relationship, but I thought I'd want to give it a shot with her."

This is about as close to vulnerability a man will get. In a public space. One day. One day. I just want to see some tears. 

"And? What happened?" 

"She didn't want a relationship. She told me she wasn't over her ex. You know, same story, different person."

"So you're saying that because you were dating 8 other women, you had something--well, 8 things--to fall back on?"

"Exactly! If she was the only girl I was dating, I'd be crushed. Because I would have invested everything emotionally into just her. BUT, by diversifying my portfolio, so to speak...I mitigated my risk of being hurt."

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"Wait a second. You just made a finance-relationship analogy using the term "MITIGATING RISKS"...I'm not high on acid or something, right?"

I'd say I was rendered speechless, but my speech was more along the lines of "What in the F?!"

"Ya. What's wrong with that? I didn't feel so horrible about it because I had protected myself. I didn't invest in just one thing. I mean, person."

"Ok, I get your logic, but you mean you'll just hold everyone at arm's length--meaning, your army of women--so you won't get hurt? So how are you ever going to feel anything for anyone? It's like reading the back cover of 9 books, and never cracking open the actual books."

"See, I know you don't believe me, but my system works. Or it has so far. I haven't been hurt by anyone. And I've been having fun."

"I guess. But still--it's still the same thing as treating people as commodities that can be traded and aqcuired...it's a little cold, no?"

"Well, that's what dating is. If you don't diversify, you risk way too much with just one person. You have to know your own value, what you bring to the table, and invest accordingly..."

We mutually agreed to disagree and leave the whole conversation in grey area limbo. Any further and I had a feeling this was going to end in Excel models, some comparison of dates and ROI, and a PowerPoint presentation.

So maybe if C is right, our noble men of this century will be so charming as to ask you out on a date like...

GUY: "Hi, I'd like to invest in you as part of my diversified portfolio."

and the woman will jump for joy at the level of romance, and unicorns and rainbows and diamonds will fall from the sky. And her eyes will light up and burst to huge proportions like an Anime character. 

You know it's bad when the Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky debacle make the corporate culture at a (unnamed) huge corporation look like pure, unadulterated vanilla.

After yoga class, I ran into T in the locker room, after overhearing her speak spanish to one of the women who works at our gym.

"Oh, I had no idea you were fluent in spanish!"

"Yup, my mother is Dominican. I don't use it as much anymore so sometimes I forget a lot of words, but..."

After 10 minutes of going back and forth about the myriad accents and slang in any given spanish-speaking country, and an injection of, "You know, I knew a guy who wanted to learn spanish after seeing the women in a telenovela"..."Oh, so his stiumulus for learning was boobs and curves, right?"..."Basically", we landed on the topic of the corporate workplace. Specifically in accounting. 

T has worked in public and private accounting, so she's a veteran of the biz (who has the dirt on just about eeeeverything). She's lived in South Korea, Columbia, France, Dubai. This woman has seen it ALL. So I figured I'd get a peek into the life of an average accountant. Per the stereotype, they can't all be that bland and semi-suicidal, right?

"My friend's been complaining a lot about how the men treat women at her firm," I started. "She says they're pretty chauvanistic and not even shy about it at all."

"Oh...that's no surprise."

"Apparently, when she started with this new group, the men took her and the other women aside and said, 'Look, men and women work differently. You guys like to chit chat and gossip and dilly dally, and we like to get our stuff done.'"

"What?"

"Yeah, that's not even the end of it. They like to separate men and women in rows. So you see a row of men and then a row of women and it's this weird segregation of sexes." I could feel myself getting P.O.'d just mentioning it.

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," said T.

"Someone complained to HR, and I guess they had a 'talk' with the boys, and so they placed my FRIEND in a row of guys, so somehow that makes it ok that they still separate men and women and sacrifice one poor woman to the men's row."

"Oh yea, HR doesn't really do anything when it comes to that. From my experience, they're pretty useless..."

"So you've experienced the same?"

