Is chivalry dead? Or has it just got a height requirement now?

Standard

How deep is your love?

If you’re a dude, 3.5 inches.

That would sound like a low bar if I wasn’t talking about men’s standards – and high heels.

Bullshit, says I, of this graph.

I mean at least until I see the actual experiment performed.

‘cause there’re far too many variables here. What I really need to see’s a hidden camera actual account of this whole soche experiment. Because I’ve worn mostly flat shoes for the past year. And ya know what? Some days I’ll get hit on non-stop in muddy kicks post cardio, while others I spend feeling like a creature who’s just emerged from a portal to that place in the Twilight Zone where they all have porcine and duck-billed mugs. With my makeup, hair, and weight all the same (and the heel-less-ness) it baffled my noggin for some time. Why were these experiences so vastly different? It wasn’t till some time later that I realized – it’s not the stuff that’s on me. It is me. If I’ve just gone running, done some yoga, been disarmed by a hilarious conversation, I move like fluid and seem gleeful. Open. Approachable. A smile in my eyes. If I’ve just done a long day of writing in front of a soul sucking screen, I’m anxious. Strange. Stiff. My shoulders sit like earrings – high and hunched – bordering a bewildered Manson-esque expression.

To a rando, I probably look like I’m either jonesin’ for crack rocks or hiding an invisibility ring from some hobbits.

Thus, people look at me as funnily as I probably would too if I saw me.

While for this chick, it depends on what I’ve been doing and where my head’s at – for a lotta people, this transformation’s more completed by what they wear. If you leave the house in unflattering pants, you might feel a little insecure about it all day and be thinking of it in your brain’s background even though everyone around you gives zero point zero shits about your trouser selection or how fat they make your ass look. Likewise, heels can make a low-self-esteemed chick feel empowered. Could she walk with a Monroe wobble and swagger with excellent posture sans the gam augmenters? Could she be equally sexy?

Absolutely. But it’s kinda like the fertility equivalent to a spiritual talisman or reiki crystals. We believe in the heels the way hippies believe in sage burning. (I just like the smell; get off me.) So, when we slip ‘em on, it’s our ovarian Batman costume. Now, I’m a woman! I can vouch for this, in a way. But I can also vouch for the opposite. I never feel more beautiful than when I’m in a state of “jog”. So my sneakers have started to have that same effect on me – slowly but surely. And I’ve seen it in other chicks too. In fact, I have a tomboy-but-very-hetero friend who’s excellent at soccer but shit at walking in elevated soles. We used to go paint the town red, and watching her try to get down the sidewalk in pumps reminded me of the way a Clydsedale sounds combined with the way a Boston Terrier looks walking with booties on his feet. Put her in a pair of cleats, though, and she’s hot as hell. She’s secure in them. Confident. A man would come bring her her fallen glove. But she’d probably kick his ass for touching it. And then all his friends’ too.

So, that’s why I call bullshit on this test.

I wanna see how the chick carries herself as she goes from ballet flats to go-go gadget stems.

Maybe this is an experiment I should do for myself. Anyone own a pair of Google Glasses?

“How to lose a guy in 10 days” IRL causes much butthurt.

Standard

People took this “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days” article way too seriously.


(Butthurt level: drunken sportsfan)

And… I don’t get it. I mean, the piece was good enough to make me giggle on an otherwise dismal day. (Actually, I gave it the trifecta of an outer smirk, a few chuckles, and an internal thumbs up – my highest score). But as I read into the comment section, I was wholly disappointed at the stupidity filter my fellow interwebers put on before reading this article. What the piece was – was an experiment the author did by reliving her own version of Kate Hudson’s flick “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days”. The idea is that a girl picks up guy, starts dating him, and then demonstrates how he’ll leave within 10 days if she starts morphing into the stereotypical female too soon. And, naturally, there were comments like “you need psychological help”. Then those comments were read and regurgitated by others in various forms all along the bottom like some sort of ignorance vomit virus spread via mental ingestion. What’s going on, my friends? Is there a good reason to judge without forethought? When did we learn to stop trying to relate? Or – more importantly – how to take a joke? Which at least half of this thing was?

I think those may be the twofold most important takeaways from this relationship experiment:

That first, every relationship is an experiment. And it’s not unlike what the author does, either. I mean, if you actually read the rundown, she doesn’t follow the cruel, quasi-sociopathic Hollywood storyline verbatim. She makes concessions with reality. For instance, with the sex, she doesn’t wanna ruin her reputation like Kate does in the flick (by feminizing his phallus’s nickname). So she nixes that one. She also finds shoe-ins for the “bad dietary habits” aspect. And whether you like it or not, we all make those agreements and concessions about sharing parts of our “shadow self” anytime we’re trying to navigate a relache. And we all end up testing the waters eventually when we say or do that thing that’s impulsive or just thoughtless.

The only difference is those unfavorable habits are often a visceral part of us we wanna hide.

And we do the process internally instead of the internet (unless you’re that guy on Facebook).

