Hope Dies Last

I own a pair of plastic shoes. With metal studs.

(Yes, before you ask, I was possessed.)

Nothing else can possibly explain this:

To be fair, I have never worn them. It appears I only practice good judgment after I have handed over my credit card. (Um…Reason #3, 488 I’m still single?)

Do you have any items in your closet that cause you to pause and say, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’

Your weekend project is to crawl into your wardrobe, find your tackiest pair of shoes, accessories, clothes WHATEVER and then head over to the Hope Dies Last Facebook Page here and upload your photo in the super, cool album I’ve aptly titled ‘WTF?!’

Let’s share in mutual embarrassment, shall we?

I doubt this list needs an introduction. But secret single behaviours are those quirky, weird, embarrassing habits we all develop after living alone for some time. These are some of mine.

• Watch a time-wasting show (like One Tree Hill) and pluck the stray hairs on my legs. (I feel the same satisfaction as I did at my university graduation when I find and have to remove an ingrown).

• Eat Chinese takeout in bed while testing my celebrity knowledge on People.com

• Pretend to have a captivated audience when I cook.

• Channel Taylor Swift in her You Belong With Me video and do goofy dances in my bedroom (Hairbrush as microphone is a MUST)

• Rearrange something in one room of my house every week

• Without fail, check the progress of my eye wrinkles in the bathroom mirror after a shower. (Smile. Solemn face. Smile. Solemn Face. Smile. Solemn Face.)

• Secretly love, watch and cry during every movie set in a high school ever. (Do you have any favourites you can recommend?)

• Take obnoxious self-portraits on my Mac before going out.

• Facebook stalk until my hand is numb.

• Facebook stalk until I am convinced that every single person on earth is living a much better life than I am.

• Ask my cat questions. (For example, ‘Do you think he’s going to call? OK, fine. If you think he’s going to call, just sit there staring at me.’

What are your secret single behaviours?

Often conversation among my friends will turn to my perpetual single status. My girl friends do not understand the reason that men are not slamming doors, crossing intersections and vaulting over electrical fences to get to me. (My friends are awesome.) Acquaintances and male friends, on the other hand, are quick to fill me in on all the potential reasons I am still unattached. Some have been on the mark, and others have been absurd.  I’ve collected them all (and included some of my own reasons) in this list.

I don’t have a boyfriend because…

…I don’t go out consistently enough.

…I don’t work in an office.

…my friends’ friends are apparently ‘not good enough’, ‘not old enough’, ‘not liberal enough’ for me.

…I live in Greece. (Apparently, I do not possess qualities that Greek men find attractive.)

…I don’t drink alcohol.

…I don’t do one night stands.

…I’m too aggressive. (Rawr.)

…I’m too shy.(Miao.)

…I have high expectations.

…men are hunters. And I don’t let them be. (I know, I know. It is scandalous that I like you too, dude. How dare I?)

…I don’t flaunt my cleavage.

…I’m not ‘fun’ and ‘laidback’ (That is an outrageous lie. My definition of fun is getting laid on my back. Boom!)

…I don’t present myself as a potential girlfriend. Instead, I present myself as a friend.

…I’m desperate. (Your face is desperate.)

…I’m unlovable.

…I’m unlucky.

Why don’t you have a boyfriend?

I’m not a natural flirt.

I have spent quite a few years actively observing the friends that are and have spent a few more years trying to imitate their behaviour. I’ve yet to master it.

Natural flirts are like ballerinas. They’re graceful. I watch them dance and think  How hard can it be to balance your body on your toes and twirl?  Then when I attempt to do it, on the balls of my feet, I lose my center of gravity and fall into an accidental squat with my butt parallel to the ground and my arms outstretched like a toddler while both hands try to hang onto whatever wall, or person, or plant is closest.

I’m a clumsy flirt.

When I’m careful, I drop meaningful glances in the direction of the object of my lust. If it is a loud night and he is close, I’ll lean in and talk into his ear. My fingers will be close to my mouth. I’ll pretend that I can’t hear so that he is forced to come close to me too. Sometimes, I’ll twirl a strand of hair. I’m subtle. It’s a defense and it works. Because if said man does not reciprocate with an inflated chest and his hand softly on my back move, I don’t lose any face. Problem is, with this discreet flirting, if the dude blinks he might miss it.

When I am a little confident (because of a great hair day or vodka), I flirt with my tongue.  My body freezes and my words are ballsy and provocative. They are not subtle at all. ‘You’re not leaving until you kiss me.’ was my most recent gem. It is only when horror crept into the eyes of the recipient that I realized I had tripped over the line and fallen face first into FlirtFail territory.

I sway from flirting that cannot be detected by the human eye to flirting that can be seen from space.

I’m clearly not a natural.

Are you?

Dearest Anon,

I received a phone call from a blocked number the other day. I thought it was you. For no other reason than if this was four months ago it would have been you. Two missed calls– blocked–one after the other. I racked my brain to think of an alternative. Who else would call me a little before 9 p.m? My bank–who also hides their number–don’t call that late to harass me.

It must have been you, I hoped. Or maybe I didn’t. I don’t really know.

Days later it occurred to me that it could have been Zara. Earlier that day I had asked for a pair of black boots. They told me they would call to confirm if they had them in my size.

Now a pair of black, flat boots that are not too pointy and not too round are hard to find and so naturally I was confused.

Did I want that blocked number to have been you? Or my boots?

There was simply no choice.

I wanted the boots.  I chose shoes over you.

I think we can now safely assume that in leaving me, you left me beautifully unbroken.

E