I Am Not His Girlfriend.

It happened again...

someone accused me of being your girlfriend.

After witnessing several weeks in the on-going saga of our ambiguous friendship, this well-meaning gentleman, casually plopped himself down beside me at the bar and innocently inquired "So, are you [his] girlfriend?"

I understand that this is not an entirely unwarranted question, mostly because I've heard it hundreds of times in the last seven years, but I still haven't gotten fully used to hearing it or very good at answering it without coming off like a complete bitch.

To add insult to injury, this question almost always comes inevitably posed at just the moment in the night when I've allowed myself to chill and forgive you again for not being my boyfriend; when I've become complacent within the dynamic of the room and I've come to peace with my own perceived lackings. It is in exactly that moment that someone points to the corner of the room and says, "Hey, isn't that your boyfriend making out with some girl?" or "Did you guys move here to be together?" or "How long have you guys been together?" or "Aren't you dating him?"

Inside the irony is enough to snap my brain back into crushing reality, set all my armhairs straight up and knock 90% of the wind out of me, but on the outside I scoff at the thought of being implicated in some sort of committed, romantic involvement with you. While my actual reactions have varied in verbiage, the theme has been consistent: "Ew, that LOSER? He is NOT my boyfriend, he will NEVER be my boyfriend, I would NEVER stoop so low as to date him."

I'm sorry about that. I hate having to be so mean, but the overriding forces of my ego insist that I make it known that I am the one rejecting you and not vice versa.

But on this night, my bitter side had begun to sweeten as I stood there swaying fondly to the music, in the empty room with a very full glass of wine. I felt special, sentimental and supportive as the only girl who came out in the cold to see the show, so when he asked "So, are you [his] girlfriend?" it somehow felt less like a confrontation or an accusation, because it seemed like he honestly hoped it was so. My intoxicated, inflated self-esteem welcomed his query as it was received with a tone that conveyed what a great catch he thought I was and how lucky you would be to to call me your own. My eyes closed softly for a prolonged blink and I let out a sigh that ended in an affectionate smile as I turned to look him in the eyes and give him an answer.

Maybe it was because you weren't within earshot of the question, but I didn't feel the need to denounce you so violently in my answer. Or maybe because he asked with such earnest, I somehow wasn't immediately compelled to repel the whole concept so quickly. Or maybe, god forbid, I'm growing up a bit, moving on some and a little less concerned about what people think, but my reply escaped my lips without the crutch of cruel, defensive jabs.

"No, we're just good friends," I said, "We've known each other a really long time, but it's never been like that."

The words came bobbling out as if I had never thought any differently, as if that was the only way things had ever really been and the only way they ever could be.

And lately, I can't help but think that maybe that is the way it should be and the way it always should have been; a simpler version of us, just you and me, just friends.

I have never...

I have never said a romantic "i love you" out loud to anyone. Whispering such things while the recipient is out of earshot or fast asleep does not count.

I have never "slow-danced" with anyone. Never been asked to. Never been someone's date to any dance of any kind. I sometimes wonder that if I ever end up getting married, that our first dance will also be my first slow dance ever.

I have never felt so at home and yet so restless all at once, as I feel when I live in LA. It's the reason I moved to San Francisco the first time I lived here and it's starting to make me very uncomfortable now. I fear that familiarity breeds content and I may become stunted. But I'm having so much fun right now; the easy way is becoming too hard not to take.

I have never worried about my "ticking clock," because I've never had to. But, now approaching 26, I can't help but worry that the next ten years of my dating life will mirror the tumultuous, self-sabotaging first ten. These last ten years from 16-26, flew by with little sense of consequence, but there is a fear brewing inside of me that knows that there are some serious lifestyle choices and personal goals that I will have to figure out in order to take on the actual life-altering repercussions that come with turning 36.

I have never tried anything I didn't think I would succeed at. This is why it could seem that I succeed at everything I try.

I have never said nothing at all, especially when I couldn't say something nice and only except when I wanted to say "I love you."

The only phone numbers I have committed to memory are my own cell and my parents' home line. I have an impeccable memory which stores the most acute details from moments in time, but names and phone-numbers never cease to escape me. I can't help but worry that this is a reflection of the underlying forces of my deep-running self-absorption.

