The New Midterms

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When I was in college, I would inevitably received a rash of redts during the most inconvenient times of the year: midterms and finals. When I graduated I worried that I would no longer receive any matches.

For a while it looked that way. Although I was driving in to New York City every 5 weeks, I inevitably spent those long weekends with friends and family, not with dates.

Then, with a long stretch of no major Jewish or secular holidays, I decided to just hang out in OOT for a few months, sans pilgrimage to the Big Apple. I booked a plane ticket for Pesach and planned to let my car grow fat on so little exercise as a daily commute.

Naturally, my phone started ringing off the hook. As did my Facebook account and SYAS profile. Three separate women who I’ve never even heard of called me up to say they had a guy for me. An old classmate sent me a FB message with the same content. And a rash of pre-accepted matches landed in my SYAS inbox. Naturally (and uncreatively), every one of these guys is located in New York. (Except for the Baltimorian being redt to me to for the third time.)

This is even worse than finals.

When you get set up during finals, you can play a scheduling game, where you space your dates conveniently between your finals. But when you’re planning to be OOT for four months, there’s really no two ways about it. Nobody can sustain a 4-month telephone relationship, so either you’re dating or you’re not.

And I’m not.

So what do you tell a shadchan when you’re in this position? Where were you two months ago? Come back in two more? Is he willing to travel?

Beats me.

And, it just occurred to me, it gets worse.

Because come Pesach time, all the eligible bachelors born and bred in this area of the USA are going to be heading home for the holiday. All the  shadchanim within 2.5 hours of my new town will be ringing my cellphone to set me up with them… and I’ll be in New York.

Probably dateless.

C’est la vie.

Da’as Torah

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Shimmy is a divorced ba’al teshuva with obviously nerdy tendencies. His five-page introspective dossier describes everything remotely important about him and his dream future spouse, qualified anything about him that might seem unbecoming, and apologized gently for his shortcomings. “Because of this, I have been advised to only look for a girl from a whole family. I think I would like her to be from a very special family.” Further along, he explained that he’s been advised not to date ba’alei Teshuva or divorced women or women from broken homes.

“Basically, he’s being a bit of a snob, and he’s justifying it by saying his rabbi told him so?” I asked. I wasn’t very impressed by that. Granted, I wouldn’t have been impressed either if he’d just been a snob without justification. But you get a smidgen more respect if you stand up for your snobbishness, instead of hiding behind someone with a wide beard.

“That’s nothing,” DIT said. She’d once gone out with a guy who had liked her so much he’d asked her out for a second date at the end of the first. Later on in the week he called, ostensibly to plan the when and where, but… “My rebbe tells me I shouldn’t continue to date you, so I don’t want to go out again after all.”

My response: “You should have said, ‘But my rabbi said to marry you! Maybe we should call a bais din so they can decide what to do.’”

The cyborg yeshiva guy is not as unusual as you’d hope. Somehow too many step beyond the “having someone to ask” position to the “keeping a manager on speed dial” state. When a guy talks about his rebbe’s vision for his life in his shidduch profile, you can just shake your head and move on. But sometimes the influence is a little more subtle. Like the woman who found herself on a date with a Chofetz Chaim boy… and his entire hanhala.

“We believe that there’s nothing more important than strengthening the community,” he said. We also had beliefs on internet, child-rearing, and current events. If every Chofetz Chaim boy is like this then dating them is especially easy. You merely verify that your hashkafos match up with the yeshiva line, and then speed date your way through the student body until you find a personality that you like. It’s actually not a bad thing.

But there does come a point when you want to tap a guy’s head to check if there’s anything inside, and demand to know, “Yes, but what do you think?”

Extreme Dating

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Longest date I’ve been on – Also the hottest date. It was the summer. I wore a white trenchcoat over my clothes because I don’t like walking out all dressed up without a jacket. It was also on the assumption that we would get into a car and go someplace where we would sit in an air-conditioned atmosphere while sipping  iced drinks in perspiring glasses.

Instead, as we hit the sidewalk, he said, “So, where do we go?”

I offered him a few options: some local restaurants, a coffee shop, or a walk around the park. He said, “Sounds good. Which do you want to do?” Unwilling to stick my hands in his pockets when I’d only known him for 247 seconds, I suggested the walk. Of course, first we had to walk to the park, then around the lake, and then back, at which point I was hot, tired, irritated, and no longer reluctant to lighten his wallet. I marched us to the restaurant. We proceeded to converse about programming for another two hours.

