Where have all the tailfeathers gone?

I can’t decide if I hate bumble or not. Full disclaimer: heteronormative content below

Here’s some background for those of you who haven’t had the extreme honor of being an active user of online dating. Bumble is an app like many dating apps. You set your preferences and then swipe right when you like someone’s face/hobbies/pets. If they swipe right on you too, then you match (insert heart emoji here). The quirk with bumble is that women have to initiate the conversation first. If the woman doesn’t message within 24 hours of matching, the guy never gets a chance to message, and she loses access to her potential soul mate.

At first, I hated it. I refused to download it. AS IF WOMEN DON’T DO ENOUGH GODDAMNIT. I thought about the animal kingdom and my hours spent watching planet earth in college. Most male animals, have to earn the attention of women. Have you seen those bird dances?!?! The male bird has to lay out all the moves, gyrating, jumping, flipping, and the woman can still be like, “NO THANKS!” And I doubt she feels any guilt. On a side note, in human world, if a guy pays for dinner, buys flowers (which is still awkward), or shows he put any effort into the date, I somehow feel obligated to reward him. Rewards may vary. On the aggressive end, guy walruses have to physically destroy competitor males in order to gain access to lady walruses. And although I’m against human violence and would think a man who punched every other man in a bar in order to talk to me was cray–I’ve always secretly wanted men to compete for my love. Because Bridget Jones.

So if male animals have to dance, fight, and earn their way into the reproductive organs of their baby mamas…why do bumble men get to sit on their assess and wait for women to come to them?!?

I hear it’s confusing when you want to be respected like an equal and also get courted. Why should men have to do all the initiating? Haven’t women been begging for equality since forever?!? Well, the wage gap is real and we’re still having all the babies, so throw a girl a bone will ya. Pun intended? But don’t just throw it at me. Give it to me passionately, after about 5 dates, all whilst considering my wants and needs.

Back to Bumble. When the app first launched, the woman would message and then the man could take however long he wanted to respond. Da eff?! As if I need another reminder in life that I’m on a biological clock and men have forever. BUT. They have changed the game recently. Men now have to respond within the same 24 hour period in order to stay matched with their paramours.

Now let’s get to what Bumble was trying to do. Which is apparently empower women. It’s the “feminist” dating app. It puts women in control of their love lives. It protects against creepers, asshats, and Chads.

How does it do this? By letting women control if and when communication happens.

A dear friend of mine often reminds me in moments of dating frustration, “you get to decide.” And this is true. Apart from the scenario in which a partner has dumped you, then you get to be sad. But if he’s not making you a priority, you get to say, “it ain’t working for me”. If he’s booty calling/texting, you get to decide whether or not to give the booty. The booty is yours, the decision is yours, and it’s nice to be reminded that we’re all empowered adults here, so let’s make decisions that make us feel that way.

So I guess Bumble is saying. It’s up to women (within 24 hours). Or as Beyonce would say, “Girls, we run this motha!”

I don’t know if I’m buying it. On Bumble, you have to think of a clever text within 24 hours AND THEN find out he’s a loser. At least on other apps, you can weed them out right away.

Maybe Bumble is actually propagating the “woman as nurturer” stereotype. We give and give and give. And should only expect a half-assed reply back.

And now that I’ve come across as a cynical, man-hater. I assure you I am not. Men, you are great. And love, you are worth the effort. But feminism, is not an app that forces women to talk first.

Modern heartache

We’ve all read the articles on modern love. We’re a bunch of non-committal, option seeking, instant gratification, casual everything types. Or so they say. And if this is what they’re saying about our love, what are they saying about our heartache?

Thing is, I don’t think much is being said about modern heartache. If we don’t even get to fall in love properly, how are we expected to grieve properly? I mean, were you even IN a relationship?

I’ve heard way too many people brush off the awfulness of rejection by saying something like, “it wasn’t like he was my boyfriend.” Hell nah. You get to be sad. You put yourself out there, let a stranger see your heart/soul/tits and for whatever reason it ended. It is still hard. It’s a completely different type of love torture when you don’t get closure because things were ambiguous to begin with.