I have never felt as low as I feel when someone important flakes on me. There is nothing more devastating than a last minute cancellation from a close friend, who already has my love and trust. I take this sort of let down, so far beyond personally that it becomes unhealthy, irrational and self-destructive. I am trying to learn to just breath, forgive and deal with it.

I have never felt as lucky as I do when I look back on a week where I've stayed in touch with family, caught up with real friends, felt accomplished at work and felt like I was part of something that meant something special to me. This feeling seems to increase at an exponential rate when on a lucky streak.

I have never wanted to keep learning, growing and living as much as I do now and I never been so excited to find out what could happen next at any given moment.

Anatomy of a Bad Decision: Why I won't go through your things.

Early one morning while he was in the shower getting ready for work, I found myself unable to sleep through a nagging urge. For the last several weeks I had noticed a black and white speckled composition book laying near, around, and half-way under the bed and the urge to peak inside it finally consumed me.

There was no cause for suspicion; I trusted him completely and had no notions of jealousy. But I am inquisitive to a fault and that morning I was pushed to the limits of my curiosity.

In a hasty ethical black-out, I reached beneath the bed and found my fingers grasping at his notebook. Sifting swiftly past a few pages I saw scribbled songs, juvenile poetry and long page-spanning entries. My search for the unknown suddenly halted when I came upon on a letter. "Dear Erin," it read. It was the name that first caught my eye, because it's my mom's. "Dear Erin," he began, "I miss you and the way you always smelled like vanilla," he continued.

A panicked rambling interrogation went on silently in my head: Who is this girl? Where did she come from? When had he ever come close enough to catch a whiff of her? What about her and her scent was so alluring and still haunting him today?

Before I could be caught red-handed and teary-eyed, I snapped the notebook shut and slid it back beneath the shadowed edge of the bed.

Those words in his handwriting are forever ingrained on my brain, etched there like scarlet letters symbolizing my shameful trespassing. I had been trusted to be alone with his personal space and I went ahead and invaded it. All I had to show for this indecent indiscretion, was a paranoid fixation on some fictional evil temptress called Erin and her slutty vanilla body spray.

Though it can seem exciting to become privy to someone else's classified information, knowing something I shouldn't is just too much information for me. I'm not good at keeping my game face on, I'm awful at hiding my emotions and I'm hell-bent on over-analyzing and oversharing nearly every thought to pop into my head. With that kind of a combo already going on, add the shame and guilt of snooping and I am a wreck!

Opening that notebook was the wrong thing to do. Going through someone's things is a bad decision. That decision was the defining moment that began the end of that relationship. Reading those words somehow flipped a switch inside me that took me from the safe and content girl in love to an obsessive, suspicious, jealous girl second guessing my every move. I don't like the latter me and I only had myself to blame for creating her.

Snooping is derived from insecurity and from this event I know that it brings out and exploits the very worst, most insecure version of me. It does more harm than good. It is a bad decision and I had to learn the hard way from it.

This is why I will never go through your things.

Say yes in Los Angeles.

If saying yes is the new black and then color me gothic.

I am swiftly leaving the "no" behind, in favor of giving everything and everyone a fair chance. Snap-judgements, crippling anxiety and a tendency to go full on hermit are all on hold, because the time has come to say yes to living!

Once a heavy drinker of hater-ade, my pallet has has been cleansed.

In the past I have worn the "too cool" mask, hiding a shy, inhibited, worried, overthinking girl, who would rather stand in the corner alone than attempt to fit in. Because coming off as cold, uninterested and detached, seemed far better than being rejected for being awkward, strange and lame.

Stuck in the world of "no," I was bouncing between negative-leaning oblivion and hyper-aware self-consciousness, but neither is the proper mindset for a successful twenty-something in Los Angeles.

The best part about converting to a life of saying "yes" is the feeling of empowerment that comes swelling forth as you take control over your burgeoning social life. The more you say yes, the more you wonder why you never had. This I've found is especially true, in a city like LA.

