i really hate feeling depressed. that is the most logically true and obvious statement ever written. maybe.

i hate feeling desperate and naked and small. i tire of reminding myself this is temporary. i wonder if this is going to follow me forever. there's always something horribly wrong. not always. only in months ending in "er" and "y". there's something wrong and i tell myself that when that something wrong is over, when i don't live here anymore, when i'm not doing that anymore, i'll be perky again. i'll say witty things and people will crowd my facebook page with wall posts and send me handmade things and my metabolism will work again and i'll be able to sleep before 3 in the morning and i won't have reasons to dry heave myself to sleep after my body's too exhausted to cry.

but then another month ending in 'er' arrives, and despite the very reputable chinese astrologists who assure me this will be a great year for me, i am fighting through another day. i feel like i am clawing through sand to be able to get to the dessert. i am using awful analogies. my brain isn't working like i want it to. i have bursts of okay-ness, where i don't mind that his world didn't need me in it to keep spinning. it is a good thing i do not date often; every time it doesn't work out it feels like i'm spilt out onto the floor of the state fair.

Edit: It turns out that spilling things out onto the floor was a huge relief. Freedom is very un-depressing.

My apartment reminds me of the scene in that julia roberts movie--something about sleeping with the enemy--is that it? huh. moving on, where julia walks into her new house in iowa and all of the furniture is covered with sheets and there's dust everywhere. my shelter rescue cat had worms, so the laundering and draping began.

moving on again.

i've decided the thing that sucks about breaking up with someone is that you stop feeling special. there's this massive influx of "you're special and awesome" into your life when you start dating someone. this someone didn't get snatched up by previous someones. this someone likes you better than all the other someones he/she knows currently. you're the new shirt that comes home from the store and gets worn every night for a week.

then you get shoved to the back of the closet and some new shirt is going out every night of the week while you stare at the fat pants and that sweater from the weird aunt.

i hate knowing that when he's with a new someone in the future, i'll be a part of her calculus, the other someones that are no longer there. they might talk about my flaws, where i didn't measure up, how prone to measurement i was, how i liked him more than he liked me. i might end up in a funny story. maybe i'm baggage. a learning experience. a neighborhood character.

***

moving on one more time, it felt very strange to blog this evening. it's like i'm headed to a high school reunion that wasn't scheduled. i have no idea whatsoever if anyone reads this thing anymore. at least there's progress in the world.

Dating Woes.

B-Baltimore told me I should be blogging more. All of the recent bad dates? Total blogging material, he says. So here I am, back to writing my on-line journal of sorts. Aren't you so glad I'm back? By the way, B and I started a new blog, Dealing With Normals. It might prove useful for some of you.

Back to this one, though...

The writer and I broke up last month. and the month before. i met him on-line a few weeks after re-joining that world for the first time in a few years. so lucky so quick. wonderful guy, amicable breakup...it gave me a bit of (false) hope that other wonderful awesome guys were just waiting on the internets for me to appear on their screen and in their lives. i am on three online dating sites currently, but the one which has given us the most fodder for today's post is match.com. Holy hell. And here we go.

1. The Cokehead. I answered his email because his profile was funny; he noticed the recurrent theme of many of the profiles about which my friends and I had bantered on numerous occasions. "Likes to travel," "Laid-back," "Likes to have fun." So, after a few emails back and forth, he asked me out to an Eritrean restaurant and drinks afterward at a nearby bar.

Breaking my cardinal rule of biking to the date location, I let him pick me up near my house. He was well-dressed, very fashionable, driving a practical but nice car...no white van missing windows and looked like his profile picture. Already off to a good start!

I get in the car, and he seems pretty amped. I mean, he has WAY more jitters than a first date might normally induce. And his nose is pretty runny. But hey, you already know my nickname for him, so you can probably tell why already!