"Well, when I first started, this partner, who was supposed to be a mentor or whatever, took me out to lunch and said to me, 'You know, you're a very attractive woman...' and I knew it was going to be weird.

"Uh, YEA. Who says that?!"

"He then said, 'You don't even really have to do much if you want to move up, you just have to grab onto someone's coattails and ride that and you'll be fine.' Then there are the partners who had wives here and girlfriends in Madrid and conjured up work excuses to have us make trips to Spain..."

"Ok, whoever said accountants have boring lives have NEVER heard these stories..."

"Oh, I could tell you more...it gets pretty bad. And it's kind of like this across the board, not just at one or two firms. Sometimes the guys would tell us, 'We're going out for cigars and whiskey, so obviously you women wouldn't want to come, right?' so it was basically an excuse to exclude women."

"Why do I get the feeling a lot of accounting firms are filled with mysogynists?"

"That's not entirely untrue...Well, a lot of the guys like women. Just in bed. And not the workplace."

"Wow, this is some sleazy stuff."

"No kidding. That's why I left. I hated it. I'm glad my older sister warned me about all this stuff before I started."

"Oh, she worked in public accounting too?"

"Yea, she still does, because she loves it. But she told me what to watch out for. Like the superiors who try to bed you."

"Ah...I sense a good story coming."

"There are the girls who, it's their first job out of college or whatever, and get this pressure, thinking the only way to move up is to sleep their way up."

"Very TV, movies. Mad Men, anyone? But go on..."

"Yea, so they do that, and the partners review their work after every big job, and write these caustic reviews about their work not being up to par or some excuse, and I mean, who are these girls going to complain to? It's not like they can go to HR and tell them they blew a partner and got a horrible review."

"Oh, the knee pad girls."

"Yup, the good ol' presidential knee pads."

I, for one, challenge the age-old "Sex, Money, Greed" bumper sticker, and raise with a "Sex, Money, ACCOUNTING".

"Every time we go out, it seems like all of us end up trying to find a girl for N", said A, as we clinked our glasses to yet another friend's birthday. Those seem to happen every other week, and revolve around champagne, some late-night slurring, and a regrettable trip to 7-11 for those wrinkly-those-shouldn't-be-that-color hot dogs.

"What are we doing? Are we looking for a girl again?" W decided to chime in and join what was turning into our apparent game of paintball, except the object was an unsuspecting girl, and our paintball guns were Cupid arrows of luuuurve.

Somehow I had a gut feeling this would be very Vietnam War: we would get in there, with the sudden realization that we didn't know how to look for our targets and had no idea what we got ourselves into. 

So there we were, three girls with one goal. "So what type of girl is he into? Blonde, brunette, tall, short?", I asked. Yes, let's inject some project management skill here. 

"He likes blondes. No, LOVES blondes," said A. 

We roamed around and put on our imaginary BLONDE CHICK NIGHT VISION GOGGLES and scanned the room for a few minutes. Looking lost (I assume), two guys approached us.

"What are you girls looking for?"

"Girls", we replied.

"Oh." Guy 1 looked disappointed. "Us too."

"Guess we can't help you out there", said Guy 2.

"Yup, sorry."

"Well, they definitely must've thought we were lesbians.", said A.

"Ummm...ya, probably. He kind of looked excited, followed by sad.", laughed W.

"I see a group of blondes over there," announced W. "They're not bad. I think he'd like them."

Like the Green Bay Packers in the last quarter of the Super Bowl, we huddled, trying to figure out the game plan. 

"Well, we're supposed to get N the in, right? Like, open the door for him to talk to her?", I asked.

"Ya...we just need to figure out how to do it.", said A. "What if we're just honest with her and tell her our friend over there wants to talk to her, and if she's not interested that's ok?"

"Mmm, I always feel like that's kind of lame. And makes a girl think the guy's a bit of a wuss for not being able to approach her himself.", warned W.

"Good point. So now what?"

"Hm, what if we just mention something we have in common, or compliment her on something she's wearing?", I suggested. "It's more natural, and it doesn't come off as 'I'm trying to pimp my friend out to you'".

