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Age 12: Leo is such a heartthrob!
Age  26: Leo was so good in The Departed
12: Jack is so adventurous and romantic!
26: Jack should really get a job.
12: What does Rose mean when she says that woman is “in a delicate condition?”
26: Oh.
12: Cal is a jerk!
26: Cal is a typical member of the 1%.
12: Jack is so in love with Rose!
26: Jack has got some serious game.
12: OMG! They showed Kate Winslet’s boobs!
26: Kate Winslet really does have an amazing set of boobs.
12: Rose and Jack are so in love!
26: Rose and Jack have only known each other for 24 HOURS!
12: Cal’s footman is so mean!
26: Cal’s footman is a certified psychopath. They should make an entire movie about him.
12: Jack would never have stolen the necklace, Rose. You have to believe him!
26: I wouldn’t have trusted him either, Rose. BECAUSE YOU’VE ONLY KNOWN HIM 24 HOURS!
12: Wow! They steamed up that car! How romantic!
26: The physics of that just doesn’t make any sense.
12: Watching this ship sink is so scary!
26: Watching this ship sink in 3D is f***ing terrifying.
12: It’s so sad when Jack dies! I’m crying my eyes out!
26: It’s so sad when the old couple, and the mother with her children, and the captain, and Mr. Andrews die. I’m crying my eyes out!
12: “My Heart Will Go On” is my FAVORITE song!
26: “My Heart Will Go On” is a great song to sing at karaoke.
12: Why didn’t get Jack get on the board? There was so much room!
26: Why didn’t get Jack get on the board? There was so much room!
 12: If only Jack had lived! He and Rose could have gotten married!
26: If Jack had lived, he would have gotten fed up with Rose’s helplessness in about six months.
12: Old Rose threw the necklace into the water so it could be with Jack!
26: Old Rose just threw her granddaughter’s inheritance into the ocean for no reason.
12: This is SUCH a good movie!
26: This is SUCH a good movie!
This Christmas holiday, my mother and I visited some cousins who live near her in upstate New York. As we are apt to do when visiting this particular branch of extended family, we ended up gathered around the kitchen table, chatting amiably and gorging on various holiday desserts. At one point, the conversation turned to the Royal Wedding. My mother and I had decided to wear used gift bows on our heads as a sort of holiday fascinator (because, why not?), and she reminded everyone of the particularly creative headgear worn by Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie at Will and Kate’s nuptial ceremony last Spring.
“Remember those hideous things those two princesses wore,” she exclaimed. “Maybe, when Brooke gets married, I’ll wear something like that to her wedding.”
Now, I am currently single with absolutely no prospects to get married anytime soon. And, knowing that references to current events generally fade from the public consciousness with the passing of time (hence why I expect we’ll see very few Amanda Knox costumes next Halloween), I assume that by the time I walk down the aisle, this joke will have lost its relevance.
“Mom,” I said. “I think by the time I get married, people will have forgotten that reference.”
I’m not sure what reaction I expected to this observation, but it certainly wasn’t a chorus of “Oh, sweetie, you have plenty of time. Don’t rush into anything.” But this is what I got from my mom and her cousins.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” I protested. “I just mean that I probably won’t get married for at least a few more years!”
But it continued: “You’re only 26. You don’t need to worry.”
Worry? Who was worried? The only thing I was worried about was my mom potentially making a fool of herself at my wedding one day in the not-to-near-future. Since when does stating a fact about one’s relationship status constitute a cry for help?
But my cousins aren’t the only ones who seem concerned about my apparent concern. Just a few days before the above incident, I called my grandfather to thank him for his Christmas gift. “So, you married yet?” he asked with a chuckle.
My grandfather has posed this question to me since I was in middle school. Back then, he laughed it off, acknowledging the absurdity of such a comment. But some time after I graduated college, he started following up with “Oh well, you’ve got time,” occasionally offering his unsolicited opinion about what type of man would make me a suitable husband.
By now I’m used to these comments, and I certainly prefer my family to tell me I’m still young and shouldn’t feel pressure to get married–right now–rather than start lecturing me about my biological clock or giving me advice about what I may be doing wrong. Nevertheless, I’m struck by the assumption that I’m worried about my love life at all. It’s like when you’re a proud B-cup (like me) and try shopping for a bra; every style seems to have some sort of padding or push-up function as if to imply that if you have small boobs, you must want bigger ones. If you don’t have a man, you must want one.
Then there’s the implication that, since I’m in my mid-twenties, I’m still “young” and “have plenty of time.” Does this mean that when I reach a certain age, panic should set in? If I’m still single when I’m 30, will I have to suffer through Bridget-Jones-esque dinners, fielding questions about my prospects while my family tries to assess what the hell is wrong with me and what they may do to help?
I’ll admit, I have despaired about my single status on various occasions. Whenever a relationship ends, I’m usually miserable for a while and quickly become exhausted at the idea of having to date again. And in times of intense distress, I have worried. But recently, I’ve calmed down. I’ve reminded myself that I’m not a ticking time bomb (perhaps my ovaries are, but that’s a separate issue). After all, more people are waiting longer to get married than they did in the past, with fewer people choosing to wed at all. And as more women work outside of the home, their need to marry has lessened. As Kate Bolick noted in her popular Atlantic article “All the Single Ladies,” “Now that we can pursue our own status and security, [we] are therefore liberated from needing men the way we once did.”