So I think it’s appropriate to feel like shit if after a month of hooking up, the communication goes silent and your friends are yelling GET OVER IT. I’d like us to stop diminishing our hurt feelings. Dwelling on a month long hook-up may not be the healthiest mentality, but perhaps suppressing our true pain leads to prolonged heartache.

In a culture where love is casual, break-ups are meant to be shaken off. Even at the end of what’s considered a “relationship,” there’s an expectation that we shouldn’t fall to pieces. Beyonce is telling us to rejoice in being a single lady but we’re sobbing because he never even considered he might, one day, put a ring on it.

I remember I called in sick to work the day after a break up. And it wasn’t because I coincidentally caught the stomach flu the moment we said it was over. It’s because I spent all night crying, woke up with my eyes swollen, and couldn’t imagine what would happen if someone flippantly asked, “how are you?” I felt so stupid for missing work. He wasn’t immobilized by heartache. Many people aren’t. I felt ashamed of my need to grieve, to process my emotions before interacting with the world at large.

I know that I am a strong, independent woman. But I still occasionally need to sob on the floor. One does not counteract the other. When I grieve, I grieve hard. Like a wrecking ball of tears. Then I put myself back together, wiser and stronger than before. Just like Miley.

We need to stop apologizing for being sad. When I find myself crying in front of a friend, my first reaction is to say I’m sorry. Why? Because I think crying shows I’m not resilient. There are certainly times when you should try to hold back tears. For instance, when you’re on public transportation (unless you want to tell a stranger about your life). But when a friend asks how you’re coping, let ‘em flow.

One of the greatest things someone ever said to me after a break-up was that my sadness was actually a good thing. It meant I cared enough to be that hurt. It was the first time I had ever thought to be proud of my tears.

Heartache is a sign that you made yourself vulnerable and opened yourself up to all the great things. So to all the lovers out there: love with passion and hurt with pride.

Bros meet Buddha

Nook

One trend I can really get behind is the mainstreaming of meditation. In general, it seems like a great idea for as many people as possible to stop and think about the shit they do. I’m not going to get into how Western yoga is wrapped in cultural appropriation, so let’s just acknowledge that it does for now. You can read about that here and here.

What I especially like about the San Francisco meditation scene is the multitude of men exploring their zen side. When meditation (and it’s more popular form asana yoga) entered the western world, it was predominantly a woman thing. Why? Probably because at some point in our society, we decided women would be the peaceful, nurturing ones and men would scratch their balls and go to war. Not the best delegation but we accepted it. Slowly, we’ve come to realize that meditation isn’t a gender thing, but rather a wise thing.

Historically, meditation and men have gone together like popcorn kernels and that space between your teeth. Buddha was the original zen master and he also happened to be a man. I don’t think he would say manliness had anything to do with his ability to give zero shits and by doing so attain the purest form of happiness. But it’s a good data point for men who think meditation/yoga is girly (who thinks this?!).

My earliest insights into Western man mingling in yoga were rumors of professional athletes getting into yoga and dance for increased strength and flexibility. And the best way to get the “manly” stamp of approval is to have athletic endorsements. Then P90X put yoga into boost mode when it included yoga in the program, because there’s no bigger muscle than the soul my friends.

When I first started practicing yoga in SF, there were only a sprinkling of men in my classes. And they were all hardcore. It wasn’t a twenty-somethings man trying the yoga thing out. It was a man who has a guru in India, spends months in silence for fun, and can wrap his legs around his ears while balancing on his arms.

But eventually, the magic happened. Bros found Buddha. And why? Here are some ideas:

Picking up women

I think this is the go-to reason hetero guys say they’re into yoga. Spending 90 minutes with sweaty women in ass-hugging leggings who can bend in ways you didn’t know were possible. Can I get a helllllll yeaaaaa?! But let’s look at the practicality of this option. Although most people feel open and friendly and optimistic after a good yoga session, I think that energy is turned inward. We’re told to “set an intention” at the beginning of most classes, and I think few of those intentions include, find someone in this class to have sex with. But that’s just a guess. And let’s be real, when’s the last time you invested 90 minutes of undivided attention to potentially get a date.

