Hot People Have Their Reasons

Maybe it's the perpetual cycle of cruel teasing sunniness followed by inexplicable snow, rain and cloudy weather. Maybe it's the cosmic coincidence that I woke up both slightly hungover AND with my monthly inconvenience and could do little more this morning than haul my sorry ass from the bed, to the bath (standing up in the shower was just too much for me today), to the couch to watch a children's film and drink copious amounts of milky tea. Maybe it's because my new hairdresser alerted me to the presence of grey hair in my coif last week, and now every time I look at myself in the mirror, I keep thinking I see huge chunks of grey. Maybe it's the fact that, though I was invited to something party-esque last night (social life! huzzah!) and got pleasantly tipsy, tipsiness yesterday always results in feelings like this today.

I don't know what it is, but I'm kind of in an emo funk (imagine the fusion of THOSE musical genres...blech...well, that's how I feel). I've been writing this stuff for over a year now - and I think I have improved on the hotness front. I think I'm a lot more interesting than I was just over a year ago...for serious. It's been hard work, too - or at least painful - what with the brazilian waxes, unfortunate skin reactions due to experiments with makeups, face creams, and cleansers, and constant attempts to get my bicycle up hilariously steep hills in an effort to make my ass look sweet. But what am I doing this for? And for whom?

This whole thing started as a way to feel good about myself - and to a certain extent it's worked. But I still find myself feeling like this a little more often than I'd like. And what have I really got to show for it, anyway? A handful of slightly regrettable one-night stands (some only regrettable because they never got past that one night), a few pounds melted away (but really, only a few), a better handle on the application of makeup, slightly more flattering clothing and a seriously twisted co-dependent relationship with online dating sites.

And when feeling good about myself didn't seem to be motivation enough, I added spite to the mix - remember plan ab-tastic? I'm 100% sure that decision was all about making dudes who'd taken a pass on me experience palpable regret when they realize they missed out on the hot, hot bod I will, of course, one day have.

But now I'm pretty sure that I'm measuring my self-like by how much boys like me. And I think it's been that way for quite some time. AND I think that's not really very hot at all.

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Incidentally, I think I discovered, through observational study of behaviour, the secret to my not really caring if particular boys like me. Guy friends: if you suspect I'm interested in being more than friends with you and you'd like to leave that particular queue (cuz I'll be honest, there are more than a few of you out there), here's what you should do. Do something forgivably dick-ish to me. Seriously. I mean, not super dick-ish - unless you also want to stop being friends altogether. "Accidentally" tell me I look fat in those pants, then subsequently apologise. That kind of thing. I'm pretty sure this is a no-fail plan.
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So, back to the original question - why am I doing this? For whom?

I think it's kind of a cliché and sell-out-y to decide I'm hot when some guy I think is kind of cute decides I'm hot for me. It's got to be for some other reason.

In the last four months, almost 500 people have read this blog almost 1500 times. I'm not adept enough with my analytics program to know if that's a lot of people or not, but those are pretty astounding numbers to me. But why? Seriously, what are you reading this for? Because if I'm inspiring people, then I think that's hot. Even if it's just because I'm funny - that'd be ok too. Hot people are funny. Could I get some help with my crisis of conscience, or should I just pack it in?

Hot People Know the Score

Ok - so life in a small Northern Ontario town hasn't been COMPLETELY boring these days (don't get me wrong...it's still pretty boring...but I'll take it. For now).

The more faithful readers will be WELL aware of my angst about aging. This may have been exacerbated by my compulsion to be friends with people 6 years my junior. Maybe. While life as a diabetes educator has not cured me of that particular angst completely (it's more likely now that I'm even MORE scared of getting old when I see what kind of health crap these people have to deal with), I am at least assured that I am not as ancient as my previous, friend-of-twenty-year-olds self had believed.