Of course, just because I don’t need to marry, doesn’t mean I don’t want to. And just because I don’t want to get married now, doesn’t mean I won’t want to when and if the right person comes along. The beauty of being an independent woman in a free society is that I can wait for what’s right, for what makes my life better. Until then, I see no need to worry.
Hello followers! This is a little late in coming, but a few weeks ago, my first post for Huffington Post Women was featured on the site. I got the idea after seeing a series of whiskey ads specifically targeted toward men and asking myself “Why aren’t there any ladies represented? Don’t women drink whiskey, too?” Curious, I did some research. This is the result. Enjoy!
To view the actual piece, go here
Women and Whiskey Advertising
Last summer, I met one of my guy friends at a bar in midtown Manhattan. He ordered a Bud Light; I ordered a Jameson on the rocks. “Damn,” he said, looking at me as if I’d just set myself on fire. “You’re more of a man than I am.”
And thus he summed up our society’s prevailing attitude toward whiskey: It is a man’s drink.
So I shouldn’t have been surprised a few weeks ago when I saw the new Jameson print ad campaign lining the walls of my subway car. It features a series of old-fashioned illustrations of men doing manly things like dueling in the street and arm wrestling in a tavern. Few women are present, the most prominent of which seems to be the local prostitute. The message is clear — real men drink Jameson.
Jameson is not alone in its testosterone-fueled ads. Bushmill’s current “Since Way Back” campaign showcases hip men (including ultra-hip musician Bon Iver) hanging out with their equally hip friends. Bushmill’s, it seems, is just one of the bros.
And speaking of bros, if you’re a fan of Scotch, you can join The Chivas Brotherhood, which brings together “Men who seek and conquer the finer things in life” by giving them access to exclusive events. Judging from photos on the website, women can join the brotherhood, but they will be expected to play foosball.
To be fair, some whiskey makers have tried targeting women. Last Christmas, Jack Daniel’s launched their “Spike the Cookies” campaign, which encouraged women to replace various ingredients in their holiday baking with Old No. 7. Because the only way women will consume hard liquor is if it’s in dessert.
But maybe JD had the right idea at least. Marketers have been targeting women for decades, recognizing that they usually make most of the purchasing decisions for their households. (Think of Mad Men when Heineken tried to convince the Betty Drapers of America to buy the beer for their husbands.) Today, women account for 85% of all consumer purchases, yet the fairer sex does consume less alcohol, with only 58.3% of women identifying themselves as current drinkers, versus 71.1% of men. But, that number is growing, and shouldn’t marketers take advantage of this untapped audience?
Curious, I talked to a friend of mine who, up until recently, worked at a PR firm that represented various spirits companies. He told me that, according to research, women will respond to messages intended for men, but men will not usually respond to messages aimed at women. Of course, this doesn’t explain why whiskey companies are so focused on men that they essentially ignore women, but it does make a certain amount of sense. For example, plenty of girls play with Power Rangers or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles dolls, but how many boys play with Barbies? Women watch adventure films, but how many men really enjoy rom-coms? This distinction is so pervasive that J.K. Rowling’s publisher urged her to go by her initials, fearing boys wouldn’t read novels by a Joanne even if the title character was a Harry.
So, I guess the question isn’t why don’t whiskey makers pay the ladies any attention but, rather, why do women respond to masculine ads while the reverse doesn’t appear to be true? Without getting into a gender studies debate, it is unquestionably more socially acceptable for women to embrace things intended for men, while men are more likely to be ridiculed if they are perceived as feminine. But it’s deeper than that. Women who embrace masculine interests are often considered smarter, more laid back, and more fun to be around than their prissier sisters. Consider the woman who prefers sports to shopping? Or drinks whiskey instead of Skinny Girl Margaritas? There is just something cool — to both sexes — about a woman who is comfortable being one of the guys.
I’ve felt this first hand. After all, when my friend told me I was more of a man than he was, I considered it a compliment. On a separate occasion, I gleefully told a waiter that the cranberry bellini he assumed I’d ordered with brunch was, in fact, my boyfriend’s. The Bloody Mary was mine.
Do my consumer habits make me a traitor to my sex? Am I playing into marketing messages about what is superior or have marketers simply figured something out that we’re ashamed to admit? Regardless of the answer, I like whiskey, and if Jameson ever decides to launch a “Real Women Drink Whiskey” campaign, I’ll gladly be the spokesperson.
Three years ago, I made a major faux pas in my professional life—I went out with a guy from my office.
His name was James, and he worked in a completely separate department, which meant I wasn’t crossing any major lines, and if things didn’t work out, both of us would be spared the awkwardness of having to be civil to one another. None of this ended up mattering, as James and I didn’t last long.
We met at the gym in our office building. Clearly neither of us were serious about our fitness as we opted to work out at a gym boasting approximately seven treadmills, four stationary bikes, and a few weight machines rather than take out membership in the upscale squash club down the street. On second thought, maybe we opted for the less glamorous offering simply because we worked in publishing.