De-stressing

Finding some calm in the chaos of a fast-paced, numbers crunching, sometimes soul drenching job seems a more likely reason men are turning to yoga. A few years out of college, I noticed many of my friends were looking for ways to add meaning to their weekly grind. They searched for opportunities to volunteer, become mentors, or give back to the community. Meditation is a way to consider the person you are at the core, and give that person what it needs. That might be hot yoga in a smelly room or sitting in a circle listening to singing bowls.

Because friends don’t let friends NOT meditate

If you’re a guy, a female friend may have dragged you to your first yoga class. If you live in San Francisco, you probably heard all of your friends talk about their yoga class, how they’re sore from yoga, blissed out from yoga, etc. Plus you’ve seen it on everybody’s dating profile and finally you realized you were the only person who hadn’t tried it.

—

However it happened, gone are the days that sweating in spandex is considered a feminine quality. Mark Zuckerberg has been seen at Yoga to the People. Lululemon has a men’s section. And this article in the Onion.

Here’s to the new man, mindful not macho.

Santa-Conned and the grinch who stole themed parties

: Photo by Kevin Dooley courtesy of Creative Commons

I’ll fess up. When I first moved to San Francisco, I went to every single themed party. Pub crawls, love fests, eighties prom, you name it. At the time, these events seemed very unique and one-of-a-kind. There’s such joy being in a city where there’s no shame in wearing a tutu on public transportation. And WHERE ELSE do hundreds of people wake up at 6 AM, drink, then run (or more often walk) across the city?!

Maybe there was less redundancy then. Bootie SF, a mashup party that happens every Saturday now, used to be once a month. You had to wait an entire month before having an incredible night with drag queens, aerial shows, and so many bodies dancing like nobody’s watching (but so many are from the balcony above).

I felt a change in the air when the same neighborhood festivals kept popping up around the city. North Beach, Union Street, Haight Street, etc. How can so many streets provide the same teriyaki meat sticks, artisanal handmade crafts no one wants, and crammed beer gardens? What I first loved about this city was how you could walk a few blocks in any direction and be transported to new colors, smells, and energy. Do you remember the first time you wandered into Chinatown? Or the tenderloin? It was magic! Or at least terrifying, which makes you feel just as alive. So who wants to wander into the same festival all over town?

LifeDeath

Some parties have retained their unique value. Folsom Street Fair for instance. Sure anyone can walk through, but I don’t know too many Marina bros getting whipped and dick slapped while 100 people watch.

Now SantaCon is coming up this weekend. For the few of you who don’t know, it’s the one where everybody dresses up like Santa (or elves, or reindeer, or dreidels) and drinks around the city. This event happens in many cities around the world. And it’s one I’ve never been to. I’ve never actually avoided it in the past, but this year, I’m dreading it. It’s just gotten too big. Instead of being pleasantly surprised by a group of santas crossing the street, now there’s no escaping them. This isn’t to pass judgement on those attending. My favorite dog park down the street will be swarming with bros sneaking a piss on the lawn I lounge on, but fine. It’s all cool. You’re all cool.

But in a city that hates on big business and chain restaurants , why are we ok mass producing fun? We come to cities to reject the monotony of the suburbs, but the sprawl has infested our parties.

It’s time to bring back the funk. Have an intimate gathering of 3 people and paint an image of each other’s naked bodies ON EACH OTHER. Maybe a throwback to wholesome fun? Pop-up lemonade stands blasting Beach Boys and handing out hula hoops. There’s no reason we have to reuse the same party ideas every year, month, week. Quit being lazy SF.

Help San Francisco get its quirk back. If you have ideas, shout it out (and send an invite yo!), I’m all dried up for now.

Love thy neighbor

neighbor etiquette

Growing up in Tampa, Florida, I knew all of my neighbors.

First, there was my best friend and her Lebanese family. Her Teta (which I quickly learned meant grandma, NOT boob) could often be found gutting raw fish while sitting on a crate in the driveway. Next to them, we had grumpy white man. I guess I never knew his name, but we all knew how to piss him off, which was to make his mailbox home base in our kickball games. He was a great contrast to the lovely black sisters next store. I loved being outside when they came home from work. No matter who you were or what you were doing, when the sisters came home, a delicate hand emerged from the car window and gave the most elegant wave. The illusion was only disrupted by the clashing metal sound of the garage door opening, maybe getting stuck halfway, then closing and opening again.

