I am not sure what crime against humanity that I committed to cause me to get jury duty yet again. “I thought I had a 4 year reprieve,” I whined to M when I opened the summons. “I just fucking served not even 5 months ago! Why oh why am I being punished? I get jury duty more often than I get a cold!” While I searched the form looking for a number to call to report my dilemma I found only an 800 number available to explain my summons in Spanish. “Just go and deal with it when you are there,” M suggested. Easier said than done.
“There will be no 4 train, due to earlier problems on the track. All riders should use the 6 local for all downtown service,” an almost in audible voice droned over the loud speaker at the 59th Street station. It was before 8 am and I was already in a miserable mood. Trudging back up a mountain of stairs in 4 inch heels, I waited for 4 packed trains before I was able to board one. People were packed into the subway car like Roseanne Barr in a size 4 pair of pants. Overflowing, the train was stifling hot as I was sandwiched in between two people whose last shower was when the Knicks were good. Forty minutes late, I arrive at the courthouse for the now familiar video on the justice system. “We try to do our best to make sure you serve for shorter periods and you are called less frequently.” I snickered, out loud. I waited for the jury room officer to do his shpeel before I pleading my case.
“Miss you need to sit down,” he instructed me as I lingered by the door.
“No, not really. Where do I go if I already have served…. Like, yesterday?”
With pursed lips and rolled eyes, he instructed me to go to 60 Centre Street.
Once again I go through the metal detectors, this time they confiscated my camera which mistakenly I had in my bag giving me a slip to pick it up upon exiting. I located the room for the County Clerk where I had been instructed to go and I stand in line with a horde of people either looking for excusals or postponements of service. Finally reaching my destination at the front of the line, I come face to face with another displeased city employee. “There is a problem. I have already served jury duty and I need to get proof of that service because I was called again today,” I said handing her my summons. “Can I give you my social security number or my address and you can pull up my information?”
“Which court did you serve?” she asked me.
How the fuck would I know? State Court, Supreme Court, County Court – they are all the same to me. I just know it wasn’t a tennis court which is where I would rather be. “I have no idea. I didn’t file that piece of information or my proof of service paper which is why I am here.”
Faced with the prospect of having to serve again, I culled from the recesses of mind the address of the court house where I had served. “I think I was at 500 Pearl Street,” I said, though it was difficult to recall anything about that week since I had gotten engaged the night before my service, my attention to details related to anything else were nonexistent. “Ah, yes. That’s US District Court. What you are going to need to do now is take the elevator down to the basement, cross over behind the building and follow the walkway 500 yards to the building directly behind us,” she said using her pen as a pointer to illustrate on an air-map. “Then you are going to need to go to room 160 and ask for proof of service.” I nodded my head in understanding wishing I had my morning cup of coffee before this judicial scavenger hunt.
Another set of metal detectors and security. I felt like I was at 10 different airports already that morning. “Sorry Miss, no phones. We are going to need to hold that. Please check your phone in room 101.” So now my camera was at Centre Street, my phone was checked at 500 Pearl Street and I was on a hunt to locate the holy grail paper trail that would excuse me from 7 days of sitting idly in a jury room that smelled like peanut butter and foot cheese. “Which way is room 160?” I asked exhausted already.
I repeat the sentence which I had been saying all morning to another woman behind a desk. This had to be the end of my chase, I could feel it. All this lady had to do was print me something, sign it, stamp it and send me on my way to collect the scattered pieces of my electronic being. But as with the American legal system, nothing is ever that clear cut or easy. “I am afraid you are going to need to go to Jury Room 120 and speak to the clerk in there.”
“You have to be kidding, right?
Off to yet another room, to repeat the same sentence I am inches away from winding up in court as a defendant because I did not know what I was capable of in this state of sheer anger. “Served jury duty already. Need proof. Give me,” I shorten my request into fragments. I realized as I was standing there looking up at the officer in the jury room, that I was in the exact same room where I had sat just a few very short months ago. “Hello little lady,” the officer said looking down at me from his perch. “You are going to need to take the elevator up to the second floor and go to room 220.”