When the shadchan called, she first apologized in advance and then asked me if I wanted to go out again. I always wonder when shadchanim do that. Does that mean they knew they set you up with a dud? Whose side are they on anyway?

Shortest date I’ve been on – It was probably a bad sign. He drove up to my door, checked the clock, and said, apologetically, “It was only an hour and 20 minutes, is that okay?” The best answer was probably not the one I gave: “Only an hour and 20 minutes? I didn’t notice.”

Most horrifying date I’ve been on – Watching my date beat a horse. Okay, it was a digital horse. We were at an arcade and there was a horse-racing game, and he projected that if using the crop a little bit improved the horse’s time a little bit, then using it a lot would improve the horse’s speed a lot… I watched in horror and squealing protest as he beat the living daylights out of our horse. He will forever remain in my mind as the animal abuser. Near miss, there.

Most boring date I’ve been on – a mini-golf center that thinks mini-golf means using a putter to gently tap a ball across a small green. No windmills, no bridges, no loop-de-loops, no fun. Conversation with the guy wasn’t scintillating either. We swapped dating stories the entire time. If you need to discuss other people’s bad dates to liven up your own, what does that say about things?

Funniest date I’ve been on -  I like to let the guy lead on dates. So when he suggested ice cream in Borough Park, I didn’t murmur a word of protest. The affable (and loud) guy behind the counter of Sprinkles wished us a hearty mazal tov upon our recent engagement, and when we explained that there hadn’t been one, he wished us an equally hearty mazal tov upon our impending engagement. We both waited to laugh until we were out the door, ice cream in hand. We spent the rest of the date running around the playground across the street. When I got home my sister said that she heard I’d had a good time – from her pack of friends hanging out at the ice cream store.

Today’s Post is Looping Out There

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Someone recently informed me that my blog doesn’t qualify as a tech blog. Just to dispel the notions that my blog is inadequate in any way, I sat down to write a VBA program that would simulate dating in a safe, Microsoft environment.

Well, talk about too much success. My simulation was so accurate that it got caught in an infinite loop. It’s still dating in the background as I type. I think I’ll leave it there  just in case, in a few days or so, it finally calls the Wedding() subroutine.

Ten Commandments

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Kudos to MCP for his Ten Commandments of dating. Check them out at the Peanut Gallery request last week. He threw an entire tub of butter at it.

When I posed the question, I was actually serious in a sardonic way. That is, the first three commandments I envisioned were:

Thou shalt not be a doctor-in-training

Thou shalt live in the greater New York City metropolitan area

Thou shalt know the exact standards of treatment your date expects and alter your behavior accordingly.

And then, somewhere around commandment ten I was going to tuck in: “I am thy God who split the Red Sea to take thee out of Egypt, and I can make a shidduch too.”

None of the suggestions quite fit the style I was going for, but maybe that’s why I had trouble in the first place – it’s too narrow. But it was fun anyway. So thanks everyone!

 

 

Friday Repost: One Big Happy Family

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I’m always bemused when people try to redt shidduchim for people they don’t know on the basis of knowing their family. Then again, maybe this is tied to the often astonished statement people make to me: “Everyone in your family is so different!” Well yes.  And trust me on this: the world doesn’t need multiples of any of us. One unique version is more than enough.

But maybe some families are like that. A bunch of very similar bunnies all popped out of the same chocolate mold. Or maybe there’s some generalization you can make about the family that also applies to every member of it. Like “they’re all so different! I’m sure you’ll love the daughter that I never met.”

Anyway, this one is a fun post about family. Enjoy.

Women are From… Oh Sorry

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Dear Bad4,

Last week’s post about communicating through the shadchan reminded me of weird feedback I get after some of my dates. Things like “she needed to go to bathroom after drinking all that diet coke” or “you took her to a shopping mall where she’s bound to meet friends” or basically, “you should have read her mind.” Why don’t girls tell you these things on dates? How else am I supposed to know?

Sincerely,

A Long-Time Dater

 

If you’ve been reading marriage books and shalom bayis books, set them aside. The married woman (defined as wedded for more than one year) “owns” you, and therefore treats you as a possession. But if she doesn’t own you yet, then you’re dealing with quite a different animal.  And there is one thing you should know about most women: they don’t want to inconvenience you.