"That sounds like it may work. But what do we talk about?", asked W.

"Ummmm..."

We spent about 5 minutes racking our brains for ideas. Shoes? Too simple. Conversation ends in 1 minute. Outfit? Eh. She's wearing jeans and a top. Obvious lie.

"HAIR!" I shouted.

"Hair?" they asked.

"Yes! She has nice hair. We can ask her where she got it done and somehow that can lead to a progression of N talking to her...he just has to get himself over here."

"Ok, that works. I'll go with you to strike up a convo with her and A will get N over here.", suggested W.

Wasting little time, we pounced. Well, so to speak. I tapped the blonde girl on the shoulder (the one we had zeroed in on, for the sole reason that she had nice blonde hair), as she turned around, I exclaimed, "Hi! I was just wondering where you got your hair done. It's so pretty! I'm looking for a new stylist, so thought I'd ask." I instantly thought, "Oh God, how do guys do this? It's weird enough being a girl asking another girl a question she doesn't really even care about. Imagine being a guy having to make small talk with a girl he's interested in."

She seemed friendly enough, so we spoke of highlights, dye jobs, bobs, layers, bangs (the hair kind, of course. mind out of gutter please.), and all things hair-related.

"Oh, I go to this place in _________. It's called _________. I love it!", she replied.

"Oh, who's the stylist you go to?" asked W.

I could see her eyes scanning the room for any sign of A and N, while I was doing the same. We must've had ESP or something. We glanced at one another and I could tell we were both saying, "Ok, uhhh how do we prolong this conversation until they get here?"

"Her name is ______. I've gone to her for a few years now."

We chatted for about 15 minutes about her mother and best friend, both hairstylists from Philadelphia, both who apparently rock the bob.

Suddenly we found ourselves talking about cutting bangs, learning how to cut bangs on YouTube, and I knew we were getting into perilous "this conversation has nowhere else to go" dead end territory.

A and N never appeared. Operation "Blonde Girl" FAIL. 

We ended the girl-bonding-session conversation with a, "Ok, I think we have to go, but it was great talking to you!" and a girly-girl wave.

"Wow, you can seriously go on forever about nothing. You have some skill there." said W.

"Er...I think I just have an odd talent for rambling. It's kind of a useless talent. There's no "America's Next Top Rambler Who Can Start a Conversation About Nothing", sadly."

"Still--props."

Making our way to the table where A and N sat, we yelled, "What WAS that? Why didn't you bring N over? What happened to THE PLAN?!"

"He wouldn't go over with me! I tried dragging him, but well, he's stronger than I am...", said A.

I sat next to N to hear his sorry excuse. "We were working it for you over there! What happened? I mean, all you had to do was go in for the kill."

"Who told you girls to look for someone for me? I never asked you to," he said.

"Ugh, that's the last time we set anything up for you," said W.

W, A, and I slumped in our chairs. "Man, that was a lot more difficult than I ever imagined," I said.

"Yeah, that was kinda exhausting," said A.

"And I seriously had no idea what to talk about. How do guys do it?!" asked W.

Wingmen and single men around the world, I give you all the credit in the world. That shiz is NOT EASY. Half of it is mustering the guts to talk to a complete stranger and the other half is ad libbing (like, comedy sketch show ad libbing). After that, I felt the need for a multivitamin, a protein shake, and a long nap.

Yes, women have a tendency to flick off some perfectly well-meaning men like bothersome gnats, with the common, "Are you kidding me?", "Um, no thanks", and "Er, I'm on my way to the bathroom" responses (not entirely without good reason most times), but I guess it's a good thing to at least appreciate the effort.

It's a wild jungle out there in single gal/guy world. Put on your helmets and maybe just think twice before you verbally pepper spray a guy in the face. Maybe.

A sweaty mess, I hauled myself and my bird's nest of hair over to the weights. Just as I prepared to transform my girly Olive Oyl arms into about a quarter of the Hulk-like arms of Madonna, I spotted a tuft of golden, voluminous hair.

