Has our time finally arrived? Enter the age of the Metrosexual female. Really, it’s not such a stretch. Metrosexuality is much closer to the socially acceptable female role when it comes to beauty and style.
While the metrosexual male aspires to approximate a straight gay man, the metrosexual woman approaches a realm never before ventured into by a non-drag stiletto: Female Bachelorhood.
Today’s generation of young women are successful, stylish and highly selective about how we spend our money and with whom with spend our time.
As Aretha says, “Sisters are doing it for themselves.” Smart, sexy, powerful, and maybe even a tad bit stubborn, we revel in the trappings of success, independence, and the lifestyle it affords. We make things happen and are swift to remove encumbrances from our lives.
Think Samantha Jones...
Educated, articulate, and ambitious, we work hard, play hard, and refuse to settle for a partner who cannot or will not complement the lifestyle we have constructed for ourselves.
We wear the pants, the skirts, the capris, and when we feel like it, nothing at all. The truth is we don’t need a man; but that doesn’t stop us from wanting one…
We are challenged by powerful forces which can sometimes seem mutually exclusive; the desire for professional success, personal development, and love and companionship.
We love men, and adore shoes… and in the absence of a lovely lad to soothe other urges, our shoe libido may actually border on the perverse.
We are proficient hunters, in pursuit of excellence in all areas. Unfortunately, it is far easier to find the perfect pair of pumps than it is to find decent man who can keep up with us.
If you ask me, there are two types of single women out there. There’s the classic “What’s wrong with me?” crowd, for whom the book He’s Just Not That Into You was written. These are women who search for fault within themselves as the source of romantic misfortune.
And then there’s the Metrosexual Female, who prefers the question, “What’s wrong with him?” But once the query is uttered, decides he’s not worth the brain power required to ponder his deficiencies, and promptly moves on to the next candidate. Dismissive? Perhaps, but we’ve got too much on our plates to concern ourselves with leftovers. Don’t worry, chicks from the WWWM crowd can (after experiencing a steady stream of Toxic Bachelors) shift over to the WWWH camp—and believe me, they never look back.
So, why are so many of us so damn lonely?
At first I thought the problem was a consequence of being in a relatively small pool; not many men, therefore not many suitable men to choose from. It was a comforting excuse until I heard the same complaint from women in man-rich, highly populated centers.
In many ways, today’s woman blossoms twice: first biologically, growing into our bodies and embracing our sexuality and spirit, seeking adventures and making a plan. And then we flourish intellectually and professionally, becoming independent and confident in our power. The female metrosexual merely requires an equally evolved male specimen…
Powerful, but not smug; intelligent, but not cocky; and handsome, but not high-maintenance. All this, rolled into an emotionally-advanced, communicative man… Okay, so it’s a tall order; has the metrosexual woman evolved herself out of the dating species?
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
lit - he's just not that into you
What's the deal behind this bluntly titled book? It mocked me. I cowered. But I finally read it...
For almost six weeks I have carried around the slender, no-nonsense manual to understanding
men.
From Halifax to San Francisco, from work to the coffee shop, from the kitchen to the heap of harshly truthful 'must-reads' beside my bed. Yet with all this mileage, I never got beyond the bluntly accurate title: He's Just Not That Into You.
I could tell you that I was just too busy dating fabulous men who showered me with attention and adoration to get to the business of reading this book. I could tell you that, but that would be staggeringly dishonest. I must admit that I was slightly offended after hearing about the authors' appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show and recalling the shocking episode of Sex and the City where the 'he's just not that into you' bomb was originally dropped. Men Know how to use the phone! (Who knew!?) No - it couldn't be true! This must be a conspiracy against women so that any depraved dating offenses committed by men could be easily explained and cast away with a simple six-word excuse. Surely all men weren't as one-dimensional, shallow and obtuse as this book claimed. I could comprehend the fact that not every man would be interested in dating me, but they must have reasons - don't they?
Indignant, I clung to my hope that the majority of men had complex feelings - or at the very least logical processes - when it came to judging relationships. But all the while, I continued to tote a haunting bundle of pages dressed in a jacket cover that proclaimed otherwise.
A few days ago, I reflected on the history of my own actual dating experiences. In the name of clarity, I momentarily suspended my idealist notions that men and women in fact belong to the same species when it comes to romance. Many times, I had been drawn down a road of despair and confusion, perplexed beyond belief trying to figure out 'why?'