I had recently gone through a devastating breakup and was really in no position to date, but when James asked me out, I was so flattered (and relieved) that someone found me remotely attractive (even while sweating in oversized gym shorts and a T-shirt that said “Coca-Cola” in Hebrew on it), that I accepted his invitation to lunch.
On our first date, James took me to a nearby Japanese restaurant where I tried edamame for the first time. Not knowing the proper way to consume the legume, I proceeded to ingest one or two of the pods before I realized my mistake. Luckily, James didn’t notice, so I managed to save face.
On our second date, we accidentally ended up at the Museum of Sex (why it was accidental is not important, but I assure you it was). I had been there once before—two months prior with my ex-boyfriend who had taken me there on my birthday—so I was mortified to find myself watching porn with a veritable stranger who attempted to “seduce” me by telling me about the king-size bed with Egyptian cotton sheets back at his apartment in Queens. Afterward, we sat on a bench in Madison Square Park, and James kissed me. It was awkward and, being late-October, much too chilly to be sitting outside.
On our third date, I realized I did not want to date this guy after he took me to the Museum of Natural History (we were both very cultured and enjoyed museums). After standing in the absurdly long line, we finally made it to the ticket counter where James argued with the ticket collector (a woman who clearly hated her job and people like us) about how much he had to pay for admission. Since the museum is public, admission is technically donation based, and James thought he should therefore be able to get in gratis. Looking back, it’s clear James thought he was impressing me by taking a stand and proving how much he knew about the inner-workings of New York City’s museums. I was embarrassed and assumed he was cheap. He ended up giving the woman $5 for both of us.
Later, James invited me back to his apartment. I had no intention of sleeping with him, but I also had nothing better to do, so I went. As it turned out he did have a king-size bed with Egyptian cotton sheets—a fact he was quick to point out as soon as we entered his one-bedroom flat. He then attempted to get me into said bed by turning off all the lights, lighting a few candles, and turning on a Bob Marley album while I, unsuspecting of my imminent seduction, was in the bathroom.
Not long after James made his intentions known, he announced that some of his friends were on their way over to play poker. This only confirmed my decision to not sleep with this person, as clearly he did not anticipate it taking that long if he was expecting company at any moment.
We went out once more after that—on another lunch date. I had resolved to tell James that I was no longer interested in seeing him, but before I had the chance to share this with him, he informed me that he’d also been seeing another girl. If I had been remotely interested in this person, I would have been incredibly miffed by this information, but I literally shrugged my shoulders as if to say “Meh, no bigs.” When I did finally tell James that I didn’t think we should see each other any more, I relaxed and began to ask him about this other girl. I asked him if he was looking to settle down, and he said, that, yes, eventually he would like to get married and have kids. James was in his early thirties, a few years older than I was, so this came as no surprise. We got back to the office, and I wished him the best of luck.
Since then, I’ve run into James a few times in the office—usually in the elevator where we exchange a casual hello. On a couple of occasions, I’ve run into him on the subway, as I eventually moved into the same neighborhood where he lives. Whenever I see him, I think back to that night at his apartment and chuckle a little at how completely unenthused I was.
Now it is three years later, and although I have dated other men since James—some more seriously than others—I am currently single. Just a few weeks ago, I broke up with my most recent boyfriend, an event that disappointed me greatly. When my mother was my age, she gave birth to me—her first and only child. And while the thought of having children right now is enough to make me run out and get my tubes tied, with every passing year, my desire to settle down grows stronger and stronger. I don’t want to date anymore. I don’t want to break up with anyone anymore. I don’t want to play the field. I want stability. I want a boring, middle-class American family. I want to watch my husband’s hairline recede and make fun of him when he tells cheesy dad jokes to our children. I want to whine to him when crow’s feet start to form on my face and not have to shave my legs every time I expect to get intimate. I want to worry about what family we’ll be celebrating Christmas with this year. I want to join the PTA.
I was reflecting on this desire a few days after my ex and I broke up. It was nine am, and I was trudging out of the subway on my way into the office when I found myself walking behind James. As I watched him stroll down the sidewalk—most likely unaware that I was behind him—I thought back to our four hopeless dates and chuckled a little. And then I saw his wedding ring.
James—the same guy who had so ineptly tried to get me to sleep with him—was married. In the three years since we had dated, he had found a wife. I wondered if she’d moved in with him into that Queens apartment I’d seen that one time. I wondered if they’d already started their family. I wondered if she was the same girl he had been dating when he’d been dating me. I wondered if, at the same time I had cast him aside, James had found what I was looking for.
Tonight, I flew home from a ten-day vacation in Central Europe. I traveled with three girlfriends of mine, and during the course of our trip we visited Budapest, Vienna, Prague, and (just for the hell of it) Bratislava. I can say with total confidence that this was the best vacation I have ever taken (sorry Mom and Dad. I know you tried), but now that it’s over I think this might have had more to do with timing than it did with anything else.
 Me, happy in Budapest Of course, the company of three of my closest friends, gorgeous medieval cities, fairly consistent, sunny, temperate weather, and beer that is literally cheaper than water certainly helped. But I was also in desperate need of a long break. The last week-long vacation I’d had was over Christmas when I visited my dad’s family in Florida and everyone in the family got sick. Needless to say, slumping in front of the television because you don’t have the energy to do anything else, hardly counts as a respite.
