How I Changed the Mind of a Sexist Jerk on OKCupid

From Sexist to Empathetic in 12 Messages

There is no shortage of men saying wildly inappropriate things to me online*. When I can thinking of something funny to say back, these men usually end up as a part of (or the butt of) the joke on my Instagram. Most of the time though, it’s just a heavy burden to bear. The burden of these men and the way they speak to me (the way I assume they speak to all women, or at least all fat women). These men, who are your friends, your brothers, your future boyfriends, say terrible things and sometimes not that bad things and a lot of the time only-sort-of-bad-mostly-just-lame-things to me and most of the time nothing comes of it.

Which is why I can’t help but celebrate the few times I change someone’s mind. Because isn’t that really why I allow men to sharpen their knives upon my bones, the chance that I might make the world a better place and find some joy in this misery? Or, something more optimistic but less cool sounding.

And thus, I give you, a conversation I had recently on OKCupid, in which I changed a man’s perspective (with commentary).

*women are not obligated to educate you on feminism (that’s what google is for)
*women don’t owe you anything (not their time, not their manners, not their knowledge)
*for examples on why this might be try googling #byefelipe or searching it on instagram

He Said, She Said

It started out much like it always does. Man laughs at a joke written by another and assumes he himself must be hysterical. Calamity and lack of empathy ensue.

For context: my OKCupid profile is really just a list of jokes I’ve written

OKCupid first message

 

Sweet jesus. Did this dude actually just message me to say he wasn’t sure if my (brilliant) jokes are hilarious or just my sweet tits (tits being the least gross way I can characterize what he actually said)? The answer is yes. Yes he did. Even crazier is the fact that he thought this would go over well with me. Like who doesn’t enjoy a little bit of casual demeaning to start off any romantic relationship, amirite.

 

OKCupid first message

 

Ah yes, the age old “I’m not unfunny, you’re just uptight” defence (not uncommonly used by unfunny men everywhere). Followed almost immediately by the “you must have issues with your body because it’s not like me, a stranger, talking about it in a totally gross and offensive way could be at all bothersome.” This dude was on a roll, picking up speed while hitting all the bullshit ways in which terrible men gaslight women into thinking they’re crazy or too-sensitive or don’t deserve even the most basic amount of respect. You know, the kind of guy who says “I don’t take this seriously,” as if you can shirk the responsibility of treating strangers like shit simply by maintaining a lackadaisical attitude (here’s looking at you trolls).

 

OKCupid first message

 

The link I messaged him was to this tweet:


And just like that the tides were turning. Or, so I thought. I mean, he’d realized that perhaps his joke wasn’t quite the Seinfeld-esque banter he’d originally thought but did he really get “it”? Did he really get that it wasn’t simply a case of a joke falling flat but an entire flawed ideology about the treatment of women?

 

OKCupid first message

 

Ah, the age old “no one else has complained” defence. So many excuses, so little time, amirite?!? The truth is that he didn’t get it–not really, not yet. And so, I tried to explain it to him. I tried to explain without sounding bitter and jaded (because no one listens to you if you’re angry or bitter *eye roll so hard I pull a muscle*), about the ways in which women might have chosen/been forced by social pressures to absorb everything from the violent tedium to the violent fists of men (all in a real quick OKCupid message). Keep it light babe, keep it light.

 

OKCupid messages

 

And he got it. MY GOD HE GOT IT. But I wasn’t done. I wanted to add one final note about how maybe he could help with this thing we’re trying to do (ya know, be viewed as human and valuable and stuff).

 

sexist

 

And shit, I mean he really got it. He even understood the thing I’m always trying to tell all the guys who think they’re not “that guy” which is that you’re probably “that guy”. And you’re definitely “that guy” if you don’t think about how your behaviour affects others. Especially online because online is where people have the least amount of protection from the public and accountability from perpetrators. So please, the next time you send a message, or speak to someone, or think you’re absolutely above harming anyone–stop and think. Slip your feet into some empathy and try it on for size.

And if you’ve ever acted like this guy, do better. Be better.

And tell your friends because women are tired of carrying the burden.

He Offers Me Nothing

balloons

*

He says, “All due respect but those boobs,” then a hearts-for-eyes-smiley-face, and then two hands clapping.

He says, “Older women help me fulfill my total potential.”

When I am offended, he says, “Well, it’s just the facts, you are older.”

I read it with violent intonation.  I read it like it’s new information.

You ARE older.  YOU are older.  You are OLDER.

He waits for a response not knowing that I am already bored with this, doesn’t understand that I am turned off by his selfishness; he has never even thought to ask himself what it is that he offers me, them, us.

It is nothing.  He offers me nothing.  He is without an offering.

Why am I always expected to provide, to be something, to give of my body and my mind.  Smile for them.  Make them laugh.  Show them your body.  Give them everything they want.  Be kind.  Be pleasant.  Be a thing worthy of their idiotic conversation, their tedious ill-thought out plan.

Have they even considered that they are unloveable, unlikeable?