To my surprise, it was the Jack of my Will & Grace life--S. He walked--no, glided--over (this guy does not simply WALK), and looked as if he had just gotten done up for a L'Oreal haircolor commercial. You know, the one with women whipping their shiny-as-a-copper-penny hair about in a fit of Brazilian blowout rage. In other words, every haircolor commercial ever made.

He greeted me with a "Heeeeey!" and the staple kisses on the cheeks.

"Sorry, I'm really gross and sweaty."

"Oh girl, you really DO work out. You're such a gym rat!" 

What he's really saying: "Oh girl, damn. You really ARE sweaty."

Meanwhile, he had the hair of a Pomeranian show dog and had not one drop of sweat on him.

"Weird, I'm running into everyone here today. I just ran into my hairdresser over there!" he said.

I thought of the one time long ago when I ran into my old Calculus teacher at a gym on the stretching mats. He was in downward facing dog and then proceeded to do a backbend. Not quite the same effect as running into your hairdresser on a treadmill. Also makes you wonder what else you never knew about your old teachers, aside from the fact that they turned out to be more flexible than 12 year old Olympic Chinese gymnasts.

S looked at his iPhone. "I'm actually on my way out of here. This guy's waiting for me outside."

"For what?"

"I checked in on this app, and he sent me a message and told me he thought I was cute."

"Oh god. Is this Foursquare? I swear people are using that to stalk now."

"Sort of..."

I really hoped this wasn't some creepy Craigslist thing.

"So he messages me and it turns out we're both here at the same time. But I mean, what do I do? I'm in the middle of a workout."

No he's wasn't. He was as dry as an overcooked brownie. Workouts imply sweat. Or at least a piece of your hair flying out of place.

"Are you gonna meet him outside?"

"I guess."

"Well, your hair looks good. Did you just get it done?"

"No, but...does it look like I just got it done?" Cue 5 minutes of checking out his hair in the mirror behind me.

"Sort of."

"Well, he's pretty hot, so I think I'm just gonna meet him outside and see how it goes."

S found his way outside, and I began laughing. Yes, I must have looked like a nutjob to the guy in front of me lifting weights, but I couldn't help thinking about the hilarity of the situation. The one time there is a hot guy at the gym (I thought there was a sighting once, but it turned out he was only attractive from 15 feet away), he of course, is interested in my MALE friend. And in the world of dishes, also thinks of men as filet mignon and women as soggy bean sprouts.

I'm beginning to think that the universe likes to do things out of spite for women who enjoy decent gym eye candy.

I finished my workout, and didn't see S again for the rest of the night. 

As I fumbled for my keys to try to open the front door, my phone began vibrating. I kicked the door in, Rambo-style, and opened the text message. It was from S.

"He's in an open relationship but wants to "hang out" gawwwd what to do? But he's hot."

Somehow I feel like I've had this conversation before.

"He was pretty open about everything. He's 33 and has dated the same guy for 8 years but it's been an open relationship for awhile. But I don't hook up with people in relationships! Hold on, I'll text you his bod haha."

"Please don't send me something obscene. I don't want to accidentally forward it to my mother one day." I can't imagine that conversation going well, or sounding the least bit believable: "Mom, that picture wasn't meant for you. My gay best friend sent me a picture of his potential friend with benefits. Not mine!!!"

"It's just his torso!", texted S.

For some reason I didn't receive it, but I figured the picture wasn't meant for my eyes, and the cell phone Gods that be had decided to firewall the heck out of it. I'm also a natural skeptic, so a part of me was sure this guy had snapped a picture of the abs of Jersey Shore's The Situation from Us Weekly and sent it along to S, claiming it was his glorious 6-pack.

"Open relationships are horsecr**. It's just an easy cop-out, I think", texted S.

I'm not sure anyone has figured out how to properly emote any form of emotion across text messages yet (trust me, those sad faces and happy faces do not do emotions justice), but I sensed something akin to a child knowing that sugar rots teeth to small nubs, but inching toward the giant Costo-size pack of Pixi Stix (remember those?!) anyways.