Los Angeles is a strange place, because everyone who comes here, comes here from somewhere else and they come here with a dream. While the same can be said about Manhattan, it is a glossier, shinier, dreamier dreamer that makes their way to the entertainment capitol. And in a city of such dreamers, there comes an unspoken sense of unity; that we're all in this dreamworld together. We all abandoned the "no, I can't," when we moved to this infamous and intimidating town and we're going to say yes to every exciting adventure that may come our way while we're here.

Saying yes to going out, to talking to strangers, to moving to a new neighborhood or going to dinner and a movie alone, isn't as scary when you realize everyone else is just forcing themselves to get over it and say yes too.

Basically, if you don't stay home stewing in your insecurities, no one will notice you have them. These days I am putting that to use, making the most of single life in the city and loving it. If I stay home on any given night now, it's because I needed some "me time" to read a book or catch up on some crap TV, not because I was too afraid to venture out.

I've learned that saying yes, isn't such a challenge when you forget that it ever was.

Anatomy of a Bad Decision: Inappropriate Attractions

The lure of the forbidden fruit is irresistible and legendary, but when attraction to the unattainable tends to override all other forms of lust, the results can range from merely disappointing to nearly catastrophic. It's not that I seek out these wrong men, they just seem to happen upon me time after time. Basically, I am an off-limits man magnet. And, while no two problem-guys are exactly alike, I have found that there are five main archetypes that seem to cycle in and out of my constantly doomed-from-the-start love life.

1) The Unavailable Stranger - He is the friend of a friend that comes along on a night out, he is the cute boy across the room at a party, he is the guy in the next group over at the bar and no matter what the situation, this stranger inevitably seeks me out and chats me up. The conversation flows with ease, there's flirtation and intrigue and the longer it continues the more I am convinced that "this is it!" and I begin to remember the details around me, because right now the "how we met" story is happening! Just as we're really starting to click, I'll even decide to play the game a bit and sneak away for a restroom break with a girl friend, where my heart immediately jumps onto my sleeve. "I think I really like this guy! He's cute right!? OMG I'm totally going to give him my number tonight!," I say between excited, eager giggles. Upon my confident and refreshed return, the time and the sparks fly, but it's getting late and the people I came with are ready to leave. "My friends are leaving and they're my ride," I tell him. "But, this was fun and I'd love to see you again!" I say. I say this because I am not the least worried about rejection, because The Unavailable Stranger has been all about me all night, what risk could there be? But my dating life is not that simple and so as soon as I've attempted to take things to the next step, he suddenly drops the big one, "Oh, I actually have a girlfriend," he says as he obliterates our chemistry and my pride all in one fell swoop.

This has happened more times than I can count. I don't know if these guys are all just really horrible, absentee boyfriends or if when push came to shove they just weren't that into me and all created imaginary girlfriends just to let me down easy. Either way, I'm going to stick with the former, they're just assholes theory, because it makes me feel better about myself.


2) The Married Guy - This guy is a good old fashioned crush; a gets you flustered and makes you blush crush. His bookish style and warm smile caught my eye right away and it was soon clear he was the only guy on the floor who I could possibly have something in common with. He is the daydream factory that churns out happy thoughts when I need a moment away from memos, spreadsheets and conference calls. He has all the makings of an adoring boyfriend, but he will never be mine, because he is married. A fact I unfortunately found out when I was already knee deep in crush. He is so young, with so much potential, how could he already have a wife? But he does. He has someone he has committed his entire life to and all my trifling mind can think is "Wow, what a keeper!"

So what if he engages me in conversation, asking getting to know your questions, but never speaks in "we" or mentions anything about a wife. That does not make her less real or less of a roadblock. Therefore, this is one of those inappropriate attractions that has absolutely no potential of blooming into a full blown bad decision. But that's the fun part about a crush, you get to have all those red-faced, voice-cracking moments without ever having to discover his faults or haul around relationship baggage.