Score 1 Miss T

To add to this reassurance, last weekend I was carded not once, but twice. The first time was the more hilarious of the two. I was at the LCBO when the lady at the counter asked me if I had ID to go with my purchase of a mid-priced sparkling wine. I laughed, hauled out my brand-spanking-new Ontario Drivers License (disgusting picture, btw...the province doesn't let you smile...one more reason I miss Nova Scotia), said it had been a while since I'd had that request, and handed it over. At this point, there were three people behind me waiting to purchase their weekend's mind-numbing solutions. The woman checked my birthdate, but no, that was not enough. She also felt it necessary to further delay the line-up of people waiting for the sweet relief at the end of their work-weeks to hold the license up to my face for comparison lest I be the kind of rapscallion who tries to use someone else's face at a BRIGHTLY LIT LIQUOR STORE AT 6 PM. This process took at least 120 seconds. I enjoyed every one of them.

Score 1 Miss T

The other id check happened when I joined one of the gyms in town. A twig-sized girl, obviously no older than 17, asked me if I was over 18 when I was filling out my PAR-Q. I'm pretty sure the force of my laughter mussed up her hair. But hey...when the kids think I'm one of them, that can't be bad, right?

Score 1 Miss T

I joined a choir two weeks ago. It a. is not completely (or even slightly) populated with blue-haired old warbling women, and b. a step in the right direction if I want to diversify my extra-curriculars so my life isn't just about failed debating. And I'm pretty good at it. One might say I'm an asset. Or at least, I might. Because I'm fly like that.

Score 1 Miss T

After the first choir practice, I had pizza with a guy in the choir. It was kind of spur of the moment, but he sprung for the pizza. We talked for about an hour and a half. We seem to have a lot in common. When we left and went our separate ways, we parted with an awkward hug.

Score...shit. I don't know.

Did I just have a date? There was food and good conversation and someone treating, but it wasn't pre-planned. Does that make a difference? If it WAS a date, how'd I do? I wasn't prepared. Can I have a re-test?

Also, what do I do with that awkward hug? The post-analysis has been shot to shit by that hug. Does it mean I'm in the friendzone (which would be fine...I'd just like to know), or what?

Here is what I know about the romance-calibre of date endings:

Kiss > Awkward Hug > Handshake > Watching him run away screaming

But THAT. IS. ALL.

Surely hot people know what dates are (I have several friends who have suggested to me that this is the case. They DO know).

Anyway, the limbo I'm feeling on the romantic front kind of echoes the limbo I'm feeling everywhere else. My life isn't super exciting right now, but hey, at least I look young and fresh, and to some people LIKE A CHILD. Huzzah?

Hot People Don't Believe the Hype (An Open Letter to E-Harmony)

This isn't my first brush with online dating. Unfortunately, it probably won't be my last either. But I've got a beef that I've just gotta get off my chest.

Dear E-Harmony,

I object to your claims about compatibility. You cannot match people up based on their personalities. At the risk of sounding ghetto, you don't know me. And I doubt you really care to anyway, as long as you can keep automatically charging $30/month on my VISA***. What you CAN do is match people up based on their own impressions of their personalities. And let's be honest, here. I'm pretty sure most people out there, especially the single ones ('cause Lord knows, we're all still single for a reason!), don't have enough grip on reality to TRULY know themselves. The result of this is that the people we ACTUALLY are is almost never the same as the people we THINK we are. Some people THINK they have a sarcastic sense of humour, but a lot of the time, people just don't really know what sarcasm is (except that they're pretty sure it's something that people find funny...and attractive in others...).

Secondly, your *claim* "When attraction is ignited by TRUE compatibility...", first of all, is not even a sentence. (Weren't you founded by a DOCTOR? Who had to go to SCHOOL?? Where you learn how to WRITE SHIT?!?!?!?). But it also requires that the average tv-watching consumer not be duped into thinking you can also guarantee that attraction. I wasn't duped by your slogan with the poor sentence structure, but I WAS duped by the pictures. And I say duped because it doesn't take a genius to know that everyone posts the MOST flattering pictures of themselves and never the ones where they've lost the game of angles. For some reason, the fact that I play the game had no bearing on my expectation of how others will play.