"Yea, an open relationship is sort of a weird definition of a relationship, kind of like how you can play fantasy football but you can't really say you're a football player.", I responded.

We'll see if the kid kicks back a few giant Pixi Stix or finds a different sugar rush. But til then, I shall bequeth upon this mystery hottie the title of Mr. Unattainable (for the ladies) McSteam-room-y. The universe is a funny thing. But mostly, the universe is a little punk.

There's nothing like a long drive with a friend, who thinks women and cars are one in the same. It isn't the great debate of the century, but it did prompt me to throw him a death stare more than a few times on our drive to the beach. You know, similar to how evil Disney villains or soap opera villains glare before they create some havoc. Of course, without the eyes popping out of your head while creating thunder in the background effect.

We somehow landed on the topic of women being "high maintenance". Being a woman myself, I think I have a bit of the upper hand in this debate.

I've known women who have gone to sleep donning a full face of makeup because they refuse to wake up bare-faced and "unattractive". Especially when a man is involved. 

Yet, I have a sister who considers chapstick and lipgloss application a makeup regime . The one time I applied makeup on her, she proceeded to try to scrub the makeup off with water and a face towel and came out of the bathroom looking like she had survived a bar brawl, with raccoon eyes and mascara streaked across her face. She didn't know there was such a thing as makeup remover.

Of course, there are the women who spend hours in the bathroom getting ready, worship Posh Spice, and peruse supermarket aisles in skinny jeans and high heels. The ones who exceed credit card limits to get their hands on the latest Marc Jacobs quilted purse. There are the ones who expect men to buy them gifts all the time, foot the bill for just about everything. But that certainly doesn't account for all women.

Then there are the go-natural gals who take about 10 minutes to get ready, love casual everything, and keep life pretty sweet and simple. The ones who don't ask their boyfriends or husbands for much, and earn their own way through life.

I went on for about 30 minutes giving my argument, shooting down the stereotype that all women are high maintenance. Ok, I didn't shoot down the argument. I shot it down and then proceeded to beat it with a baseball bat.

B shut me up with one argument.

"All women CLAIM to be low-maintenance, but they're ALL pretty high maintenance."
"How so?"
"It's kind of like when you go to a car dealership and look for a car. The salesman tells you this car and that car have great mileage. You won't have to fill up for MILES."
"And?"
"Well, you test drive it, and you like it. Seems pretty good."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Then you BUY the car, take it on the road for real and find out you only get 12 miles per gallon and you've already run out of gas. You got yourself into something that costs you way more than you bargained for. See?" 

I couldn't stop laughing. Ok, touche, touche.

Still, there are the Smart Cars and the Hummers of the world, no?

There's a reason cars aren't made with 7 wheels. FAR too wonky.

In the last 6 months, my girlfriends have been joining the couples bandwagon one by one. Snatched up by the bad boy James Deans and boy-next-door Dawsons of our generation. As a friend, I couldn't be happier for them, finally having found that dress that suits them to a T, in a color that just pops. In a city of sample sale after sample sale, it's an incredible find.

In a day, that happiness became "Oh, FML, I'm a what? 3rd wheel? No. 5th wheel? No. 7th wheel? No. 9TH WHEEL?!" As we walked down 5th Ave during the Gay Pride Parade, in a city of all things artistic, weird, quirky, fabulous, so many conflicting emotions were tumbling around like a pile of panties and camis during the drying cycle. Happy, awkward, somber at the thought of the end of the single woman era, guilty at the thought of not being 110% elated at new couplings, it really was a tough tumbling cycle. 

I've found that being a 3rd wheel, or in this case, the 9TH WHEEL, oftentimes is followed by middle-child syndrome. Not quite sure where you belong or what is expected of you--should you stick around or peace out in the middle of the day to offer them alone time?--Uh. I have yet to figure that out. Thoughts? Generally greeted with an overwhelming chorus of silence and shrugs.