The Eritrean restaurant was delicious, but my stomach didn't love all the spices as much as my mouth did. Nice jittery guy got us a cab, hopped out of the cab at a CVS and got me sum tums.* We got out of the cab, started walking toward the bar, when my date admitted his nose was running so much because he had "partied with a friend" earlier that day. Oh, and I'm gonna go ahead and have a few bumps more, would you mind? A true gentleman, he offered me a few lines as well.

Awww.

I of course declined, and I'm no prude--I've had pals in college whose noses ran, too, so I wasn't necessarily shocked that my date's nose would run, but THIS WAS OUR FIRST DATE. maybe keep the coke at home until we know if we hit if off...make it a TINY bit more difficult for me to completely write you off.


2. Sack Guy
So I started emailing a few days ago with Sack Guy. He's finished law school, passed the bar, and is now in medical school. He's a smarty pants, with degrees from all our finest universities. Also, pretty funny profile. Avoided all of the match cliches, and looked kinda cute in his profile pic to boot.

Yesterday, we moved the emailing to our regular email accounts as his subscription was running out that day. We started chatting on gmail, and about an hour into the chat, started talking about what blows about match...namely, the uninteresting homogeneous pool of potential dates. After talking about the "fun-lovers", Dr. Sack tells me another thing he hates is cockblocking. I expressed confusion...how does one cockblock on a dating site? He explains that it's the in-person cockblocking.

Me: Huh? you're on a date and your DATE cockblocks you?

Sack: Yeah, your date isn't into you and doesn't want you to hit on others...

*At this point, I'm already thinking about the increasing odds that this guy is an asshole.

Me: I would probably be a little offended if my date walked away mid-sentence and slid his arm around a stranger at a bar.

Sack: It's sort of like, we're on date 5, and it's not going to happen. That's the usual way it comes up. I think they're usually banging other guys and want me to buy them shit and give them attention.

Me: Huh.

Sack: God I haven't been laid in a while. My sack is heavy.

--End of Transmission--

Now I see why a cute, funny lawyer/doctor is single. Because he's really a giant walking penis with degrees dangling like penis earrings.


3. The Leg Man.

I was contacted by a cute professional in Brooklyn. Italian.

First email: Can you elaborate at all on leg-wrestling? I'd also like to read your explanation as to why your calves are your best feature.

I mention in my profile that I was an undefeated leg wrestling champion until recently. And under best feature, it says calves. So, sure, this is all harmless, right? RIGHT?

Indulging the request, I explain the mechanics of leg wrestling (not really a sexy sport...it's like thumb wrestling for legs). I talk about riding bikes. Rather, I kind of brag about riding bikes. It's my thing, I'm good at it, and as we've read over and over again on this blog, I have unusually strong man-like legs with girl ankles.

A few emails in, he asks for a picture of my calves. I'm still thinking at this point that he's joking about being so into my descriptions of winning races with my "raw awesome strength." I'm joking as I write it, he must be joking as he responds. the request for a calf picture must be just another round in the game.

Then I heard "my sack is heavy" from Dr. Sack, and think, "Maybe all guys ARE really creepy..." So I email Leg Man and tell him that I need to know more about him before I send any pictures along...at this point, he's earned a wrist.

The reply I get is the most desperate thing I've ever read...he thinks I'm lording my calves over him like some prize because he's divulged what most turns him on and now HE FEELS UNCOMFORTABLE. He'd already offered to take a train down to DC, what more do i possible want?

HOW ABOUT KNOWING YOU BEFORE SHOWING YOU THE SEXUAL EQUIVALENT OF MY NIPPLES (for him, anyway).

4. Frisky. Cute, mature-looking guy talking about how he's now in his thirties and is ready for the real thing (not his exact words, but I'm summarizing for you). Talks about how he's grown and probably screwed up a lot of potentially good relationships in his twenties, but remember, we're in our thirties now. Also, talks about wanting someone who can teach him stuff he doesn't know--clearly interested in brains!

I wink. He winks. I email:

the romans rounded pi to 3. it's an architectural marvel that the colosseum held up so well.