Trust me on this one. Someone lifted my phone and sold it to a ghetto-dweller last week. When I finally made contact with the guy, it took him about 5 minutes to make me feel guilty for wanting my phone back. I mean, he paid for it, right? I couldn’t demand it back without compensating him his loss. And since he didn’t have a car and it was cold and snowy, and he was doing me a favor by returning it, I couldn’t really demand that he pay to take a bus to my neighborhood to do me the favor of returning his purchase, right? I should go pick it up from his.

Then I felt guilty about inconveniencing the cops over what was really just petty theft. And depriving my male accompaniment of the timely comfort of his supper. And even after I got my phone back smelling like marijuana, containing Pepper50 in my contacts list, and sporting a photo of its temporary owner as the background, I still felt sorry for the guy in the backseat of the police car.

I mean, I could have replaced the phone for a hundred bucks and I would only have had to enter  145 contacts by hand and it wouldn’t be such a big deal to fly cross-country for vacation the next day without a phone… really I didn’t need to put all those people through all that trouble, did I? The guilt will haunt me for all eternity.

Or, well, for a few weeks at least.

If you read articles about why women don’t succeed in the workplace (I do), they tend to list the same set of crimes: not demanding higher salaries, not negotiating, not interrupting men when they speak at meetings. Sometimes not speaking at meetings at all unless asked directly. Not arguing, disagreeing, or grabbing the best projects ahead of everyone else.

Why? Well, they don’t want to embarrass anyone. Or put down anyone. They don’t want to seem aggressive or greedy or difficult to please. They don’t want to be difficult, disagreeable, or inconvenient. And they’re not even on dates with strangers when they exhibit these behaviors!

So, no. She will not interrupt the flow of your conversation to ask if you can move someplace warmer. She will not disturb your walk along the beach for the small matter of a bathroom break. She will not tell you that she’s fleishigs when you take her Starbucks; she’ll manage with tea.

After all, the conversation or the walk is going so well, and you might feel bad about Starbucks and what if you don’t have a backup location to go to? It would put you on the spot and you might feel bad or even resentful or think that she’s pushy and it’s not important, really…

…Not important until the shadchan asks how the date was and she can’t remember how it went because all she can remember is needing the bathroom.

Like it? Hate it? Oh I hope not. If there’s anything I can do to help ease that feeling, let me know. I’d hate to think you were upset or discomfited by anything we did.

You Can’t Win (Unless You’re Clued In)

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Diagnostic Criteria for 299.803 Social Asperger’s Disorder
[The following is from Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: DSM IV]

(I) Qualitative impairment in social normalization, as manifested by at least two of the following:

(A) marked impairments in the use and comprehension of social conventions
(B) failure to develop career aspirations and dress preferences in lockstep with peers
(C) a lack of spontaneous seeking to share and duplicate the life experience of the peer group

(II) Restricted repetitive & stereotyped patterns of behavior, interests and activities, as manifested by at least one of the following:

(A) encompassing preoccupation with one or more stereotyped and restricted patterns of interest that is abnormal for the demographic
(B) apparently inflexible adherence to specific, functional routines or rituals in opposition to non-functional social conventions
(C) persistent preoccupation with purpose, point, or utility of behaviors
(III) The disturbance causes clinically significant impairments in social, occupational, or other important areas of interaction with the given peer group.

(IV) There is no clinically significant general delay in language (E.G. single words used by age 2 years, communicative phrases used by age 3 years)

(V) There is no clinically significant delay in cognitive development or in the development of age-appropriate self help skills, adaptive behavior (other than in social interaction) and curiosity about the environment in childhood.

(VI) Criteria are not met for another specific Pervasively Weird Disorder or Antisocial Mania.”

Do you ever get the feeling that everyone else in society was issued a manual at birth, or maybe upon graduation, but somehow you were left out of the distribution list? I imagine this is how an Aspie feels when everyone is laughing at a well-turned bit of sarcasm. Which is why I decide to call it Social Asperger’s.

Every now and then the fog of incomprehension that often hovers between me and today’s yeshivish/ultra-orthodox Jewish norms lifts, and I see the light, and a big “Eureka!” pops out of my mouth. I bask in smugness at unraveling the mystery, when suddenly I realize: everyone else knew this all along.