Just because we aren’t translating the experience into words with a pen or laptop, doesn’t mean we aren’t deciding how much of a stereotypical chick or dude or overall douchebag we wanna be and making deals with ourselves. We are. Like, “If you call her, you’ll look too needy. But you also don’t want to be the typical guy who doesn’t call the chick he’s banged to look cool. I’ll just… text something that’s a third of the Twitter limit in length.” Or: “If you ask him what’s on his mind, that’s such a sentimental stereotypical chick thing to do. But how else will I know? Oh, I know… cyberstalking.” It’s happening all day long in any eggshell-treaded relationship – romantic or not – and even a few of the less emotionally delicate ones.

Second, let’s remember that this is a writer – a fairly funny one at that.

And, as being funny means being transgressive, sometimes you blur those lines between reality and “it would’ve been cool if x had happened”. You get hyperbolic with your anecdotes and detailed with your metaphors. A lot of these poor never-read-satire-before readers seemed to miss how she calls him a human piece of garbage (with zero emotional response from him) in one breath and – in the next – witnesses the first glimpse of “hurt in his eyes” (because she failed to finish a sandwich he made). Dur. It’s not Onion level, but that’s very definite satire.

For all we know, she might be Kate-fishing us with this Kate flick style pantomime. “She” might be a dude and the whole tale minus “Day One” could be total Rowling level fantasy. And ya know what? I ain’t mad at her (Or him. Or it – if it’s a creative robot). How’s that one quote go? “Never ruin a good story with the truth”? She or (he)’s not sharing sensitive American intel here (#chelseamanningzing).

It’s just a fun, meaningless escape into the mind and musings of a soon to be ex-girlfriend that aptly portrays the shared experience of dating induced psychosis. So just sit back and enjoy the shit show. If you can’t, it’s prob ‘cause you f’real do some form of this humorless self-sabotage in real life. Sans the satire.

Or an audience of readers to receive it.

(Let’s all take a moment of silence for the suffering significant others of these sorts).

Let’s redo this fat suit Tinder experiment (video).

Standard

Okay, I don’t want to bias you.

So first, you watch these two Tinder-meetup-in-a-fat-suit social experiments. And then read my take.

Here’s the chick version:

And now, the dude:

I feel like the experiments weren’t terribly equal.

They made the dude hate kids, pups, and he was ironically picky about the fitness level of his chicks. Already he’s a douchey hypocrite with borderline sociopathy (Hate babies? Fine. But what kinda monster hates dogs?) that’s redeemable only in the cute one-twirl dance move, adventurous nature, and thumb war game he got them to play. The chick on the other hand? A sweetie who looks like she feasts on a lotta sweets. But maybe that was the point. The big girl was comparatively created to be fun and upbeat – and the majority of the guys still left her. The fat guy, contrarily, gave out the same brand of visual misinformation and the women still made farmer’s market dates with him and even kissed him before parting ways.

Could it be ulterior motive that’s the driving force here? Because for the guys who showed up, the plan to have a sexual fantasy ultimately fulfilled was annihilated when they got more woman than that for which they’d bargained. Dudes didn’t even sit down – and why would they? This is an audition for Sex-Factor, not Wifey-Idol. We didn’t meet on Match.com. This is Tinder.

So, that should’ve been the same expectation the chicks had.

But, alas, the evidence doesn’t lie.

These ladies were apparently willing to settle for this corpulent kinda unlikeable character who also false-advertised. Is that because they were nice? Or because he wasn’t (lotsa chicks are like cats – they want to be loved, petted, and adored the moment you stop offering it)? Or was it because (despite having knowingly met them on fleeting-meetup media) they were thinking of tucking him way in the back corner “in case I don’t have any prospects 40 years from now and don’t wanna die alone” part of the kitchen cupboard? Or even just that friend-zone member who’ll tell you you’re pretty and everyone else sucks? Part of me feels like that was the whole point of this social experiment – to demonstrate the biology disparity between men and women with respect to casual encounters. That dudes carry out the mission from its inception and abandon it when the parameters of said directive change – while women are just kinda bound to their blueprints for bookmarking potential long-term providers. And they’re thus willing to build a whole long-term dynamic with deception at its foundation – even though this was only ever meant to be a 15 minute fling at the Ramada across the street.

As ever, the femi-nazi within wants to finger wag and say “nuh-uuuhh”.

But, I guess I can’t, can I? Seeing as I came to this conclusion myself and all?

Still, they’d do a better job at convincing everyone else if they’d designed the experiment more equally.

I was left wondering – why did they have to go out of their way to make the dude seem douchey? If he was nicer, the chicks might have gotten bored like over-petted housecats and wandered off like the dudes did. I wanna know what’d happen if they redid this experiment with both personalities acting generally pleasant. And what happens when both genders come “lean” – about their not being actually fat.

But even more than that, I wanna know: how did zero of these trolled folk not recognize this was a fat suit? These people are arguably more dim-witted than they are superficial. So, in this next social experiment I’ve outlined, I also want to know is how many people could figure out you’re even wearing a terribly applied fat suit that bends and crinkles when you profile like no human tissue naturally does? Fat’s not that vulnerable to gravity. Nobody’s upper face stays that slim while the rest of their adipose tissue cascades downward like geriatric testicles. Let’s get on this experiment ASAP.

’cause I don’t know how to Tinder, so this is how I get my kicks now.