3) The Guy Who is "On a Break" - The "break" is one of the most obtuse concepts to come into the relationship realm since the '60s brought us swinging. I have encountered several forms of "the break" in my dating past and the only thing linking them is that they all ended poorly for me. The trick to falling for an "on a break" guy comes down to a combination of defense mechanisms shooting off in a chaotic storm of cerebral misfires. Within this storm there is my logic screaming "this guy is unavailable!!! The 'break' is just a loophole for cheaters!!! This won't last!!!" And then there is the underbelly of my subconscious saying "this is perfect, there is no risk involved because you know this won't really go anywhere. And, when it ends, he is at fault for misleading you." Finally, actually making the bad decision to "date" the break guy comes from committing to only hearing what you want to and ignoring the rest.

If he tells me it hasn't been working out for months and he's finally breaking up with his live-in girlfriend and that he'll be getting his own place as soon as his friend comes out to California, I will play along. I will play along, because he will call or text every day. I will play along because he will tell me that we have passion that he never had with her. I will play along, because he will tell me things he's never told anyone and we will bond over the secrecy of our affair. I will play along because I like the attention and because I love knowing the risk he is taking to be with me.

When these boys come along, I play along, because I know the routine and sometimes the devil you know is better than the big scary world where there might actually be good guys. Besides, my logical side insists that the entire reason these guys are attracted to me, is because I know there's no long term, monogamous bliss in our future, and so I am able to be the completely uninhibited me. This faux-nerability has only proven that fake attracts fake and clearly I need to get myself together in order to get someone who's got themself together. Ugh, I am working on it.

4) The 100% Off-Limits Bro - This can either literally mean someone's sibling or someone's guy friend. Either way, when that someone is a boss, a close friend or an ex, little good can come from a tryst with one of their off-limits bros. Though they say "all is fair in love and war" there are some fairly undisputed rules in the dating world that make certain people off-limits. But, in the world of bad decisions rules were made to be broken.

My pattern of off-limits bros began with the 22-year-old older brother of my supervisor when I was 17. They lived together and when she caught us making out under the covers one night when I was supposed to be asleep on the couch, she was not pleased. Through death stares and hostile comments, she continued to make sure I knew that she was not happy about our arrangement. It got better when he moved in with friends, but within a year it was clear things weren't working out and eventually there was a long drawn-out, messy break-up. He was my first love, but he definitely wasn't "the one," in fact he's married with two kids now. All's well that ends well, right? No lesson learned there.

Fast forward to my most recent and possibly most blatant display of disregard for this rule. In summary the phrase "shitting where you eat" comes to mind. Because, when you have a close friend who doubles as a FWB, then the cute bro in his band, who he also happens to live with, is definitely off limits. But being the go-getter type that I am, I got real drunk and bagged me a bad decision. At first the FWB was really upset, but soon the tempers cooled and all was "water under the bridge" as he said it. And again, all's well that ends well, right? So no lesson learned there.

But, I'm not proud of any of these actions and I would like to think I won't repeat them again. To help in resisting, my new mantra is: Just because you can do some[one], doesn't mean you should.

5) The Wild Card - The Wild Card can be a composite of all of the above or none of it. The wild card as an idea is as simple and harmless as checking out the gorgeous dad of two at the supermarket or flirting with the underage hottie at the checkout stand. But the wild card as a bad decision, generally results in the less external consequences, in favor of more internal struggles. A wild card as bad decision is the time I went all the way with a friend, which took things from platonic one day to me bursting into tears one year later when his facebook relationship status was updated to engaged. Or my only one-night-stand ever, that just was so fleeting and unfulfilling that I forgot his name until very recently. It still gives me the icks that I legitimately did not know what his name was for close to five years. With the wild card it's not the boy who lets you down, you let yourself down. These are bad decisions that don't tear your life apart or haunt you daily, but somehow they stick with you and turn up just when your thought patterns begin to spiral into that dark, I just want to sit at home alone and cry place; which usually happens about once a month around the same time each month.

The casualties of my personal poor choices are an eclectic bunch. If given the chance to do them all over again, I can't say that there are things I wouldn't change. They have given me stories to tell, as well as a cause for reflection and self-improvement and for that I have no regrets.

Defying Dove

Dear Dove Promises dark chocolate wrapper,

It's 3pm on the Friday before Halloween and I'm already 0-for-10 on sticking to my guns this week, so frankly now is not the time to surprise me with the judgy little note hiding behind the delicious empty calories I came here for.