At this point I seriously considered just leaving. It’s not like they are going to put a warrant out for my arrest because I failed to show up for jury duty that they mistakenly gave me again. How is it that M never once has gotten called for jury duty and this is my 4th time in 10 years!? That was unjust. It’s not my fault that the different arms of justice don’t reach out to one another, why am I being penalized for their incompetence? Screw this crap. I would rather listen to Sanjaya sing on repeat on my iPod for 20 days straight then sit in a jury room again.
Wandering the halls of the court house, I am now sweating because I had dressed in my courtroom finest (velvet blazer and cords), inspired from an evening of watching Law and Order. I take the stairs, I repeat myself again in room 220. “You in the wrong place,” I am told. “What you need to do is go up to the 15th floor, take the corridor to the end of the hall and…” I stopped listening. I had no idea where I was at this point, who had my phone, who had my camera, where I was going. “I know this isn’t your fault,” I said in my sweet-as-cherry-pie phony voice. “But if I have to go to one more room or one more building, I am going to scream bloody murder. Answer me this. How in a world where I can order food on a seamless web from any restaurant is it possible that the court system cannot simply pull up my information and take me off this damn list?” The woman continued to stare at me, unsure how to answer my question. “Room 1586,” she said handing me a piece of paper with the number on it.
Two hours later I re-emerge from a labyrinth scavenger hunt grasping a simple printout declaring “time served” which was my get out of jail free card and with a promise that I will not be called for at least another 4 years (unless of course they really need me which means two years). All the way downtown, an entire morning wasted, there was only one thing to do. Go to Century 21. That is the only equitable and just aspect of jury duty - with discount designer duds.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Jack and the "Been-stalk"
“So we left the restaurant at like 10. The date was amazing. Total chemistry, I was really into him. I got home around 10:20, washed up, put away the dishes, took the dry cleaning out of the plastic. I couldn’t fall asleep so I logged on to Jdate at like 11:30 and then I see that Jack logged into his account at 10:28! I don’t understand. I thought we had a good date and he was into me. Why would he log on to Jdate right after he got home from our date?” Laurie mused as we dined at Serefina during one of our monthly girls’ dinners. In this day and age of high-tech living, we can closely monitor our friends, enemies and dates. But is this truly a good thing?
“Laur, Just cause he logged onto Jdate doesn’t mean he wasn’t into you. You logged on too! There is some hypocrisy for ya!” I said. As she twirled a forkful of pasta, her mind at work, she contemplated an answer. “But then I logged on this morning too and he was logged into Jdate all day.” On Jdate, as with many online dating services you can tell when someone is online and when they last logged on, thus creating an entirely new modern day version of stalking.
Before the Internet, the image of stalking was a scary looking guy with a lazy eye and a severe overbite in the bushes with binoculars. Then there was the more benign type of stalking that most teenage girls are guilty of; hang-up phone calls, drive bys and accidental run-ins in the hall before English Lit. But now, modern day technology and new fangled devices make tracking your romantic interests a lot easier.
It’s not Big Brother who you need to be wary of but rather your dates or Exes. Who hasn’t Googled a new or former flame? It’s called recon, due diligence or just smart dating. Google, one of the more innocuous methods of research can provide you with quick facts and a background check on most people. If the guy’s name happens to be John Smith you better hope that he works in some field like bio-nuclear organic mining. But more than likely than not, with a bit diligence you can dig up some information of your potential suitor. Past business school project reports or a speaking engagement he once had, all of this information is filed, stored and saved in the mines of cyberspace. A little excavating and you can uncover some pertinent information.
Instant message systems like AOL IM or MSN Messenger allows you to keep tabs on your buddy list. It’s great for checking to see when your best friend rolled into work so you can jump on her and find out the details of her date from the night before, but it also allows friend and foes to keep track of your whereabouts. “I know this sounds creepy,” Danielle said, “but when Mark and I broke up I was curious to see what he was doing with his nights. I wanted to see if he started dating again or anything so I would check to see when he was logged on to his IM account. It would show he was idle and I knew if it were like 9 on a Thursday night he was probably on a date or at least out with his lunatic buddies.” Unless you set up the user preferences to block the dissemination of information about your usage patterns, personal information and the way others can view that information – tools which you use to communicate with people can be tools used by others to track your whereabouts.