Why is being alive enough?  Why is existing and being attractive a thing?  Why are the numbers of people who cannot think a thing through so large?

I know there is a bitterness spreading in me, growing slowly, insidious, like ivy on my heart.  I’m thinking about learning math instead of men.  I’m thinking I could be happy without kissing if I had something interesting to turn to.  I wonder if I could write jokes about numbers.  I wonder if I could turn this bitterness into a formula.

I’m thinking thinking thinking why does no one ever worry about my full potential?

The Scientist: Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 2)

Kissing

 

Continued from… The Scientist:  Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 1)

They say a kiss is worth a thousand words.  Or is it a picture?  What about kissing on a light blue velvet couch while trying not to spill your water?  That’s gotta be worth at least 50, maybe even a hundred words, no?

So there we were, the Scientist and the juggler, making out like teenagers, until I finally broke us apart and said would you mind setting this down for me on the table? like some kind of romantic savant.  We laughed and he set my glass down.  He suggested we move to the bed.  I said I had to go to the bathroom (which is where I whipped off my spanx and replaced them with sexy red lace undies – if you’re not picturing me as a sex-goddess-superwoman-clark-kendra I don’t even know what’s wrong with you).

I came out of the bathroom and within seconds our bodies were pressed together.  We drifted over to the bed and before I knew it we were making out hot and heavy and he had a nipple in his mouth.  Er.  Um.  Okay well actually it probably went a bit slower than that but in many ways it felt that quick.

Though I had changed into the red lacies, I had every intention of keeping it ladylike.

(sidenote:  I use the term ladylike here facetiously, and also incorrectly.  I know that you, my beloved readers, will understand what I mean by ladylike and also forgive my lexicon for having no other word to convey that I wasn’t going to be giving him the goods in a quick fashion…and YET, that you know without a doubt that not only do I use the term without judgment but that I firmly believe women should not be judged by their sexual experiences nor that those experiences are even a thing that is rationally judgable as the relationship between sex and a woman’s value is zero, they are not correlateable.

So we were making out, and the kissing was…mostly good.  You see, men can tend to get excited, and often when they do their kissing goes to shit they can get a little carried away, and like a good puppet master (is that an offensive thing to say?) you have to reign them in, guide the pace, and keep things all good.  After all, if I’m being honest, most men are fucking clueless (at least in the beginning).  And as I’ve said before, that’s why I feel the need to set the pace to slow.

Nonetheless, when the kissing was good, the kissing was good.  Our hot mouths, our soft lips, a lick here, a nibble there, this is what passion tastes like.  And then before I knew it, my bra was off.  With one hand like some kind of clasp magician, a real life Joey Tribiani if you will, he undid the clasps on my bra (which by the way, with these breasts and this body, was a 5 clasper).  All I’m saying is that’s some serious dexterity there, and it was duly noted for the future.

That being said, it wasn’t all smooth moves and hiccupless humping.  I’m all for the dry hump, in fact, I’m a huge fan of a good healthy hump, a sensual slide, a rigorous rub, a body bump.  But, when things get weird is when you feel like a stuffed animal being humped by a dog rather than a luscious lady being rubbed in all the right ways.

While the Scientist may have the upper hand when it comes to academic intelligence and adventure travel, I definitely knew, from very early on, that sexually speaking, I was on top (figuratively, if not always literally).  Now, obviously, sex is no competition, and if anything, this feeling of experiential superiority only made me more relaxed and, for lack of a better word, forgiving, of his misteps.

So like I said, the dry humping, it was often um…detached?  I almost don’t know how to describe it.  Actually that’s a lie, it’s completely just occurred to me how to characterize it.

It’s as if the dry humping was only for him, like there was no concern about my bits and how they might want to be rubbed.  Now, in his defense, I had said I wanted to take things slow so maybe he interpreted that as don’t touch my vagina, but hey…man…I mean, if you’re going to pump and thrust and throb against it, it doesn’t matter if we’re fully clothed or not, YOU BETTER HAVE MY GODDAMN CLIT IN MIND.

And then at some point, after the thrusting gained momentum and then peaked, it stopped altogether.  Had he gotten tired?  Was the ceasing just an awareness that his balls would remain blue?  Or I mean is it possible did he cum from all the banging against my vag?  We continued to make out for awhile longer and at some point I thought, ya know, I’d just take a quick feel, and see what he was working with.  Ya know, just give big ol’ johnson a quick, outside the pants stroke or two to see what kind of fun the future held.

But as I put my hand on what had only moments earlier been the gate to pound-town, I was shocked, he was soft.  What?  What the?  What?  Unacceptable, I thought and immediately began to offer my best caresses, my top notch technique, to bring that sad sailor back to life.  But as I rubbed, and caressed, and smoothly seduced this beast, and it ever so slowly came, what I can only hope is “somewhat” back to life…I thought a lot harder about whether or not he had come during humpfest 2013.  At this point I was actually hoping he had because otherwise I’d just started dating a dude who wasn’t super hard for me (something I’m not at all used to – whether by sheer luck I don’t know).

