Nearly Thirty

Sometimes you lay on the couch with your cat on your stomach on a Saturday night, and when he presses his nose against your mouth, you think, "This is the closest I've come to kissing someone in two months."  Because sometimes life is like that.

In fact, that very thing happened last Saturday.  So I guess, sometimes life is that.

Let me preface this story by saying that I have been exceptionally lucky over the course of my life in having had very few exceedingly bad dates.  There was that one time my aunt set me up with a lawyer who spent the entire date telling me all the things he was bad at.  There was that other time I got set up with a guy in the Air Force who was shorter than me and twice as wide and three times as heavy of a drinker and four times just not someone I would ever date ever.  Other than that, they've been bland, at worst.

Unfortunately, dinner Saturday night made the list of notably bad dates.  Fortunately, I can laugh about it.  Well, now I can.

About a month ago, I joined OkCupid in an attempt to force myself back into the dating scene (because God knows I don't meet eligible bachelors at my work in an elementary school, in my church choir filled with old, married, and/or gay men, or in my volleyball group where every man is either like my brother or like my dad).

It wasn't the first time I'd joined the site.  Years ago, I was on it for a total of 2 hours before three very questionable men had contacted me, and I was too freaked out to keep my picture up on the internet.  This time around, I hoped, would be different.  At the very least, I thought, I'll get some stories out of it.  (I was right about this, by the way.  You'll see.)

So, I created a profile for myself and let the algorithms do their work.  During my three weeks on the site, I received a total of probably 75 messages.  Heck, the website even told me I was "hot" because so many men had viewed my profile.  We're upgrading you to the more attractive pool of men, they said.  Great, I thought.  Maybe I'll finally find someone I'm attracted to.  The men never changed.

Most of the messages I got said things like "hi" and "hey there."  So many of them included a pet name (babe, honey, sweetheart, sexy) that I eventually included a note in my profile that told men not to contact me if they couldn't do it without including one of these inappropriately affectionate monikers.  I got noticeably less messages after that.  Unsurprisingly.

I tried to respond to all of the messages I received because I felt bad ignoring people who'd put themselves out there.  Eventually, though, the sheer quantity overtook me, and I was tired of being polite to men with whom I had nothing in common.  The few messages I did respond to usually devolved into long bouts of unimpressive fact sharing, but a few threw me for a loop.  There was the guy that told me he would meet all my needs (which the feminist in me hated him for) and then said some very dirty things (which the feminist in me blocked him for).  There was the twenty year old, who told me that age was just a number ("It's not like you're 40 or 50," he typed from his parents' house in Covington).  He couldn't accept that looking like a twelve year old and typing "lol" at the end of every sentence was a deal breaker.  There was the guy that I'd actually seen at a breakfast place uptown earlier that day who messaged me the words "very pretty," as though complimenting me on my looks with an incomplete sentence would somehow elicit a desirable response.  Worst of all, there was the guy who called me stupid and told me I was single because I called him out on soliciting sex.  (That shit got ugly fast.)

I'm telling you, if you want to lose hope in humanity, join OkCupid in New Orleans.

After multiple weeks on the site, though, I finally thought I'd found a prospect and agreed to meet  him for dinner.  He was 28, a transplant, an accountant, and a rock climber.  In fact, he'd spent Thanksgiving weekend climbing cliff faces near Vegas.  We knew very little about each other, and I hadn't seen a clear picture of his face, but I was okay with that.  I'm not one for google stalking.  I prefer face to face getting-to-know-you kind of stuff, anyway, and I was willing to put aside my shallow tendencies and give him a chance.

I usually suggest getting drinks on a first date (easier to duck out if it goes south), but he asked me to dinner, so I put caution to the wind and agreed.  As I walked into that restaurant full of hope, though, and then saw the one not-so-attractive guy alone at a table waiting for me, I immediately wished I had insisted on drinks instead.  Or that I was back home with the cat.  Because my cat doesn't have a completely hairless chest.  My cat doesn't think it's cool to wear an ugly paisley shirt with several buttons open at the top and the sleeves rolled up.  My cat doesn't ask me what the craziest thing I've ever done is.

"I don't know.  I don't really do that many crazy things.  I mean, I'm just not really a crazy kind of person."

"No?"

"No, I mean, I'm afraid of heights, and I went on the Eiffel Tower once.  That was pretty crazy to me.  One time I spent twelve hours roaming Paris with two twenty-something men I had just met along the Seine that afternoon.  It was unexpected, to say the least...  Umm... I used to do improv?"

"Improv is pretty cool.  I'd be scared to do it."

"What's the craziest thing you've ever done?"

