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

“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.” -Northanger Abbey

I am among a close-knit group of English graduate students here, and among them is The Hipster. He is precisely as he seems. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a secret member of Mumford & Sons or the like. He has the dark hair cut to be full on top, thick-rimmed glasses, plaid button-downs,tattoos on his forearms, and a simply scrumptious scruffy beard (a beard!). He has sat next to me quite often, and we have a wonderful time of it discussing our assignments and poking fun at others (a favorite pastime of mine I'm afraid). It's maddening how attractive he is, and yet I know that even if he found me equally attractive nothing should be done about it. Blast it all. Is the "flirt to convert" approach too shallow?

In another vein entirely, I'm afraid I may be rooming with two versions of Mary Bennet. They're both such sweet girls, but both roughly ten years older than myself. One of them hardly speaks above a whisper, and the other is quite attached to her cats. Though I barely know either of them, I feel a certain responsibility to them. The question is, how much of a responsibility do I have? 

I certainly hope my first Sunday in my new ward proves to be more fruitful. 

Con Amor,

The Lady

Last Saturday, our stake had a pool party so I donned my chevron swim suit and melted into the crowd of nylon, spandex, and skin. Fortunately for me, moving to a new town hasn’t proven to be the loneliest choice and I’ve been able to re-connect with old friends. I found said friends on the outskirts fully dressed watching the diving contest which can only be described as a game for fools. Belly flops and over-rotated flips were the main event.

In our angsty anti-social state, a guy from my ward begged us to join in on beach volleyball. I soon found myself the only girl on either side of this not-so-heated game. I was pleased. This never happens. How oft have we seen the one attractive male being badgered by 11 girls begging him to volley with them. 

Heaven help me if I have to participate in such shenanigans again for I have quickly grown used to being the center of attention  

Whilst volleying, a teammate of mine asked what ward I was in and when I mentioned my little ward, he made the connection that I must know The Insulter. Oh boy did I. My teammate went on to mention the Insulter’s girlfriend and how they will probably be wed soon.

What?

If the facts check out, that begs the question as to why a pre-engaged guy was following me around a party to later trap me in a flirty attack. Men will never cease to confuse me.

After a few rounds of volleyball, my group left to watch my cousin in a relay race. I have yet to mention my cousin, so here it goes. He is very attractive and very much in med school and when you add the fact he’s fluent in Italian you get why I’m quickly becoming vastly popular with the female population in the ward.

Here’s what I’ve learned in my slingshot to popularity: girls are shameless.

As soon as my cousin emerged from the water and came to sit near us, girls came a flockin. One girl in particular, came bounding towards us, “Blue,” she cried, “it’s so great to see you!” (I’ve maybe had one conversation with this girl before), “So, who’s your friend,” she said eyeing my half naked cousin.

Subtle

Once we got away from the hungry pack of she-wolves I was able to talk to a new member of our group. A member that just so happened to be male and tall. Enough said. Five minutes into the conversation I knew we would never be.  First, he hates my home town, which is basically like him slapping my sister in the face. Second, he openly admitted to not liking the Harry Potter series AKA my childhood

That’s like slapping me in the face.

Enough with the slapping. There’s an attractive Polynesian in my ward and I am determined to get to know him better. Wish me luck!

-The Bluestocking 

_____________________________

During this same weekend, I spent some time with an old friend who in high school was that guy friend that every girl needs. The Pal. Though I never considered it in high school, on recalling certain aspects of our friendship, I am almost certain of his at least having a crush on me in days long past. Perhaps my recollection is obscured slightly, but one never knows. 

We had a wonderful time becoming reacquainted {I was a terrible friend and did not write to him on his mission} and then he asked if I would like to go bunny-bashing with him and several other of the guys who had come home for the weekend. I was hesitant, but agreed as I ought to be adventurous and participate in activities I have never tried. To make a long story short, bunny-bashing was not something I enjoyed. In the slightest. Though I must say, The Pal was quite attentive and made sure that I was never on the point of fainting. I think because of my reactions, he bridled his desire to participate in the massacre and was the only one among the group who never made any attempt to kill one rabbit. Such gallantry! Although he probably regarded my reactions as a bit too Mrs. Bennet-esque. But he has promised to take me fishing sometime in the future, however, that may never happen because unbeknownst to me, I balk at the sight of blood. 