I’ve been busy in 2011 and, because I’m particularly susceptible to stress, I’ve been getting down on myself and my life lately. I’ve found myself doing more things I know I shouldn’t and doing them more often–complaining about work, comparing myself to those around me, ruminating on my lack of a dating life, and generally growing more fatalistic about the state of my existence. Over the past few months, phrases like “I’d love to do [insert awesome thing here], but I never will” or “I’d love to take more chances, but I’m not that kind of person” have crossed my mind and passed my lips more than I care to admit. And even though I’m completely aware of how ridiculous (not to mention obnoxious) I must sound to people who know how good I really have it (I’m healthy, I have a lot of friends, I have a good job where I am appreciated, and I live in one of the world’s most exciting cities), I keep sinking into moods.
The worst example of my state of mind came a few weeks ago when I was on my way home from a particularly exhausting day at work (though I couldn’t tell you why it was exhausting). As I usually do in such situations, I called my mom for comfort. My mother and I are very close, and as much as I sometimes wish she wasn’t always so quick to offer unsolicited advice, I realized a while ago that the best thing to do when I’m feeling down is to have a very dramatic mini-breakdown to her on the phone so she can talk sense into me.
At one point in our conversation that evening, I almost yelled, “I hate being single!” (an exaggerated truth but one I’m embarrassed by as someone who considers herself a confident, independent woman.
After giving me her typical spiel about taking time for myself, focusing on me for a little while, etc…my mother said, “Brooke, you’re twenty-five.” Point taken.
So what does this have to do with vacation? The trouble with escaping from you day-to-day life for an extended period of time is that, eventually, you have to come back to it. As much as I tried to live in the moment while I was abroad and enjoy my time away from the office (although my friends checked their work email a few times, I made a point not to), the reality of “this will all end in a few days” inevitably crept into my psyche.
Luckily, before leaving for the trip, I’d purchased a copy of The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin, a book I’d been meaning to read for both pleasure and work (a few of my authors know Rubin and she’s endorsed a couple of their books). Although I started reading it on the plane to Europe, I set it aside for most of the trip in favor of a novel that took place partly in Budapest and only picked it up again on the flight home. This, although I didn’t realize it beforehand, was a smart move.
I won’t delve into a book report here because I recommend you read the book yourself, but the basic premise is that one day Rubin decided to embark on a year-long project to see if she could make herself happier. She then spent twelve months experimenting with various things that are said to bring happiness (pursuing passions, exercising, clearing out clutter, giving back more, etc). She also explored how to bring more joy to mundane, everyday tasks like work and parenting. I’d summarize her eventual conclusion by saying that the keys to happiness are 1) to act happy and 2) to be yourself.
Although Rubin’s project was done in an organized, purposeful way that required a lot of research and resolve, I realized that my recent focus on my own happiness (or perceived lack thereof) has actually led me to do many of the things Rubin does in the book–albeit less consistently–and some of the small changes I’ve been making are actually quite logical and might actually make a big difference if I stuck to them.
So, as I prepare to go back to the real world, I’ve decided to make a conscious effort to do these and other things more. I have no intention of doing a full-scale happiness project. For one thing, I know myself well enough to know that I probably won’t stick to it and, besides, I derive little enjoyment from copying someone else’s idea for something so personal. But since happiness is a noble pursuit and it’s been on my mind lately, I figure this could be a lot of fun. Plus, one of the things I enjoy doing is writing in this blog, though I often don’t feel inspired enough by an idea to actually take the time to write about it. However, I have a feeling that a little forced introspection will uncover a wealth of blog post ideas, and I hope you enjoy reading them.
Despite what some may tell you, it’s pretty easy to meet people in New York. After all, in a city where two of the most fundamental elements of middle-class American private life–cars and yards–are basically anomalies, New Yorkers are constantly forced to rub shoulders with strangers. And despite our reputation for being pushy and gruff, we’re actually very social people. If we hated human contact, we wouldn’t live here.
But despite the polite conversations that naturally occurs in these situations (“Do you know why the 6 train isn’t running?” “Sorry I hit you in the face with my umbrella.” “Is that the new David Foster Wallace you’re reading on your iPad?”), building relationships with your fellow citizens can be an enormous challenge.
This is slightly less true when searching for romantic partnership because if you fit a certain demographic and hang out in certain locales, people automatically assume you’re on the prowl. Thus, it is perfectly acceptable for members of the opposite sex (or same sex if you swing that way) to casually approach one another in an attempt to get their number, ask them out, or even just take them home.
And yet somehow it is terribly awkward for a girl (or guy) to extend the branch of friendship to another girl (or guy) simply because she thinks she’s nice and they might share something in common.
I met Erin in the Fall of 2009 during our morning commute. We were waiting for the 1 train at Times Square and I noticed she was reading a book I was interested in but had heard mixed reviews about. (I could easily devolve into a conversation about how e-books would have made this entire story impossible, but I digress.) I considered asked her what she thought about it, but figured most people don’t enjoy being interrupted by strangers on their way into work, so I stayed quiet and turned my attention back to my own reading. The next morning, I saw her again, still poring over the same book, but decided once more against conversation. The third time I saw her that week, I told myself she was going to finish that damned book eventually and my opportunity would soon pass. I decided to go for it. What did I have to lose?
