Dating a Hoover

Elaine and I discussing her date with a guy she met in a bar.

Elaine: I have dinner w [NAME]. I think I'm going to have to stop that. But I agreed to have dinner w him and he remembers the plan so I'll go. I find him interesting, but his kissing definitely not.

Me: Shame.

Elaine: Yeah, well, I am not really phys attracted to him.

Me: That's the thing, though, isn't it? Finding one that has everything.

Elaine: Yeah, I need to throw the fish back. I like his brain, though. Ha ha!

Me: It makes me so sad. You're having the problem I usually have, though--no chemistry. You're not one to have problems with that usually. Well, I'm sorry he's not working out, but please remember this in future for when I tell you I don't have chemistry with someone.

Elaine: well, I gen. don't agree to go on dates w ppl I don't find all that attractive, but I was so intrigued by him. I didn't think it was a date. But I was wrong.

Me: Didn't think it was a date? Was that an awkward discovery? It always has been for me.

Elaine: Well, not super awk but awk enough. But it was prob my fault since I got v cold and used him for warmth. Ha ha. And then it broke space boundary, but he was sort of touchy feely anyway.

Me: Wow, uh, you knew you weren't attracted to him but used him for warmth? Wow.

Elaine: God, I sound like you. Haha.

Me: No, I only take warmth from people I know.

 
After her second date—where she went knowing that it was a date.

Elaine: I realized why he's such a bad kisser. Thinks that boring his skull into someone's is "passionate," and that suction is involved in kissing. And I tried to guide it and it was only slightly better, but he's beyond help. But he's nice. Damn.

And we didn't go to dinner! Grr. Made mistake of saying that I wasn't starving when he asked if I was hungry and he said he wasn't that hungry.

Me: You fell for the "Let's meet at my place" thing?

Elaine: Yeah, I was let in by the doorman, and went to meet him at his door, and he was going to meet me in lobby. Damn, Damn.

Me: I told you about [NAME] pulling that. It's a trap for men who are really bad at some aspect of dating. So you just went along with the kissing then? Yuck! I’m sorry things didn’t improve. Are you going to tell him…something?

Elaine: I told him that I wanted friends.

Me: And he was ok with that?

Elaine: well, he thinks that things will be more. Idk. Ughhh.

Me: Huh. Weird.

Elaine: Yeah, weird. So damn hungry now. Grrrrrrrrrr.

Me: You never ate?

Elaine: No.

The "Personal Growth" Section

With the publication of Fifty Shades of Grey, publishers have seen a tremendous rise in sales of erotica. Some have attributed its popularity to the development of e-readers, which allow readers to purchase what was once taboo while retaining a degree of anonymity. And as a former book-seller, I think perhaps this benefits not only customers, but sellers as well.

My first real job was as a sales associate at Books-A-Million. I was a somewhat naïve, just-turned-eighteen year old who had been employed about two weeks when a middle-aged, well-dressed woman came to the service desk. Her hair was elaborately styled and she wore a vibrant, purple work suit. Obviously, she was a confident business woman. But when she reached the counter, she hesitated for a moment.

“Could you point me to the romance section, please?”

I looked at her, slightly confused. “Sure, it’s right there,” I said, pointing to the shelves that were literally right behind her.

She turned, looked, and grew noticeably uncomfortable. “No, that’s not it. I was looking for the other romance section.”

“Oh.” I had no idea what she was talking about. “Uh, if you look on the other side of that shelf, we have some of our more specific romances, like the westerns and series.”

She sighed and looked around. “Is there someone else…?”

“I’m sorry, I’m the only one on the floor while my manager’s at lunch. I want to help you, but I’m not sure what you’re asking for,” I confessed.

She winced as she said, “I’m looking for adult romances.” I stared blankly. “I’m looking for Penthouse novels!”

“Penthouse publishes novels? What the…?! Oooohhh.” I paused and remembered having stocked a sex manual recently. “I think that’s in, uh, the Personal Growth section. Do—do you want me to, er, show you—?”

“No! No, please, I’ll find it. Just point me in the general direction,” she said.