So where do we draw the line now between creepy criminal-like stalking and simply feeding a curiosity? And how healthy is it to have all of this available information when it comes to starting a new relationship? This is what happens when the forest of invention meets the clearing of thought.
I was stalked. It was a few years ago after I had broken up with someone who I briefly dated. At first, my online accounts were broken into and tampered with, then came a series of frightening emails and IMs from unidentified screen names. I was scared – scared enough to take proactive steps to protect myself. Arming myself with self-defense training and involving the NYPD’s cyber crimes division, we were able to track down the culprit. Subpoenaing information from AOL and Yahoo they were able to trace an IP address back to my Ex. I pressed charges and now I have a restraining order to keep that nuisance at bay.
In that case, his actions went far beyond the scoop of snooping and into the realm of prosecutable. “Laurie, have you ever heard the expression: Too much information is bad thing?” I asked her as she continued to relay Jack’s daily usage patterns on Jdate. Knowing things like what Splenda is actually made of or how they pack so much flavor into 14 calories at Tasti-Delite, this is the kind of information which I do not want to have. The same theory applies to dating. A woman’s mind is like a fast-moving frenzied knitting machine. Taking a small piece of relatively benign information, women can spin that simple thread into full-on sweater of despair and worry. “Did you ever think he logged on to see if you logged on,” I offered as a counter-theory to her self-created crisis. “He may be doing the same thing you are doing, checking to see if you are emailing other guys on Jdate.”
“I googled this one guy,” Tracy said. “Someone was trying to set me up with him and I find his name all over a gay porn website. His name was a bit unusual so I had a hard time convincing myself that it was another person. The Internet has become a graveyard for people’s pasts. No longer can one forget that crazy night in college when their friends decided to videotape them passed out in a pile of vomit. With You Tube, what happened on Spring Break does not stay on Spring Break. The cell phone cameras, James Bond-like micro video recorders and ubiquitous digital cameras now create a landscape of one’s life which continues to live, breath and grow even after people wish those moments have died.
As Laurie continued to make pie charts and excel spreadsheets analyzing the data she acquired on Jack’s online information, I was consumed by worry – Is private life now forever part of public consumption?
“Laur, Just cause he logged onto Jdate doesn’t mean he wasn’t into you. You logged on too! There is some hypocrisy for ya!” I said. As she twirled a forkful of pasta, her mind at work, she contemplated an answer. “But then I logged on this morning too and he was logged into Jdate all day.” On Jdate, as with many online dating services you can tell when someone is online and when they last logged on, thus creating an entirely new modern day version of stalking.
Before the Internet, the image of stalking was a scary looking guy with a lazy eye and a severe overbite in the bushes with binoculars. Then there was the more benign type of stalking that most teenage girls are guilty of; hang-up phone calls, drive bys and accidental run-ins in the hall before English Lit. But now, modern day technology and new fangled devices make tracking your romantic interests a lot easier.
It’s not Big Brother who you need to be wary of but rather your dates or Exes. Who hasn’t Googled a new or former flame? It’s called recon, due diligence or just smart dating. Google, one of the more innocuous methods of research can provide you with quick facts and a background check on most people. If the guy’s name happens to be John Smith you better hope that he works in some field like bio-nuclear organic mining. But more than likely than not, with a bit diligence you can dig up some information of your potential suitor. Past business school project reports or a speaking engagement he once had, all of this information is filed, stored and saved in the mines of cyberspace. A little excavating and you can uncover some pertinent information.
Instant message systems like AOL IM or MSN Messenger allows you to keep tabs on your buddy list. It’s great for checking to see when your best friend rolled into work so you can jump on her and find out the details of her date from the night before, but it also allows friend and foes to keep track of your whereabouts. “I know this sounds creepy,” Danielle said, “but when Mark and I broke up I was curious to see what he was doing with his nights. I wanted to see if he started dating again or anything so I would check to see when he was logged on to his IM account. It would show he was idle and I knew if it were like 9 on a Thursday night he was probably on a date or at least out with his lunatic buddies.” Unless you set up the user preferences to block the dissemination of information about your usage patterns, personal information and the way others can view that information – tools which you use to communicate with people can be tools used by others to track your whereabouts.
