I won $4.00 in the New Jersey State lottery today. Please respect my privacy at this turbulent time.
Theories of Attraction
Malcolm Gladwell and I have been conducting extensive research on how men and women actually get together, and we have decided that there are three main theories.
(So I have not actually worked with Malcolm Gladwell, but I feel this is a project that would interest him).
The Sunflower theory. Sunflowers grow best in direct sunlight in nutrient-rich soil. Ever wonder how all of these gorgeous young people get together and make gorgeous babies? By hanging out together in the direct sunlight in nutrient-rich soil, i.e college campuses, bars, workplaces. They barely need to work at it. They get together because they’re young and vibrant, they all hang out in all the same places where there is an abundance of choice, then come together as couples and agree to be exclusive in order to perpetuate the human race. This kind of coupling can last forever or eventually lead to the Mismatched Socks theory or the Upgrade theory.
The Mismatched Socks theory. A marriage or relationship ends, due to breakup, divorce or death. And the instant it’s over, single parties look around and grab onto the first breathing sentient being in proximity. Consider a basket of mismatched socks, socks with no mates. It doesn’t matter if one is silk, the other cotton, one striped and one polka-dotted, as long as they both stop at the ankle or come to the knee, the rest is redundant. The most important thing is to NOT BE A SINGLE SOCK. Years later, the socks look at each other, and think, “Fuck, we don’t even MATCH.” No duh. These relationships are either doomed, or last forever if the participants think it’s just fine and dandy to not match.
Upgrade theory. Men are lucky. They age fantastically, and they know it. So when a man’s spouse dies or he decides to seek a new marriage, if he is attractive, accomplished and even slightly wealthy, he will seek a younger beautiful woman. And younger single women, sometimes even saddled with young children, are attracted to these older men- these gorgeous silver foxes are financially stable, steadfast, sexy. Tickled pink at the discovery of each other, they get married, and each has what he or she wants.
Until they don’t.
She’s young enough to still be attracted to the fun-loving men her age, and begins to resent her older husband’s grouchiness. She wants to go out, he wants to stay in. He starts to become annoyed by the noise and activity of her young children, and resents the time the children take away from his time with his new young wife. His life begins to revolve around their activities and sports schedules, and he thinks with longing about his old life- 36 holes of golf, Sunday football in front of the television, trips ANYWHERE else than Disney parks. But he’s stuck. He made his bed, and must lie in it. One day, seeing this couple in public is no longer a source of envy. Quite the contrary. You congratulate yourself once again on the ability to remain a single sock because now he is just this old guy getting yelled at, and they both look drawn and pissed. Maybe one of them moves on, to upgrade again. But where does it end? When is someone enough?
(This is not just theory. I have seen this scenario time and time again, up close and personal. Older men who marry younger women, and wish they could take it back).
Then there’s the rest of us. Not old, but too old to be young. No longer moving in a pod of eligible mates. Saddled with high standards. Hating dating sites, but horny as hell.
It occurs to me that maybe I’m lucky as I begin my search for a new relationship. Men my age can attract a woman 10-15 years younger. Good for them. But I look 10 years younger than my age, and while men in their forties are attracted to me, I am attracted to silver foxes in their sixties, and if especially vibrant and brilliant, even up to 70.
You would think that with all the opportunities that abound in this technological age to get laid, people wouldn’t be walking around horny the way they are. But everyone I know wants sex, but isn’t getting any. Or they don’t want it from the person they’re married to.
By the end of the year, I’m hoping I won’t be just “The (Not) It Girl,” but the “Getting It Girl.” Think good thoughts, and wish me luck.
Going Live
Scariest moments in my life.
Ziplining. No matter what dialogue I tried, I could not convince my brain that catapulting myself off of a five-story platform with full confidence in the reliability of a set of lanyards, carabiners, pulleys and trolleys checked casually by our 21-year old stoned zipline guide (who went by the nickname “Extreme”) was the smart, rational, FUN thing to do. Nor did I develop immunity throughout the day- I was just as terrified on the last jump as I was on the first. I want to do it again one day, without weeping.
