The Death and Possible Revival of The Dating Scene; Chivalry In Your 20's

This didn't get used for a website, but I figured I'd immortalize it on my blog.  Enjoy

To most, I come off a tad bit cynical.  I don't do Valentine's Day really.  With all its cheesy teddy bears and Hallmark cards, it makes me absolutely nauseous.  Everyone views my opinions as the rantings of a bitter girl scorned, because let's be real with the fact most girls who claim to hate all things lovey-dovey fit that description.  Honestly, I can't be scorned because I've never really experienced the whole dating scene.  I'm not a completely serial monogamist or eternally single bachelorette, which would both be valid reasons as to me not really dating.  The fact of the matter is, in my world, it barely exists.

You're probably scratching your head and saying, "Define what you mean by dating."  The relationships I've had have all been with men I went to high school with, worked with, or were part of a mutual group of friends.  I've also spent long periods of my adult life being single.  So, I've never slipped a guy my number on a box matches or had a moment throwing bread to the same ducks in the park...is that shit even relevant anymore?  See, I don't even know!  I'm just getting this view of how the dating world works from rom-coms.  And when asking a man almost the same age as me about how Nicholas Sparks and Leonardo Di Caprio have molded most women's minds to a specific view on dating and chivalry, I got an amazingly, genuine answer. "Real chivalry, true romance, they're not dead, but they wear the same face they always did, and that face is NOT what Hollywood has drawn it out to be. Romance is never something expected or planned for, it is always spontaneous beauty, not a reenactment of something somebody saw in a movie."

But if its all about spontaneity, wouldn't it just be easier to just stick with what I know rather than explore the world of flirting, wining, and dining?   I should also mention that I've barely gone on dates period.  Most of the guys I've dated have been content with just hanging out, or vice versa.  I pretty much frequent the same bars in my neighborhood, where I know everyone.  Plus with the majority of my friends being male, every guy who drunkenly approaches me is automatically a douche (they're right about 90% of the time).  I've tried going to bars in the city, but have only met dudes who put more of an effort into getting ready then me.  I'm beginning to think to get one of those assholes to talk to you, you need spandex American Apparel leggings, a see through top, and absolutely no self esteem to pair with their over sized ego.  Never have I ventured out with the agenda to snag a man.  As you can probably tell, I'd have no clue where to look.  And now I'm to believe true romance is not to seek, but to let find you.

It's not like I've never been pursued.  Most of the strangers who've approached me have just turned out to be very... persistent?  With a hint of obnoxious and a dash of desperation.  Some to the point of blocking them on all social networking and my cell phone.  Or there's the guys with this one-track mind, who when I asked one to be brutally honest about his idea of courting a lady, he said, "Only f***ing one person."  No, really, thanks for your honesty, but I'll respectfully decline your "red headed slut" shot and why bother giving you my number?  The only time your name will show up on my caller id will be at 2am on a Friday night.  My lack of decent suitors lead me to check out other methods of dating...no success there either.  I attempted the whole online dating thing.  The most I got was a few laughs.  I mean, to me, I can't distinguish between if they're fucking around, super desperate, or secretly serial killers.  "FeetFetish4Lyfe.  Age: 24.  Interests: making up new languages, collecting cats, and 'appreciating' a woman's toes."  Eww.  Guess I was right with my first instinct to steer clear from meeting anyone via the interwebs.

So, I guess what some perceive as cynical is actually a sheer ignorance as to dating, because it seems pretty dead to me.   Apparently, I could stick with the familiar, dating men I grew up with and know everything about.  Or get used to being single and only getting hit on guys who only wanna get laid.  Or...I could get down to the reality of it all.  With all my fails, I do believe the act of dating has died, but is it possible it could be revived?  This is going to require research.  Figure out the labyrinth of the dating scene; how it works, if it works.  Start excavating fossils of ancient chivalry or finding the rare species of men and women who believe in it still.  For every column I do, I'm going to really dissect the mating ritual, sharing mine and other's successes and tragedies with the opposite (or same) sex.  Because we as young adults should all be prepared.  Because I believe in honest journalism.  And because we need to figure out this happy ending shit out already.