He stopped to make a scene of thinking about it.  "Okay, how about this one?" (Terrible actor, this guy.  Guarantee he recounts this on every first date.)  "Once, my friends and I stayed out on the beach all night and did mushrooms."

"What beach?"

"Pensacola.  You ever done mushrooms?"

"No, I've never done any drugs.  Not my thing."

"I've done every kind of drug.  I've just never found one I liked."



Wait.

It gets better.



"So, what brought you down to New Orleans?"

"Work.  I'm an accountant for a petrochemical company down here."

"Oh, that's cool.  My sister's an accountant."

"Yeah, I'm trying to decide if I want to go back to school for my CPA.  My company got bought out, and I'm going to get laid off soon."

"Oh man, that sucks."

"Yeah.  I'm just staying on during the transition.  I don't know, Vegas was nice.  Maybe I'll go there."

"Cool.  You live in the city now?"

"Yeah.  My lease ended, though.  So I've been staying on people's couches for the last couple of months.  I don't really have access to a kitchen, but that just means I get to eat out at great New Orleans restaurants all the time."


In other words, if you missed it, I was on a date with a homeless, soon-to-be unemployed drug user.


He offered to pay for my meal (not necessary), said he was bummed when I announced that I was calling it a night (at 8:45pm after several long and awkward pauses), and then offered to walk me to my car twice (that's not necessary, and definitely not).

When I got home, I texted a friend of mine who's also single and has had her fair share of bad dates.  She died laughing--because what else can you do?--and then told me about the random guy outside Walmart who honked at her from his cheap convertible that day and asked for a date.  It looks like we're both doomed to a life of cuddling pets and bitterly unfollowing people on Facebook who post too many couple selfies (you know who you are).

It's gotten to the point where I almost took home a book this week from the library called Date-onomics: How Dating Became a Lopsided Numbers Game.  Kirkus Reviews said it was "informative and might be useful to single readers," but I eventually decided not to check it out because (a) I was embarrassed and (b) I didn't think I'd feel better knowing there's scientific proof that dating is nearly impossible.  So I checked out two young adult books instead.  Nothing like escaping into the life of a teenager to make you feel better about yourself.

I went home that night from the date and disabled OkCupid as soon as I got inside.  I'll admit, things felt pretty grim.  I was turning 30 in less than two weeks, and my best prospect at that moment was a 28 year old guy who had no home, a history of drug use, a looming layoff, and a desire to move to Las Vegas.  I laid on my unmade bed and cried along with a few episodes of a Netflix show where a young woman learns she has cancer before falling asleep in my clothes: sad for my dating life, sad for this fictional woman.

My alarm went off at 8:30 the next morning, and I woke up, still sad.  I putzed around the house.  I went to church without a smile, barely caring.  I sat at Panera with a half a sandwich and warm sweet tea and wracked my brain (and the internet) for a birthday party idea that would make it all better.

Every year, I plan something big and fun where all the different people in my life come together to celebrate me.  It is the one day of the year that I allow myself to be vocally self-centered, and the people in my life are kind enough to humor me.

Except this year isn't just any birthday.  It's a decennial birthday.  And not just any decennial birthday.  The one decennial birthday that American society has turned into a social/reproductive death sentence...for women, anyway.  I wanted this year's celebration to be the biggest of them all.  I wanted to remember it. I wanted it to make me feel alive.  I scoured pinterest for ideas.  I combed through event calendars.  I googled everything I could think of that might bring me to my perfect party.  Nothing stuck, though.  My thirtieth birthday--like my sad life as a 30-year-old--was going to suck.  For the first time since I'd been old enough to plan my own parties, I was going to have an average-to-mediocre birthday.  As so many women in their thirties are told to do, I was going to settle.

But then I had an idea.  A great, exciting, inspiring idea.  An idea that would get people I care about all over the world to participate in my birthday.  An idea that would force me to be a little goofy and maybe push my social boundaries.  An idea that would take me to various places in the city and motivate me to meet new people.  And I was excited.  Ecstatic.  This photo social media scavenger hunt was going to be epic.  Sadness, be gone!

Hunkered down in my Panera booth racing against my laptop's dying battery, I could feel the swell rising within me.  I was signing up for Instagram!  I wasn't getting old.  I was getting more fun!  This was going to be the birthday to top all birthdays!  Who cares if I can't see details in the distance anymore, or that my hearing is worse, or that I've got bags under my eyes all the time?  I'm alive!  I am an almost-thirty-year-old woman...Hear me roar!