So where do we draw the line now between creepy criminal-like stalking and simply feeding a curiosity? And how healthy is it to have all of this available information when it comes to starting a new relationship? This is what happens when the forest of invention meets the clearing of thought.
I was stalked. It was a few years ago after I had broken up with someone who I briefly dated. At first, my online accounts were broken into and tampered with, then came a series of frightening emails and IMs from unidentified screen names. I was scared – scared enough to take proactive steps to protect myself. Arming myself with self-defense training and involving the NYPD’s cyber crimes division, we were able to track down the culprit. Subpoenaing information from AOL and Yahoo they were able to trace an IP address back to my Ex. I pressed charges and now I have a restraining order to keep that nuisance at bay.
In that case, his actions went far beyond the scoop of snooping and into the realm of prosecutable. “Laurie, have you ever heard the expression: Too much information is bad thing?” I asked her as she continued to relay Jack’s daily usage patterns on Jdate. Knowing things like what Splenda is actually made of or how they pack so much flavor into 14 calories at Tasti-Delite, this is the kind of information which I do not want to have. The same theory applies to dating. A woman’s mind is like a fast-moving frenzied knitting machine. Taking a small piece of relatively benign information, women can spin that simple thread into full-on sweater of despair and worry. “Did you ever think he logged on to see if you logged on,” I offered as a counter-theory to her self-created crisis. “He may be doing the same thing you are doing, checking to see if you are emailing other guys on Jdate.”
“I googled this one guy,” Tracy said. “Someone was trying to set me up with him and I find his name all over a gay porn website. His name was a bit unusual so I had a hard time convincing myself that it was another person. The Internet has become a graveyard for people’s pasts. No longer can one forget that crazy night in college when their friends decided to videotape them passed out in a pile of vomit. With You Tube, what happened on Spring Break does not stay on Spring Break. The cell phone cameras, James Bond-like micro video recorders and ubiquitous digital cameras now create a landscape of one’s life which continues to live, breath and grow even after people wish those moments have died.
As Laurie continued to make pie charts and excel spreadsheets analyzing the data she acquired on Jack’s online information, I was consumed by worry – Is private life now forever part of public consumption?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Lies, Betrayl and Deception
I lied.
I deceived.
I tricked the man who I love and I am going to marry. But, I had no choice. It had to be done. For weeks, I went behind his back plotting details. Surfing the web, making phone calls to some of his closest friends, I did it all surreptitiously trying my hardest not to be caught. It all would be ruined if M found out, if he noticed hints left behind on the computer, caught on to my trail of deceit.
By nature M is nosey. He is hard to keep a secret from because he can pick up on the subtle changes in my demeanor. But I was pretty sure that I had covered my tracks and years of a drama-filled life helped me to mask my true intentions. Still, I was always on edge - worrying I didn't close all the windows on the computer.
I was throwing him a surprise 30th birthday party. “How am I going to get him to Philly,” I asked his brother who was in cahoots with me. “We need to make a decoy operation something he cannot cancel last minute.” Knowing that if I used some wedding detail as a guise to lure him to Philly, he would surely find a way to get out of it. Choosing a type of rose or futzing over cake fillings doesn’t rank high on M’s to-do list. With the help of his brother and another friend, we arranged a business meeting for him in Philly. The plan was M was going to this meeting and then later meeting up with his brother and friend David to have dinner to celebrate his birthday. They would then suggest going to another restaurant where I would be waiting with 30 of his closest friends and family to jump up and scream SURPRISE. Everything had to go according to plan.
