Trekkychick

*This post geared toward female audiences

“I don’t think, therefore I am not”

Dear Readers,

I am pleased to announce I have secured a coveted interview with esteemed dating guru, Donna T’Needaman, author of The Evolution of A Man, whose two-paragraph analysis of the male psyche was second on the New York Times Bestseller list only to its stiff competition, The New Religion of the Stars: Socialstudiesology. Donna T’Needaman chose trekkychick.com as her medium for conveying her wisdom about men to the masses because of trekkychick.com’s large (fluctuating between a record high of 12 and 16 readers) and diverse (all live in Portland, all are within the same age range, but all enjoy very different breakfast foods, ranging from hot cereal to cold cereal) audience.

Troi: Donna T’Needaman, did you expect that your completed book would be longer than two paragraphs?

Donna T’Needaman: Actually, it was only one and a half paragraphs. I altered the text and spacing and widened the margins in order to achieve two full paragraphs.

Troi: But, certainly, don’t you think the male psyche is more complex than that?

Donna T’Needaman: Before completing my research, I was hoping that it would be. They always LOOK like they’re thinking about something.

Troi: You mention in the commentary section of your book [that would be paragraph two, for those Readers who've yet to pick up their copy] that your in-depth analysis brought you to the conclusion that you would no longer choose to include the practice of dating in your daily life. Can you expand on this idea?

Donna T’Needaman: Certainly. I don’t need a man to make me crazy. I can be crazy without the help of a man.

Troi: You also suggest, in the epilogue [that would be the last sentence of the second paragraph, for those Readers who are still reading the first paragraph], that nobody has a “perfect person” who is just right for them. Are you suggesting that you don’t believe in the notion of soulmates?

Donna T’Needaman: I believe in the concept of soul-crushing mates. Your soul-crushing mate is the man you fall in love with, who is utterly devoid of the concept of “you” as a being separate and unique who may differ from him in opinion and philosophy. He attempts to change you into his idealized version of you, crushing your soul in the process.

Troi: Donna T’Needaman, rumor has it you’re slated to revise your book with an update soon. What can we be looking forward to?

Donna T’Needaman: Yes, I was going to complete an analysis on the psyche of a pig, and compare and contrast the two psyches. I’m hoping this revised edition adds a full paragraph to the anaylsis, which will really change the look and feel of the book.

There you have it ladies and gentlemen, famed author Donna T’Needaman, speaking to humble blogger Troi. If you have any questions for Donna T’Needaman, please direct them to me by way of comment.* Or you can go directly to www.donnatneedaman.com, which is not a real website, but who knows, might be someday.

–Troi out

*The views and opinions stated in this interview are not the opinions of blogger Troi, but the views and opinions of the character created by blogger Troi. Any similarities in views and opinions are an unexpected coincidence.

Engagement diamond or polar ice cap? Impossible to tell.

Dear Readers,

So as yet another single female friend recently jumped onto the wedding-band wagon, I could no longer sit silently by without issuing this warning to the world (or, the eight readers of my blog):

Marriage is a safety hazard.

You think I joke, but I’m trying to save lives here. Have you seen the size of the average engagement ring these days? (You have, but you mistook it for one of those melting polar ice caps, since they’re about the same size.) These rings are twice the size of the women wearing them. It’s like trying to lug an ice rink around by your finger. And as more women fall prey to marriage, the number of cases of ring-fingeritis (inflammation of the finger that bears the weight of a lifetime commitment) has skyrocketed. Ring-fingeritis now ranks among the leading cause of finger loss in women under the age of 35. (Second only to chopping them off inadvertently while trying to cook stir fry, although I’m still glad I gave it a go.)

But finger loss is only the beginning. Wearing an engagement diamond also increases one’s risk of being assaulted by a burglar looking to upgrade his or her style by investing—-freely—-in better jewelry. Nobody takes a burgler without glistening diamonds encased in a shiny platinum band seriously, whereas a burgler wearing an engagement diamond commands a sort of dignified respect as he catches the light just right with a reflective finger, momentarily blinding his victim and whisking her wallet away. As you can probably imagine, crime rates, like lost fingers, have also escalated since the rise of the giant engagement ring.

I implore you, Readers, to step up to the ring—-instead of wearing it—-and fight for your fingers! Take a stand against finger loss and burglary. Because “I do” think I’ve warned you sufficiently.

–Troi out

Dear Readers,

I’m still getting acclimated to the universe of online dating.

In this new universe, I’m allowed a few dates with anybody I choose until I decide to pursue one of the anybody’s to make him my somebody.

I suppose it’s what dating was always meant to be, but it’s a far cry from what dating always meant to me.

To me, dating was developing an overpowering, all-consuming crush on a boy. The object of my affection was then subjected to me—-on my best, most adorable behavior—-conveniently overlayed on approximately 90% of his daily activities. (You call it stalking, I call it “availability.”) I sat at his lunch table, I dragged myself out of bed to attend morning mass instead of evening, and yes, I even started playing on his ultimate frisbee team despite the fact that I didn’t know what ultimate frisbee was or how to play it.

Eventually, the object of my affection would reach the inevitable conclusion that, despite my poor table manners, tendency to fall asleep at morning mass, and generally atrocious frisbee skills, he wanted me to be his girlfriend. Our relationship would be inaugurated with much rejoicing, by me; being at that point exhausted both by early morning mass and by having had to ceaselessly maintain my best adorable behavior for the past six months.