The only thing you CAN claim is that you're pretty ok at figuring out if people will be decent friends. And when people are desperately lonely because they live in brand new towns and don't know anyone except their co-workers and the girl at the express checkout at the grocery store, and because they quit debating because they're old ladies and are missing the National Championships for the first time in eight years and don't know what's happening there because THEIR FRIENDS DON'T TEXT THEM WHEN THEY SAY THEY WILL (ok, I forgive you guys. I know how crazy busy it gets there...I'm just sad and lonely here), making a decent friend should be good enough. But when you also show clips of impossibly beautiful people who are deliriously happy with each other and give people the impression that there was just this spark of love immediately, it makes us believe we SHOULD want more than a decent friend and it makes us sorely disappointed when that's all you can deliver.

So, I wonder, E-Harmony, what do you have to say to me in response? And more to the point, what do you have to say to the poor fellow sitting at home right now who thinks it's just great that he's met a girl that FINALLY he can have a conversation with? And what about the fact that I feel like a complete douche right now because YOU DIDN'T DO THE JOB YOU CLAIMED TO BE ABLE TO DO??? Well, I can find decent friends on my own, thanks. And I guess I can decide who I'm compatible with too. This is what I have to say to you, E-Harmony. Oh, and keep the $30.

Love,

Miss T

***In other news, apparently all those years of having a VISA limit that was exceeded whenever I bought more than a stick of gum has paid off. When I went to the bank to alert them that I was no longer a student, they told me my credit rating was like, A plus plus plus star and now I have more credit than I know what to do with. Hilarious.

Hot People Aren't So Sad and Lonely

Alright, so the title may have been a wee bit dramatic, but I've been in this new town for about two weeks, and it's been a week since I last saw someone I actually know (and I've run out of the lasagna my Mommy made when she was here. See? Sad!). This is no way to mark the approximate one-year anniversary of Hot in 6 Months.

All resolutions have been put on hold until I get my feet wet at work and, more crucially, get my first paycheque - though that's already earmarked for professional fee renewals and car payments (crippling ones!). In the interim, I've been getting practice with the manual transmission on my new automobile (Why did I think THAT was a good idea?) by going to Wal-Mart to buy odds and ends like paper towel and windshield scrapers, watching movies (note to self [and others]: Mamie Van Doren, though busty and beautiful, does not make good films. Period.), going to bed before 10 p.m. like a 73-year-old, and eating far more candy than is reasonable for a normal person, let alone a dietitian who counsels diabetes sufferers exclusively. Basically, I'm a lazy, sleepy person who eats garbage - but at least I've got a brand new
car (note that under my coat and boots, I'm wearing pajamas and haven't brushed my hair)!

No guitar-playing, no French-speaking (yet!), and only slightly better taste in music. And of course, plan ab-tastic has been put on hold once again. It's hard to get rock-hard abs if your most vigorous exercise consists of walking from the bedroom at one end of your apartment to the bathroom at the other.

And, if that weren't enough, my relative laziness has manifested itself in significantly more internet-surfing. And that's when I came upon this! Hottest Blogging Babes 2010!?!? And I'm not one of them?!!?!?! This is, truly, a failure.

Obviously, something must be done about this. Luckily, despite living in a pretty teensy town, it's relatively well-appointed in the amenities department. Apparently, there's a gym here with personal trainers. It is my plan to meet with one of these trainers as soon as financially possible. It is my further plan to relate to this trainer my quest for hotness and plan ab-tastic. I will do this by telling him or her that my fitness goal is to "look good naked." Hopefully the not-so-thinly veiled reference to one of my favourite movies will not go unnoticed.

The knowing-more-people problem is not so simple to rectify. Like I said before, I don't know what the cool kids do around here for fun and I don't know how to find out. I'm seriously considering going to church tomorrow just so I can get to know some people who HAVE to be nice to me. Has it really come to this?

Hot People Turn Over New Leaves

I alluded (ok, more than alluded) to a new job and a subsequent need to be adult, yes?