And then it hit me: maybe authors Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo were on to something. Maybe I was wasting energy trying to figure out lost causes. Maybe I should give their simple solution a chance.
Opening the book (and my mind) I ventured into the official 'No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys'. Here I had believed that men I dated in the past suffered from chronically poor dating etiquette, or crippling fear of commitment. Nope. According to the man who takes on the colossal pressure of representing all men by speaking the truth to an audience of scorned women, the simple answer is most likely. Greg says that more often than not, the actual answer to 'why' (the question which agitates so many women) is: 'He's just not that into you.'
In sixteen chapters, Greg and Liz hammer away through denial, misplaced faith, unrequited love, and obstinacy to reveal one simple, yet incredibly liberating truth. Contrary to my prejudices against the book and everything it stood for, the case-study analysis of the most common why-inducing scenarios doesn't attempt to excuse insensitivity on the part of men.
Disappearing acts, not calling, not having sex with you, having sex with someone else... Greg openly admits that men are often thick, sometimes crude and frequently spineless.
On the bright side, he assures us that good guys actually do exist. Even better, he consistently delivers the message that if we free ourselves from the prison of analyzing the 'not into you' men, we just might be receptive to the guys who will treat us with the love and respect we deserve. (It would seem that they aren't an urban legend; apparently they roam freely, mixed in with the riff-raff!)
Besides the practical format, featuring non-scientific polls of men as testimony to what guys do (and do not) do when they are into you, the book is also wickedly funny, as you can't help but laugh at the silly excuses we women come up with to protect our hearts and egos, and the men who bruise them.
Okay, so it's a light, fluffy read, but it is also pretty empowering. This book gives great insight into the 'other half' of the species. I have been converted; its popularity is deserved.
I don't cart the book around with me anymore, but I may refer to it from time to time if I start questioning bad behavior instead of kicking it to the curb where it belongs.
about the book
He's Just Not That Into You
(2003) - By Greg Behrendt - Published by Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group
For almost six weeks I have carried around the slender, no-nonsense manual to understanding
men.
From Halifax to San Francisco, from work to the coffee shop, from the kitchen to the heap of harshly truthful 'must-reads' beside my bed. Yet with all this mileage, I never got beyond the bluntly accurate title: He's Just Not That Into You.
I could tell you that I was just too busy dating fabulous men who showered me with attention and adoration to get to the business of reading this book. I could tell you that, but that would be staggeringly dishonest. I must admit that I was slightly offended after hearing about the authors' appearance on the Oprah Winfrey Show and recalling the shocking episode of Sex and the City where the 'he's just not that into you' bomb was originally dropped. Men Know how to use the phone! (Who knew!?) No - it couldn't be true! This must be a conspiracy against women so that any depraved dating offenses committed by men could be easily explained and cast away with a simple six-word excuse. Surely all men weren't as one-dimensional, shallow and obtuse as this book claimed. I could comprehend the fact that not every man would be interested in dating me, but they must have reasons - don't they?
Indignant, I clung to my hope that the majority of men had complex feelings - or at the very least logical processes - when it came to judging relationships. But all the while, I continued to tote a haunting bundle of pages dressed in a jacket cover that proclaimed otherwise.
A few days ago, I reflected on the history of my own actual dating experiences. In the name of clarity, I momentarily suspended my idealist notions that men and women in fact belong to the same species when it comes to romance. Many times, I had been drawn down a road of despair and confusion, perplexed beyond belief trying to figure out 'why?'
And then it hit me: maybe authors Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo were on to something. Maybe I was wasting energy trying to figure out lost causes. Maybe I should give their simple solution a chance.
Opening the book (and my mind) I ventured into the official 'No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys'. Here I had believed that men I dated in the past suffered from chronically poor dating etiquette, or crippling fear of commitment. Nope. According to the man who takes on the colossal pressure of representing all men by speaking the truth to an audience of scorned women, the simple answer is most likely. Greg says that more often than not, the actual answer to 'why' (the question which agitates so many women) is: 'He's just not that into you.'
In sixteen chapters, Greg and Liz hammer away through denial, misplaced faith, unrequited love, and obstinacy to reveal one simple, yet incredibly liberating truth. Contrary to my prejudices against the book and everything it stood for, the case-study analysis of the most common why-inducing scenarios doesn't attempt to excuse insensitivity on the part of men.