Con Amor, 

The Lady

I spent last week worrying about getting a silly call from a guy I didn't even know and in my desperate state my little brain’s irrational thoughts escalated to exclaiming things like, “why won’t my soul mate call me?!” 

I was in a dark and ridiculous place. The cause of my crazed thoughts can be explained in the following equation:

Leaving BYU + my convo with the insulter + my overall lack of male interaction 

= sad sad pathetic me.

To make things worse I kept getting texts from my "bestie" (she said with sarcasm) asking if I’d heard from him.  Finally, he called.

Now typical blind date calls last 27 seconds and consists of him saying “uh so ha ha, do you wanna go out Saturday” and you interject midway through the word Saturday with a nervy high-pitched “suuure,” to which you both laugh and say your goodbyes. 

Just thinking about it makes me want to die.

This conversation was nothing like that. He said my "bestie" told him he should take out her special friend. That’s me, I’m the special friend. How humiliating. How many times can I say this, I DON'T KNOW HER. From there we briefly laid out the facts and I was duly impressed. He loves literature people! I’m not someone who gets excited about dates (understatement), but this guy intrigued me.

Now on to the double date.

The date turned into a 5 hour bowling/froyo experience with a brief intermission set in the dollar aisle of Target. I know the phrase 5-hour-date sets off the same reaction the name Frau Blucher did in Young Frankenstein, but this was the exception.

We had a good time. I explained how I had barely met my proclaimed “special friend” just two weeks ago and we got a kick out of that. The other couple was hilarious. All in all he was a great guy.

We’ve been down the dating-a-shorter-guy conversation and I for one will never bend. I’m 5’9’’ and I rock heels, so sue me.

On to other fun things: The bishop called me in and told me I needed to get five guys I’m interested in and go for it. If one ends up being a dud I simply rinse and repeat. Usually I scoff at such ideas, but he has a point. Why should I focus on just one guy who will end up leading to all sorts of disappointment? AND you just never know when polyandry is going to become socially acceptable so I might as well be ready. 

Amiright or amiright.

-The Bluestocking

Like the Lady I have set up shop in a new town with a new scene. Unlike the Lady I was not in Europe so my lack of posting can’t be contributed to world travel. Still I cite extreme busyness as the culprit to my dry spell both in writing and love.

Guess who has triumphantly returned from the land of Jane Austen?! {Me. It's me}. Though I did not meet the Misters Darcy, Brandon, Wentworth, Knightley, Tilney, et cetera, I am fully convinced that "[England] is the place to find husbands". Truly. American men seem utterly disenchanting at the moment. Though with a fickle heart such as mine, I am sure that sentiment will not last long. 

Currently, my parents have graciously allowed me to set up camp in their home until I start grad school in the fall. This is ever so kind of my dear, sweet parents, but before I returned from England I do not think that I thought this through very well. Please do not misunderstand, I love my parents and I love my home, but I somehow forgot that there are literally no eligible men in my town. How could I have forgotten? There were hardly any eligible men here when I was going to high school. And as far as I can tell {from a short survey}, my local singles ward is . . . lacking. 

That is the beginning of my spot of trouble. Because of my boredom, I once again turned to Tinder. {Note to self: Resorting to shallow social media gimmicks that the general population uses to hook up with one another is not okay for a naive, nice, flirt such as yourself}. And as is meant to happen on Tinder, a man began chatting with me, and before I knew it I had given him my cell number {it was late, and I obviously wasn't thinking clearly okay!}, and now he will not stop texting me. He's even attempted to call me several times to read me his poetry and tell me jokes {I always have an excuse handy for not answering}. This wouldn't be so bad if I found him even remotely interesting, which I do not by the way. He uses an excessive amount of smiley faces and "ha ha"s and "lol"s in his texts, and I always have to explain my jokes to him. If you haven't heard before, jokes just are not funny if they have to be explained. So how does one say kindly, "Hey dude, I apologize for leading you on by liking you on Tinder, and I also apologize for using you as a cure for my boredom. You're nice, but please stop texting me." 