So eventually he got semi-hard, and I got semi-giving-uppy, because after all what is the point of getting him super hard when I had no intention of even giving the fellow a handy (since boys are the worst at driving the pressure train and somehow a handy way too often ends up with a blowy or a bangy and dammit I like stages and like I said earlier, most dudes suck at sex in the beginning).

So I left blue balls (or not blue balls, depending on) lie and our kissing slowly progressed into a cuddling-ish lie about.  At some point though I swear he was about to fall asleep and it seemed like a good time to make my exit.  We talked about the next day, and he informed me that he had to get up at the crack of dawn to head to the lab.  Now, while totally reasonable, and not being a morning person myself I completely understand in the rational part of my brain, I admit I felt a tad jilted that he didn’t say something along the lines of but you should stay a bit longer.

I went to the bathroom to fix my ridiculous make-out hair, except unfortunately I forgot to bring my purse in with me.  My purse with my spanx.  My spanx which keep my thighs from rubbing (read: chaffing) when I walk.  And I couldn’t very well come out of the bathroom, only to grab my purse and go back in, what am I, a lunatic!?!

When I came out of the bathroom, we talked for a little bit longer, and then he pulled me in for a kiss goodbye, which ended up lasting several minutes (and I must admit made me feel a lot better about his not having asked me to stick around longer).  And then I was out the door.  And into the elevator.  Where I hoped with all my might that in the drop down of 18 floors to the lobby that there wouldn’t be a single person wanting to get on the elevator.  And like Clark Kendra I put my spandex shorts on in the elevator – like some kind of sexy magician (read: hot mess), and then was off into the night.

 

The Scientist: Second Dates & Science Textbooks (Part 1)

Smart Guys

 

[dropcap]W[/dropcap]e had had our first date on Thursday night and now it was Sunday and I was headed over to the Scientist‘s place for dinner.

I arrived right on time.  He opened the door, we hugged, and his wet hair pressed against my cheek.  He seemed a tad rushed, which was substantiated when he told me that his day had run long at the lab and so he hadn’t had a chance to actually cook anything yet.

No worries I said.  I wasn’t even that hungry yet.  He showed me around his place (which is smaller than mine, if that can even be possible) and then he presented the view, which was stunning.  He partially faced the “mountain” (mont-royal), as well as the stadium, and had a clear view over the city.  It was beautiful while it was still light out and then magical once it had gotten dark (did you know that there’s a huge lit up cross on Mont-Royal?  I had no idea but apparently there is, so much for Quebec’s new attempt to ban religious symbols eh?).

Unfortunately, unlike my balcony which is solid cement and at least feels sturdy, his balcony felt and looked like it was constructed for a 7th grade science project.   And before you think me a huge scaredy-cat of illogical reasoning, try to remember that this is Montreal after all, and you can’t trust anything here.  Corruption is real and infrastructure is terminal.  I mean, I’m still a scaredy cat, but like bear that in mind is all I’m saying.  Thus, while the view was cool and all, going out there was kind of terrifying and I don’t think he was impressed by my sensitivity to…ya know…dying.

We continued to talk for awhile, particularly about travel as his apartment had a large map and was decorated primarily by the knick knacks and souvenir trinkets he’d clearly picked up along his travels.  Eventually though, he had to make us dinner, so he told me to make myself comfortable and he’d finish it up.

I, of course, took that as an excellent sign to read his science textbooks (don’t worry, I asked first). 

 

During dinner we listened to jazz music and he dimmed the lights so we could look out over the city.  The food was simple yet delicious, though I only ate one of the tortilla/fajita things.  At first, I thought he’d made 4 and since I wasn’t all that hungry to begin with (nerves, probably) when he’d eaten 2 and offered me another I declined, assuring him it was delicious but that I was good.  Then I found out he’d made 6, but I couldn’t figure out if it would be weirder to not eat very much or to change my mind now, so I stuck with the former.  Then he offered me ice cream for dessert.  At first I responded with no, I’m fine but then I felt like such an asshole for turning down all his food that I said sure, I’ll take some.  I mean, I’m nothing if not a polite houseguest 😉

We talked some more about travelling, and he showed me this video of his trip to South Africa.  He told me a story of how him and his friend had been camping off the beaten trail in South Africa and a car had pulled up and the driver pulled a gun on them.  He asked if I’d ever had any close calls like that with danger and I struggled to answer.  No, not really I’d said and immediately I found myself ashamed of my lack of adventure.  But then I realized that it could be because I was a woman and thus, had a very keen sense of which situations are safe and which are not and would then never have put myself in that kind of danger.  But, it did make me want to travel more, to be more adventurous, to make this life really happen, ya know?

We sat on this weird super tiny couch that looked like it was covered in light blue velvet, him drinking a beer and me drinking water.  It was pretty typical second date stuff, the two people slowly moving closer and closer together, the kiss waiting in the wings.  But there’s still an awkwardness at this stage, there’s still an uncertainty as to whether affection is wanted, will be accepted.  And so I did my best to indicate that it was and would be, by facing him and just like that…we were kissing.  Well…kissing, and trying to not spill my water.