Teaching my first college class. I was 36, and some of my students were in their fifties. Although I had been a successful high school English teacher for 15 years, I had no idea how to raise the intellectual bar. I would be sweating, stammering, outright fucking FLOPPING. It was a disaster, from beginning to end, and I felt like a fraud, from beginning to end. Some days my students outright laughed at me, and those were the good days. But I got better.
Pushing the “Go Live” button on my website blog. Privacy. I fight for it every day of my life. I stay off social media, and when I have no choice but to use it, I use a fake name. I don’t confide in people, and there are only about a half dozen human beings on the planet I trust enough to talk to about my personal life. That is life as an introvert. But don’t forget: part of being It is being visible and relevant. This blog will not do anyone any good unless it can be viewed and read. So here I am, world.
I’m Going Live.
Man Up
Career paths I have considered in the three years since my husband’s death:
Instagram fitness influencer, retail clothes manager, famous novelist, travel writer/blogger, writing consultant, podcaster, receptionist, paralegal, Ph.D candidate, adult escort, CEO for a non-profit, tutor, home-school teacher, bookstore owner, mailman, flight attendant, life coach, travel company owner, pet groomer, baby elephant orphanage keeper, animal rescuer, adult home-carer, and most recently, the Yankee Candle lady who glares at shoppers and reminds them to please not pick the jars up by their lids.
I pester real estate agents to show me buildings that I have no intention of renting, attend seminars for franchises that I have no intention of purchasing, and fill out applications for Ph.D. programs in which I have no intention of enrolling. I bought an expensive mic for podcasting, have had five different sets of business cards made-up, and post so many different flyers around town advertising so many different skills that I am surprised when people contact me for random consultation work that I forgot I offered.
Yeah, sorry, that was Patricia.
A year ago, I would have scoffed it off to indecision. You know, the Hallmark channel widow who is able for the first time in her adult life to take the time to figure out what her life’s purpose is. But that would be overcomplicating what I have finally realized is my top priority at this juncture in my life. Because as a retired high school teacher and empty-nest mom, there is only one thing I know to be completely true.
I’m ready for love again, but not in the way you think.
Please advance to my “Man-Starved” entry.
Thank You Next
My most recent toxic trait (other than buying fresh mint, basil and parsley and then letting them wilt in my refrigerator) is applying for lowly jobs that I don’t intend to take that don’t pay enough money that I know I am wrong for and then going through with the interview anyway and deliberately saying crazy shit that I know will get me removed from the potential hiree list.
Q: How much of a salary would you require to accept this position?
A: 50.00 an hour.
Q: Why are you applying for this job?
A: I’m bored.
Q: Do you have anything against wearing a mask during your eight-hour shift?
A: Yes.
Q: I see here you are studying for a Masters’ degree in Legal Studies?
A: Yes, I’m going to represent myself in this nasty opiod case thing I have going. Next subject.
Q: What would you consider to be your main weakness?
A: Working with others and accepting authority.
Q: Do you have any trips planned in the coming months?
A: Yes. And they’re non-refundable.
Q: Describe a time when you had a disagreement with a colleague.
A: I once told a colleague she only got promoted because she was a white liberal lesbian.
Q: What would you say is the most important quality needed for a fluid, effective workplace?
A: Drinking at lunch.
Q: Where do you see yourself in five years?
A: Married to a rich old guy I find on Tinder.
Repeat Impossible
AT&T Bot: Please type your reply. How may I help you today?
Me: Please remove my dead husband’s name from the family account.
AT&T: You must remove a phone line using your account. Still want to do it?
Me: No. That’s not what I said.
AT&T: Can you rephrase your question?
Me: Stop emailing my husband. He’s dead.
AT&T: You must sign into your account.
Me: I can’t. You still have all of my husband’s information in there. And he’s dead.
AT&T: I can’t assist you until you sign into your account.
Me: It won’t let me. It thinks I’m my husband. And, like I’ve mentioned before, he’s dead.
AT&T: I’m not sure I understand your problem.
Me: Well, my husband is dead. So I’m a widow. And I have no one who cares how I take my coffee and eggs.