"Keep the promises you make to yourself. Love, Dove"

I don't understand where this passive aggressive hostility is coming from, but I don't like it and I'm not going to take it lying down! You're like the fortune cookie's bitchy older sister, with better hair and a hotter ass, but I refuse to let you make us feel inferior.

You see, little miss holier than thou, not all of us have what it takes to keep all of the promises we make to ourselves. Whether those promises include resisting contact with That Guy (FAIL), not eating candy all week to prepare-to-bare in slutty-god-knows-what costume this weekend (Obvious FAIL)or to not drink one's self to sleep on a Thursday night (ugh, FAIL again), sometimes you just give in because instant, though temporary, gratification is just what you want at that moment.

I know what you're thinking; you didn't mean anything by it, you were just trying to help, you didn't realize I was so sensitive. Well I don't believe you and I don't need any more of your backhanded complements and I'm not going to let you get under my skin again this time. I'm just going to walk away and go hang out with my real friends...

Oh hey girl, how you doing diet Snapple? What is that you say, you have zero calories, taste delicious and you have a fun fact to share!? Oh, an alligator can go through 3,000 teeth in a lifetime? See, now that's something a girl can use, that's really interesting, in fact I'll be doing lots of mingling this weekend and that is awesome cocktail party fodder!

So you see, dear Dove Promises dark chocolate wrapper, sometimes I just want to enjoy my guilty pleasures and I don't need you trying to validate or encourage it. Because that's the thing about guilty pleasures, they're not good for me, no matter how you try and sugarcoat it.

Thanks,
jacklynjean

Can I Have My Cake and Johnny Too?

The second season of the sweet "Top Chef" spin-off "Top Chef: Just Desserts" ends tonight and I couldn't be more  inclined to drown my sorrows in a chocolate fountain.  Not because the show is so amazing and captivating, though it is actually pretty good, but because tonight ends my weekly rendezvous with the rockabilly pastry king, Johnny Iuzzini.

Going through "Top Chef" withdrawals last year, I was delighted to get a a quick confectionary hit from the new competitive series. Plus, this incarnation of the TC franchise had a lot going for it; the lovable and adorable Gayle Simmons was pegged to host, around 90% of the creations had the odds of being vegetarian friendly and it would be interesting to see new chefs triumphantly conquering the achilles heel of the savory-minded chefs from the original.  

So the show began, we met the contestants, including one who is apparently not only a douche, but a pedophile (looking at you Morgan, ew!) and it all seemed well-suited for an exciting season.  But then, he walked into the kitchen. With Johnny Bravo-meets Elvis hair, colors of swirling tattoos peeping out from his blue-button-up work shirt, slim dark denim jeans rolled up to meet not-too-shiny black boots, Johnny Iuzzini stole my heart. 

He is pretty, but tough. He is a pastry-specialist, but he gives you the sense that there was a hedge back home in the suburbs, over which he never could see.  Just his name, Johnny, screams punk rock. He is the most dangerous man to ever wear oven mitts. Johnny Iuzzini is dreamy on another level, and for that reason I am team "Just Desserts" over "Top Chef" to the core.

Plagued with a migraine headache today, I awoke around 2pm delighted to find a "Just Desserts" marathon in full swing.  My apartment darkened except for the glow of the TV and the volume down to barely-audible, I lie here now lamenting the swiftly-approaching loss of TV's sweetest treat, my Johnny. Seeing this season's scenes play before me, I call out at the screen "sip that red wine Johnny! Give them those sexy side-eyes! Break their balls my love, for they will never be as good as you!"

While I know the latest season of "Top Chef" will debut soon from deep in the heart of Texas, I can't help but resent it for taking away Johnny and breaking my heart.  Johnny's exit from my weekly schedule will now force me to go back out into the real world, to look for real love on Wednesday nights and it's just not fair.

Oh Johnny, you will be missed. Your sarcasm is perfection. Your smirk ruins my delicates. Your style slays me and your dark eyes pierce me to the core.  And, because "Top Chef: Just Desserts" is on its way out, just know that I will be relentlessly lurking you on the internet until season three begins and we are together again.