9th wheel or not, there was no way I was missing the Gay Pride Parade. Got to support the freedom to love, regardless of of whether it's between Jane and John or Jim and John. Love is a funny thing. It makes you feel a myriad of emotions that nothing else can trigger. Pride, sadness, glee, anger. You name it, someone has felt it when love was at the core. Whether it's your love for someone or love between others. 9th wheel syndrome, for instance. 

Let's just say that I can't wait to get back into a car with the standard 4 wheels. Potential fender benders I can handle. Looking like an idiot with an extra wheel duct taped to the side window is a little tougher to swallow.

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We were sliding the car into the sidewalk parking space, with the rain pelting down on the roof of the car like an army of angry bees attacking, when suddenly, a giant thud came from the side of a car. I turn back and through the rain-soaked windows, see a blurry shape that appears to be a woman. Yes, some dumb woman backed into our car. I've heard of cars hitting people, but never people hitting cars.

It didn't end there. Just as we backed into the space, she walked behind our car. Ok, sure, she backed into the side of our car. Maybe she slipped. But then she walks behind the car as we're backing up? In the words of the wise man and sometimes actor, Ludacris, "Move b****, get out the way, get out the way b****, get out the way."

I'm convinced that people are dumber when the weather is bad. All of a sudden, nobody knows how to drive or walk or do any of the things they've done every single day for 99% of their lives. Some people must think, "Oh, it's raining. There's a mailbox in front of me. It's going to move, right? Let me just walk into it and see whether or not it moves."

I swear this isn't about dumb people and rain. Although it could be. Out there, there is a PhD candidate awaiting the time to write his/her thesis on just that.

We were driving in the rain that just would not stop--seriously, 3 days? Come on, Mister Weather--when I asked, "Hey, where was Nadia? Didn't she say she would come today?"

"Oh, yea, she had to run some errands with her boyfriend today, so she cancelled", said Mark.

"Oh, right, her boyfriend. Why haven't I seen him before? I've heard her mention him, but it's like he's some phantom who never comes out or something."

"Because he's anti-social."

"That's weird. She's so extroverted and outgoing!"

"Well, I've told her what I thought of him before. He's kind of like the nerds on show The Big Bang Theory, except without any knowledge of social interaction whatsoever. At least those guys can talk to each other. In Star Trek talk, but it still counts as communication."

"Wow. I didn't know it was that bad. I just pictured him as slightly socially awkward. Now I'm starting to picture him in my head as some sort of goblin who only comes out at odd hours when everyone else is asleep."

"Well, he's anti-social. Except when it comes to poker. He'll talk your ear off about poker, even if you don't have the slightest interest in it."

"Oh, that makes sense. Have you ever seen those televised poker matches? Those poker players are great at what they do, but don't really seem like people you'd ever want to hang out with, unless you were taking them for millions in a match..."

"Ya, exactly. That's him."

"Does he wear sunglasses indoors at night?"

"Well, no, but he may as well. If he ever came out."

"Ugh, that sucks. If he's so--for lack of a better word--BLAH--why's she with him?"

"I think it's because he's just easy. They live together, there's no drama, and she's afraid to live on her own."

"Easy? You mean boring."

"Well, yea. But I think it's more because he's safe."

"Huh. Safe..."

This got me thinking about the "safe" choices we make in choosing partners. I never understood people who chose "safe" over what they really wanted. Sure, he does your laundry and doesn't cheat on you, but also bores you to death and doesn't interact with your friends. 

That's what I call Mac n' Cheese lovin. Sure, Mac n' Cheese can be good, simple, satisfying. You even crave it every once in awhile. It's food, fills your tummy. Comes out piping hot every day, with just a few simple and cheap ingredients.

But Mac n' Cheese EVERY DAY? For the rest of your life? It's really just going to leave you overweight and flatulent up the wazoo. And maybe even constipated. 

I still don't understand it and won't pretend to, but perhaps there are those who simply have an undying love for trusty ol' Mac n' Cheese. Ah, bless your heart.

Personally, I like filet mignon...

*photo courtesy of Zazzle.com