“I need to take my car in to get something looked at,” M said to me that morning. “Can you follow me to the car place and then drive me into the city for my meeting?” This change of plans to have a grease monkey deal with his car threw a monkey wrench into my scheme. What should have taken me an hour took 3 hours with traffic in both directions. Noticeably on edge, M couldn’t miss my tense and anxious behavior. “Is there something wrong?” he asked. “I am going to be late to my meeting with the woman who is doing our wedding invitations. I’m meeting my mom at 3 in Bryn Mawr. I am going to be so late,” I angrily told him. Part of the lie was that I was going to be in Philly dealing with wedding details without him. I had told this lie for so many days, that I actually started believing that I was going to be late for this fictitious meeting.
After I fought city traffic, dropped M off at his meeting and took the back roads home, I picked up the pre-assembled box of birthday paraphernalia, turned around and headed back into the city. At the restaurant, I started to set up. Since this was a 30th birthday and not a 21st, I opted to host the party at an upscale restaurant on Washington Square. It was the kind of place where beer is served in a glass and not drank out of the bottle. With the help of M’s parents and his friend Adam, I collected a lifetime of pictures from M’s past: M in a diaper, M in a pair of baby Speedos, M in his wrestling uniform, M with his hand in an alligator’s mouth. Though time may have aged M, there were still shreds of his youth left in everything he does.
The party was called for 8pm and the guest of honor was supposed to arrive at 8:15. I was just praying that my entrusted henchmen were able to get him there. Everyone was in place when I got a text message from his brother saying that they were on there way. Amazingly, no one was late. The guests marveled at the pictures of their fair friend who takes pride in his machismo and male bravado naked in a bathtub with a yellow ducky.
We are coming up stairs now, M’s brother texted me. In wait, we lurked with cameras in hand by the entrance of the room. Silently we anticipated M to pounce into the room with a knowing smile on his face. I was sure that I had slipped somewhere along the line, cluing M in on the event in store for him. But as he crept into the room assuming he was going to be seated for dinner he fell silent as we shouted SURPRISE. It took him a good 20 seconds to absorb everything; his dad standing on a chair with camera, his mother smiling next to the door, his 30 friends who came from all over the tri-state area. He said nothing; his eyes scanned the room from corner to corner. He was motionless, emotionless, stunned. Finally he spoke: “Hi Mom. (pause) Hi Dad. (pause) What? Huh?” M couldn’t find words. He wasn’t acting. He really was in shock.
After he gathered his senses and realized that he was at his surprise party he grinned from ear to ear. Everything went perfectly that night. M elbow dropped his birthday piñata, a tradition from birthdays past. People truly enjoyed the party which made me grin as large as M. Though the next morning, we found it hard to smile at all with hangovers that come with drinking at 30.
I am not one to advocate lying in relationships. Deception is wrong a
nd certainly gives me a lump in my throat, worrying that any second I will be caught. But I was able to con a con, trick the all-knowing M into a birthday surprise. The next morning I said to M from my hangover haze under a pair of giant sunglasses with a fist-full of Advil, “I hope you enjoyed last night, because the next surprise birthday party you are going to have the AARP will sponsor.” I never realized how exhausting and unnerving deceit really is.
I deceived.
I tricked the man who I love and I am going to marry. But, I had no choice. It had to be done. For weeks, I went behind his back plotting details. Surfing the web, making phone calls to some of his closest friends, I did it all surreptitiously trying my hardest not to be caught. It all would be ruined if M found out, if he noticed hints left behind on the computer, caught on to my trail of deceit.
By nature M is nosey. He is hard to keep a secret from because he can pick up on the subtle changes in my demeanor. But I was pretty sure that I had covered my tracks and years of a drama-filled life helped me to mask my true intentions. Still, I was always on edge - worrying I didn't close all the windows on the computer.
I was throwing him a surprise 30th birthday party. “How am I going to get him to Philly,” I asked his brother who was in cahoots with me. “We need to make a decoy operation something he cannot cancel last minute.” Knowing that if I used some wedding detail as a guise to lure him to Philly, he would surely find a way to get out of it. Choosing a type of rose or futzing over cake fillings doesn’t rank high on M’s to-do list. With the help of his brother and another friend, we arranged a business meeting for him in Philly. The plan was M was going to this meeting and then later meeting up with his brother and friend David to have dinner to celebrate his birthday. They would then suggest going to another restaurant where I would be waiting with 30 of his closest friends and family to jump up and scream SURPRISE. Everything had to go according to plan.