David Foster Wallace loved the first terminator movie.

macguyver's first name was angus.

If you know of a good place to watch blues/jazz, I'd love to have you show me!

Cheers,
Slickaphonic

He responds back telling me where he lives, asking if we'd like to get a drink soon. I tell him my neighborhood, and ask, "maybe this weekend?"

That's when Mr. 30's decides to go back to Mr. 20's. "I just opened up a bottle of wine and I'm feeling frisky! Want to come over?"

Me: "Sorry, I'm busy tonight, but if you'd like to go out this weekend..."

Him: "okay. Well, here's my number...give me a call if you're frisky."

WHAT IS UP WITH THE FRISK, DUDE? No, I don't feel frisky. You want a prostitute, not a girlfriend. they're frisky All_the_time!
***

I had talked about the Cokehead to the Writer, and he explained it like this: "you're a freak. you're going to attract other freaks. and some of those freaks are going to be cokehead freaks."


I guess in conclusion...

PLEASE HELP!

My One-Month Boyfriend

My one month boyfriend will be like my other one-month boyfriends, only he will know his title. Knowing this, he will take me on the the trips we plan within a week. He will talk about important matters with the urgency that comes with a solid time table. My OMB understands that there will be much passion in that month, and he will make love to me as though every time were his last...because in a month, it will be. We won't waste time getting to know about each other's families. We don't care about those peculiarities which will irritate in the long-run, we're only in this for four weeks. We won't interview each other to see about the other's fitness for marriage, how much our friends will like each other, where we want to be in twenty years, how many boys or girls each wants, what kind of genes the other will pass on, or how much income we can expect to bring in. My one-month boyfriend will not care about dating anyone else; we only have thirty days with one another, the others can wait. My one-month boyfriend and I will not have "The Talk."

I want a one-month boyfriend. He'll last as long as the rest, but he'll know his expiration date at the outset.

Bleh.

A friend told me recently this would always be her home. I responded that I had none...not to be pathetic, but to explain my reality of perpetual foreignness: my family was never from where we were living--and living in a stream of small towns, my Otherness was quite palpable. Fleeing to cities and ignoring invitations to ten-year reunions, I realized how utterly free I am. I'm moving to D.C. in less than a year, and it's as easy to me as moving apartments. Moving comes naturally; transition comes naturally; being a stranger comes almost dishearteningly easily...But staying still, moving to the center from the periphery, becoming familiar: these things, they horrify me.

And now, I wonder if I'll ever feel the reverse freedom: the freedom of being tethered, of being comfortable and entrenched...
I kick and struggle against the lightest of reins--my commitment to a graduate program for 4 years has come with anxiety attacks--and I wiggled out of a final year by winning a fellowship relocating me to DC; my commitment to an occupation was only made palatable by the realistic possibility of complete job-switching within five years. I clearly have not yet found a similar fix for a commitment to a person.

I suppose it's all the same experience, but perhaps from the other side of the mirror. But it really can be quite lonely over here.

How to Become Vulnerable

I wish I had a better answer to that title. Quick to share stories from my life, I rarely share the emotions that swim beneath them. I remember being shocked when a man I was once dating told me how very invulnerable I was; he thought he was giving me some sort of strange compliment, telling me how refreshing it was to find himself dating someone who wasn't baring her soul. I was horrified that to learn that my stories didn't translate into vulnerability...
I've only been in two relationships that could possibly be called "long-term", and in replaying conversations, I realize now that I was loath to share any hint of the intensity of my emotions. I suppose much of myself is still trapped in junior high, afraid to reveal a crush to the wrong person, allow someone to seize upon the weakness of such a revelation. I have no difficulty attracting people, but keeping them around seems to be a task for which I'm ill-suited. It's not that they learn of skeletons in my closet, it's that I never let them past the front door. Sharing "shocking" stories from my past serves as sustenance enough for some time, but after the appetizers, people want real food. And I always leave them hungry.

So, any tips on becoming vulnerable, blog people?

there's no checkbox for this.