AT&T: Ok. What are you trying to sign into or access?
Me: I’d like to access some sex, but men look at me like I’m going to tie them up and force them to pay my mortgage.
AT&T: Ok. Is your account locked?
Me: I wish it was licked. Oh, sorry, you said locked. Yes. It’s locked.
AT&T: You need Thomas to unlock it.
Me: I know. But, you see, he’s dead.
AT&T Are you having an issue not listed here?
Me: Yes.
AT&T: Click on the issue not listed here.
Me: How can I click on it if it’s not listed here? Should I make something up?
AT&T: Ok.
Me: AT&T continues to defer to my dead husband’s authority despite the fact that I pay the bills.
AT&T: You want to pay a bill? Is that right?
Me: No. I never want to pay another telephone bill again. I could trade our phones in and buy an Escalade.
AT&T: So what is your problem?
Me: It’s mostly that I’m horny. I think I’d like to get married again, but he’ll have to be the right guy.
AT&T: Ok. Sorry we can’t be of more assistance. Please go online and look at other options.
Me: But online dating is terrible. It’s like shopping at Dollar General.
AT&T: Are you still there?
Me: Of course.
AT&T: Thank you for chatting today. We hope we’ve resolved your problem.
Me:
The (Not) It Girl
I was reticent about naming this blog “thenotitgirl” because I figured some asshat would call it The “No Tit” Girl.
Now, as I see it, a translation like this could either imply that I am missing a breast or that there is a certain activity in my sexual repertoire that is off-limits. Since neither of those conclusions would be accurate, rather than come up with a different blog title, I figured maybe it would be valuable to draw those freaks in- you know, people who like to look at one-breasted women (please, no offense intended to rockstar ladies who undergo surgery to stave off breast cancer- I’d do it too, faster than you can say Nancy Nipples), or those freaks (read ME) who have already watched everything on Porn Hub. Readers are readers, and freaks have feelings too, you know.
And I got nothing against Porn Hub.
So I kept the name, and added some dashes. The tagline actually derives from the childhood game of Tag, and the palpable relief I remember feeling as a young girl when I would be able to scream “Not It!”
Ah, I would think.
I’m Not It.
When you’re not It, there’s no urgency to race through the neighborhood looking in bushes, behind rocks, inside people’s tool sheds. When you’re not It, you can hide and read and dream and think. When you’re not It, your power lies in your absence. If you’re found so BE IT, but you don’t have to BE IT. I remember relishing my anonymity, and even now I can feel the warmth of oblivion that cascaded down my spinal cord knowing I could recede into the cool depths and shadows of my neighborhood unseen, unheard, and uninteresting. It would be years before I discovered that the universe punishes those who crave anonymity.
Obviously my existence has not created in the universe a sense of obligation.
I’m 54 now, and still the little girl who is happy not being It. Come to the dead small-minded little island on which I live and you’ll find me where the action isn’t. I have never “fit in,” and my true friends (there aren’t many) show me love by not inviting me to their stupid shit. Dinner clubs? Boat parades? Pool parties?
Bosh. Fuck off.
I’m rarely in the right place to be. Beautiful beach day? I’m in a cool bookstore. Nor’easter? I’m walking in the maelstrom. Fourth of July at high tea, New Year’s Eve hiding in a desolate Maine B&B, the Super Bowl blessedly alone in a movie theater with a large popcorn and a box of Raisinets. I shop alone, take my boat out alone, travel alone, and think alone. If I am ever where I am supposed to be, it’s probably a major holiday or a funeral that I couldn’t find a way to get out of.
I hate being It.
When you’re It, your strength resides in your visibility. Your stride. Your confidence. Your voice projection. Your refusal to be deterred from your main objective: finding the others. Like a herding dog, It searches, collects and gathers the group so all can be together once again. It is never an introvert’s goal to find, but to avoid. Never to seek, but to recede. Never to draw out, but leave others where they are.
Invisibility is a super power, and I wear a cape with pride. But eventually we all must have our turn at being It, and it is finally my turn. So come with me on my journey.