The train came, and she boarded before me. I made sure to position myself next to her so the communication would feel natural–like I just happened to glance over and notice what she was reading. Still feeling like it would be rude to interrupt her train of thought though, I waited for her to get to that awkward point in the commuter experience where a reader needs to turn the page but can’t risk letting go of the bar while the train is in motion for fear of falling into the person next to her. As the train jerked into Penn Station, she looked up from her pages, and I seized my chance.
“Is that book good?”
To my surprise and delight, she looked up at me (I would later learn that she is exactly three inches shorter than I am) and smiled. “Actually, it’s pretty terrible,” she said, laughing.
During the rest of our commute, I learned her name and she learned mine. It turned out we both worked for different publishers—down the block from one another–and were about the same age (later I learned that she is exactly five days younger). We talked about how we had both loved this author’s first novel and that it was such a shame that her sophomore effort didn’t live up to expectations (I still haven’t read the book in question).
We got off at Houston Street, and as we emerged onto the sidewalk and motioned to go our separate ways, I found myself not wanting the conversation to end. We had spoken for approximately five minutes, but something told me we could have a long-lasting, solid relationship if only we could see each other again. “If I were a guy, I would ask her out for a drink right now. I’d get her name and number and we’d make plans for the weekend.” But I was not a guy, and I was not interested in dating her, and therefore, I was forced to make a decision—take a chance of her thinking I was a straight lunatic or just a misguided lesbian and ask her anyway or walk away and just hope to see her again. I chose the latter.
“Why can’t a girl just ask another girl out?” I lamented to my friends later on. “Why is that so weird?” They empathized, but didn’t know what to tell me.
I saw Erin a few more times over the next several weeks, but we never made eye contact or spoke. Figuring she either didn’t remember our conversation or just didn’t have any interest in having another one, I let it go. Then, a few months after our first encounter, I saw her again, but this time, she was on the N train, headed, like me, to Queens at the end of the work day. She was reading again, this time a book I’d read and loved a few months prior. We ended up sitting in separate cars, but, in a moment I can only chalk up to destiny, she got off at my stop. Now that we had something else in common—a whole neighborhood!—I decided the moment was right to try again.
“Erin, right?” I said, pretending I wasn’t quite sure what her name was.
She looked up from her book like a deer in the headlights. Clearly, she had no idea who I was.
“I’m Brooke. We met a few months ago on the 1 train.”
“Oh, yes, of course! How are you?”
She was being polite. She didn’t remember me at all. I felt like the eighth-grade boy who asks his longtime crush to the Winter formal only to be answered with a “Who are you” even though he sits behind her in third and fourth period.
I learned that Erin did in fact live in my neighborhood and that she, too, was enjoying that book. As we went to part ways, I thought again about asking her to hang out—possibly joining the book club my friends and I had started two months prior. But the feeling of rejection hung in the air even more now, and I decided to avoid any further embarrassment.
Of course, seeing as we shared the exact same commute, I saw her several other times after that. But the window had closed. It was not meant to me.
That summer, I met a girl who just happened to work at Erin’s company. “Oh! Do you know a girl named, Erin? A little shorter than me? Long-ish strawberry blonde hair?”
“Erin! Yes! She’s great!”
I told her the story of how I desperately wanted Erin to be my friend but was afraid she had no idea who I was. She agreed to look into it.
A few weeks later, I came back to the office after lunch to discover I had a voicemail.
“Hi Brooke!” A chipper voice greeted me. “This is Erin. We met on the train a while back. Jenn told me she met you, and I just wanted to call because I see you all the time and I just think we should be friends. So if you ever want to hang out, let me know.” She gave me her email address and phone number, and I couldn’t believe my luck.
Erin and I ended up making plans to have lunch and drinks the Friday before the Fourth of July. We went to a Mexican place (now closed) near our offices, which was offering happy hour specials on margaritas and showing the World Cup match between Uruguay and Ghana. I can’t remember what I told her about myself, but I learned that she’s from Pennsylvania, wants to be a writer, and her favorite movies are Love Actually and Casino Royale. As we ate tacos and sipped our drinks, the bar gradually filled will patrons glued to the game, but it wasn’t until we were about to leave that I noticed we were the only two people not interested in soccer.
Over the next several months, I introduced Erin to my other friends, always a little embarrassed when they would say “Oh! You’re Brooke’s subway girlfriend!” That was until she introduced me to one of her friends as her “subway friend.” Apparently, she’d been telling all of her friends about me.
They say meeting people in New York is hard. I say it just takes time.
Recently, I went to dinner with a friend of mine who told me she’d just (as in just before she came to meet me) broken things off with a guy she’d been seeing. She’d met him a few weeks prior and had immediately been charmed, but had quickly realized the relationship was doomed to fail. 
When I asked what happened, she told me they’d gone out the weekend before and had stayed out late on the Lower East Side. At around 2am, they decided to head home–she to Astoria in Queens and he to the Upper East Side. After waiting a while for their respective trains to come, his arrived first. He told her he should probably take it since he had to get home, and rather than protest, my friend had said, “Of course.” He boarded his train and went home, leaving her alone on the platform.