So, to update the three (?) people that read this thing, I am currently dating a wonderful person who makes me laugh and gets me all sorts of hot and bothered. And this person happens to be female.

Many people thought I was straight--I suppose for convenience purposes, I did, too--though I really didn't think having 7 male crushes qualified me as such. I'm also completely asexual much of the time, though there's rarely a box for that on marketing surveys. I'm not more into women now...I appreciate beauty wherever it crops up and always have, but I no more want to make out with every pretty flower I see than every pretty girl I cross. I am "mesexual." I don't think sexuality actually exists in discrete terms; I believe that for efficiency purposes, languages tend to divvy up the world into nice, finite, discrete boxes and you sort yourself as best you can. But most of reality is full of infinite shades of gray--and so is sexuality. I don't consider myself "bi" now--or even mostly straight with a slight bend. But trying to explain this to people--including the woman I'm dating--is a bit difficult. There are issues--I'm not a "real" lesbian; am I going to Anne Heche her in a couple of months? Does it matter that I can't predict my sexuality a year in advance? I can't commit to boys I like that I'll still be hot for their man-stuff in six months, why does it matter that I can't commit to be hot for general female stuff for that length of time? Do I have to "come out" to people? Hell, if they could tell me which closet, exactly, I've been in, I'd write them a thank you note.

My longest relationship was with a "mesexual" individual; he mostly sleeps with males, but he was very attracted to me and we enjoyed two wonderful years together in college. His current roommates assumed he was gay and upon a visit from me last year, were shocked to see us kissing one another. His boyfriend at the time--with whom he had an open relationship--was very uneasy with the new info; it didn't matter that my ex was making out with someone, but it did matter that it was with a female--as though THEIR relationship and physical intimacy were somehow called into question in light of my ex's non-strictly-gay preferences.

I'm not sure this unease people experience upon learning of mesexuality has to do with sex so much as identification and classification. Our relationships with one another depend heavily upon our ability to categorize one another; discrete labels are handy here; friends, friends with benefits, lovers, etc. And if you can't neatly define another's sexuality, this becomes a bit more difficult.

Perhaps I shall write more on this later, but right now, know that though others may be confused, I am happy and excited!

I Should Have Known Better

My friend set me up on a blind date last night. My friend has a big, wonderful heart, but his thoughts just aren't running on all cylinders. He is one of my artsy friends. And I value him, but I am frequently frustrated when he misuses words, or makes statements such as "British actors just seem to be deeper, you know, more intelligent." (Except when they lose the accent for an "American" part, right?)


So, I should have known better when he tried to set me up on a blind date: "AH, I've got the perfect person for you! I just know you two are going to click. I'm sorry I'm pushing this so hard, but when I know two people that are just so...so perfect for each other, I just want to make it happen."

Date came over.

Scrabble board came out (I'm still poor).

Words my date tried to use on said board:

totel (total)
nosel (nozzle)
tech
diggin

and for the grande finale, three-fourths into the game, he tried to put three tiles at the top of the board, unconnected to any other word, and actually started to count up his points.

I was finally successful in wrapping up the game and politely sending him away, and immediately called my friend:

Me: "Why in the hell would you think that we would be perfect for each other??? That was painful!"

Friend: "Well, you both like jazz music a lot."

Me: "Really? That's it? That was this mysterious connection which destined us to be together forever and ever? He liked jazz???"

Okay, so I wasn't that rude to Friend...I mean, he tried to do a good thing. But the experience served to reinforce that with each friend I have, I emphasize one or two interests/characterstics, etc. I emphasize music with Friend, because he's no brain-child, but we do have similar musical tastes. And we have fun getting drunk together. So there, music and beer. I'm sure he saw his friend and thought, "Hey, HE likes music and beer! I gotta get these two kids together!!!"

totely.

