Sister from another mister

We point our left index fingers to the sky.  We strain our faces and squint our eyes to emote the painful effort of reaching the high notes in the autotuned vocal section of "Some Nights."  We are driving to the city for the weekend.  It is the fifth time we've heard this song on the radio since leaving work.  We don't change the station.

"You go first."

Me, hand flat and pushing slowly outward, guiding, "So come onnnnnnnn…"

Her, an octave higher, "Come onnnnn….."

Me, an octave higher, one eye squinting, "Come onnnn…."

Her, at the top, fingertip heaving up an invisible heavy ball, "OOH come onnnn!"

Nailed it. 

It reminds us of the time back in high school when we tried to hit the long high note singing "I Believe in a Thing Called Love."  It was winter in Colorado, the roads were icy and the car started to slide out of control.  Jackie was driving and she screamed but we thought she was just singing along.

That was seven years ago. 

"Do you think we ever would have guessed we'd be here now?"

"No way, we are so much cooler that we ever thought we'd be."

It's true, we are extremely cool.  We are the urban youth of America.  When we are together, there is no stopping us.  We cannot be stopped.  We are mighty.  (Or she is mighty and I bask in her electric glow.) The city is ours.  We breathe in its smoke haze and exhale life into its streets.  Our ideas are made of feathers and hollow bones and talons.  They seek to land, seize and take hold of reality and swoop it up into flight.  We want action.  Music.  Dancing.  Travel.  Motion.  We are welded wires, running on the same current, feeding off each other's energy.  When we fight charged sparks fly but, alas, we are fused together.  There is no choice but to mend. 

We know things about the world that other people just do not understand.  Like the art of living on leftovers and free food.  Or like how, when fatigue sets in, there is a time to surrender and there is a time to martyr yourself and rally for the sake of the party (when in doubt, chose the latter).  We know that the 20s will be, hands down, the best decade of our lives and we pity the fools who squander those years with too much ambition or complacency or money chasing or drama.  They key is to have a healthy dose of all of the above.

She knows things that I forget without her.  Like the appropriate length of a political, religious or philosophical conversation--just enough to stretch the mind without slipping into existential oblivion.  Or like how to not give a damn about impressing unimpressive people.  She knows how to talk about literature and science without sounding like a prick and how to tell a good story whether it's happy or sad. Her blessing is worth more to me than a letter from the President or a thousand "Likes" on facebook.  I would feel sick if she was ever ashamed of a choice I had made or an action I had done.

She crawls into my bed at one in the morning and feeds me the last slice of leftover pizza which I do not want but I eat because we both know that letting something edible go to waste is an unforgivable sin.
She reviews my text messages to analyze the meaning between the lines that I completely miss.
We tell each other when to stop complaining and remind each other how lucky we are in life. 

Ali, (if you ever read this) you're my sister from another mister.  You know I'd walk a mile in heels for you or give up cheese for the rest of my life.  Don't you ever forget it.

The dating game

"I don't even want a boyfriend.  I just want someone who wants to hang out all the time and thinks I'm the best person in the world and wants to be with only me." --Hannah from Girls

I don't know if there is universal plague among 20-somethings or if it's something about Californians or if I am buying the brand of shampoo that releases pheromones repellant to normal men, but being single in the Bay Area is like being a Mormon at a poker table--everyone else seems to know what they're doing (or at least can bluff), there are too many rules to keep track of and the chances of being dealt a good hand at the right moment are slim to none.

My standards are not unreasonably high, I'll give pretty much anyone at least a chance.  But the life-of-the-party types are usually gay, the fly-on-the-wall types are usually taken.  The Europeans are flirtatious but when they save your number in their phone by your physical features instead of your name, they come off as a little too... goal-oriented.  The grad students are interesting enough but their schedules are impossible.  (It also doesn't help that I live in the Peninsula--the armpit of the dating world.)

I don't mind the commute to the city for a date, but I cannot do long distance between Earth and the celestial world of intellectualism where many a San Franciscan reside.  "No, I haven't heard of [insert obscure indie band name here] either.  But keep asking, this is fun!  Tell me more about that time you read all of Tolstoy's novels on an airplane.  We could also talk about something that would not make me feel like an idiot, but then you'd have to walk down all those steps of your ivory tower... You're right, let's stick with game where I guess how many degrees you have!"

But even with a solid hand, a straight or a flush--a nice software developer at Google or a handsome business student from Greece--the odds of a win are still low when you don't know how to play the game.  Apparently, green canvas boots with a purple striped dress from Goodwill don't have the "sexy" vibe guys look for in a girl these days.  Who knew that commenting on the hotness of other women in the room might be an awkward conversation topic?  I am still trying to nail down the correct equation for appropriate text response time post initial encounter: TRT = (Average response rate ÷ number of texts/day) x (number of smiley faces as a percentage of number of winky faces).   No one ever told me that dance moves stolen from a full body workout video probably isn't the best way to nonverbally communicate romantic interest.  They just console me after it's all blown over, "Forget about him, he had no personality."


I always ask the "How'd you meet?" question when I meet coupes--the cute ones, not the obnoxious ones--because the variety of responses fascinate me.  Almost invariably, the stories starts with "It was pretty random..."  The best  ones take place on trains or at bus stops or in lines at the grocery store (if you believe in that sort of thing).

Perhaps the proper metaphor for this whole business isn't poker but a game of craps.  Just casting dice.