My friend was miffed. “Can you believe that? He left me alone on the platform! In the middle of the night!”
It was clear from her exasperation that, for her, such behavior was a dealbreaker. She didn’t want to date a man who wasn’t courteous enough to wait with her for her train. Clearly, such a man was no good.
Now, as a young New Yorker, I can sympathize with this hapless fellow. After all, at such a late hour, especially after a long night of drinking, all you want to do is get home. And because of the vagaries of subway schedules, there’s never any way to know when another train will come if you miss one. Many a time have I found myself on a platform, just as the subway doors have closed on the train that would take me home, leaving me to wait another 20 minutes, my contacts growing increasingly dry and my bladder growing increasingly full, for another train.
But I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about something bigger than that. I’m talking about a guy who asks a girl out on a date, spends several hours with her, and then leaves her alone on the platform while he goes home to bed. I’m talking about chivalry.
Chivalry is a concept that dates back eight centuries to a time when knights sought honor and glory by performing acts of bravery and skill. Somewhere along the way, these acts became associated with the adoration of a woman (originally the Virgin Mary, but that’s beside the point), and came to symbolize romantic notions of virtue and respect for the fairer sex.
Thanks in large part to one Walt Disney, the concept of chivalry has assumed a prominent place in the psyche of the women in my generation. Having been reared on animated films featuring a charming, handsome, devoted prince risking life and limb to save his true love–an equally charming and beautiful princess or maiden–and watching these two soulmates enter the blissful happily ever after, it’s no friggin wonder we have standards.
Some people have criticized these films, arguing that they promote the idea of the helpless virgin maid who must be saved by a man who, in reality, cannot be expected to exist. Let me be clear to those naysayers out there. I love these films. In fact, I still watch them on occasion. But these movies did no more to make me believe in the existence of Prince Charming than they did to make me believe in the existence of dragons, enchanted castles, or mermaids (though, really, how awesome would it be if there were mermaids?). And if I can’t reasonably rely on a man to wait with me on a subway platform in the middle of the night because, well, he’s tired, I’m certainly not going to expect him to fight evil villains or break an wicked spell on my behalf.
But I still believe in chivalry. I just think it needs to be redefined. Allow me to explain.
When I was a junior in college, I lived in campus housing, which means I frequented the dining halls. One Saturday morning, I was having breakfast with some friends when I decided to get some cereal. The dining hall was crowded, as it usually was on a Saturday morning when most students were nursing hangovers, and when I went to get milk, there was a guy in front of me, someone I’d seen several times before though we’d never interacted. He filled a glass, but when I went to put some milk on my cereal, the dispenser was empty. “Oh no,” I quietly exclaimed to myself, as I was genuinely disappointed that I would not be able to enjoy my Cocoa Pufs.
“Here,” the guy turned to me and offered me his full cup. “You can have it.”
“Oh no, that’s okay, it’s not a big deal,” I protested.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I don’t really want it anyway.”
I gladly accepted the milk, strangely touched by this simple gesture, which clearly meant very little to this guy.
I continued to see this fellow in the dining hall throughout the rest of the year. We never spoke again (that I remember) so it was clear to me that, by offering me his cup of 2%, he had not had any ulterior motive. He was not trying to impress me, he wasn’t trying to start conversation. He was just being nice.
This, my friends, is chivalry for the modern age. Chivalry is when a fellow (yes, it’s still not a gender neutral concept in my opinion) does something nice for a lady (or perhaps another fellow if you swing that way) because, well, it’s a good thing to do. He doesn’t do it out of obligation, or because he’s expected. He does it because he wants to. And, he does it without thinking.
This brings me to my next point about chivalry. There are two types of men in this world–the chivalrous and the unchivalrous. The chivalrous men will, in most cases, always be chivalrous. The unchivalrous ones, well, they need more inspiration. I have known plenty of fellow (unfortunately I’ve dated very few of them) who extend every courtesy to me and never ask for anything in return. One of my guy friends always waits for the subway with me, unless I insist he doesn’t, but I often have to insist a lot. My roommate’s boyfriend bought me a box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day, because, well, that’s just how he is. On the other side of the spectrum, I have dated guys who have gotten angry with me because I dressed a certain way (not nice enough for them apparently) or used choice words on a second date (foul language doesn’t usually offend me, but they don’t know that).
So for all the men out there who say that women expect too much from them. We assure you, we don’t. But if you’re going to behave like every other guy out there, why exactly should we date you? And for the ladies out there who worry that chivalry is dead, it isn’t. It’s just redefined.
A little over a year ago, I started dating a guy who I had known for several years. We had always gotten along rather well, but romantic involvement had been thwarted by the presence of his long-term, live-in girlfriend. Not being a homewrecker, I kept my distance and bided my time.
When we did start dating, I became smitten with him quickly. He had a good sense of humor, was smart, and seemed to like me well enough, and things went along swimmingly for, oh, a few weeks.
But there was one thing that bothered me from the get go. It was a minor thing…a truly insignificant thing that in the grand scheme of things did not matter one iota to the chances of our relationship surviving.
The thing was that he had never read any of the Harry Potter book series. You’re laughing at me, I know. And you have every right to, but before you quit reading, let me explain my thinking behind this concern.