I had one of these “aha” moments while rereading this post last week. In the post, I complain that I’m branded as “immature” and “unready for marriage” because I don’t have plans for a career yet. This struck me as unfair because my flexibility was what left room for a spouse in my life.

I laughed when I reread it because now I have the opposite problem. Having chosen a field, I’m considered too nerdy or smart to date anyone in any other field. Having launched a career, I’m now considered too career-oriented and geographically bound to date pretty much anyone.

Catch-22, right? You just can’t win. I mean, what kind of career would have satisfied these Women? Only one that’s more obviously transplant-able and non-ambitious. Like masseuse maybe?

Or – oh. I see.

OT, PT, SP, and SE.

Ooh. I get it. Now I get it.

Man, I am slow.

SAT Question: Shadchanim Help More People Get Engaged Faster

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It’s been a while since I wrote a 5-paragraph essay, so excuse me if it comes out klunky. But my response to Thinking Jewish Girl’s post sounded so much like a response to an SAT essay prompt that it seemed the natural form for this post to take. Since fat paragraphs weary the online reader, I have taken the liberty of breaking up my 5 paragraphs into smaller, bite-sized chunks. But the droning style remains. 

 

Orthodox Jewish singles generally do not ask each other out on dates directly. Instead, they communicate through a shadchan—a matchmaker—whose involvement ranges from introducing the couple to setting up the time and location for their dates and communicating any concerns or reservations after the date.

Thinking Jewish Girl states that the shadchan is an important assistant in expediting a couple’s engagement and marriage because if the couple had to speak about their reservations directly with each other they would have disagreements and break up over minor differences. I disagree. I think the shadchan actually increases the likelihood of a couple breaking up over minor differences by preventing both parties from having to discuss their reservations with each other.

….

Thinking Jewish Girl is right that a very involved shadchan can smooth over many differences. If a girl is distressed because her beau didn’t wear a tie, for example, or tip the waiter generously, the shadchan can relay to the boy that these things are important to her. This works for larger differences as well. If the boy is worried that the girl is too career oriented to spend time at home with her children, but doesn’t feel comfortable challenging the girl about it, the shadchan can tip off the girl, who can then make a point of expounding upon her maternal persuasions on the next date. Thus, it is true that a shadchan can help two young and shy people smooth over many differences.

….

However, a shadchan does not always have a clear picture of what occurs on the date, and one of the daters can easily leave out important information or simply refuse to pass it along. A young man may not feel comfortable telling an older woman that he found his date’s eating habits unattractive, or a young woman may not want to say that the guy gave her a creepy vibe or scrapes and stacks. In many cases, all the shadchan hears is a brief summary and a “yes, I’d like to go out again” or the reverse, “no, I don’t think she’s for me.”

And there are many reasons why a shadchan may be unable or unwilling to press for details. As a result of this dynamic, it is easy for one of the daters to turn down another date without providing sufficient reason to the shadchan. This essentially stonewalls the shadchan, preventing him/her from filling that essential role TJG assumes in her statement.

….

If daters could not break up through a shadchan, they would have to break up in person, meaning by communicating directly with their partner. In many cases, a simple “not for me” would not be sufficient. Some sort of reasoning would be required. Faced with wide eyes and silence, most people will strive to fill the silence, often with excuses or explanations. This would force a dialogue between the couple, wherein they examine their differences and decide, together, if it is worth breaking up over. Breaking up is simply much more difficult. Couples who have to break up in person using ‘State of the Union’ conversations are more likely to date for longer before breaking up than couples able to break up through a shadchan.

….

Therefore, I believe, that while shadchanim perform an important service in connecting young people who might otherwise be too shy to ask each other out directly, they also do some harm, by permitting those people to be just as shy about breaking up, and do it more easily, sooner, and with less provocation by doing it indirectly.

Just Being Polite, Impolitely

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Ezzie’s post on the economics of dating reminded me of one particularly obvious courtesy date.

The guy had come in from OOT, and it was assume (that is, I assumed) that we would go out twice (at least) while he was in town.