“I need to take my car in to get something looked at,” M said to me that morning. “Can you follow me to the car place and then drive me into the city for my meeting?” This change of plans to have a grease monkey deal with his car threw a monkey wrench into my scheme. What should have taken me an hour took 3 hours with traffic in both directions. Noticeably on edge, M couldn’t miss my tense and anxious behavior. “Is there something wrong?” he asked. “I am going to be late to my meeting with the woman who is doing our wedding invitations. I’m meeting my mom at 3 in Bryn Mawr. I am going to be so late,” I angrily told him. Part of the lie was that I was going to be in Philly dealing with wedding details without him. I had told this lie for so many days, that I actually started believing that I was going to be late for this fictitious meeting.
After I fought city traffic, dropped M off at his meeting and took the back roads home, I picked up the pre-assembled box of birthday paraphernalia, turned around and headed back into the city. At the restaurant, I started to set up. Since this was a 30th birthday and not a 21st, I opted to host the party at an upscale restaurant on Washington Square. It was the kind of place where beer is served in a glass and not drank out of the bottle. With the help of M’s parents and his friend Adam, I collected a lifetime of pictures from M’s past: M in a diaper, M in a pair of baby Speedos, M in his wrestling uniform, M with his hand in an alligator’s mouth. Though time may have aged M, there were still shreds of his youth left in everything he does.
The party was called for 8pm and the guest of honor was supposed to arrive at 8:15. I was just praying that my entrusted henchmen were able to get him there. Everyone was in place when I got a text message from his brother saying that they were on there way. Amazingly, no one was late. The guests marveled at the pictures of their fair friend who takes pride in his machismo and male bravado naked in a bathtub with a yellow ducky.
We are coming up stairs now, M’s brother texted me. In wait, we lurked with cameras in hand by the entrance of the room. Silently we anticipated M to pounce into the room with a knowing smile on his face. I was sure that I had slipped somewhere along the line, cluing M in on the event in store for him. But as he crept into the room assuming he was going to be seated for dinner he fell silent as we shouted SURPRISE. It took him a good 20 seconds to absorb everything; his dad standing on a chair with camera, his mother smiling next to the door, his 30 friends who came from all over the tri-state area. He said nothing; his eyes scanned the room from corner to corner. He was motionless, emotionless, stunned. Finally he spoke: “Hi Mom. (pause) Hi Dad. (pause) What? Huh?” M couldn’t find words. He wasn’t acting. He really was in shock.
After he gathered his senses and realized that he was at his surprise party he grinned from ear to ear. Everything went perfectly that night. M elbow dropped his birthday piñata, a tradition from birthdays past. People truly enjoyed the party which made me grin as large as M. Though the next morning, we found it hard to smile at all with hangovers that come with drinking at 30.
I am not one to advocate lying in relationships. Deception is wrong a
nd certainly gives me a lump in my throat, worrying that any second I will be caught. But I was able to con a con, trick the all-knowing M into a birthday surprise. The next morning I said to M from my hangover haze under a pair of giant sunglasses with a fist-full of Advil, “I hope you enjoyed last night, because the next surprise birthday party you are going to have the AARP will sponsor.” I never realized how exhausting and unnerving deceit really is. Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Dating Down
Dating Down
It has always been socially acceptable for older men to date younger women. It made sense, somewhat. Men are slow to mature so technically a 25 year old woman and a 40 year old man should be on par emotionally and thus properly suited for one another. In other worse: Men are giant fucking babies.
My parents are seven and a half years a part, a fact my brother and I found extremely amusing when we were growing up. “Mom, when you were 5 years old and playing house, Daddy was getting Bar Mitzvah-ed,” I would say making ewww gross noises at the thought. “Dad, did you know when you were getting loaded at a bar, mom was going to Bart Mitzvahs,” my brother would quip. I held true to that equation in my dating life. I too, thought I wanted an older man. Dating up in years seemed smarter.