 

To Be Continued…

Post First Date: Who Should Make the First Move?

Dating Questions

Something She Said

Stories about sex and dating, screenshots of sexist online dating messages, murder jokes, elaborately long fruit puns–you never quite know what you’re going to get.

Who should text after the first date?

How long should you wait to contact someone after a first date?

Do you have to wait for him to contact you? 

I am a 32 year old woman and, no joke, I actually typed these queries into Google search the day after my first date with the Scientist.  With most of the men I’ve dated I’ve come to realize that no texty means no likey and that they want to be the one pursuing things.  But with a highly educated enlightened dude does all that stuff still apply?  And there I found myself googling dating advice (because though in some areas of dating I know my stuff, this was new territory and I just didn’t know).

The results of my search were all pretty clear:  go ahead and text him, these days guys like not having to always be the one making the first contact.  But, is this really true?  Do guys want you to make the effort to contact them?  Or is it really just in a dream scenario that every guy is hoping Megan Fox is looking up their numbers and calling them to declare her love?  And at that point it’s not really about who called whom first but instead that of course everyone wants someone fucking amazing to call them.  I mean hell, I barely know who Megan Fox is and I’d take her call.  But I digress.

Nonetheless, some of these commenters made some valid points, if only in theory, and given the Scientist being the enlightened nerdy guy I had gathered him to be, I figured what the hell.

 

And so I texted.

 

At 8pm on a Friday night.  (cringe).

 

Hey 🙂

 

And then I waited…

 

And I waited…

 

(I mean technically I got some work done, watched some TV, etc., but you get the idea).

 

I mean it was radio fucking silence.

 

No biggie though, I thought, maybe he’s busy and he’ll respond tomorrow or something.

 

But then tomorrow came and there was no text.  I was bummed.  I mean, I had thought our first date had gone really well, what with all the conversation and kissing and stuff.  Then again, Skinny Jeans had kissed me on our first (and last) date and had even gone out of his way to say it was good, only to never ask me out again.

 

Sidenote:  What is the deal with boys who don’t like me kissing me?

 

And just when I thought I had been unceremoniously rejected after my 2nd first date in a week’s time, I got a text from him that read:

Hey! 🙂  Sorry, crazy day yesterday, nonstop till 1am.  Did you have a good time on Thursday?

and then right away another message

By the way, do you have plans tomorrow evening?

I said that I’d had a good time, and asked if he had as well, and then said that no, I had nothing planned the following night.  To which, he responded:

It was very nice to meet you.  I really enjoyed our conversation.  I wanted to invite you over for dinner at my place.  Let me know if you would like to come.

And just like that…a second date was born.  Was it a good idea that I texted?  Who knows.  Would he have texted me in his own time if I hadn’t?  I have no idea.  What I’m saying is, while I can advise boys on how to stop being losers while online dating, I haven’t a fucking clue about the rest of this stuff.

WISH ME LUCK!!

The Scientist: Coffee, Conversation, and Kisses

First Dates

 

Continued from… A New “Something”:  The Scientist

[dropcap]S[/dropcap]o, there we were, The Scientist and I, having coffee in a cafe, on a first date in Montreal.  And it was good.

He asked a ton of questions, something we all know I love and so rarely happens.  We both talked about our careers (he asked about my writing, which was amazing on two levels:  one, it was awesome to have someone take such a huge interest in something I love, and two, it forced me to think about my ‘process’ and some other things I hadn’t really put that much time into considering).

He talked about a research paper he had just submitted, with some colleagues, about a new discovery in the way memories are formed (and only had to dumb it down a little for me), which was great to hear someone talk so passionately about something and because frankly, that level of intelligence is super hot.

At one point, I was talking about the Conference at Yale University that I was going to shortly, and he asked about the paper I was presenting.  I told him that I was writing about “Happy Objects” in John Gay’s 18th C. play The Beggar’s Opera and what are the chances that he would know that play I was talking about?  Zero, right?  It has to be zero.  And yet, and yet, in a strange string of connection, he’d learned about the play once because of it’s later connection to the Jazz song “Mack the Knife” done by Frank Sinatra.  What are the chances?!?! (he could probably tell me, he’s that smart).

We laughed, we learned, it was fun.

Eventually, the cafe was closing and the waiter brought the bill to our table, saying something about how they could split it up at the front if we wanted but the Scientist immediately chimed in that he’d take care of it (before I even had time to make that awkward reach).  And though my coffee was probably only about $5.  And though, I’d recently tried to justify that specific gesture not really mattering.  And though, I am woman hear me roar and equality and all that.  This is one of the few dating rituals that I actually think matter, and has some logic behind it.

He paid the bill, we went outside, but neither of us seemed interested in saying goodbye.  After all, we hadn’t even started to talk about what it was like to grow up in Colombia, or all the world traveling he and I had done, etc.  We decided to take a stroll down Saint Urbain, and whether it was the conversation or simply the company, before I knew it we had walked all the way down to Sherbrooke (and I had hardly noticed I wasn’t in particularly comfortable shoes).