The first time he was clearly aiming to impress. Prime Grill? Are you kidding? I didn’t know where to look on the menu. Finally I decided to aim for middle top and went for some kind of fancy chicken. Then he asked me which appetizer I wanted. Who orders appetizers? Guys on first dates with girls they’ve never met, apparently. The appetizer was an amazing concoction of avocado that was almost too pretty to eat.

It wasn’t a bad date. Not amazing either, but not bad. I would have thought that a second date was in order in any case, but it became apparently quickly that this guy had already made up his mind. The second date was strictly to be polite.

Date two involved a wintry walk along the Hudson punctuated only by a brief stop in a trendy coffee shop. “Let’s sit down and drink,” I suggested, when he made to leave the store, cup in hand.

“Can’t,” he explained. “They charge you an extra 75 cents to sit down.”

“Oh, well then,” I said. I laced both hands around the warm cup, turned up my collar, and followed him outside.

Well, at least he had his eyes on the economics of things.

2011 in review

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The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

London Olympic Stadium holds 80,000 people. This blog was viewed about 260,000 times in 2011. If it were competing at London Olympic Stadium, it would take about 3 sold-out events for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Off Topic – But Really Interesting

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Okay. By now you’re probably bored to tears of the 2012 election coverage. Blah blah blah. Same old people saying the same old boringly wrong stuff.

That’s why this is an intriguing idea: Americans Elect 2012. While I don’t quite get if their strategy makes legal sense, in short: get moderates to register what they care about, match them up with politicians, technocrats, or real people who share their ideas and are interested in office, and then get them there, from outside the two-party system.

It’s also fun in a Web 2.0 sort of way. You get quizzed on how you think the country should move forward, and they show you how many other people in which states thought the same way, and how you rank in your level of concern against the site average.

Then you can browse a listing of  executive potentials and how they answered (or would answer) the same questions. You can track the ones who strike you as right-headed.

It’s an interesting social experiment, if nothing else. And I know it’s a bright 300,000 who are already using it, because the 3rd most tracked potential is Jon Huntsman, my personal republican fav, but who doesn’t even get ranked in The Economist. (Least tracked person: Clarence Thomas.)

There’s also a debate section where you can post questions for political candidates to answer. I have no idea who is going to ask them when, but it’s fun to skim and hit the plus or minus button on them.

Anyway, hop on over and check it out.

Wanted: Photograph of a Woman in Black in Action

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I reread this post with a half-smile. How naive it seems, to look around imaging the Women in Black carry notebooks and telescopes.

I once met a Woman in Black at a wedding. I don’t know what number MF it was. Her post has no official number on it. But she was a good friend, and I knocked up some of the best shtick to ever see the women’s side of the mechitza. Pardon my modesty.

Anyway, I was rescuing my stuff from a couple of little kids when a Woman in Black approached me. “Excuse me,” she said, “But do you know the blond girl in pink?”

I sure did. This clueless OOTer had showed up from Texas in pink, believe it or not. We’d driven to the wedding together.

“She dances so nicely. I think I know a boy for her.”

I caught my mouth gaping and closed it. She dances so nicely? The Texan Lass must be some kind of honeybee, able to dance a message about her ideal mate. No wonder I had never caught the eye of any Woman in Black. I just… danced.

I told the WiB as much as I knew about Texan Lass, which wasn’t much. It was only after she glided off that I realized something: the WiB hadn’t asked me anything about myself. Surely, as grand shtickmistress of the wedding, I had cornered just a small piece of spotlight, garnered a tiny piece of notice? Been, as they say, seen?

It seemed not. I hadn’t been seen at all. Well, as anything besides a fount of information about bright Texan Lassies.

Humph.

Big Sister is watching. Just not watching me.

The Paragon

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If you’ve dated long enough, you probably have one. I mean The Man Against Who All Others Are Measured. (For men, it’s The Woman Against Who All Others Are Measured. But we’ll take this from the female perspective because that’s the one with which I’m most familiar.)

It was probably when you were young. You went out with what seemed like just another man. Only you dated for longer than usual. Three dates turned into four turned into five turned into six. You really liked him. You enjoyed his company. You shared his values. You could really begin to see a life with him.

Then, out of nowhere, he dumped you. For murky reasons you couldn’t understand.  “I don’t think this will work.” Or,  “I’m not feeling that spark.” Or, “I’m not ready yet.”  Or, most inexplicable of all: “I just don’t think you’re the one.”