Disappearing acts, not calling, not having sex with you, having sex with someone else... Greg openly admits that men are often thick, sometimes crude and frequently spineless.
On the bright side, he assures us that good guys actually do exist. Even better, he consistently delivers the message that if we free ourselves from the prison of analyzing the 'not into you' men, we just might be receptive to the guys who will treat us with the love and respect we deserve. (It would seem that they aren't an urban legend; apparently they roam freely, mixed in with the riff-raff!)
Besides the practical format, featuring non-scientific polls of men as testimony to what guys do (and do not) do when they are into you, the book is also wickedly funny, as you can't help but laugh at the silly excuses we women come up with to protect our hearts and egos, and the men who bruise them.
Okay, so it's a light, fluffy read, but it is also pretty empowering. This book gives great insight into the 'other half' of the species. I have been converted; its popularity is deserved.
I don't cart the book around with me anymore, but I may refer to it from time to time if I start questioning bad behavior instead of kicking it to the curb where it belongs.
about the book
He's Just Not That Into You
(2003) - By Greg Behrendt - Published by Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group Monday, July 9, 2007
dating on speed.
Ever had ten dates in one evening?
I recently ventured into the deepest corner of shame in the abyss of singlehood: speed dating.
In the hours leading up to the dating assembly line, I experienced persuasive pangs of doubt; why had I resorted to what was sure to be a futile exercise in dating desperation? I envisioned a painful, torturous evening that would act as a grating reminder of the bleakness of the local dating scene. I didn’t want to go. But I had signed up and (at the very least) I’d have fodder for an conversation with the girls.
I approached the evening with absolutely no preparation or expectations. It hadn’t occurred to me that most women attend these events with the moral support and company of girlfriends. I braved the potential whiplash of speed dating solo.
Upon arrival, I was informed that I was the first lucky lady to arrive, then handed a clip-on name tag and promptly sequestered into a dimly lit ‘holding room.’ Artificial topiary trees and tea lights conspired to create a romantic ambience, while animated Latin music screeched across over-head sound system.
After a few minutes of solitude spent fiddling with my name tag (which refused to remain right-side-up on my top) women began arriving in groups of twos and threes, and a waitress came to liquor us up.
We were each handed a small card with numbered lines. The evening’s perky female facilitator explained that the women would remain seated at their tables while the men would rotate around the circuit in five-minute intervals. We were instructed to write each date’s name on the card provided, and after each micro-date if we would like to have another (more conventional) date, we should indicate this on the card next to the man’s name. Men would do the same, and only double-matched would be given each other’s contact information.
Well, at least I could stay put. I squirmed in my chair to position myself so that I faced the door (good feng shui), and leaned away from the burning glare of the pot-light overhead. As I wriggled, a few unexpected butterflies fluttered around in my tummy.
Maybe Mr. Right could be found at speed dating…You can’t exactly pretend that you’re not looking for love when you plop yourself in the middle of a speed-dating circuit.
And so my first date entered the room - the butterflies fled and my stomach turned.
Sit across or beside? The roundish, squat balding man with a pronounced overbite fumbled with the chair opposite me, and then opted to sit next to me.
Have you ever noticed that affectionate actions performed by a man you are not even remotely attracted to are considered repulsive, whereas a hottie snuggling up to you in the exact same way would send you swooning?
I attempted not to cower visibly and began counting backwards from 300.
A flurry of interview questions bombarded my ears: “Have you ever done this before? What do you do? Do you like pets?” Oooh, no… Determined to be friendly, I rattled off answers to the battery of queries.
Finally, my angel of mercy (the evening’s facilitator) entered the room, signaling the men to move along to the next date.
Enter Embittered Reporter: A not-so-undercover journalist whipped out a tattered notepad and explained that this was his latest assignment: to infiltrate a speed-dating event. Licking the end of his ballpoint pen, he asked me if I minded if my name appeared in his article? Think again, buddy.
Enter Captain Morgan (curly moustache & all): He proceeded to explain that his job consisted of constructing the metal innards for clay figurines on a local children’s television show. I’m not sure what else he had to say, as I was overcome by the disbelief provoked by the twizzled facial hair above his prattling mouth.
Enter Embarrassingly Shy Clammy-Palmed Sloucher: Nothing to say; five minutes of supreme awkwardness.
Enter Video Game Aficionado: “Actually, I really don’t do anything except play video games.”