Conveniently, there is a little courtyyard with benches and light displays at the corner of Sherbrooke and Saint Urbain, it was like a rest stop for romance, a space for something special, or maybe it was just a few benches and some bushes.  Either way, we sat down for a bit and continued talking.

And that’s when it somehow took that turn to how I write about sex and dating.  It didn’t seem to bother him at all, in fact he seemed kind of intrigued.  But not in that, oooh you’re a dating blogger and maybe you can make me more important by writing about me way that can be a real turn off.  He just seemed, well, interested in knowing more.  We continued to talk about dating war stories for a bit, I mentioned the lavender leather jacket and he talked about a date where the person did not match their profile in the slightest.  And then he went on to ease my dating fears and said that I was exactly the person I had seemed online (pictures, profile and conversation).

We talked a bit more about dating and writing, and he even suggested that I could go on bad dates, if only for the material.  I told him I could never do that, and honestly I really couldn’t.  It’s one thing to turn a horrible date into something less horrible by writing about it and sharing your experiences with people, but to purposely go out with someone knowing that you weren’t interested in them just seems dishonest and cruel.  I just couldn’t do that to people.  Most guys, I said, when I tell them, immediately jump to the conclusion that I date for sport, which couldn’t be further from the truth, after all, I said, first dates are the worst.

Realizing that we, of course, were on a first date and not wanting him to think I wasn’t enjoying myself, I felt the need to clarify that the part of first dates that I hate is that initial uncertainty because the other person might be a total freak or murderer.  It’s because it’s online dating, and I never know if the person is going to actually be the person they have claimed to be, or if I have managed to represent myself correctly as the person I really am so that I too match up well to my profile.  I wish I didn’t get so nervous and stressed out for first dates but I do, so there you have it.  Nonetheless, I told him, that after I meet someone, then I’m fine.

I know this blog post is very facts fact facts details details details but don’t let that distract you from the first date magic that was happening as we sat side by side (but in that leaning in triangley way) our knees occasionally touching.  I had clearly made him a bit uncomfortable with all my I hate first dates talks, so I wasn’t really surprised when he hinted at, insinuated, and then just flat out asked if I hated everything about first dates and would I mind if he kissed me.  And while I don’t normally like the first-kiss-permission-ask, the way he did it (or maybe it’s just because I liked him thus far) didn’t bother me.  I smiled, blushed, subconsciously tried to look extra cute, and nodded.

He leaned over and kissed me.

Even though we were in public, it felt somewhat secluded and the kisses were good so, we ended up kissing for several minutes before I eventually pulled us apart.  He said something about me being a good kisser and we decided to continue our walk up Sherbrooke.

We walked and walked, and talked and talked until finally we found ourselves near McGill and his home.  It was getting late and I still had to get home, so we checked the time of the next bus and he waited with me until it came (but not before sneaking in a few more steamy kisses).

And that was it, the end of a really good date, with really good conversation and kisses, with someone who seemed like he could be a really good match.

Could it all finally be working out???

A New “Something”: The Scientist

Dating a Scientist

 

Many people have been quick to point out to me, I have a history of dating…er…um…well…hot and dumb?  Though it should be noted, I was recently telling my mother that it’s not so much that I’m some vain asshole picking hotness over smartness, these are the guys that are choosing me.  And if I’m going to date a dumb guy, he might as well be hot, no?  Now I’m not saying I’m some kind of smarty pants, but there is something to be said for the fact that I have 2 BAs and am working on my MA.  Needless to say, I clearly value higher education and intelligence.

But I digress, THIS is about the Scientist.  So here goes…

He messaged me on OkCupid.  He asked intelligent questions (and never mentioned my tits once), our conversations included paragraphs (it was actually fun getting to know him), he seemed really interesting (he’s traveled all over the world), and it seemed like we would probably have a lot in common.  Oh, and he’s getting his PhD in Neuroscience.  No biggie.

In all honesty, my only hesitation was his height – 5’9.  Now, don’t get me wrong, height isn’t everything, and it’s not even necessarily a downside but the thing of it is that when the guy isn’t particularly tall – I feel bigger.  I’m already fairly tall at 5’7 and add to that I’m a BBW or Plus size or whatever you want to call it chubby bunny, and then if the guy isn’t tall sometimes I feel a bit like, like, well like, I take on a bit of a masculine energy.  But I digress, my issues aside, he seemed like a cool dude (and smart as fuck, have I mentioned that yet, that he’s super smart, well more on this later!)

Detour.  It was the week of my 32nd birthday.  I had just started to get back into dating (read: put up dating profiles on POF and OKCupid) and I had 3 potential first dates coming up.  The first was with a really pushy French guy (from France, big surprise) who, even though I pretty clearly stated that I was looking to hang out in an area of Montreal that I was familiar with, was trying to convince me to trek my way on an adventure to a hookah joint (that was conveniently only a block from his house, though I had already clearly said no, I don’t want to have a drink on your terrace, I’m not comfortable with that for a first date).  Needless to say, boys, pushiness is not a turn on and I eventually decided it wasn’t worth the stress and texted to cancel (well in advance though, so don’t you worry).  The second guy was Skinny Jeans, and we all know how that turned out.  And then the third brings us back to this story, The Scientist.