During those six months, it never crossed my mind to entertain the affections of others; I never noticed another man nor did I particularly want to explore my options.

And once my crush and I became a couple, we stayed a couple, for a couple of years.

And when we ceased to be a couple, I didn’t want to be part of another couple, for another couple of years.

It was simple and sweet, and I only had to remember one guy’s name.

I by no means intend to knock the very system in which I am a willing player. But I hope, as I play a new game with new rules, that at the end of a long line of anybody’s will come my somebody.

–Troi out

There is widely held, by such reputable sources as storybook fairytales and audiences of Dawson’s Creek, that there is one perfect person out there for each of us. That kissing frogs not only leads us to bacterial meningitis, but also to that perfect person who suits us hygeinically and romantically. Who loves us, understands us, and desires us equally as we to them. Who wants to commit past the height of excitement into the comfort of stability. And who doesn’t want to think that such a person lies past the frog pond?

I’m certainly not one to rain on your perfect person parade. But I would like to sprinkle some statistics on the sidewalk alongside your parade. That is, if you live in the United States, and you assume that your perfect person also lives in the United States, then there are approximately 305 million perfect mates. If you are female, and hope that your perfect partner might be male, you now have approximately 150 million perfect mates from which to choose. However, keep in mind that you probably won’t visit every state, and even if you do, it’s unlikely to dip into all of the single possibilities each state has to offer. Your pool will most likely be limited to your state. If you live in Oregon, like I do, your state population is approximately 3 million, rendering a rough estimate of 1.5 million men.

Approximately 2/3 of them are not in your age range.

Of the remaining 500,000, half are married.

Of the remaining 250,000, 2/3 don’t live in your geographical area, which excludes them from the dating pool since you’re a working woman who doesn’t have time to commute five hours a day just for a date.

83,000 remain, 82,500 of which you won’t meet in your typical professional and social circles of primarily married friends.

You’re thinking, great! 500* eligible single men! My perfect person could be swimming in that pool! Sign me up!

And I would, except that according to this website, there are only 91 single men per 100 single women in Multnomah County, in which I reside.

So even if you meet your dream man among the 500* eligible local bachelors, you’re likely going to have to fight off the other local single women with a crowbar, because there’s always going to be a surplus of nine women relegated to permanent singleness.

Therefore, don’t be discouraged if you find that your life doesn’t imitate art a la Dawson’s Creek. The statistics aren’t on our side. And statistics don’t lie.*

Anyway, I’m off to purchase a crowbar. Good luck in the dating world!

*Disclaimer: Troi is gifted with many skills, none of which are of the mathematical type. All calculations found here are to be interpreted with caution, loosely interpreted, misinterpreted, or better yet, not interpreted at all.

–Troi out

Dear Readers,

I have for the past several years attended a Catholic young adult group, not only for the plentiful happy hours, nor exclusively for the fabulous parties hosted by Mike and his Keg, but for the genuine friendships that have developed and the pleasure I derive from enjoying fellowship with these friends (often, I enjoy them at our weekly happy hours, or at Mike and his Keg’s fabulous parties, but I assure you that is purely coincidental). The single members are dwindling in numbers as we are gradually overtaken by those members who meet, pair off, and take their vows at such an accelerated pace that I’m often clueless as to their pairing until I inquire as to their absense at happy hour and am informed that they are on their honeymoon.

It is with such swift and efficient grace that these Catholic mergers materialize that I often suspect the fleeting daliance they call dating is really just a requisite pre-merger period to allow the future bride sufficient time to rank her female friendships into a hierarchy from person-who-hands-out-the-program-at-the-ceremony at the top (that’s me, AWESOME!) to maid-of-honor at the bottom (loser).

This marriage pandemic has become so severe among Catholics that a break-up, also known as the complete rejection of the Catholic pre-merger phase, shakes the group to its core.

I witnessed this several weeks back as two members failed to transition from their pre-merger phrase of dating into its properly finalized form of unconditionally-unending union. The Catholic male in question was met no less than fourteen times at a party with the following inquiry:

Catholic partygoer: Where’s [Catholic female]?
Catholic male: We broke up.

The collective horrified reaction of “What happened??” led me to suspect there are probably only two justifications that would have been deemed acceptable in response, and these would have involved untimely death and/or deportation.

Or that she wasn’t Catholic.

Of course in stark contrast there is me, who has become so phenomenally successful at the art of breaking up that if I go three weeks without one I become concerned that I’m losing my edge. My pre-merger phase of dating tends to stagnate and then reverse into the classic pre- pre-merger phase of friendship, and sometimes the break-up is so successful that we are catapulted back into the pre- pre- PRE- merger phase of “Do I know you?”

I would like to think there’s a happy medium to be found somewhere between dating for three weeks and getting married, and dating for three weeks and breaking-up. Two good friends of mine dated “through every season” to experience each other for a full year before taking the nuptial plunge, and after three years of marriage continue to experience and demonstrate mutual devotion at its finest. If I were to one day experience unbridled devotion to another human being who could both receive and return it, I would hope to emulate theirs.

In the meantime I remain your proud singles sponsor.

–Troi out