Halfway through the circuit and not one date of interest. Conceding to the harsh reality that there would be no sparks for me that particular evening, I found myself coaching this ‘date’, teasing out interesting facts from seemingly uneventful life.
“Come on,” I prodded, “ you’ve got to do something besides play video games. Can you cook? Women love men who can cook.” It’s not a good sign when I’m giving the guy tips on how to pick up the next girl in line. I must admit that my five minutes teaching ‘Talking to Live, Breathing Women 101’ was quite refreshing… dare I say even fun!?
Finally, the much-needed break; it was supposed to be a mingling opportunity, but the ladies escaped to the restroom, so as to avoid further contact with the dates from hell.
“Why don’t we all exchange numbers and ditch these guys?” A fellow speed dater exclaimed, bracing herself against the bathroom vanity.
I contemplated heading home to catch the last half-hour of The Apprentice, but resolved to tough it out, as such rudeness was bad karma. Back to the dating game… literally. The circus of very undesirable dates continued.
Despite the fact that all of the candidates failed to make my heart skip a beat, I managed to have an entertaining evening, meeting some interesting individuals who at least had enough courage and faith to step out on a limb for love.
I can’t recommend speed dating based on the results of my experience, but I can’t knock it completely either, as much of it seems to be the luck of the draw… but what else is new? You’ve got nothing to lose but your singlehood… and twenty bucks.
I recently ventured into the deepest corner of shame in the abyss of singlehood: speed dating.
In the hours leading up to the dating assembly line, I experienced persuasive pangs of doubt; why had I resorted to what was sure to be a futile exercise in dating desperation? I envisioned a painful, torturous evening that would act as a grating reminder of the bleakness of the local dating scene. I didn’t want to go. But I had signed up and (at the very least) I’d have fodder for an conversation with the girls.
I approached the evening with absolutely no preparation or expectations. It hadn’t occurred to me that most women attend these events with the moral support and company of girlfriends. I braved the potential whiplash of speed dating solo.
Upon arrival, I was informed that I was the first lucky lady to arrive, then handed a clip-on name tag and promptly sequestered into a dimly lit ‘holding room.’ Artificial topiary trees and tea lights conspired to create a romantic ambience, while animated Latin music screeched across over-head sound system.
After a few minutes of solitude spent fiddling with my name tag (which refused to remain right-side-up on my top) women began arriving in groups of twos and threes, and a waitress came to liquor us up.
We were each handed a small card with numbered lines. The evening’s perky female facilitator explained that the women would remain seated at their tables while the men would rotate around the circuit in five-minute intervals. We were instructed to write each date’s name on the card provided, and after each micro-date if we would like to have another (more conventional) date, we should indicate this on the card next to the man’s name. Men would do the same, and only double-matched would be given each other’s contact information.
Well, at least I could stay put. I squirmed in my chair to position myself so that I faced the door (good feng shui), and leaned away from the burning glare of the pot-light overhead. As I wriggled, a few unexpected butterflies fluttered around in my tummy.
Maybe Mr. Right could be found at speed dating…You can’t exactly pretend that you’re not looking for love when you plop yourself in the middle of a speed-dating circuit.
And so my first date entered the room - the butterflies fled and my stomach turned.
Sit across or beside? The roundish, squat balding man with a pronounced overbite fumbled with the chair opposite me, and then opted to sit next to me.
Have you ever noticed that affectionate actions performed by a man you are not even remotely attracted to are considered repulsive, whereas a hottie snuggling up to you in the exact same way would send you swooning?
I attempted not to cower visibly and began counting backwards from 300.
A flurry of interview questions bombarded my ears: “Have you ever done this before? What do you do? Do you like pets?” Oooh, no… Determined to be friendly, I rattled off answers to the battery of queries.
Finally, my angel of mercy (the evening’s facilitator) entered the room, signaling the men to move along to the next date.
Enter Embittered Reporter: A not-so-undercover journalist whipped out a tattered notepad and explained that this was his latest assignment: to infiltrate a speed-dating event. Licking the end of his ballpoint pen, he asked me if I minded if my name appeared in his article? Think again, buddy.
Enter Captain Morgan (curly moustache & all): He proceeded to explain that his job consisted of constructing the metal innards for clay figurines on a local children’s television show. I’m not sure what else he had to say, as I was overcome by the disbelief provoked by the twizzled facial hair above his prattling mouth.