You were devastated. Bewildered. Hurt. And worst of all: wronged. Because he was wrong. You went so well together. You were meant for each other. The more time passes, the more convinced of this you become. His blemishes faded with time or acquired the glowing charm of eccentricity, while all his best traits shone with an ever stronger light. And nobody – absolutely nobody – measures up to him.

You go out with other men. Lots of other men. They’re not as tall, not as bright, not as nice, not as funny, not as handsome, not as successful, not as promising, not as courteous or gallant or sartorially sophisticated. You go out with them once, and then, just to be sure, you go out with them again. But no, they’re still not as tall, bright, nice, funny, handsome, successful, promising, courteous, gallant, or well-dressed. Truth is, they’re not even your type. Not what you’re looking for. You know what you’re looking for. Because once, long ago, you found it.

You let them walk you to your door. You let yourself in. You tramp slowly up to your room and slump on the edge of your bed. And you think about Him. The Paragon. The Man Against Who All Others Are Measured.

You tell yourself that one day he will realize his mistake. He’s been dating for a few years. You know this, because you keep tabs on him. Sometimes you even walk down his block. Just in case he’s looking. You know that soon it will dawn on him, and he’ll realize what he gave up. He’ll secretly ask someone to suggest that you go out again. You’ll say, “With him? We’ve been out already.” You’ll consider it, nonchalantly. And you’ll say, “Oh sure, why not.” And wedding bells will ring.

But until then… you kick off your heels and peel off your tights and go to sleep without taking your makeup off.

The Best Kind of Shopping (2 of 2)

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In part 1, I extol the virtues of online shopping. You don’t wind up with your arms full, you don’t have to go out into the weather, you can find whatever you need easily, and you can do it all while lying flat on your back in bed. 

Until I discovered another sort of shopping with pretty much the same benefits and experience. 


I am talking, of course, about mattress shopping.

I strolled in intending to bounce on a few mattresses and walk out with the cheapest thing they had. I don’t know if pillowtops and fancy add-ons help you sleep better, but I do know that they are dreadfully difficult to get out of in the morning. As such, I didn’t see any advantage in having one. Getting up in the morning is required for my job.

But the saleswoman was busy, so I flopped down on the nearest piece of merchandise to wait. She was busy a little bit longer, so I rolled over and tried another one.

Soon enough I’d arrived at a high-density Tempurpedic. I sank in and it molded around me like soft butter. Aaah. I could stay there forever. If this is what you get for being an astronaut, I totally pursued the wrong career path.

Naturally, I was a little peeved when the saleslady showed up. But it transpired that she didn’t expect me to move. Indeed, she encouraged me to test out all the more expensive mattresses for as long as I desired. She recommended that I try the pillow provided at the headboard.

Oh, right. Pillow. I wiggled upstream until I found it.

“Have you got a blanket too?” I asked hopefully. It had been a long day. But no. They could not encourage appearances of vagrancy.

The saleslady perched on the next bed over and we discussed what I was looking for in a mattress. She, personally, owned the next bed over, and recommended it highly. I pried myself out of the butterdish and went to test it out.

It was like sleeping on a cloud.

“That’s it. I’m here til closing,” I said, sinking back. My mattress shadchan laughed and told me that it came with a pillow and mattress protector and offered to bring me all the paperwork right where I lied.
I flipped over to check the price tag.

Whoa!

And I thought I had sticker shock in Nordstrom. I could shop all day in a department store and not total enough to match the cost of this piece of foam – something I’d only use while unconscious.

“Um, no, maybe not,” I said. “Let me go try a few on that side of the room.”

Still: I could get used to this kind of shopping. It’s almost as good as shopping online.

The Best Kind of Shopping (1 of 2)

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If I had grown up in a world without internet shopping, I’d walk around in rags.

I hate shopping. It’s one long nuisance from beginning to end. First, you’re carrying something. Either it’s a jacket or a handbag. Either way, your hands aren’t completely free, and that bothers me like almost nothing else. I’m the girl who still uses a backpack to tote things around because it’s completely hands-free.

It’s not like I live in a world where I need my hands free to punch attackers or clamber up walls at a moment’s notice. I just like them available to do what they need to do – like flip through racks or hold up two things for comparison. Hands are handy tools, but only if they’re not being used as storage racks – a task just as ably done by an otherwise useless back or waist.