I know I got myself into this situation, but can't someone please get me out?!

Con Amor, 

The Lady

P.S. I deleted Tinder.

I had been spending quite a ridiculous amount of time liking and disliking the immediate vicinity's eligible bachelors. Naturally, I had set for myself a few ground rules:

1. Dislike anyone who has included a picture of themselves wearing one of those toolish tank tops {you know, the loosey-goosey ones which are often striped}. 

2. Dislike anyone who has included several pictures of them skiing and snowboarding. {This is nothing against skiing and snowboarding. I am sure they are great sports, but anyone who is obsessed with such activities is bound to detest yours truly. The Lady just so happens to be thoroughly un-athletic}. 

3. Like all men with beards. {Much like our dear Romantic, I have a slight weakness for a man who can prove his manliness through substantial and tasteful facial hair}. 

4. Dislike any man taking a picture of himself in the bathroom mirror in which he is hoping to perfectly encapsulate and immortalize his rippling pectorals. 

5. Dislike any and all men under the age of 22, no matter how attractive they may be. {Due to the fact that I will be 23 in just a few short weeks, I see no reason why I should be dating a younger man than myself. You may call this shallow and wishful thinking if you must}.

With my ground rules established, I liked and disliked men at my leisure. This careless and cursory activity consumed my many moments, and I kept to my rules as strictly as recently Returned Missionaries abide by the Honor Code. However, I soon made a fatal error. 

I came across a man who just struck my fancy. Dark hair, vibrant green eyes, and an adorable face. The problem was that this man was 22. A major dilemma as one of my rules had been firmly set forth, and the consequences of deliberate disregard to the rules was certain to be merciless. My Shoulder Angel and Shoulder Devil played a quick game of badminton and as so often happens my Shoulder Devil dominated the game {Shoulder Devil is quite adept at badminton}. Then I gently tapped the small heart on my screen. To my stark chagrin the unforgivable happened and we were a match. Then this man had the audacity to begin chatting with me! {The nerve!}.

Things took a turn for the worse. Tinder Man was funny, interesting, easy to talk to, and flattering. I hated him. We talked to each other for hours. We loved the same movies, we loved the same sports, we loved the same music, and we had similar family situations. He was infuriating. The first night we chatted, we were up until 3:30 in the morning. The next night was 4:30, and the next was 5:30. Loathing was all I felt for him. 

I had told him the truth about my situation: that I was graduating from BYU and moving to Arizona for graduate school just within the week {aka I will be gone from Provo forever come Monday}. This fact frustrated him greatly because we had been getting along so extraordinarily well. Deterred though no less determined, Tinder Man asked me out, and to my own shock and awe, I accepted. 

I am generally online dating's most outspoken opponent, so what I was doing was unheard of. But I did not stand Tinder Man up, although the thought crossed my mind several times throughout the day. I decided that meeting him would be perfect, as I was certain I would greatly dislike him in person as opposed to how I felt about him while I texted him. 

But blast it all, he was simply charming. He hugged me tightly and smelled so deliciously manly. I had felt a slight feeling of vindication during the first two minutes of the date because we generally did not know how to act around each other, but by minute three, we had slipped into the easy and witty conversation we had become accustomed to with one another. 

We finished eating long before we finished our date. We just sat at our table and laughed and shared stories and argued for several hours. It was perfect. 

Now I am packing my apartment with the great satisfaction of being liked by someone I find quite wonderful, and the wonder that I have met someone through an iPhone app, and the melancholy that my best date at BYU happened just a few short days before I left Provo forever. 

And if I were to give myself {or any one of you} any advice as I prepare part ways with BYU and begin adventures anew it would be this:

Plan to be surprised. 

Con Amor,

The Lady