Asymmetry of Experience

I am always uncomfortable when two or more people are present for the same set of objective events, and yet have wildly different experiences regarding them. For example, for those of you who read *The Story*, Sebastian and I read the same emails, heard the same conversations, were on the same weekend-long date; he ended up being the impetus in my life for an overhaul in my thought processes and the starting point on a journey of self-reflection and change. I, to him, am probably a funny story to be shared with friends and future girlfriends.

There's a friend of mine here who has been present for every conversation we've had together, has not blacked out during any of our outings, and yet thinks that we have something *more* than friendship; I know with certainty there will never be anything more than what there is--and I wonder if what we do have can survive this asymmetry.

I went on a first date with a person after exchanging about two emails. We met, I mainly amused myself during the hour-long brunch, and then forgot his name on my fifteen minute walk home. I received a minor tsunami of emails about a month later from said boy asking me why I hadn't returned his emails or phone calls (in truth, my phone hadn't worked, but I probably wouldn't have returned his calls anyway at that time--and I didn't remember having read any of his emails before). He thought we had shared a fantastic date and, further, should and would be having many more. I wondered whether we had, in fact, been on the same date.

My much younger cousin recently contacted me after about six years of absence. The nine-or-so times we saw each other as children, she made my life consistently (and purposefully) horrible. She was manipulative and deceitful--but she was also a child. I am not, therefore, maintaining that she is still the devil's spawn, but I was a bit surprised to read her email: "I've missed you sooo much! I love you and really want to get together soon!"

I have not missed her. I do not love her. I do not want to get together, anytime. She is a stranger, at best, and a source of old irritations and misery, at worst.

It always makes me uncomfortable when this sort of asymmetry arises because it just serves to underscore the fact that humans, by and large, create their own reality. One could not exist in this world if he or she did not have a filter for every single sensory input--be it words or sights or feelings. So how can we ever hope to understand another person when we have not only no true common history, but no common present? Is that the real goal in finding friends or sig-o's? Just finding someone who uses a similar filter? Who might possibly interpret the same events in a similar manner?

love you all, and have missed you soooo much. (note: this last line was just funny to me, but I have actually missed my exchanges with you all).

Why I don't tell family or most friends about my blog

I should clarify below's post for you. I am not a sado-masochist. I am not horribly depressed. I am simply dealing with feelings from a recent one-night stand. Though aware that guilt is not a logically appropriate response, I can't help feeling that I've done something wrong, demeaned myself in some way, given away the milk for free when I should have held out for a pasture, or something. Puritanical upbringings suck. I'm trying to cope with the imprint left on me by a religion in which I no longer believe. Parsing out one's self from the teachings, histories, and beliefs of others is no mean feat. I was not raised in a hellfire brimstone religion, we were not a God-fearing family, we were a God-loving family. But there was still a high, sometimes absurd, moral code by which we were all expected and striving to live. Face cards were not allowed, as those were symbols of idolatry--we played Rook and Uno instead. Chess slowly eased its way into the families adhering to this belief set, but the more devout still shun this in favor of Checkers. We had not even a drop of cooking alcohol in our house. (My mouth about dropped to the floor when I saw my dad drinking win this Thanksgiving). Dancing was not prohibited that I know of, I just never saw any growing up. Anywhere. Anytime. Dirty Dancing was my first exposure to dancing, and I immediately made the link between dancing and sex--if I were to stop and think about myself mid-dance now, I would probably feel ashamed at my lascivious writhing. Thankfully, music drowns out most of my thoughts, so this rarely happens. It seems the only feeling truly free of guilt is pain. Really, listen to your gospels, read your bible, attend any Protestant church. It's the only time you're really not enjoying yourself, and it seems that what is enjoyable is most likely a sin--ah, to be home-free!

