Dating 14-year-olds

Normally I am a big advocate of the phrase, “age is just a number,” but lately I have been wondering if it is just another one of those lines we women tell ourselves so we can date the Abercrombie model. For a while now, a few of my girlfriends and I have been dating guys of all ages, including those who are younger than us – dun, dun, dunnn. So I can boldly state, with research and analysis, that if you’re younger than me, you will probably make me want to shove you down a flight of stairs. Harsh? Probably. But facts are facts, baby.

Here’s the handy-dandy scale I have come up with:

Think I am joshing you? Try again. This has been tried and true for a long time now. It’s sad, I’m aware, but it’s true. Keep in mind, there are the guys that have all the maturity of a grown adult – but those men, I use that word sparingly, are the exception, not the rule.

So do yourself a favour boys, grow up. Graduate and become men! We women will appreciate it, and it will also save us from dating silver-haired foxes. Wait, that sounds dreamy. On second thought, scratch this whole post. We’re dating up.

I think I missed that day

I’ve always been a firm believer that there was a day, probably in grade 9 health class, where boys were taught the art of foreplay. What to do, where to do it, and why that particular move worked. I truthfully believe there were boys who were sick that day or skipped class and therefore have no idea what they are doing – at all. I now believe there is a similar class for women, except it doesn’t involve foreplay, it involves how to respond to cat-calling and hollering in the summer months. Ladies, ladies, ladies – giving a friendly wave to a construction worker because he thinks your ass is “sooo fine” in that “sexy red number” isn’t smart, it’s setting a precedent. And that my friends, is why I have to roll my eyes on a daily basis.

Now before I get comments on how cocky I am being, I’m not. Here’s how it goes, any woman wearing a dress in the summer will get whistles or “yo baby’s”. It’s as much a fact as Ali having horrendous roots on the Bachelorette. That’s how it goes. Now that we have that clear, we can move along.

I must have missed the class where we were all told it was ok to flirt back with these guys. One brilliant woman decided one day that this was appropriate male behaviour, let’s indulge! Whoaa hoo! Ugh, what?! No. Noooo! Now we have teeny-boppers wearing their underwear outdoors and everyone’s hooting and hollering and waving back. I miss the days of death stares when a man honked or revved his engine. Because really sir, can you please stop so I can get in and have your babies.

Whoever this woman is, and wherever she came from (she must be European) I want to have a chat with her. I now spend my lunches shuddering with my friend and co-worker Laura. And knowing me, one day I am going to turn around and let it all out on some unsuspecting guy with a hard hat on, yo.

You’re invited to…

Without even finishing the monogrammed invitation with details and RSVP card, I have already thought – dress and shoe shopping.

I am not sure what it is as women that an invitation automatically equals shopping. It’s instinctive, it is what we know. We may not understand the correlation between Sunday and chicken wings (I do, but I am an exception, not the rule) and we may not know why hockey equals bromance - but invitations and shopping, that we know. Why don’t men know that too?

I can admit I am a bit of a shopaholic. I recently had to defend this in a conversation I would like to entitle “want vs. need”. I was asked if I needed a recent purchase to which I got my Plato on and delivered this award winning philisophical speech…

“I need to be clothed. I cannot walk around naked in the streets, it is illegal and I highly doubt the majority of the population would be too impressed. It is not my fault that I want to look adorable while fulfilling that need. And don’t you want me to be happy? I am happiest when fulfilling voids of need in my life. Therefore, the dress stays.”

To which I got an, “Okay…”

Now my need for two dresses from BCBG on Bloor is heavily outweighed by the fact that I wanted them, wanted them badly. I treat them like newborn children and practically decapitated a man for bumping into my garment bag on the street. At the end of the day, it is what subs in to nurture our motherly instincts in our mid-twenties, caring for dresses and shoes. Now what man wouldn’t want us, as women, to practice our ‘take care of your future NFLer’ ways?

Invitation = shopping = better future woman for you to settle down with. Now that is an equation most men need to wrap their head around.

Single in the City

Single is sexy. Single is empowering. Single is strength, independence, Pussycat Doll dancin’, I don’t need a man singin’.

Single is also crazy.

Oddly enough that crazy is not due to most single women being insane, although I do know of a few horror stories that would have me retract that statement. However, most of the time, behind every crazy woman, is a man who made her that way.

Living the single life isn’t like beach life… the living ain’t easy. Sure you have the ability to play coy and flash a smile across the bar without a care in the world. Or better yet, ignore calls simply because you don’t have to answer to nobody, amen sista! But there are also the countless times that a single woman gets the knit-together-eyebrows look that states through facial expression – huh?! – and that doesn’t scream sexy.

I realized quickly that I make this face often due to the need for potential botox in my twenty-somethings. The look of complete confusion stems from my inability to form actual sentences after being steamrolled over by another “doesn’t have all his ducks in a row” man.

The bipolar boy, you know who you are – gentleman one minute, cocky bastard the next.

The goggles guy – whether intoxicated or sleep-deprived, he looked a lot better when you agreed to write your phone number on a cocktail napkin.

The miscommunication man, because he simply must have made a mistake in not communicating that he had a live-in girlfriend.

The complimentary chum, as I apparently could date anyone, because I am a multitude of things ranging from gorgeous to brilliant – but alas, cannot date him.

And we cannot forget;

The friendly fella, because who doesn’t want a new best bud.

These are all men who exist, and roam wild along our city streets confusing completely put together women. Oddly enough, they all sound like acts from an old traveling circus where normal men pay admission to laugh and point fingers. This concept could work, and would save me from potentially not being able to move anything above my eyebrows (tragic, as “Leah Miller face” frightens me).

Single is sexy dammit, stamped it, locked it, no erasies.