I pointed toward the back corner of the store. She quickly turned and hurried away, head down so she met no one’s eyes. Meanwhile, I felt sorry for having embarrassed her. A few minutes later she passed by again, two books clutched preciously to her chest, looking everywhere but at me.

Later, I told my manager about that experience, which cracked him up. Our managers divided the store into large sections and assigned them to different employees, whose job it was to become experts in that section and keep it orderly. Thereafter, I was assigned to the “Personal Growth” section for the duration of my time there.

What can you tell about a person from their computer?

I decided to change up my routine today and headed to Barnes and Noble instead of my usual Starbucks. Upon arrival, I notified Kelli of the change and completed my required assessment of the men in the room.

Me: Here's the scoop—4 military guys, another man in late 30s (job undetermined), one couple, one woman with a son, one woman reading a book I've never heard of.

Kelli: Undetermined - mmm. What is he reading?

Me: He’s not. He's using a 14" Asus laptop. Screen facing away from me.

Kelli: What can you tell about a person from their computer? I do not know this.

Me: I have no idea. Let me think...

Usually you can tell if he knows anything about technology. HP and Dell (if not a Tough Book) are usually not as good as Sony or Toshiba. I'm unfamiliar with Asus, but I think it's a low-end, functional laptop--budget-friendly and good for a low-demand user. Or maybe that's Acer?

If he uses a mouse that plugs into the USB ports and he's not some kind of graphic artist, then he spends little time on computers and is mostly unfamiliar with them.

You can tell income-level by what he carries the laptop in. If it's a bookbag, it can either be something sturdy like Jansport, or something crappy. Crappy = low income or low concern for electronics. Super expensive bags with padded shoulders and mesh to allow your shoulders to "breathe" generally indicates trying too hard, afraid of breaking a gadget that's mostly foreign to the user. A neat neoprene sleeve in a modest, practical bag is best, indicating a user who is comfortable with technology and practical.

Wow, I feel like a nerdy version of Elaine.

Kelli: Where did you learn all that?

Me: Heh, I just made it all up. :)

Kelli: ...

Swimsuit Shopping

Back at the end of my first year of grad school, I discovered that I needed a new bathing suit. I wanted something inexpensive, yet quality, and something tasteful, falling happily in the middle between Puritanical and internet porn star on the modesty scale. Naturally, I turned to my good friend, roommate, and all-around fashion consultant, Elaine, to help me find such a suit. Need I state that she was ecstatic? Of course she was! I was doing something that was girlie, sociable, and involved clothing.

I don’t know exactly when I bought my last swimsuit. I might have been around age fourteen, which would be just over a decade ago. Judging by how different the styles are, that might well be an accurate estimate. When we arrived at Wal-Mart, I felt overwhelmed. Of course, that isn’t unusual for me, as I hate Wal-Mart fervently, but for once it wasn’t the raucous-voiced, harried mothers, or the wild children, or the apathetic cashiers, or even the prison-like décor that made me feel lightheaded. No, for once it was choices. When Elaine had asked what kind of suit I wanted, I had thought she meant did I prefer one piece or two, and perhaps did I have a color preference.

It was not that simple. A one-piece now comes with different cuts around the legs and arms, different straps around the shoulders. Some have ruffles that look skirt-like, and some look like summer dresses. But at least with a one-piece you know the top and bottom match—and if they don’t, you can blame the designer—“I don’t know why they don’t match. I thought it looked funny, but the suit was cheap.” With a two-piece, however, the matching is left up to you. Should the top and bottom be the same color, or should the bottom match the accent color in the top? If the bottom has ruffles then should the top as well, or is that too many ruffles? If the top cuts across the shoulder this way, then how should the bottom cut across the legs?

Eternally idealistic and hopeful, trusting that one day I will become a real woman, Elaine posed those questions to me, eliciting a series of responses something along these lines: “Huh? Meh? Er…  Sure. I guess. There’s a difference?”  But to her credit, she was phenomenally patient. She chose colors I wear a lot—red, blue, green. And since I was a fairly inexperienced shopper, she selected a variety of styles in both tops and bottoms.