Enter Embarrassingly Shy Clammy-Palmed Sloucher: Nothing to say; five minutes of supreme awkwardness.
Enter Video Game Aficionado: “Actually, I really don’t do anything except play video games.”
Halfway through the circuit and not one date of interest. Conceding to the harsh reality that there would be no sparks for me that particular evening, I found myself coaching this ‘date’, teasing out interesting facts from seemingly uneventful life.
“Come on,” I prodded, “ you’ve got to do something besides play video games. Can you cook? Women love men who can cook.” It’s not a good sign when I’m giving the guy tips on how to pick up the next girl in line. I must admit that my five minutes teaching ‘Talking to Live, Breathing Women 101’ was quite refreshing… dare I say even fun!?
Finally, the much-needed break; it was supposed to be a mingling opportunity, but the ladies escaped to the restroom, so as to avoid further contact with the dates from hell.
“Why don’t we all exchange numbers and ditch these guys?” A fellow speed dater exclaimed, bracing herself against the bathroom vanity.
I contemplated heading home to catch the last half-hour of The Apprentice, but resolved to tough it out, as such rudeness was bad karma. Back to the dating game… literally. The circus of very undesirable dates continued.
Despite the fact that all of the candidates failed to make my heart skip a beat, I managed to have an entertaining evening, meeting some interesting individuals who at least had enough courage and faith to step out on a limb for love.
I can’t recommend speed dating based on the results of my experience, but I can’t knock it completely either, as much of it seems to be the luck of the draw… but what else is new? You’ve got nothing to lose but your singlehood… and twenty bucks.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
lit - how to meet cute boys.
Kizis has got it all down: our neuroses, anxieties, and (most importantly) that annoying flicker of hope that keeps us looped in the madness that is the world of dating. She develops real characters who leap off the page and exclaim their uniqueness with real voices.Twenty-seven year-old Benjamina Franklin is the dating authority for Filly, L.A.'s lady mag, even though her own personal life is in an all too familiar place somewhere between "in shambles" and "hell". Ben is increasingly successful at being a failure in love - but hey, at least she is able to make a living from the debacle otherwise known as her (very public) personal life! To sweeten the pot (and add an extra kick of reality) while Ben's romantic disasters are the meat of public entertainment, her baby sister announces she's tying the knot and her single mother has men falling all over her. And then there's Max. Is he merely a return trip to spinsterhood or a one-way ticket to true love?
Due to uncontrollable fits of laughter, I had to put the book down after reading the first page of chapter and feature titles, including:
- "Is He or Isn't He? Maybe he's your boyfriend. Maybe not."
- Five Dates from Hell: Men Who Are Two-Timing, Cheap, and Utterly Revolting - What's Not To Love" (is there any other kind?)
- And of course, "The Other Four-Letter Word: What you should never say out loud."
You'll adore Ben's forte for extreme over-analysis, and maybe even improve your own dating nightmare while you laugh out-loud reading her insanely funny, provocative (and sometimes wise) tips, articles and quizzes straight from the pages of the fictional Filly.
Definitely read it, (especially if you're out there in the dating battle-field) but be prepared for numerous pauses filled with wild laughter. Fellow single ladies, if you take nothing else from this book, take these four words: Full life his ass.
How To Meet Cute Boys
(2003) - By Deanna Kizis - Published by Warner Books
Friday, July 6, 2007
are you a quirkyalone?
Unbeknownst to me, I am "very quirkyalone", at least according to Sasha Cagen, the proud singleton who coined the name, gave voice to the movement, and (literally) wrote the book on the subject: "Quirkyalone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics".
What is a quirkyalone, you ask? Both a noun and an adjective, a quirkyalone is "a person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than dating for the sake of being in a couple. With unique traits and an optimistic spirit; a sensibility that transcends relationship status."
I'll assume by my "very quirkyalone" score of 91 on the QA Quiz that even the most orthodox quirkyalones succumb to occasional lapses into pessimism and spectacular outbursts or romantic melancholy.
I was quite surprised to discover that I am in fact the poster girl for quirkyalone-ness. At first blush, being quirkyalone seemed rather swish to me; as unattainable as being part of the "in" crowd in high school. Truth is, those cool kids in high school probably those least likely to be quirkyalones, given their propensity to exchange boyfriends as unceremoniously as pots of lip balm.