When you shop online, you don’t have to touch anything but the mouse, leaving one hand free for a mug of steaming hot chocolate or a fork full of pancake and dripping with syrup.

Then there are the racks themselves. Do they offer a MFA in store organization? Some stores organize by brand. Some by the dressiness of clothing. And some use a bizarre logic that designates some items “contemporary” and others “misses.” I’ve never understood where a contemporary miss is supposed to look, or why there’s no “vintage” or “ma’am’s” section.

Online, you can shop for exactly what you need. Orange top, ¾ sleeves?  Just check off the boxes and see what comes up. Want to know if there are any skirts that will cover your knees? The length is listed with the skirt, so all you need to know are you own personal measurements – something you’ve undoubtedly saved to an email in your inbox.

Oh, there are always surprises when it arrives in the mail, but as long as you’re within driving distance of a brick and mortar store, returns are no hassle at all. And the act of breezing in and out of the store without flipping a single hanger gives me immense joy.

Not walking into a store means fewer unexpected expenditures. You know, like when you dash into Marshalls to grab a spatula and somehow find yourself at the dressing room, with an ancient crone trying to decide whether to give you a number 5, because you’re carrying five items, or a 2, because the immersion blender, boots, and box of Jelly Bellies aren’t going to be tried on. (Spatula? Oh right, the spatula. Have to remember to get the spatula on the way out.)

And let’s not forget the greatest advantage of all. Online shopping can be done from a supine position in one’s overnight wear without the necessity of braving elements of any sort.

It’s just so comfortable. More than any kind of store shopping.

Or so I thought. Until I found a store where supine was a standard shopping position (prone wasn’t discouraged either).

To be continued in part 2

 

Too Many Fish in Your Sea

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The natural reaction to the incident in yesterday’s post would be to move to Washington Heights. That’s where all the other singles are, and if I want to remain competitive, I’d better get up there with them. Follow the pack. It’s a standard business practice, and it works for many Fortune 500 companies.

That works fine if what you’re looking for can be filled by sheer numbers. Sheer numbers of available singles. Sheer numbers of eyes noting your existence. Sheer numbers of first dates with sheer numbers of first daters. It’s like being at an expo. Companies hand out samples, hoping you’ll come back later for more. Get brief face time with enough people and some of them are bound to remember your sparkling personality and chase you down for a date.

But does it work that way?

Every marketing strategist knows that you have to differentiate your product in the minds of the consumer. How many “Just another accessory” ads have you seen recently? How about “this shampoo will clean your hair,” “this jewelry is sparkly,” “these shoes will protect your feet from the concrete,” or “this car will get you from point A to point B”?

You are more likely to hear “this shampoo will clarify your hair without drying using a patented amino-acid based formula that will make you look like the model in our ad.” Or, “this car is manly, has the smallest turn radius in its class, is so safe you could let your kid drive it, and speaking of kids–they never ask ‘are we there yet’ when you drive this baby.”

So, in a sea of singles, what makes you stand out?

If it’s not your good looks, dazzling charm, and incredible personality, you may want to steer clear of the school.

It’s well known that too much choice overwhelms people. Given the option of two shampoos, most people can make an intelligent choice after analyzing the options to determine which best meets their needs. They may consider sulfates or parabens or additional moisturizing ingredients. They may consider the greenness or reputation of the manufacturer or the apparent value offered. But given an aisle full of shampoos, most people gravitate toward the classiest packaging or the most appealing price or some other very simple criteria.

A recent study shows that when it comes to choosing dates, people aren’t much better at dealing with overwhelming choice. Given a ream of eligible bachelorettes, a guy is justified in tossing some out based on their photograph. Or height. Or hair color. Or whether he actually knows one of the references. Hey – -he has to narrow it down somehow. Maybe none of that actually has anything to do with whether a potential would make a good mate. But this stuff counts too, right? And you have to shave down the pack somehow.

So, what’s a girl to do? It’s obvious, I think. Move out of town. If you’re one of very few fish in the sea, you’ll get more individual attention and deeper scrutiny by local bachelors. After all — from where you are, all those people crammed into Washington Heights are currently geographically undesireable. All the more reason for a guy to consider you seriously, based on more than just your height, weight, and hair color.