Cul de sac There was also the sketchy house, where I was once summoned by the owner to sweep the house and check if the burglar was still there (I was 12). Then we had a Cuban family, a redneck family with coordinated mullets, a male recording artist whose mother lived in the garage, and finally my Cuban family and a Chinese family next door with a perfectly manicured lawn.

I loved growing up knowing my neighbors (not to be confused with loving Tampa). They were there to cheer me on when I learned to ride a bike, they graciously chipped in for obscure school fundraisers, and they generally gave at least a couple of shits about my life. And being on that cul-de-sac, we emerged from our houses literally facing one another. It was beautiful.

Moving from a suburb, where it takes 20 minutes by car to get anywhere, to a city where people are as closely packed together in 7×7 square miles as possible, I guess I was expecting more human interaction.

But let’s hop over to my San Francisco neighborhood, where I know my neighbors mostly by their property, not their faces. We have the evil corgis from hell who greet passersby with teeth, drool, and the most obnoxious barks while their owner just smirks at you as an apology. Then there are the mansion owners across the street who have never invited me over for dinner. I know there’s an opera singer in the ‘hood because SF walls are thin and she has the vibrato of a 3.0 earthquake. The only person I recognize is the war veteran who strolls the neighborhood in military garb, tips his hat at you, and gets back to thinking the thoughts of a man who has done some serious living. I can’t even tell you who lives in my 6-unit apartment building. I only know that one woman is making the most of her Amazon prime membership.

This all leaves me wondering how to engage with passersby/neighbors in this city. At heart, I’m a “hello” with a smile type of girl. When I do by miracle make eye contact with a stranger and whip out my rusty, deranged neighborly smile, I receive a dead-eyed gaze. Most often, it’s only the homeless and people of color who greet me back, and I don’t know what that has to say about San Francisco.

My smiles and attempts at connection are so often unreciprocated, I’ve developed a new walking persona. It’s more of a smile in the eyes only (per Tyra Banks a “smize”) that I hope tells other people, “You can say hi, I’ll say it back.”

I’m not sure what makes this city less neighborly. Is it fear? We just can’t stomach the thought of having a conversation with a stranger. Is it selfish? Maybe we’re too worried that we’ll get pulled out of our world. I mean, don’t you see my yoga mat people, I’m on my way to find peace not say howdy doo! But the people that we pass by every day could be the very ones sitting next to us on the Muni (or in a Lyft line) when THE BIG ONE hits. And wouldn’t it be nice to see a friendly face?

So what are we to do San Francisco? We’re supposed to be the friendly city, full of tree hugging hippies. And when trees get more love than people, well that’s a damn shame.

Have a similar or different experience in the city? Tell me about it in the comments.

Friendsgiving

Friendsgiving toon2

A few words on Friendsgiving.

Yes, it’s trendy. It may seem like another excuse for young people to get together for a themed party, drink and be merry, then capture it all in a selfie. And it is! But I think it’s also an important occasion for city transplants.

Many 20-30 somethings in San Francisco are here without their families–so we’ve had to create new ones.

Of course, nobody can replace the families we grew up with. Our families know our darkest moments (like all those middle school portraits posed next to trees), some of our greatest moments (“I’m almost the lead in a musical!”), and inside jokes that no words can explain. But your family is probably settled somewhere you love to hate on around your friends. Mine is happily settled in Florida, which inspired this BuzzFeed quiz. I see them a few times a year, mostly for holidays, and the remaining 11 months I’m here in San Francisco with my created family.

These created families are important too. They’re who we rely on through good times, bad times, and everything in between on a day-to-day basis. If I need margaritas and tacos after a particularly rough Tuesday, SF friends to the rescue. If I need beers and more beers on a particularly great Thursday, SF friends again. From dance parties to venting to I’M HAVING A MELTDOWN-ing, I’m very fortunate to have good friends in this city. Because life happens the 11 months I’m away from my family.

So Friendsgiving is an occasion to honor the people who look after us because they choose to, not because they have to. And from what I know about Thanksgiving (which is surprisingly very little), it’s about being thankful for the generous gifts people bring to your life.

To my San Francisco friends (aka SF family), I’m beyond thankful.

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