Ok - so I've moved (for the third time in the last 12 months) to a small town in Northern Ontario for this new job. And jeebus I'm scared.

Forgetting that my next paycheque is going to multiply everything I earned last month by infinity (and any paycheque I made in the last three years by a factor of approximately 25...for serious), I've had to do so much adult stuff in the last two weeks that all I want to do is sleep for the rest of time.

It's been a big jump:

Occupation

Last month: Layabout
This month: Registered Dietitian

Transportation

Last month: bus, when I could afford tickets...otherwise, feet
This month: a brand-spanking new car (but feet most of the time anyway - hot people are environmentally-conscious)

Housing

Last month: mooching off my very generous relatives in exchange for my portion of the grocery bill
This month: a two-bedroom apartment in the downtown core (ok...in the interest of full disclosure, the downtown core should just be called "town")

Finances

Last month: couldn't buy bus tickets on a regular basis
This month: just got approved for a credit card that would more than cover a year's rent in 2006.

Ok - so I think most people will agree that most of the above is pretty awesome. But moving has been scary for a few other reasons as well. It's very strange to be the only person you know somewhere. When I was a student, this wasn't such a big deal because there were social constructs in the university environment that made it very easy to make friends. So far, the most familiar face to me has been my insurance broker. I've been seeing a lot of her, but that's because getting auto insurance has been something akin to being repeatedly beaten with a blunt instrument (note: it is NOT GOOD to be 26 and never to have been insured on any vehicle).

I almost feel like I'm starting from scratch with the hotness thing. I mean - I have to learn what hot people do here (I'm hoping like hell it's Wednesday night karaoke at the local watering hole). It could take a while, especially considering that my neighbours have homecare workers and names like Duke and Smitty (not that you can't be hot with names like that...I just feel like possibly there are age categories of hotness).

Then again, I've come a long way so far. And I should never underestimate the big fish/small pond phenomenon. 'Cause this is definitely a much smaller pond than I've been in for a while, and I'm a big fish, right?

Hot People Win, Even When They Lose

I've been noticing (mostly because it is completely obvious) that the growing up/goodbye to my youth process has involved a lot of "one last debate tournament"s. I know, I know. Nerdz!

But for serious - debating has been an invaluable and defining part of my life for almost a decade (yipes, I'm old!). Many readers will know this, but my main focus is actually judging the debates, and I've gotten pretty good at it over the past few years. So this past weekend, I was strong-armed at the last minute by some friends to judge at a pretty major tournament. Although geographically, I found myself in Toronto, I also inexplicably found myself (metaphorically) in a place called, by those in the know, the bin. The bin is where the bad debates happen - the ones devoid of reason, organization or articulation, let alone any sort of panache. It's a place I haven't found myself in a few years, and I've gotta say, it put me into a bit of a tailspin.

First of all, I've had some...exchanges...with a few of the people in charge. It was almost as though they were holding something against me. Like perhaps I had written some scathing and untoward things about them on a public internet site or something...hmm...so for a while I thought it was just vengeance.

Here's where, in retrospect, it gets a little cringe-worthy and unattractive. Soon after I came to my senses and decided nobody could be so petty (right?...nobody would be...) as to seek vengeance for a blog post from months ago in which all parties (except myself) remained more or less anonymous, I started to have a small (Seriously, it was only tiny. And I definitely kept it to myself as well...) personal crisis about my skillz as a debate judge. There might have been some moist eyes threatening tears at a few moments. This is cringe-worthy for two reasons:

1. Who likes emo-girl traipsing around like a 17th century poet? I don't. I'm pretty sure I could have dealt with things a little more gracefully (although shit, I saw some bad debates this weekend). For example, I might have avoided referring to the complete injustice of my shitty weekend to everyone I met, or at the very least avoided opening every conversation with that topic. I might also have opted NOT to require everyone to list my accomplishments at top volume, in unison, before I unlocked the door to our accommodations and allowed them to enter.