So here I am, scouring the city for an appropriate 30th birthday present for M. I can barely remember my 30th birthday other than it was anticlimactic. For women, turning 30 means buying expensive skin care products that prevent wrinkles, cutting bangs to make ourselves look younger and for me, getting a tattoo of 3 dots on my toe because I wanted to do one last really crazy (aka: stupid) thing I could blame on youthful indiscretion. But as the big day approaches, M is relaxed and unaffected by the leap in decades. He is taking 30 like a man, whereas I took it like a little girl – screaming and kicking as I was dragged from the bastion of my twenties.
I filtered my Jdate profile to search for men ranging from two years younger to 8 years older, giving myself a ten year window to find a suitor. I am lucky that it was April when I met M. I was towards the end of 31 and M had just turned 29, fortunately appearing to be 2 years younger and not three. Had it been one month earlier or later, we never would have met. I am grateful for that blip of time where my flawed logic wasn’t my downfall.
But as I look around at my own relationship and my friends’ relationships, I am noticing a trend. Perhaps Demi Moore made it social acceptable but the relationship equation is now inverted. Older women and younger men seem to be the formula for success. Melissa, who just turned 30 and recently got engaged, is marrying a younger man. Merely 27, Peter’s age was a subject of worry at first. But now as she plans her big wedding the three years between them are meaningless. So what that she was going to prom when he was going to little league games. In the grand scheme of life, those three years are pointless.
“You just don’t expect younger men to be marriage minded,” said Jill who is currently dating a younger guy. “When you hit 30 you think you need to find someone in their late 30s or even 40s if you are looking for a serious relationship. I always thought guys in their 20s, especially in New York, weren’t looking for a commitment. More often than not, they were playing the field. Turns out, even players outgrow the field and younger than one would think.”
Some scientists suggest that men also have a biological clock. While it may not tick as loudly without estrogen, men have the need to nest as well. “I think men in their late 20s are more viable partners than men in their late 30s. By that stage men have so much baggage – failed relationships, neuroses, ego issues, they missed the boat on finding a healthy relationship,” Jill added. Men who are approaching 30 are starting to slow. They have lived out their extended youth in New York, partying with co-eds til dawn and adding notches to their bedposts. They are just starting to hit their stride in their careers, realizing that a hangover from a night of partying with some pop tart looking Britney Spears wannabe isn’t worth the sacrifice of poor performance in the office.
New Yorkers are known to marry later than their counterparts in Kansas whose dating and social interaction is limited to relatives and cow tipping. But by 27 or so, it is inevitable that a guy loses a friend to marriage. The first guy down the aisle usually is teased and ridiculed by his buddies. “Dude, you are giving up all that good ass that’s out there for one women for the rest of your life?” But underneath the falsetto bravado is fear that continues to grow as other friends get married. The fear of being alone is not just something women contend with, men too are worried that all their buddies will get married and leave them alone to troll the bars on Friday nights looking for the drunk haggard leftovers at 2am.
“I think the perfect age to find a guy at is 28,” said social scientist and my 33 year-old single friend, Cory. “You want to be in the same generation as the guy you are dating. I mean, I have gone out with guys who were telling me stories of being at Studio 54. They met Madonna while I was dancing to Like A Virgin in my bunk at sleep-away camp. It’s just too much of a leap. But 4 or 5 years is a good age difference, and at this point, I would rather find someone younger.”
So to all my single 30-something friends out there, stop ruling out younger men and start dating down. “With a younger guy you can ride the wave up. They are coming up in their careers, developing as adults, transforming into men from boys. That is what a relationship is all about – growing together,” Jill said. Just make sure they aren’t too young. If they were learning how to email in kindergarten and watching DVDs of Tele-tubbies in their playpen then I would be wary.
It has always been socially acceptable for older men to date younger women. It made sense, somewhat. Men are slow to mature so technically a 25 year old woman and a 40 year old man should be on par emotionally and thus properly suited for one another. In other worse: Men are giant fucking babies.