Further, while I now happily and fairly guilt-freely drink down my own wine, and play chess and poker with abandon, the attitudes regarding sex are reinforced everywhere in society. The Women's movement/Feminist movement of the 1970s did less for empowering women than the free love movement of the 60's. If your power lies in your gender, it lies in your body, and if you share your body with someone, you've shared your power. I didn't know the guy well enough the other night to be sharing my personal power...I was just enjoying making out with him. Then there are absurd psychologists and authors telling us about The Rules; if you like a guy, you should never never never go home with on the first date. Or the second date. Or fuck, until you're good and married and already pregnant with his child through some non-sex method. And why? Fuck the double-standard shit, why should it matter to me if a guy takes me home the first night we meet and vice versa? I also have the horrible feeling that it really does matter to some guys. Some? Well, most. And the guy from the other night seems to be among this set. I didn't think our sleeping together meant an upcoming walk down the aisle, but I thought my invitation to a movie was about the right pace. He freaked out and wrote immediately that "I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page-I am not looking for any kind of relationship at all right now..." To see the total turn-around from flirtation and fun and having a relatively easy time of getting to know one another to...well, a complete absence of the above...Are these stupid people right? Does it matter that their arguments are logically flawed? If they've hit the coordination game, and I haven't, though I might be "right", I might as well be holding out for Betamax to beat VHS.

So, I'm tired of feeling guilty for actions I don't truly believe are sins. I'm tired of a Puritanical mindset crowding out any pleasure I might derive from my body (or someone else's). I'm tired of these issues popping up and into any relationship--or one night stand--I might have. And I'm tired of repeated confirmation that having sex with a guy really does ruin your chance to get to know him--even as a pal.

And it's woefully difficult to separate out these 'moral fibers' from the tapestry that is myself. Hell, I wonder how much would even be left of me if I could.

So, I wonder: How long does it take to wash away the sins of the church from oneself?

Don't Judge Me

When I was dating and stepped into my potential sweetheart's apartment, I would immediately sniff out their book collections. I wanted to see what they had read, or at least what they had interest in reading. This is what we call "revealed preference" in economics. How to intepret the evidence:

1) They don't have a lot of books
-well, this doesn't mean they don't read, but it does mean they don't form long-lasting relationships with their books. They have literary one-night stands, at best, and are a-book-sual at worst.

2) They have books, but no high lit. This is probably worse than number one; now I know they do form relationships with their books, but not the books I want in my life. and you remember health ed--you sleep with every book your partner sleeps with.

3) They have a mostly random assortment, comprised of literature, old textbooks, how-to books, self-improvement, etc. This means they mostly accept books as gifts from others, and are not invested in any particular genre, themselves. If you give them Dr. Phil's Diet book, it might end up right up against their copy of Kerouac (a gift before their graduation trip to Europe, of course).

4) They have great high literature books, and some weird collection of books all of whose subject is Katherine the Great. This guy is perfect (for me). Not because of the subject of the weird collection, but because they have some obsession which books have helped to nourish and heal. Also, now I can move to the secondary phase of my investigation: What books can I immediatley borrow? (this can also help determine the probable length of our relationship).

5) The above, but they also have Keirkegarrd, Heidegger, Nietzche, etc. At this point, I offer the use of my womb to house their children for nine months.

I have no illusions that everyone uses these criteria to judge others. But now I ask you, faithful reader (and hopefully, faithful commenter), on what possessions do you judge your potential sweetbuns?

More on Intro v Extro...

For those of you not enjoying Dagger Aleph's blog (and the by the way, why aren't you reading it?? good stuff. good stuff), we've been discussing Rauch's article on introversion. Which got me to thinking about my relationships with my relatives.

I really, really love my Dad. He is an introvert like me. We talk on the phone every Sunday, and once we've exchanged content, we hang up--it is not awkward, we do not force conversations, or struggle to find pleasantries to exchange with one another. Neither of us enjoy phone conversations, per se, but we enjoy each other, so we ritually fill each other in/rant/talk about politics/my advisor/his congregation, etc. for about 45 minutes, and then it's done.