Okay, so describing my personal life as "desiccated" doesn't exactly scream of "happy to be alone until I find someone suitable", but as far as I can tell that definition doesn't say anything about not bitching about the "alone" part of your quirkiness from time to time. And when they say "enjoy" does that mean all the time?
While I have dated my share of Mr. Wrongs, I must admit that – despite my gloomy assessment of the receptiveness of male specimens in the dating field – I must concede that if I really wanted to I could be dating someone I considered totally and utterly undesirable on all accounts. But who wants that? Quirkyalones certainly don't want that. Why, you ask? Because quirkyalones don't settle.
Cagen estimates that the rare breed makes up only 5 percent of the population and believes that the quirkyalones have always existed; it's only now in the afterglow of Ally McBeal and Sex and the City that the status has adopted its rightful, dignified air. In her recent book "To-Do List" Cager eloquently classified her caste:
In a world where proms and marriage define the social order, we are, by force of our personalities and inner strength, rebels.
For the quirkyalone, there is no patience for dating just for the sake of not being alone. We want a miracle. Out of millions, we have to find the one who will understand.
Do non-quirkyalones do really engage in empty relationship after empty relationship for the sake of being in a couple? That's definitely not me. Maybe I am quirkyalone.
For ages, relatives and friends have encouraged me to "date casually", just for a fun time, claiming it will do me good. I've tried to oblige, and found it incredibly taxing. The truth is, I'm far too romantic for that. To me, that's always seemed like a colossal waste of time, energy, and outfits.
Card-carrying quirkyalones simply opt for lonely alone rather than lonely together. Now, that doesn't make quirkyalones spinsters or asexual, destined for the nunnery. No, as trying as our singlehood may be, holding to that which is difficult, we seek momentous meetings and significant others.
Maybe quirkyalone is just fancy for picky.
What is a quirkyalone, you ask? Both a noun and an adjective, a quirkyalone is "a person who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than dating for the sake of being in a couple. With unique traits and an optimistic spirit; a sensibility that transcends relationship status."
I'll assume by my "very quirkyalone" score of 91 on the QA Quiz that even the most orthodox quirkyalones succumb to occasional lapses into pessimism and spectacular outbursts or romantic melancholy.
I was quite surprised to discover that I am in fact the poster girl for quirkyalone-ness. At first blush, being quirkyalone seemed rather swish to me; as unattainable as being part of the "in" crowd in high school. Truth is, those cool kids in high school probably those least likely to be quirkyalones, given their propensity to exchange boyfriends as unceremoniously as pots of lip balm.
Okay, so describing my personal life as "desiccated" doesn't exactly scream of "happy to be alone until I find someone suitable", but as far as I can tell that definition doesn't say anything about not bitching about the "alone" part of your quirkiness from time to time. And when they say "enjoy" does that mean all the time?
While I have dated my share of Mr. Wrongs, I must admit that – despite my gloomy assessment of the receptiveness of male specimens in the dating field – I must concede that if I really wanted to I could be dating someone I considered totally and utterly undesirable on all accounts. But who wants that? Quirkyalones certainly don't want that. Why, you ask? Because quirkyalones don't settle.
Cagen estimates that the rare breed makes up only 5 percent of the population and believes that the quirkyalones have always existed; it's only now in the afterglow of Ally McBeal and Sex and the City that the status has adopted its rightful, dignified air. In her recent book "To-Do List" Cager eloquently classified her caste:
In a world where proms and marriage define the social order, we are, by force of our personalities and inner strength, rebels.
For the quirkyalone, there is no patience for dating just for the sake of not being alone. We want a miracle. Out of millions, we have to find the one who will understand.
Do non-quirkyalones do really engage in empty relationship after empty relationship for the sake of being in a couple? That's definitely not me. Maybe I am quirkyalone.
For ages, relatives and friends have encouraged me to "date casually", just for a fun time, claiming it will do me good. I've tried to oblige, and found it incredibly taxing. The truth is, I'm far too romantic for that. To me, that's always seemed like a colossal waste of time, energy, and outfits.
Card-carrying quirkyalones simply opt for lonely alone rather than lonely together. Now, that doesn't make quirkyalones spinsters or asexual, destined for the nunnery. No, as trying as our singlehood may be, holding to that which is difficult, we seek momentous meetings and significant others.
Maybe quirkyalone is just fancy for picky.
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