Unfortunately, with classes, TAing, my first date with Skinny Jeans on my bday, and my own birthday party, I had booked up the whole week except for Saturday.  Even more unfortunately, the Scientist was running the Montreal Marathon that day which would put him out of commission for another two (as I imagine running that kind of distance basically cripples you for a day or so after).  And then, as luck would have it, that brings us back to the days I have class again and the point of this lengthy story is to tell you that from the time he actually first asked me out, it would be another week and a half before we got to meet.

One of the problems with making a date that far in advance is it is both too much and not enough time all at once.  It’s too much time to spend waiting (because you’d be surprised how much you can convince yourself you don’t want to go on a first date after your first date back in over a year is a total flop).  And yet, it’s entirely too much time because normally when you’ve started talking to someone, you…ya know…talk to them, but when you’re waiting for a first date, there is a big part of you (and it’s an advisable part, I admit) that doesn’t want to talk to the other person.  You are, after all, saving up your most interesting banter and stories for the first date, when you’ll impress them with your flawless conversation.  So, during those 10 or so days it was almost radio silence, on both sides, while we waited for our big date.

By which time, of course, I was feeling a bit more like this, than excited to meet a new fella:

 

 

But obviously I didn’t bail because I’m not a total jackass and when thursday rolled around, I got all gussied up and ready for our date.  I was running a tad behind, as per usual, so was planning to catch a cab so I wouldn’t be late, when the Scientist called and, apologizing profusely, asked if we could please push our date by 45 minutes so that he could attend an art show of a friend that he’d forgotten he’d promised to attend.

No sweat, I told him, let’s push it an hour so that you’re not rushed.  Plus, now I could save cab fare and take the bus, hoorays all around.  When I showed up at the cafe, the place was super cute but also really dead.  I must’ve been looking around confused because the hostess asked if I was meeting someone–yep–a guy?–yep–around the corner.  And there he was.  We hugged, I sat down, and so it began…

The Rules According to SSDated: What Is My Online Dating Body Type?

Body Types

Something She Said

Stories about sex and dating, screenshots of sexist online dating messages, murder jokes, elaborately long fruit puns–you never quite know what you’re going to get.

 

While guys seem to misrepresent height the most on dating profiles, the ladies seem to most often misrepresent body type (or at least that’s what the boys tell me).  Now on the one hand maybe they’re doing it on purpose (like the dudes about height) but I have hope that a great deal of the misrepresentation is because they just simply don’t know how to categorize themselves.

Side bar:  Save all the bullshit about we shouldn’t be categorized and I’m more than just my body and blah blah blah.  Yes.  I know.  These things are obvious.  But writers are more than just their name.  And clothes are more than just their size.  But at some point the library and the sale clerk have to fucking pick a location or the world would be chaos.  So sit down.  Pay attention.  And find your category.  At least for the moment.

So here’s the thing of the thing.  Or more exactly.  Here’s the reason I think a great deal of misrepresentation is accidental and confusion and not machination a plot to fool dudes.  I myself put Big & Tall/BBW.  But here’s the weird thing.  I’ve had more than one guy message me with something akin to You’re not a BBW, you’re just “a little extra”.  I, of course, disagree.  But that being said, I have more than one full body photo up so it was interesting to see this new perspective.  Not to mention the can of worms that is the very notion that this dude was…uh…flirting…I guess.  But that’s another topic.  And if it had happened only once I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.  But then it happened again.  And again.  Bizarro.  But worth noting.

And then another thing happened that made me question our ability to accureately determine either what terms mean or what were are within those terms.  I was at a party awhile back.  Talking about dating.  Which I always do.  At parties.  And my friend told me that her body type selection listed her as average.  My jaw dropped to the floor.

*Warning:  Purely Anecdotal Claims To Follow*

As far as I knew, the average size of women in North America is something like a size 14/16.  That being said (sorry my beloved Americans) but I would guess that if you narrow that down to just Canada it’s probably closer to size 12.  And then to be honest, if you narrow that down for probably one of the fittest cities in Canada (people here climb mountains before work…for fun…I mean what the fuck right.  Grouse Grind.  Pssshhh.  Fucking disgusting admirable.), Vancouver…that probably drops to a 10.  At best guess I would’ve said my friend was a size 2? maybe 4?  To be honest I’m not the best person to guess being that I haven’t worn a non-plus size since I was 16 and wearing XL at the gap but I’m just saying.  Either way there’s not a chance in hell that she’d qualify for average.

Side bar:  To be clear average is awesome.  So is thin.  So is chubby.  So is whatever.  Boys like all shapes and sizes.  And even if they didn’t.  Women come in all shapes and sizes.  And we became amazing the day we were born.  Finding the right category isn’t about judgement.  It’s about categorization.  It’s really that simple.