My mother really really tires me. She is an extrovert. She calls at least 4 times/week, and well, we have no content to exchange. How can we? She's calling more than every other day! She doesn't have a job any longer, isn't interested in my work (more than the superficial how-can-I-brag-to-my-friends-about-what-you're-doing information), doesn't have the memory to remember the names of characters in my life (or the last sentence I spoke in a given conversation), etc. So, she resorts to chatter--"You've always had such pretty eyes. Did I tell you what McKenna (my neice) said? She's so cute. How's your dog? Is he sleeping? Have you done anything fun lately? What'd you eat for dinner tonight? Did I tell you what I made for dinner last night? Boy, it was really good. I had a baked potato and a piece of chicken. I'm trying to watch my weight, you know. How are you wearing your hair these days? I bet it looks cute. Well, you don't seem very talkative tonight. Are you okay? Are you mad at me?" etc.

It's a form of torture which is quite exquisite in the amount of pain it brings me. And I simply can't make her understand: I'm okay, we're okay. I just have no content to exchange with you. So I don't want to talk any longer.

Going down South with her relatives is the above experience to the sixth power. Since that side of the family is full of extroverts, and they seem to feed on one another's energy, I am simply overwhelmed with attempts to chat about nothing. I am frequently cast as a snob, a mute, a cold Northerner (we Yankees simply don't know how to be warm), a weirdo. And it would be fine if they would just leave me alone. But these "awful flaws" of mine don't seem to dissuade any of them from swarming me.

This is one reason I started smoking. Although smoking isn't exactly encouraged, it's more socially acceptable than introversion. Sooo, by smoking, I had a socially acceptable reason to excuse myself from the family for treasured moments of silence and alone time.

I've since chosen to quit smoking, though I notice that I go to the bathroom an awful lot these days to flee the hob-knobbing at academic conferences, the barrage of small-talk questions at family reunions, the parties full of meaningless interaction. It's only a matter of time before people start to ask me about that, too...

Who Wants to Marry a Genius?

Okay, B-Baltimore, in response to your post, I now offer reasons why Maureen Dowd may be onto something; i.e., I will now explain why many smart girls will most likely remain single.

My beliefs after years of updating:
1) I believe all smart girls want guys as smart or smarter than themselves.
2) I believe many smart boys want girls no smarter than themselves
(caveat: we're dealing with the homosexual population, and only those who want relationships)


I could go on with beliefs, but if you buy the two above, and throw in the fact that there are more girls than guys, then you see why we have frustrated intelligent women.

I have now been told on dates with three separate gentlemen, "You're too smart for me." I would never say this to a man--not even as an excuse to get out of a bad date! Not because I don't believe there are men smarter than me, but because I can't imagine too much of a good thing. In other words, my utility is monotic and increasing in boy's intelligence. Not so with many boys. There seems to be a threshold; Can she speak? Make sounds resembling the English language and not embarrass me around my parents and friends? Then check off the IQ box!

Now, I agree that there are smart boys who are also looking for girls as smart or smarter than themselves--I think I've dated one, and I wasn't smart enough for him. Updating my beliefs about the distribution of males as a result was the one consolation in being dumped. However, this is a very screwed-up matching problem. Even if we could somehow pin a vector sum of every individual's qualities to their chests, the boys with the highest "scores" won't necessarily seek out the girls with the highest scores. The distribution of preferences regarding the weights of different attributes, I believe, is quite different for the female and male populations.

Now, as regards Ms. Dowd's column, B-Baltimore makes very fine points that the statistics presented are deeply flawed. However, I believe the whole research design was flawed--so pointing out the true meaning of these statistics is about as helpful as telling me she flat-out lied. It still provides no insight into the true state of the world. Asking boys to commit to a box on an anonymous survey is entirely different from asking them to commit their weekends to a brainy girl. I just don't think surveys are going to work here--nor, for that matter, will using a blunt proxy for intelligence such as level of education to measure "marital success" of "smart" girls.

Now, taking this argument into account, and throwing things like "chemistry," "sexual compatability," and "not bitter" into the equation, it's no small wonder that the brainy girls ever find their mates.