Please refrain from growing up

  More like jumped up than woke up.  I was panting a bit as I slowly laid back down.  Reached for my phone to check the time.  I've been sleeping almost ten hours.  That's a ridiculous amount of sleep for an almost 23 year old.  I laid there for another half hour, pondering what I had to do today: I came up with nothing.  And this is the almost everyday routine for me.  Most nights I sleep for more than enough hours, but toss and turn all night.

  I'm prone to nightmares when I'm in a boring, seemingly inescapable rut.  I'm constantly worried about where this is going to take me, if I'll ever get out of this situation, what I will become from this.  These worries manifest themselves into weird, metaphorical monsters and visions that plague my dreams.  Sometimes I have a few drinks in hope I'll have enough alcohol in my body to have a blank, dreamless sleep because at least then I won't be turning my fears into creatures.

  But last night was no different then the nightmares I've been having these days.  Same creepy figures, same weird situations similar to my own.  I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.  Debated as hot water pounded on my back attempting to make an omelet with cheese and broccoli, maybe trying my hand at hash browns.  Stared at my computer screen in my robe for an hour before deciding to microwave a pizza instead, at 10:30 in the morning.

  I look at my phone as I light up a cigarette, wondering who would be awake.  Everyone I can come up with is working on finishing their last semesters of college, or working 9-5 at a big kid job.  I've given up on college, I suppose.  I could keep promising to return, but let's be honest here.  I'm how old and I've been out of it for how many years?  And even then, I despised studying and didn't believe in deadlines.  Flirting with the idea of a degree is great, but acting on it is damn near impossible for me.

  As for a career, without that lovely degree, its mighty hard getting one.  Especially since I can't even find a job as simple as waitressing or retail.  Mostly because I still hold onto the feeling that I'm better than most jobs.  That I would rather eat shit than serve food again for people who don't tip.  And retail is even more dreadful.  Minimum wage to fold clothes and run around all day, and the embarrassment when those fucks from high school with their B.A.s and credit cards smirk at you as you go find their size in shoes.  But is my self righteousness worth barely having money and spending my days glued to my couch?  Suck it up, Caitlin, I tell myself.  Its only for the moment.

  But is it really?  I've been holding jobs since I was 15.  Back then, I was proud of myself for working full time and going to school.  Then I began to loathe Morton West and was more frequently ditching class, most of the time I would even pick up shifts life guarding or hostessing.  When I started college, I would be stressed the entire class, not focusing on what my next assignment was, but if I'd make it to my serving shift on time.  Never ever putting an education first.  And look where its got me.  Now I loathe my full time jobs and dream of doing something I love, like writing, as my career.

  My mom gets home from work.  Yes, I also live at home still.  Attempts at moving out would almost work and then fall through last minute, constantly, which is still the norm.  I've never stopped trying to move out.  I see my friends venturing out into the world, or at least to a place nearby where they can call their own.  Jealousy and anger boil inside me.  Mixed with the frustration that I can't hold down a job or stay in school.  With a dash self deprecation, and just a pinch of regret.  The coffee I'm sipping is not helping the fact that I'm so tired from the nights without pleasant dreams, its just making me more aware that my nightmares are just twisted versions of my actual reality.

  And the concoction these feelings have conjured up shaking up and like a champagne bottle, my mom mentions one of my closest friends having a baby and the cork pops off.  A shower of tears just burst out.  I always bottle up my emotions and don't face them until they are taking up too much room in brain.  They get rejected out through my eye balls, in the most pathetic of ways.  And she asks whats wrong and she's the last person I want to break down infront of.  I've never done anything to demand any sort of respect from her.  I just repeatedly show her how unmotivated and weak I am.

  I break down because I no longer have someone to complain about my life, or lack there of, to.  Everyone I know is growing up, intentionally and accidentally.  I explain to her how as much as I've wanted to become a better person, I can't.  I tell her how I'm going to miss all my friends as they're busy living these adult lives, how pictures on Facebooks of their beautiful weddings and kids dressed up for Halloween are just mocking me.

  I choke out, "Everyone I know is growing up without me."  By this point, I'm really disgusted with myself.  I feel if I looked at this puffy eyed version of myself in the mirror, I'd spew chunks.