So like I was saying.  She was not average.  Not to mention she’s tallish like me…5’7ish.  She would definitely fit in the thin category.  And now to why girls don’t know how to categorize themselves because the designation definitions are so unclear.  She didn’t put thin because to her thin meant thin and super athletic or something akin to unhealthy supermodels.  Her logic was that *while pinching some skin on her belly* she had this *attempting to show me something she construed as fat around her middle*.

I was flabbergasted.  Uh…that’s just skin I said.  And then I went on to explain that while perhaps her doctor might have his own definitions based on BMI and heart health and stress tests…that’s not what body type means for a dating website.  As shallow as it sounds, body type is about one’s body…the outer exterior of it.  If you want to give your cholesterol stats and talk about your fitness regime…well…that’s what the about me section is for.  Body type was simple.  Should be simple.  Why couldn’t it just be simple!

And that’s where I come in.  To make it simple.  And to use context.  Because that’s what the world of dating needs.  A little bit of simple context.

 

(OkC) – OKCupid

(POF) – Plenty of Fish

 

Athletic (OkC)(POF),  You know who has an athletic body type…Athletes…athletic body type is about muscle…and whether or not you have it.  Sure, I play fastpitch softball in the summer, workout at the gym and play badminton (the good workout kind, not that wimpy shit for the no-skilled) but regardless, I do not have an athetlic body.  Or maybe I do, but it’s hidden under the rest of my body.  Either way I have a brain.  That tells me that in the context of dating and sex.  I do NOT have the body of an athlete.  So while not having toned muscles and 6 pack abs doesn’t change anything about your value as a person, it does kick you out of this category.

 

Body Builder  You’re probably thinking…Isn’t this the same as athlete?  And the answer is no.  It’s kind of like assuming a small popcorn is the same as the jumbo size.  And yes I think it’s clear that my food analogy discounts me from this category.  Yes a body builder is athletic but a body builder is clearly a special kind of athlete.  And to be honest, I can’t imagine anyone getting this category wrong.  Because the thing of the thing is.  If you’re a body builder, you fucking no it.  You’re likely chowing down protein shakes and spending every day at the gym.  But just a word of caution.   This is a body designation not a declaration of intent.  So if you’re only on your 4th shake in week 1, you are NOT a body builder.  The same way some dude taking science classes at University can call himself PreMed but isn’t in fact a doctor.  If you’re not ready to enter a competition, you are NOT a body builder.

 

Average  (OkC)(POF)  Now this seems to be the trickiest.  And unfortunately, unlike all the other body type designations will depend a bit on which site you’re using.  See if it was up to me there would be 2 averages.  Average and Average & Fit.  See the thing of the thing is, you can be a size 12 eating poutine with shots of vodka, heading outside for a quick smoke and then spending every afternoon napping (no judgment 😉 or you can be a size 12 doing yoga, playing soccer, eating lean proteins and lots of fruits and veggies, and a sober non-smoker.  Now of course there’s the possibility that Average & Fit should actually be in the Athlete designation but there is a big difference between being a normal person who works out and eats healthy and someone who maintains an athletes body of ripped muscle.

That being said…in a world in which there aren’t two designations of average.  What’s a person to pick???  And that’s where context comes in.  You’re going to have to look at the other options because they matter.  But before I get into how to decide let’s look at the other options.

 

Curvy  (OkC)  Now I know some people will disagree with me.  But in a world that has designations like Plus Sized, BBW, Full Figured, etc.  Curvy really shouldn’t be used as a fall back term.  While certainly, using a purely structuralist approach, Curvy could be used to describe anybody who wasn’t straight lined square shaped…let’s get real.  The point is to make these categories smaller and more precise, not be an irritating antagonist.  So seriously though.  Curvy is like Marilyn Monroe.  Or Beyonce.  Kim Kardashian.  Or these chicks.  Curvy means a decent difference in boob to waist to ass ratio (waist being smaller of the 3).

 

Plus SizedFull Figured (OkC), Big & Tall/ BBW (POF)  Now to be honest.  I find plus sized pretty simple.  Because it’s an actual thing.  Plus size.  It means anything size 16+.  Now to be fair some people might assume anything size 14+ and some might not think of it till 18+ but the truth is…now you’re just splitting hairs.  And sure some girls that are curvy may be plus sized and some that are plus sized may be curvy.  And that’s where it gets tricky.  The best way is always context.  You have to think about who this body designation matters to.  This isn’t a job interview.  Or a health show questionairre.  This isn’t a shopping guide and nobody is trying to buy you a sweater.  You’re answering this for boys.  Men.  Dudes.  And while you can take issue with that all you want, this is a dating website (and under the exception you’re a gay female) the only person who cares about this is going to be a dude so you might as well answer it how he would think of it.  So Plus Sized is what it is.  If you wear a size 14 or more, you are Plus Sized.  Simple.

 

Slim, Thin (POF)(OkC), Skinny (OkC)  This designation is actually incredibly similar to the way one figures out Plus Sized.  It’s about body shape/size.  There is no considering as to health or diet.  That isn’t what is being asked here.  Slim means thin means slim means thin.  It’s very simple.  It’s not about body fat.  It’s about actual size.  So if you have small/slim bones.  And the rest of your body reflects this.  You’re slim.  thin.  etc.  Simple.

