It has been much too long since I wrote last. Apologies, apologies. 

A quick update about Mary and The Bearded Hobbit:

I was quite right about The Bearded Hobbit and his interest in the Nineteen-Year-Old Nuisance. As of a couple weeks before the Christmas break, the two began "officially" dating. Poor Mary. She insists that she isn't much bothered, but she also has asked me more than once why I think the older men in our area tend to date the younger girls. I for one have no answer to give. I repeat: poor Mary. 

Other things to address:

Recently, a reader asked if we find technology to be a help or hindrance to the dating process. In search of a simple answer, I have stewed over this question much longer than was probably necessary. And of course, I have not been able to come up with a simple answer at all. I think that technology can be both a help and a hindrance to dating. 

As much as I love sending and receiving hand-written letters (I truly do love letters), the technology we have is ever so helpful. If I need to contact someone on the other side of the world in a hurry, I have a multitude of means at my disposal. Back in the olden days when I was actually seriously dating men, we could contact each other through seemingly limitless mediums. If my phone was on the fritz (which seemed to happen often back then) we could send each other messages through email, Facebook, etc. All the technology we have is quite brilliant. 

I assume, however, that the question asked was not about how helpful technology is in getting in touch with people, but rather how I view modern modes of dating (aka online dating). 

Ladies and gentleman, please fasten your seat belts.

Due to a creepy experience I had with an online chat room (do those still exist?) when I was a wee lass, I had vowed to never ever be involved with online dating. I was quite hard-nosed about it for years and years, and harshly judged anyone who participated in anything like it. I was convinced there could only be horrible consequences for those who got involved with someone they only knew from online. But after hearing countless tales of what good had come of it for friends and relatives, my heart began to soften slightly.

Online dating is such a regular part of our culture, that it is difficult to condemn it, and I am not certain that condemnation is what it deserves. I think that it provides opportunities for people to meet that other circumstances might never make possible. But with that said, I'm not exactly all for it either. 

In my most personal and most biased opinion, I still never want to be involved in online dating. Yes, I know the rule to never say "never" and yes, I did go through a short Tinder stint, but no more I say! It isn't so much that I think all men to be found on online sites are crummy, fake, or shallow, but it's more about what I've discovered about myself when I've briefly tried online dating/meeting/whatever. 

It is much too easy to be fake. And I am not talking about all the creepers (which definitely exist), I am talking about myself. When chatting or emailing guys online, I feel I am only half myself. I am only the parts of myself that I let them see. My photos are perfectly angled and cropped to only accentuate my best features and effectively hide those flaws I am not too partial to. I am perfectly witty and flirty because I can sit and think about my responses rather than allow the usual awkward babble that tends to escape my lips. Men become interested by the picture of myself that I present to them rather than the reality that I am. And it is not as though I am intentionally manipulative, it is just what happens with online interactions. It just isn't real. At least for me. 

So for my answer to technology and dating: it's a personal choice. It is not for me, but maybe it is for you. Maybe you're not a phony like I am, and maybe you've had great experiences unlike yours truly. Like most things in life, it is a matter of personal taste. 

Oh, be wise. What can I say more? 

Con Amor, 

The Lady

Because I am often not at home, nor particularly close with my roommate, Mary, there are a few gaps in what I know about her complex amour with The Bearded Hobbit. All I can relate are my own perceptions and speculations.

I hoped that it was me just being hypercritical of this strange little man's body language, but later events that week suggest otherwise. I was at ward choir practice minding my own business when The Bearded Hobbit showed up with the Nineteen-Year-Old-Nuisance in tow. He was even carrying her violin. Ugh. 

Now I'm faced with a major dilemma: do I tell Mary or let her find out on her own?

Con Amor, 

The Lady

Now back to my roommate, Mary, and The Bearded Hobbit. 

Last Saturday, Mary had invited The Bearded Hobbit and his roommate over for dinner. She pulled out all the stops. And I mean ALL the stops. She made Julia Child's boef bourguignon. Yes, the it-takes-several-hours-to-cook and several-cups-of-red-wine boef bourguignon. I was nervous that it was all too much. Most girls would just cook tacos or something. Boef bourguignon is a statement meal. It is a this-is-the-sort-of-food-I-would-cook-for-you-if-we-were-married sort of meal. But it all went off surprisingly well and I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Until Sunday afternoon that is. 