  Last night, I was in a completely numb state of mind, the exact opposite of how I am this ironically sunny morning.  I'm always more awake at night time, even though my thoughts have been racing all day.  So I bring up the most recent news that turned my world upside down.  He laughs, stating he will not settle down till he's 50, hoping he still can charm a woman when his hair isn't as pretty as it is now.  I imagine our creased faces, laughing at our friends and their "perfect" lives, downing a beer at the same bar we frequent almost every week.  We turn on the show we watch every week and I'm overjoyed at the preview of next weeks' episode.  And I think how perfectly content I'd be to have an individual to never grow up with.  The last spinsters, so to speak.  Its not until just now that this thought depresses me more than anything.

  "Every moment leads to its own sad end" resounds from the Mountain Goats song I'm listening to as I type this.  What if I never grow up and I don't even have one friend with the same Peter Pan like complex to share it with?  If it was so simple to escape this fate, I'd escape it.  Leave this place and start a new life.  One fulfilling and lacking this dull yet exhausting existence.  I'd give up all the memories of simple times when all I was surrounded by people who wanted nothing more than to sing and dance and drink the night away.  Those memories do nothing but haunt me anyways.

  And when those rare moments come and my "friends" want to go out, try to relive the fun we once had with a few drinks and laughs, I pass.  I'd rather not force a smile as I get more tipsy.  Alcohol usually helps me put on a fantastic front, but it used to be just an additive to having a wonderful night.  Now, I stumble into my front door, trying not to wake up my family, and the best part of my night is being able to immediately pass out.

  This too shall pass I constantly tell myself to break this depression I slump into.  I usually do find a job, a new love interest, or something to distract me.  So I have put this all into words.  Lit a cigarette and stared at the sun and falling leaves.  Laughed at how upset I've been all morning.  It is nearly 3 in the afternoon.  I called my best friend to come visit, to get me out of this house.  Her husband's at work and she'll try to make it out today.  I feel happy for her.  Soon she'll find a better job and apartment and her and her husband will invite me over to see the new place.  My goal is by that time to have something new to tell them about me when they ask.

  I shall lift myself up soon and rebuild a new life.  My usual rise and repeat, and maybe this time it will stick.  Some sort of stability will find me.  But I really need to get off my blog and stop feeling sorry for myself, take a walk or find something to do today.  This computer screen gives me headaches.

Have you seen my voice?

  I was literally banging my head on my keyboard, and I've got a couple crooked keys to prove it.  My latest column was due.  To me, it was an 800 word count of complete horse shit.  And to top it off, I had no idea how to conclude it.  So, I called a writer friend of mine to help me.  He declined, probably for my benefit because I need to start solving my own problems without the aid of my friends.

  However, he agreed to read it and told me it was good, but I needed to find my voice.  I didn't know I lost it.  It should be so simple as when you put the pen to paper, your inner feelings spill out through your fingers and onto the page.  Well, it's not.  Before I began writing for Chicago-Pipeline this summer, I had writer's block for two and a half years.  Now that I'm trying to overcome it for the sake of my column, a bunch of different feelings are rising in me.

  Anxiety and self consciousness are my biggest burdens.  The moment anything of mine gets published, I bite my thumbs as a nervous habit, hoping it gets good feedback and isn't complete shit.  I shouldn't rely so much on acceptance of my peers, but I feel as if feedback is so important if you're trying to make a career out of writing.  Are my sentences running on a bit?  What words are repetitive?

  But my editor says I write how I talk, and its a good thing.  Maybe she's right.  Then again, I was told I still needed to find my voice.  I swear, if I could overcome all my worries, everything I write would be more natural.  I really want to be good enough and confident enough to just let my words flow onto the paper without hesitation.  I could hit "submit for review" without practically biting my thumbs off.   Hopefully this is something that comes with practice and time and that I can can speak, freely, unafraid.

  This whole time I've been writing this, I've been picking at the 9 key, trying to make it not be so crooked.  And backspacing to get rid of all the 9's I've accidentally typed.

Between the two worlds

  Where does anyone belong?  I don't think I was ever meant to belong in one specific place.  Life would be a thousand times more peachy if I lived closer to both jobs.  Both in Wicker Park, forty minutes driving and a  nightmare to find parking.  I have literally screamed, sweat my ass off, and cried over not being able to paralleled into a spot.  Its pathetic, really.  How something I take for granted in the suburbs because its so attainable could reduce me to tears in Chicago.