My parents are seven and a half years a part, a fact my brother and I found extremely amusing when we were growing up. “Mom, when you were 5 years old and playing house, Daddy was getting Bar Mitzvah-ed,” I would say making ewww gross noises at the thought. “Dad, did you know when you were getting loaded at a bar, mom was going to Bart Mitzvahs,” my brother would quip. I held true to that equation in my dating life. I too, thought I wanted an older man. Dating up in years seemed smarter.
So here I am, scouring the city for an appropriate 30th birthday present for M. I can barely remember my 30th birthday other than it was anticlimactic. For women, turning 30 means buying expensive skin care products that prevent wrinkles, cutting bangs to make ourselves look younger and for me, getting a tattoo of 3 dots on my toe because I wanted to do one last really crazy (aka: stupid) thing I could blame on youthful indiscretion. But as the big day approaches, M is relaxed and unaffected by the leap in decades. He is taking 30 like a man, whereas I took it like a little girl – screaming and kicking as I was dragged from the bastion of my twenties.
I filtered my Jdate profile to search for men ranging from two years younger to 8 years older, giving myself a ten year window to find a suitor. I am lucky that it was April when I met M. I was towards the end of 31 and M had just turned 29, fortunately appearing to be 2 years younger and not three. Had it been one month earlier or later, we never would have met. I am grateful for that blip of time where my flawed logic wasn’t my downfall.
But as I look around at my own relationship and my friends’ relationships, I am noticing a trend. Perhaps Demi Moore made it social acceptable but the relationship equation is now inverted. Older women and younger men seem to be the formula for success. Melissa, who just turned 30 and recently got engaged, is marrying a younger man. Merely 27, Peter’s age was a subject of worry at first. But now as she plans her big wedding the three years between them are meaningless. So what that she was going to prom when he was going to little league games. In the grand scheme of life, those three years are pointless.
“You just don’t expect younger men to be marriage minded,” said Jill who is currently dating a younger guy. “When you hit 30 you think you need to find someone in their late 30s or even 40s if you are looking for a serious relationship. I always thought guys in their 20s, especially in New York, weren’t looking for a commitment. More often than not, they were playing the field. Turns out, even players outgrow the field and younger than one would think.”
Some scientists suggest that men also have a biological clock. While it may not tick as loudly without estrogen, men have the need to nest as well. “I think men in their late 20s are more viable partners than men in their late 30s. By that stage men have so much baggage – failed relationships, neuroses, ego issues, they missed the boat on finding a healthy relationship,” Jill added. Men who are approaching 30 are starting to slow. They have lived out their extended youth in New York, partying with co-eds til dawn and adding notches to their bedposts. They are just starting to hit their stride in their careers, realizing that a hangover from a night of partying with some pop tart looking Britney Spears wannabe isn’t worth the sacrifice of poor performance in the office.
New Yorkers are known to marry later than their counterparts in Kansas whose dating and social interaction is limited to relatives and cow tipping. But by 27 or so, it is inevitable that a guy loses a friend to marriage. The first guy down the aisle usually is teased and ridiculed by his buddies. “Dude, you are giving up all that good ass that’s out there for one women for the rest of your life?” But underneath the falsetto bravado is fear that continues to grow as other friends get married. The fear of being alone is not just something women contend with, men too are worried that all their buddies will get married and leave them alone to troll the bars on Friday nights looking for the drunk haggard leftovers at 2am.
“I think the perfect age to find a guy at is 28,” said social scientist and my 33 year-old single friend, Cory. “You want to be in the same generation as the guy you are dating. I mean, I have gone out with guys who were telling me stories of being at Studio 54. They met Madonna while I was dancing to Like A Virgin in my bunk at sleep-away camp. It’s just too much of a leap. But 4 or 5 years is a good age difference, and at this point, I would rather find someone younger.”
So to all my single 30-something friends out there, stop ruling out younger men and start dating down. “With a younger guy you can ride the wave up. They are coming up in their careers, developing as adults, transforming into men from boys. That is what a relationship is all about – growing together,” Jill said. Just make sure they aren’t too young. If they were learning how to email in kindergarten and watching DVDs of Tele-tubbies in their playpen then I would be wary.
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