I had an interview with my bishop after our ward's meetings, and as I was only one in a long line of interviews, I sat in the foyer with Mary until it was my time. After a while I realized that Mary wasn't waiting for an interview with the bishop, but rather for something else entirely. She kept looking anxiously around the corner at the doors to the chapel, tapping her feet, and sighing exasperatingly. I knew she must be waiting for The Bearded Hobbit to get out of his ward, but I played it cool just to be sure. I asked her if she was waiting to talk to the bishop too, but she sighed again loudly, glancing at the chapel once more and confirmed my suspicions: "Just waiting for The Bearded Hobbit to get out of sacrament meeting." I joked about her really liking him, but she denied the claim, "Oh, we're just friends, and I don't want to rush into anything." Then she continued to wait for at least a half hour for The Bearded Hobbit to get out of his ward just to say "hi". 

Call me crazy, but people who just want to be friends don't generally do these sorts of things. Right?

Con Amor, 

The Lady

For example, my roommate, Mary, has become curiously attracted to a man whom I refer to as The Bearded Hobbit {only in my own mind of course}. The only reason I can imagine she likes him is because he is close to the same age as herself {singles even over 25 are in short supply here}. Every conversation I've had with him has been terribly dull. Terribly. And as his pseudonym may imply, he is also terribly short, which isn't a bad trait at all except for the fact that my roommate is not terribly short. But as it so often goes, several girls find him attractive . . . somehow. Now Mary finds herself battling for The Bearded Hobbit's affections against an over-zealous nineteen-year-old. Chances are the nineteen-year-old will win because when it comes down to it, the younger girl always wins. 

Tune in next week for more of "Mary vs. the Nineteen-Year-Old". 

Con Amor, 

The Lady

I may have mentioned this before. I may have mentioned it one hundred times. I may have to mention one hundred times more. This place is not Provo. Provo is a literal buffet of attractive men. They were everywhere. One could not safely cross campus without catching sight of at least one heart-stopping sort of man. Here, however, a great deal of "weeding out" must be done and the men who would have been the average schmoes in Provo are now the hotshots here.

I happen to like average schmoes. Ever so much. Even amongst all the slick, gym-frequenting dapper Dans of Provo, I always went for the average guys. The one's who were easy to talk to, funny, and somewhat ruddy-faced. The average guys felt real and made me feel real, and I never had to combat the hordes of girls who were vying for the attention of all the other men.

But here, the hordes attack the average guys, and I never was the sort who had any desire to play a part in that madness. It is feasible that it is vanity to want to be a girl pursued rather than a pursuing sort of girl. But it is what it is.

Let's get to the point.

The Girth always has the a congregation of girls about him. They interrupt him while he studies (while I'm sitting strategically nearby) and sneak up on him from behind with awkwardly intimate hugs. Blech. I refuse to participate in that sort of tom-foolery.

Anyway, there have only been a few exchanges between The Girth and myself: a high-five, he stared at my bum once (thank you high heels), and we nearly sat next to each other in institute. Unfortunately, the last encounter was ruined by one of his many admirers. I got to our institute class before he did, but when he arrived, there was a multitude of empty seats. But, he hesitated behind me and asked if he could sit at my table, although he left a seat between us, using a recent cold as an excuse to keep some distance. I was about to turn to him and engage in some light conversation when this blonde piece came and sat between us, and then he was bombarded by another two or three girls with giggles and sympathy for his cold.

And once again, I said nary a word.

Con Amor,

The Lady

I had been determined to avoid posting until I had something at least relatively juicy to offer your feasting lips, but I must admit that what we are dealing with are the bare bones. My fixedness on this point derives from the following experience:

Months ago, {while still at my lovely Brigham Young University}, I overheard two young, single women talking about Jane Austen. Of course their topic piqued by interest and I invited my ears into their conversation {eavesdropping can be a wonderful thing}. After discussing their favorite of dear Jane's novels, heroines, men, et cetera, one of them asked the other, "Have you ever heard of The Anti-Austen?" Attempting to disguise my look of pure giddiness as well as the fact that I was even listening, the one began to describe the blog {this blog!} to the other. The description was fair enough {girls who love Jane Austen talking about their dating experiences at BYU}, but what caught me off-guard was this girl's disclaimer:

"It's a good blog, but I wish that the girls who write it would stop complaining. We get that you're not having any luck with dating!"