  I wish I lived among the grim and glory of those busy streets.  Living atop the hustle, bustle, and erratic flow of the city.  Being independent and establishing a new sense of self because of it.  I've never seen anything as wonderful as Chicago, except maybe the ocean.  But the sea doesn't have two dollar tall boys and falafel.  When I'm sitting outside my thrift store or trend watching over coffee for the newsletter, I feel like I'm a part of this crazy, beautiful city.  I'm sort of not, though.

  And this is because I still live in Berwyn.  I hate many things about Berwyn.  It sometimes smells god awful.  There's becoming less of a border between Berwyn and Cicero, almost as if Cicero is meshing its grim and corruption more and more with Berwyn by the day.  I hate when my mom reminds me its not safe to walk the streets at night.  Which I get the city is no different, but this is my home.  I grew up here and as I got older, it lost its town-y charm and became less safe.  Heartbreaking.

  But this is also where my roots have been planted for the past seventeen years.  This is where I grew from a child with a huge imagination, to a teenage with no respect for rules or boundaries, to a young adult with a hazy, yet optimistic view of the future.  My friends, the food, the local bars, the places I've had my firsts and lasts at.  Its for surely a love/hate kind of thing.  Where you love something so truely, madly, deeply, then hate every bit of its being the next day.

  I'd love to live in both.  When I'm not working, I could escape to Berwyn for a few beers at Cigars, movies with Larry, and just the sheer relaxation I get from time to time of being "home".  Then back out to Chicago for the craziness that is my daily routine.  Run around the store like a mad man, interview a local on my break, and collapse into a blue line seat at the end of the day.

  Does this mean I have multiple personalities or that I'm in love with two places, impossible to choose between both?  No matter the case, I want to find a way to have both my worlds.  Keep my friends.  Make new ones.  Learn new ways of public transit around the city.  Drive my car to get my hometown's best italian ice.

  I want to be married to Berwyn and have an affair with Chicago, and I want both to know of each other.  I want both to accept that just one town can't satisfy me.  I want to be selfish.

Here We Go Again

So I've been meaning to post something in here for ages.  I always start a blog, then get so busy I forget it exists.  There's probably a dozen blogs under my name floating around in cyber space.  My biggest flaw is I change my mind alot, mostly due to surroundings and lack of motivation.  Don't get me wrong, I tend to be super monogamous and a loyal friend, but my desire to stick with projects...well, that could use a little work.

  I have all these brilliant ideas that just never make it to pen and paper (or keyboard and screen).  Especially my dreams, which are always so vivid and epic.  Motivation is common for early 20 somethings to lack.  I should know, I've befriended so many with the same disability as me.  I shouldn't be hesitating when it comes to writing.  Not being in school should give me the drive to stimulate my brain with such an activity.  I find myself just staring at the Zach Galifianakis background of my laptop and thinking, "Why the fuck not?"

  Don't get me wrong, I get absolutely no greater pleasure than writing.  Once I get over the initial hurdle of laziness, I'm golden!  Its like I shut out all surroundings and just go at it...like right now.  It took me almost a month to start a blog.  Seriously, a god damn blog!  A month!  Christ, if only I had the same eagerness to grab a beer after work or waste my paycheck on an entire outfit to pick up a journal!

  I had a day off.  Peeling myself away from the television, turning off my two week long Doctor Who marathon, I began this post.  It also didn't hurt that I had a few friends who were telling me "Dude, start your blog."  I don't blame them.

  They're probably frustrated at what I've become these past couple months.  Watching movie after movie, literally becoming everything I despised: a depressed, slothful young adult with no drive to do anything productive.  I've dumped men for adapting to their parents' basements, too adapted to the point they'll probably be growing roots there at thirty.  I've constructively criticized my peers for becoming one with their couches and listened to them bitch about their melodramatic lives until my brain shut off.  I should really not shut people off when they're talking.  Its just hard when they're talking about absolutely nothing.

  All I've ever wanted was a career doing what I love.  But how can I become an author or a journalist when I couldn't even keep focus on getting my Magazine Journalism degree?  Its exhausting doing absolutely nothing. Mentally, that is.  I'm 22.  I live at home.  I'm lazy.  I must change this.  I must document my life to get the gears going.  Maybe, just maybe, this blog could help me spit on my writers block.  Just kick dirt in the face of my lack of motivation.  At the very least, make me feel like I'm doing something.  Ah, who knows what the future holds, but if I let this blog fall into the Internet abyss like my other blogs, I give anybody reading permission to slap me.