2. It points to a greater problem with my life. When someone gets uppity because they've lost a debate, I go on an oft-ranted tirade about how the outcome of a debate round has no bearing on real life and nobody in real life is going to care whether you won your fifth round at the 2007 eastern invitational. Despite this firm belief, I've really made debating THE major priority in my life and I've done it for too long. Although my success in the field of debate judging (which, frankly, only a select few would even count as a REAL success) has served me well, it has been something I've cultivated to the exclusion of all other things and I think this is a little bit alarming. Like, I used to be good at other shit. I used to be an awesome lip sync artist (at high school dances, with my thumb-rophone), and I would kill at trivia contests (Reach for the Top FTW!) but I haven't done either of those things in like, forever. In conclusion, I really need to diversify my talent portfolio. Learning to be a french-speaking guitar hero is obviously already on the agenda...but I need to think of some other things to incorporate into my life so I can one day be awesome at them. Ideas? Anyone?

On the other hand, my relative abandonment of all reason and sense of purpose meant that, on balance, the rest of the weekend was pretty awesome.

First of all, I learned that I am effing amazing at playing damsel in distress (it helps when the distress is real). A number of dashing young men came to my aid. I think I only paid for half my drinks and I wasn't allowed to leave the dancefloor (in fact, I was forcibly removed from areas not technically dancefloor on a number of occasions). I also had one of the nicest and least "pressure-y to do more" makeout sessions I've ever had, and that was really refreshing.

Secondly, I drank my face off. The results of this were epic (although, recognizing that I already used my last chance to drink stupid amounts of alcohol, the hangover on Sunday was just as epic). I definitely danced like a rockstar that night. I also definitely fell out of a bunk bed. The resulting bruises (reflecting the pattern of the carpet) and rug burn are totally badass. My successful attempt at mounting the bunk bed ladder post-fall without the help of my two very concerned friends was just as badass. And I definitely spent the rest of the night spooning my friend's girlfriend to avoid a second fall.

In conclusion, while daytime Miss T wasn't very hot at all, I feel like my Saturday night was burning up just a little (at least, I felt sorta hot...). Now, how can I keep that fire ablaze?

Hot People See the Signs

No, that was not just a reference to another hilariously bad song of my youth (oh...Swedish Pop...so campy). I was back in Halifax over the holidays and over the time I spent with some of my friends I realized that I really do need to be a big girl soon. Last time we chatted, I was talking about how I really need to be a big girl...and I've gotta say, I'm off to a bad start.

Although my resolve to have better taste in music has gone well thus far (I've downloaded all but one of last installment's suggested albums...I'm listening to one now...I am such a hot music-listener), my first instinct when at HMV was to make a beeline for the Glee soundtracks. Not that Glee isn't excellent television viewing...but for serious...how many 14-year-old girls also bought not just vol. 1 but vol. 2 as well? How many? I mean...Finn's just so dreamy, so how can you blame me, but still!?!

But my hilarious taste in music isn't the only thing I've been having trouble shaking. I've spoken a few times about my penchant for debating (and also my complete acknowledgement that it's a sport for NERDS!!!). Without going into the details and the ins and outs of parliamentary debate, it is an activity that has been with me since my first day of frosh week (when I was accosted by a girl telling me I looked intelligent...she had me at hello) and has continued for the last 8 1/2 years. Some of my best and oldest friends were made through this activity and I owe it a lot. Unfortunately, the trade-off that comes with having these great friends is that I find myself the oldest person (by far) at social gatherings, telling stories of debating debauchery past, only to realize that I'm talking about a time when they were still in junior high (and increasingly, under the age of 10...eep). To illustrate, I was invited to an illicit New Year's Eve party. I only discovered the host's Mom didn't know about it the next morning, after a significant amount of destruction had occurred. It's really an "I get older, they stay the same age" kind of thing...which would be find if I was just contributing my time and expertise to the craft of competitive debate. Unfortunately, I sometimes find myself attracted to boys who make me feel, when I think about how old they are, like this:

(Get it...I'm a cougar...hilarious!).