My giddy mood turned instantly sour.

You, yourself, may ask, "What is the point of a dating blog if none of you are dating?" My rebuttal is that more often than not, the dating scene is about what we lack rather than what we have. We at The Anti-Austen experience bad dates {sometimes extremely bad dates}, we go on mediocre dates, we go on good dates, and sometimes we go on no dates at all. The very title of our blog denotes that we are lacking. The Anti-Austen. Lacking in that which is most loved about Jane Austen novels: the triumph of a heroine loved by her ideal male counterpart.

So I am sorry to say that I, at least, am here to stay. {Granted I can attempt to exclaim "Why me?!?!" less often...} Despite my lack of dating, or maybe because of my lack of dating. One never know how long this may last, I could be blogging until my crazy cat-lady days. However, I will be the Anti-Cat Lady because of my allergies. Perhaps I will garden excessively.

Con Amor,

The Lady

P.S. There are at least two men I have my eye on currently. One of them is a graduate student in history {I've learned this tidbit through talk about the institute, not through actual person to person communication}. The other I call "The Girth" in my mind because he sat in front of me at church and in my institute class and I could not see the teacher for the extraordinary girth of his shoulders. Be still my beating heart.

In this particular bookstore I have a strict regimen for finding books. First comes the collectibles then I make my way through young adult to adult and I end the day by thoroughly searching the poetry/Shakespeare section.
While perusing the collectibles I sensed a male standing nearby. He said nothing so naturally I ignored his presence. I went on through the different sections until I had a stack of gems ready to come home with me. I made my way to the register and played with the counter-top doodads barely acknowledging my cashier beyond the obligatory hello.  

My plan to woo The Polynesian has worked better than, well, any wooing plan I’ve had in the past year. 

Two weeks ago: 

My friend and I were chattered away waiting for church to commence when he came in from the right bringing with him a strong scent of coconut and pineapple (only joking, but can you even imagine how magical that would be?). It took us about 10 seconds to realize gawking was most unbecoming. And we quietly settled back into our seats and gave each other the look women have been sharing for centuries.  

Luck have it, we stumbled into him on our way to Sunday School and it just so happened he needed directions to our class. We did our wardly duty and gave him a tour. I know I know, we’re very generous people.

Last week: 

I was running late to church which meant I had to slowly creak open the chapel door and dart to the nearest seat. Without trying I was one chair away from destiny/The Polynesian/my-future-husband…too far?

As I readjusted my skirt his eye caught mine as he glanced up from his hymn book. He smiled, scooted closer, and held the book out for both of us. He kept teasing me for not singing louder which only made me want to cease singing altogether (My voice is decent on a good day, but terrible on a flirty day). During the announcements we had a whole 6 minutes to sum up and spill out our life stories. Into minute two I realized he was far cooler than little ol me (which isn’t necessarily a difficult feat). After Sacrament we collected a few more get to know you minutes before we were engulfed by a swarm of girls. 

This week I realized how out of my league I was:

After sacrament I made my way to the ladies room to assess the frizz to hair ratio when I ran into him. He suggested we walk around a bit and catch up and I was in no position to turn down such an offer. We circled the classrooms and wardies for 30 minutes talking about our lives and goals. I conveniently left out my desire to have caramel colored children…

When I mentioned my job he jokingly mentioned he was in the market for a sugar mama, to which I responded that would just not do since I was strictly a sugar daddy kind of lady. Good thing he’s in med school. 

We finally made our way to Sunday School where he leaned over and asked if I had facebook. Of course. He fiddled with his phone and 5 seconds later my phone lit up with a fbook friendship request from him. Huzzah! No facebook stalking he said slyly. I figured that comment bought me at least an hour to log on and delete the pictures of me dressed up as Hermione at not one but two Harry Potter movie premiers. 

I swear I’m normal.

Kidding, normal is overrated and I make a very convincing Hermione. It would be cruel to deny the world of my imitation, and by world I mean everyone who isn’t the very attractive poly in my ward.

I can’t express enough how important it is to slowly emerge your crushes into your crazy. 

-The Bluestocking