For those among you who are unfamiliar with this series, it consists of seven books (and now corresponding movies) that center around the antics and struggles of a teenage wizard. I have read all of the books, many of them multiple times. My friends are also huge fans, and I have fond memories of being in high school and college and attending the midnight release parties at my neighborhood Borders or Barnes and Noble when a new title in the series came out.
For those among you who live under a rock, the Harry Potter series is a global phenomenon and has been for over a decade. Hundreds of millions of people all over the world have read these books, which have been translated into sixty-seven languages. That means the odds of meeting someone who has read the books, given the current world population is about one in seventeen. And, assuming that the books are even more popular in Western countries where citizens have freer access to books and libraries, I would venture to guess the chances are actually much higher than that.
I am a social person, which means I enjoy meeting and spending time with other people. I also work in book publishing, which means I also encounter a lot of people whose job it is to read—or at least keep current with—books.
At the time I started dating this fellow (we’ll call him Aaron for no good reason), I had had a number of boyfriends and experiences going out with men and yet, despite the odds stacked in my favor, I realized I had never…NEVER…dated a guy who had read the series. Something struck me as odd about this math.
In general, I don’t find it difficult to meet people who share common interests with me. (Oh, yes, I also enjoy Lady Gaga, films starring Kate Winslet, and Indian food!) So why is it? Can someone please tell me, why is it, that I can’t manage to find someone who doesn’t share this one, very particular interest of mine?
Moving on. At some point while dating Aaron, I lamented his lack of Harry Potter knowledge to my roommate. “It doesn’t make any sense,” I told her. She agreed, but couldn’t help me.
A few weeks later, Aaron and I stopped seeing each other, and I swear it had nothing to do with Harry Potter. A few months later I started seeing another fellow, whom we’ll call Jason. Now Jason had, in fact, read all of the Harry Potter books (I think). He didn’t share my enthusiasm for them, but I took this as a sign that Jason and I must be meant for one another.
We weren’t.
Several months after that, I started seeing Nathan. On our second date, I mentioned to Nathan that I had studied Dante in college. Unlike most people, Nathan seemed genuinely interested in hearing more about this interest of mind, and it turned out that he, too, was a fan of Dante’s Inferno. In fact, I ended up giving him an extra copy I had so he could re-read it, which he apparently did. Nathan’s interest in Dante was definitely special, something I didn’t come across too often, so, again, I took it as a sign that Nathan and I would share many things in common.
A few weeks after we started seeing each other, I invited Nathan to a Halloween party at my friend’s apartment. One of the guests was dressed as a Gryffindor Quidditch player, a costume I recognized immediately.
“What’s Gryffin…?” Nathan asked, unable to make out the rest of the word on the back of the person’s robe.
“Gryffindor,” I said.
Nathan looked at me with a blank expression. “What’s that?”
“It’s from Harry Potter.”
“Oh,” he said, and I hung my head. I was, yet again, disappointed but not surprised. Nathan and I lasted only a few more days.
Which brings me to last weekend. I was invited to go out for drinks with a fellow I’d met the week prior. We’ll call him Craig. Now, Craig is a few years older than I, and in general a few years can make a huge difference when it comes to those who have and have not read Harry Potter. The fact that it’s a young adult fantasy series, it’s easy to understand why this is. However, Craig actually works in publishing, which I’ve always assumed makes you even more aware of popular literary references, regardless of whether you’ve read a particular book or not. The names “Ishmael” and “John Galt” ring a bell to me even though I’ve never read Moby Dick or Atlas Shrugged. Plus, I can pretty much guarantee you that, when it comes to my generation, more people have read Harry Potter than these two books combined.
Over drinks, we somehow arrived on the topic of a film adaptation of a book that has been popular for the past few years. I had read the book; Craig hadn’t, but I mentioned how the actor Robert Pattinson was playing the lead role.
“Oh, so you want to see it because of Edward right?” Craig asked, joking.
For those of you who don’t know, Edward is a character from the Twilight book series, which centers around the love affair between a teenage girl named Bella and a vampire (Edward). These are terribly popular books (emphasis on the word “terribly”), and in the film adaptations, which have been released over the past few years, Robert Pattinson has portrayed Edward.
“Haha, no,” I responded. “To me, Robert Pattinson will always be Cedric Diggory.”
Again, for those of you who don’t know, Cedric Diggory is a character from the Harry Potter series. Robert Pattinson portrayed him in the film versions, several years before he was cast as Edward.
Craig looked at me, again blankly. “I don’t know who that is.”
Sigh. By now, as you know, dear reader, I am used to this statement. But what I find extremely distressing is that Craig understood one reference to a modern YA fantasy series, but not the other. Why is this so, reader? Why is this so?
There’s really nothing I have left to say. It’s merely an observation I have made in my life, and I felt the need to share. Do I believe that the love of my life will share my devotion to this book series? No, not necessarily. But that’s not the point. The point is that life operates on chance and therefore regular probability plays a role. As much as we’d like to blame things on fate, destiny, or a heavenly power, most things in life are really just random. Every connection I make with someone is the result, at least partially, of events that are out of my control. I can keep searching for things that matter. I can keep reading into small signs that things will or will not work out a certain way, but in the end, I suppose I will have to leave this all up to chance. And, given my one in seventeen odds, I’m okay with that.