Tonight, I went to a church holiday party alone, and then left early and went to a comedy show, also alone.  I was hesitant about going it solo, but I thought, Hey, maybe I'll finally meet some new people at church and Hey, I can just play on my phone like a social outcast until the show starts.  You don't need someone to talk to during a comedy show anyway.

The thing is, I was right, and I was really glad that I chose to go to both.  I met several new people at the church party, and most of the choir showed up, so I wasn't really that alone anyway.  At the comedy show, I forced myself not to spend all my time on my phone, but I also forced myself to take the opportunity to tackle a few of my scavenger hunt items.  I snuck a selfie in the bathroom.  I ran a few blocks to the Roosevelt to snap a picture during intermission.  Best of all, I got to see my talented friend CJ Hunt kill it on stage, and I got to laugh harder than I have in a long time.

As I ran down Canal Street in my little black dress and heels to find that Roosevelt picture, I thought to myself, "Rebekah, you're doing alright on your own.  Maybe it's not so bad being single at thirty after all."

And as I walked back to my car after the show with a smile on my face that wouldn't fade, I thought to myself, Hey, that guy in front of me is bald.  I wonder if it would be super weird to ask him for a selfie for my scavenger hunt.

I didn't muster up the courage to ask, but I did talk to him in the elevator.  Baby steps.


[Side note: This is not a cry for help.  Please do not feel the need to message me on Facebook with encouraging words about how the right guy will show up for me when I least expect it.  Just enjoy the humor in this self-deprecation.  I know I do.]

30th Birthday Scavenger Hunt

In less than two weeks, I’m turning 30, and as I ponder my segue into the fourth decade of my life, what strikes me most is how grateful I am for the experiences and people in my life thus far.  In that vein, I’d like to celebrate my thirtieth birthday this year with as many people and experiences as I can.  So, I’m creating a photo scavenger hunt, and I hope you'll join in.  It starts today and ends Jan 1st at midnight.

You don’t need to be in New Orleans (or even the US) to do it, and you don’t need to go out of your way to tackle a challenge--some of these things you may have already planned on doing.  All you need is this list, a phone, and the internet.  There are 30 challenges on the list, but don’t plan on doing all of them.  Since it's my birthday, I'm going to try to, and I would love your help in making some of these happen (for example, do you have a Christmas party and a guest invite? If so, hit me up). If you can do at least one and post it, awesome.  If you can’t, no worries.  You do you.

If you want to let others in on the fun, go for it.  The more, the merrier (merry birthday to me!).  Share this on your Facebook wall or instagram or email it to them or tell them about it while you're double-fisting cookies at the company party.

Post your photo to Facebook or Instagram (@rebekaholinde) with the tag #rebekahs30, the number, and challenge from the list that you’ve done.

Consider your participation your birthday gift to me.  You'll be thinking about me, and I'll be thinking about you. Love is all I need.

The Hunt

Each of these counts as one point.  Try one.  I bet we can get to 300 pts by the end of the month.

1. Take a picture at a Christmas party you were invited to
2. Take a picture at a Christmas party where you don’t know the host
3. Take a picture with the Loch Ness monster at Christmas in the Oaks
4. Visit the decorated Roosevelt Hotel hallway and take a picture
5. Take a picture with a horse
6. Take a picture with a champagne-based beverage
7. Take a picture with a bartender you don’t know (of the opposite gender)
8. Take a picture in a sparkly/sequined dress (or pants or shirt or jacket)
9. Take a picture of a sunset or sunrise
10. Buy a stranger a drink or get him/her to buy you a drink. Take a picture of/with the drink.
11. Take a picture of yourself or someone else drinking egg nog
12. Take a selfie in a public bathroom mirror
13. Take a picture of yourself wearing something red
14. Take a picture of yourself double-fisting cookies
15. Pet a stranger’s dog and take a picture
16. Take a picture with someone who’s bald (voluntarily or involuntarily)
17. Take a picture with someone who has a chain wallet
18. Go to a show.  Take a picture with one of the musicians/actors/comedians/dancers.
19. Do a handstand or a cartwheel.  Have someone else take a picture.
20. Plank in at least three different places.  Have someone else take the picture.
21. Take a picture with a shot of fireball
22. Write a message for the server on a receipt.  Take a picture.  (double points if you add your phone number)
23. Take a picture with a napkin from at least two different bars
24. Take a picture with a designated driver
25. Take a picture with someone in a uniform
26. Take a picture with an elf
27. Take a picture with a guy with a long beard (real or fake)
28. Take a picture with someone under 1 or over 80
29. Take a picture of someone dancing
30. Take a picture of a stranger who has a birthday in December (Jesus look-alikes count)