Sometimes, it's hard to remind myself that I am not impervious to the powers of time and that I DO get older, despite my best efforts. Sometimes this results in childish behaviour in hilarious attempts to recapture my vigorous youth, like buying Glee soundtracks, or kissing boys with ABANDON.

My friends say that hot people do whatever they want, and I've gotta say that I definitely wanted to do both of those things. But I also really want to be an adult. Stat.

Last week, these colliding desires faced off in real life. It was kind of messy. I agreed to judge at a high school debate tournament hosted by my old club...you know...just one last shot in the arm. Although many of my very best old friends were there, I found myself increasingly surrounded by people reminding me of how old I was...like...I was alive when the Berlin Wall fell or I remember a time before the widespread use of cellular telephones. Truthfully, they were just being evil. At the same time, I knew that in three days I had an interview for a big girl job.

It was super difficult to reconcile my wish to stay an adolescent forever with my wish to actually grow up and do something constructive with my life. So difficult that it actually made me sorta depressed (and cranky...sorry guys...). At some point over the evening's post-tournament social, one of the party-goers reminded me of something that's just amazing for drowning ones' sorrows. This was my first of the evening:

To be perfectly honest, I don't know how much I had to drink that night, and there are some patchy parts of the evening. We know this is not a completely new phenomenon for me.

I am sure of a few things.

1. I definitely drunk-dialed my Dad's girlfriend. I did this for two reasons. For one thing, I thought it was 12:30 a.m. and not 2:30 a.m. I was wrong. For another, I thought she was out with my Dad and not at home sleeping. Wrong again.

2. Drunk Handsy Miss T made an appearance. My old friends are familiar with her; she's the me who gets in her cups and then puts her arm around everyone and stands too close and leans on people. Especially when they're boys. Typically I just cite drunkenness and an inability to control my extremities due to the extreme liquor-soakedness of the motor control parts of my brain. But let's be honest. I'm flirting. I've always been flirting. I've always known I was flirting. I've just never admitted it. On that evening, though, I was called on it. However, instead of sputtering about how it's the booze, I came clean. I said it was fun. And that it didn't mean anything more than that. And it was true. And super liberating to say it. And I felt pretty smooth (perhaps in real life it wasn't smooth at all...but my memory of it is the most important thing). I feel like hot people are unapologetically flirty, and often without an agenda. Even the grown-up ones.

3. I grossly overused a number of stock phrases. I need to stop saying the following: "You're my faves" (said to anyone who amuses me...pluralised so other faves don't get jealous...whispered to people for extra effect when I really want them to know I appreciate them) and "Fair..." (response to any statement for which I have no adequate response, or any statement with which I disagree but for which am too drunk to formulate an articulate counterargument). I hope nobody was following me around with a tape recorder that night.

I'm not entirely sure how I got home, though I'm sure it was at the hands of a very understanding and benevolent cab driver (or, at least, I was missing a cab-fare-ish amount of cash from my wallet in the morning). I'm sure you're expecting that the next day was distinctly unpleasant for me. Not so. When I awoke, I was, though a little slow on the draw, miraculously unhungover.

I take this as a sign...or a gift...or a gift-sign. That was the last time I am allowed to do that. It was my last hurrah of ridonkulous drunkenness. The powers that be are trying their damnedest to make my coming-of-age as painless as possible, despite my best efforts to make it hurt so bad.

Incidentally, when I did go to that job interview, I did act particularly adult. So adult that they offered me the job. And I'm gonna take it (resolution #2, complete within 20 days...score!). This means another move...but probably not for a few weeks. In the interim, I'm taking this time as a period of last hurrahs. Just as that night was my last night of sloppy drunk Miss T and the Glee Soundtrack was my last bad music purchase, the next few weeks will be spent enjoying the now guilty pleasures of my late teens and early twenties, so I can say goodbye to them in style and embrace my new life as an employed, adult (and hopefully, one day) hot person.