There was one swimsuit top that seemed especially popular at Wal-mart that year. I don’t know what it’s called, and my description will doubtlessly fail to do it justice, but could I call myself a writer if I didn’t at least try? The top looks like a shirt with a fitted body that one pulls over one’s head. Then there are two strips of cloth that come up over the breasts and tie behind one’s neck. Doesn’t it sound simple, yet stylish?

Unfortunately, it was also impossible to operate. Pulling it on was one thing; keeping it up was another. When I pulled on the medium-sized top, it fit well in the torso, but the miniscule flaps of cloth that were designed to cover my bust were woefully inadequate. So I wriggled free and tried on a large. This size felt loose in the torso, but, surprisingly, was still inadequate to cover my breasts.

By this time I had tried on numerous bottoms, and Elaine was getting antsy waiting to see something on me. “Do you have anything to show me yet?” she called.

I glanced in the mirror. “Er, not yet.”

“Nothing?” I could hear it in her voice—what she really meant was, “You’ve been in there forever.  Now get your tush out here!”

“I’m having trouble finding a top that fits,” I explained.

           

There was a silence that followed wherein I could sense Elaine’s confusion.

“How does it not fit?” she asked.

“Well, it’s one of those that ties behind the neck, and it doesn’t really cover me.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t cover you?”

I looked in the mirror. How should I explain this? Now remember, this whole conversation is being yelled back and forth through a dressing room door in the middle of the busiest place on earth. Would it be most effective to call back, “I’ve seen strippers with more coverage?” Or should I take a more tactful approach and explain that “there is a disproportionate flesh to fabric ratio resulting in a deficiency of fabric and an overabundance of flesh,” in case there are children around?

“Hold on.” I pulled the strips of cloth behind my neck and tied them loosely, then tried to adjust the pieces of fabric, hoping to magically find some support. I tightened the strips, then adjusted again, tightened, then adjusted. This wasn’t helping. I tried tying the straps differently, but that didn’t help either. No matter how I tied the straps, they were determined not to stay put. Either this was a top designed for women without breasts, or a top designed for a topless beach.

“Have you found anything now?” Elaine called.

“Uh, well…” I glanced around and grabbed a sporty one-piece, blue and black, that reminded me of a porpoise. I pulled it on and checked in the mirror. Yes, everything was covered that needed covering, and nothing looked weird or out of place. There were no confusing straps, and it didn’t threaten to fall off if I did anything extreme like take a deep breath. “Yeah, I think so.”

I opened the dressing room door. Elaine’s critical eye scanned me from top to bottom, slightly perplexed but not displeased.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I was now aware of how awkward I must look wearing a swimsuit and white ankle socks.

“Which top didn’t fit?” I showed her both the medium and large. “Now how didn’t they fit?”

“They didn’t cover me,” I said.

“Ok, I need a little more explanation…”

“This,” I said, grasping the flap that was intended to cover my breast, “isn’t large enough.”

The dressing room attendant, a grey-haired woman in her late fifties, smirked.

“Are you saying it showed a little cleavage, or…”

“It showed more than cleavage,” I assured her, and the attendant more than smirked. 

Elaine looked skeptical. I opened my mouth to say, “It fits like pasties! For $14 I expect more fabric than that,” but I thought better of it. The difference between Brittany at 24 and Brittany at any age before 24 was a new-found ability to keep my foot from cramming itself down my throat. Generally.

I went with the one-piece, although Elaine thought we should try Target and possibly Kohl's first. But I was exhausted. Two swimsuits I tried on didn’t want to come off; I got tangled in one like a diver in the grasp of an octopus; and then there was the top I’ve covered in so much detail, the one that promised a grand “costume malfunction” to rival the infamous one by Ms. Jackson and Mr. Timberlake. And a week later when I wore the one-piece in the Atlantic, I knew I had made the right decision. I had a grand time splashing around through the waves knowing everything was secure. As I sat on the sand playing with my bucket and spade, the ocean lapping at my castle turrets, I smiled as I watched three other ladies who continually stopped to reattach or re-tie their suits. Once again I escaped being a victim of fashion—and for once I did it while looking quite chic.