 

Stocky  I don’t really know any girls who would ever answer this because well…it sounds kind of mannish.  So maybe it’s a category more specifically for the dudes.  Stocky is essentially boxy or thick.  Someone who is solid but doesn’t necessarily fall into either the A Little Extra or body builder categories.

 

Categories that should be eliminated.  The truth is some shit just sounds bad.  And while it’s one thing to be honest, it’s a whole other story to try and sell a car by giving it only a 50% crash survival rate, if you know what I’m saying.  Nobody is going to answer Overweight (OkC) also because again it’s too open.  Overwhichweight.  And while OkCupid and POF have slightly better options offered as A little extra (OkC), A Few Extra Pounds (POF), I think that my idea of 2 different types of averages could both eliminate these “undesirables” and make it more clear just exactly what type of bodies people have.  Additionally, if you already have Athletic, having Fit (OkC) is just fucking stupid and confusing.  Nuff said.  Additionally, is Jacked (OkC) supposed to mean something like Stacked ?!?! Which could either be a reference to big tits, a comment on body building, or implying an UP at the end thus making sure no one would pick it anyway…who wants to be looking jacked up?  Which is kind of like Used Up (OkC) also super stupid.  And finally, if these sites, and the people who use them listen to me and my wisdom (because as Joey says on Friends…I am wisdomous), the final categories of Rather Not Say (OkC), Prefer Not To Say (POF) will never need to be used.

 

How to Write an Online Dating Profile: A Vancouver Dating Blogger’s Profile

Dating

Sometimes this blog will offer you advice (like how to write an online dating profile).  Other times it will just be me, showing you who I am and what I’m doing while I’m on this crazy journey.  I don’t have all the answers, but I have some, and I have even more questions.  And with that, I give you, my current dating profile on Plenty of Fish.

Interests:

Raspberry Jam  **  the Ability to Walk and Chew Gum at the Same Time  **  Astronomy
a Mexican Song About Housecoats and the Consonants F and H  **  Road Trips  **
Making Out Under Bleachers  **  the Antiquated Term for a Sexual Attraction to Physicists
**  the Proper Response to the Question “where is the baby?”  **  Chuck Norris Facts  **
Friday Night Lights  **  Wit and Sarcasm  **  Big Bang Theory  **  Mind Trap Trivia  **
Magic 8 Balls  **  The Nationalistic High-Five Between Two People of Ukrainian Descent
**  Dos Equis Men  **  Things that Rhyme with Lasagna  **  Drinks with Cherries in Them
Vegas in General  **  Vegas Specifically  **  Atheism  **  Pyrohy  **  Red Toe Nails  **
Dance Moves Involving 8 Consecutive Steps & Ending in Jazz Hands **  My Get Ready Shirt
**  Repetition  **  Repetition  **  Reasons I Would Never Trade You My Jell-O Pudding Cup
**  Reading  ** Writing  **  Making Lists  **  Making Lists of Lists **  Pitching No Hitters
Dusk  **  Inside Jokes  **  Driving on Highways  **  Board Games  **  Shirley Temples  **

About Me:

1. I have magical skills and an extensive knowledge of medical textbooks.

2. With an elastic band, a piece of gum and a thesaurus, I’m pretty sure I can make a party dress.

3. I once stopped global warming by thinking really really hard about icicles, but then I went tanning and it all fell apart. Sorry.

4. I hold actual medals for my charade skills though I’m a complete novice at strip poker.

5. My favorite game is Rock, Paper, Scissors, Lizard, Spock

6. I’m pretty sure I’m Russian Royalty (based mainly on my ability to submerge in icy cold waters for lengthy periods of time).

7. I’ve been known to wear a light on my ass while camping lest I get lost in the forest.

8. I can be found in Wikipedia under “awesome” synonym “rad”

9. After getting a speeding ticket, I once cried unicorn tears and the ticket tore itself up

10. I like to spend my days pondering why melted butter tastes better than solid butter? and why the doors to squash courts are so ridiculously short?

11. I’m ALWAYS with the DJ

12. Santa is well aware I want a Zack Morris cell phone but he’s punishing me because I ate his cookies back in ’96 (and ’87, ’92, ’99, and 2004)

13. Every time I smile an angel gets her wings, and by angel I mean stripper and by wings I mean hundreds

14. Riddle me this…if I get on a train in Venice at 6pm and you get on a plane in New York at 10am, what continent does Russia belong to?

15. I once ate ketchup as a meal

16. The words swab, gauze and panty really gross me out though I’m a huge fan of lozenge and racoon (which I pronounce RAH!-coon not raa-coon)

17. I used to think those Axe commercials were all fake marketing, I now know different

18. I can say “Chubby Bunny” 10 times with 12 marshmallows in my mouth

First Date:

Painting our faces and going to a game   or   Just getting some starbucks and pointing out constellations to each other (I call Orion and Mars!)

*Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time*