*CORRECTION: After thinking over my math, I realized that I made an error of calculation. There have been 400,000,000 copies of the Harry Potter books sold, but since there are seven books, one must account for the fact that some buyers have bought multiple copies. Therefore, if we divide this figure by 7, we arrive at odds of 1 in 122 that an inhabitant of earth has read the books. Again, assuming that this figure is higher in Western countries, we can probably safely assume that the odds are actually much higher than this.
Step 1: About 20 minutes prior to boarding, go to the nearest airport sports bar and consume as many of the following as possible:
- whiskey sours
- pizza slices
- buffalo wings
- white Russians
- bean burritos/nachos, etc.
Step 2: Run, don’t walk, to the gate and board the plane.
Step 3: Secure an aisle seat if you didn’t already select one while booking your ticket. This will allow you the biggest audience for the shenanigans to follow. If no aisle seats are available, try to find one near children, old people, and/or people wearing nice clothes.
Step 4: When the flight attendant asks you what you’d like to drink, order liquor. If you don’t have the money to order liquor, order tomato juice.
Step 5: As you feel the waves of nausea sweep over you, do NOT reach for the barf bag provided in the seat back pocket in front of you. Yes, these are provided by every major airline–even Delta, last we checked–for your convenience, but where’s the adventure/discourtesy in that?
Step 6: If sitting in the aisle, turn your head toward toward and lean into the aisle. If sitting in the middle or next to the window, identify the primary target you located early, and turn toward him/her.
Step 7: Vomit.
Step 8: Pause. Do nothing.
Step 9: Repeat steps 7 and 8 until someone summons a flight attendant. Most likely, the person who has summoned the flight attendant will have gotten vomit on her personal belongings, which she had carefully stowed under the seat in front of her. Do not apologize to that woman.
Step 10: Do not apologize to anyone. Remember, you are not sorry. You did this on purpose. You are an asshole.
Step 11: By this point, a flight attendant will probably have asked you if you have the strength to walk to the bathroom. You’re done vomiting, but go to the bathroom anyway. Stay in there as long as you’d like. Hogging the bathroom will give you another chance to piss people off. If you feel up to it, take a giant dump right before exiting. This is what the bean burritos were for.
Step 12: By the time you return to your seat, most of the mess should be cleaned up, though a faint smell of your own bodily fluid will still linger in the air. Thanks to biology, most humans are not sickened by the smell of their own excrement, but other people are! Relish this fact as you settle back into your seat, turn on your iPod or similar electronic device and listen to music/TV shows/movies at maximum volume for the remainder of the flight.
Step 13: As you get off the plane, you will probably make eye contact with some nearby passengers who had to witness the above episode. Remember, DO NOT APOLOGIZE. Instead, smile. But don’t smile at them. Smile at the notion that you have achieved your goal. You are an asshole on an airplane.
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Now on HuffPost Women and Aol.com
Big news! My latest post was featured last week on Huffington Post Women and was picked up by Aol.com to run on their welcome screen today! Check it out here.
I’m particularly intrigued by the comments on this post. Most are supportive, which I expected as what I’m writing about seems like a universal truth, not one specifically for women. Most seem to agree that we should take our time with relationships, not rush into marriage, and not bow to pressure from family, friends, and anyone else for that matter to settle down. Others, however, think it’s time for me to get my butt in gear. They say that if I want to get married and have kids, I really do need to settle down soon. Rather than engage in a debate on the comments section, I’d like to respond here.
First of all, there is no place in my post where I talk about having kids. Actually, in an earlier version of the article (the one featured on this blog), I acknowledge the fact that while I may not be in a rush to get married, I realize that my ovaries aren’t going to stay fertile forever. I do want to have kids one day, but I also want to make sure I can bring them into a stable situation. I don’t really want to be a single mother. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but I’d rather raise my children in a two parent household, especially since I work. Plus, I can barely afford to support myself on one income, let alone another person. I can only hope that I’ll be able to find a suitable father for my children, get to know him, settle down and THEN have kids before it’s too late. But I do realize that won’t be possible forever.
Also, nowhere in the post do I suggest that I’m putting off marriage because I prefer to be single right now. In fact, I mention how I sometimes despair about not being in a relationship. Every relationship I’ve been in, I’ve entered into in the hope that maybe this will be the person I spend the rest of my life with. The fact that I haven’t found that person yet is not a result of me not looking or not caring. It’s simply a matter of circumstances. If I find the person I’m supposed to marry tomorrow, wonderful. If it takes a few more years, well, I guess I’ll wait. And if I never find them, well, I suppose I’ll just remain single.
I was encouraged by several people who said they put off marriage because they never wanted to get divorced. This is one of the main reasons I haven’t stayed in dysfunctional relationships. My parents are divorced and while they had an amicable separation, I’ve always told myself that I would like to avoid the pain of that if possible. Break-ups are difficult enough; I can’t imagine living through a marriage dissolving. The fact of the matter is, a lot changes in your 20s. You are a very different person when you’re 20 than you are at 30. I think I’ll be more likely to find someone I can stay with for a long time, if I understand more about who I am and what I want. Therefore, I feel pretty okay about my situation.
I welcome all of your feedback. Hope you enjoyed the post!