Tag Archives: Health

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The Look of Attraction

It is quite simple to catch a man’s attention. In fact, I’d like to think I have almost nailed it to a science.

My friends in college always picked me as the ringleader who would entice the group of eligible (or not) bachelors to our group so we’d get free drinks or mostly meaningful chit-chat to make us feel like we shaved our legs for something that night. Maybe it’s because I’m confident or brazen, but I’ve never been afraid of walking up to strangers. Honestly, as a journalist – it’s a big part of my job description. If you can’t ring a source or someone you’d like to interview, then what are you going to do, sit at your desk all day long?

Really – the act of gaining a man’s intrigue is an easy task that so many make incredibly difficult. Regardless of what you’re wearing, if you have a brand new zit on your chin, who you’re with, or where you are – it comes down to body language. Or, as I was taught: The Look. I can never reveal where I learned this trick, but I can almost guarantee it will get you and your ladies a round of drinks within twenty minutes, about 80 percent of the time. Sure, that’s a low B, but how many A+ men do we really meet anyways?

You do not have to be at the bar or a place where alcohol is served, but it usually ups your success rate a bit – I’m not a huge drinker myself, but a warm wine haze almost always make you feel sexy and a little bolder. Say you’re sitting at a table during happy hour with your gals and you see someone you’re attracted to. Leaving insecurities and caution in the wind where they belong, you lock eyes with this person and then cut your glance back towards your friends. Regardless if you’re engaged in the conversation or not, you smile, widen your eyes, and join in. Continue to do this for say, five minutes. And then, with a drink in your hand, you meet his eyes again, smile, and toast the air with your beverage of choice. Then you completely ignore him. That’s it. Done. In about five to ten minutes, you’ll be greeted with his friends, offered a round,  and then the flirting begins.

Now – for a long time, I used The Look everywhere. As much as I was addicted to love, I was also addicted to The Look. Amazed by how easily it worked, how simple it was to do, and how men reacted to it almost exactly how I hoped each time – I wanted to continuously put it to the test.

But when I woke up and decided putting all of my focus and attention on luring in a man was no longer how I wanted to live my life, I realized some things had to change. The first time I hit the bar since starting the journey, I found myself questioning why I was so impressed with The Look in the first place. Was it having the power? Was it being able to save money? Was it that a stranger’s eyes on me made me feel sexier than when they weren’t? Was there really anything wrong with doing The Look constantly?

No – nothing at all. That is, except for the twenty percent of the time when it didn’t work out as well as I anticipated. And when that happened, my opinion of myself exited the bar almost as quickly as I moved tables to escape from the guy who didn’t return my interest. Who didn’t feel the need to approach me or my ladies from across a darkened, crowded hot spot in midtown, even with my tightest jeans, highest heels, and attempting my most seductive glance.

Or maybe in a nutshell, when following the laws (and the look) of attraction, landed me far away from the mystery man I wanted to meet, and consumed in the self-defeating thoughts of “what’s wrong with me?”

The Look  is usually successful because it plays with the basic fundamentals of attraction: first you see them, then you give them a hint of intrigue, ignore them to let them know you’re happy and fun (who wants to date someone who’s miserable, right?), and just when they think you’ve lost your taste for them, you give them a subtle hint, that no, you are still thirsty. Thus, they are encouraged to grow a pair and come see if they can pair up with you, for the hour, for the evening, or for maybe more.

But sometimes, as I’ve realized, there are other factors involved. Sure, no one likes to be turned down or rejected in any sense – where it be in love, their career, or at the bank. But for a long time, I took it personally when a man didn’t find himself drooling over me or hoping to fill up my cup. Now I see it as just another experience, another lesson, or really, just as some fun. Who knows what’s going on in the mind of someone – maybe he’s taken, maybe he’s just met someone with possibility, maybe his  heart is broken, maybe he’s gay, maybe he’s dealing with love addiction, or maybe I’m not his style of lady. Regardless, it doesn’t make me ugly, uninteresting, or no deserving of a good flirt at a trendy bar – it’s just how the levels of love and attraction work.

I’ve placed no rules on myself for this path to self-love, so I haven’t refrained from The Look, nor have my friends stopped begging me to do it when we all go out. The only difference is…I don’t take it as seriously. Or really, I don’t take myself as seriously. And somehow, when you stop placing pressure on yourself, on the success of your glance, or on the man himself – somehow, the odds of The Look working… go up.

Because instead of acting like you’re fully engaged and enjoying your friend’s company – you actually are. Instead of acting like you don’t care if the man comes or if he doesn’t, you actually don’t. And instead of toasting the air to entice him to come over, you’re saying cheers to yourself and to the laws of attraction, that somehow, never seem to lose their intrigue.

PS: Confessions of a Love Addict is considering a Q&A Sunday where Lindsay answers questions from your own stories about the journey of self-love (and the men along the way). If you’re interested, send her an email.

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The Non-Negotiables

I make incredible demands on myself.

Some may call me a perfectionist, others may coin the term “over-achiever”, and I can’t even begin to count the amount of times someone has told me they envy my bravery. But to me, none of these titles really fit who I am because I’ve never thought twice about pushing myself to the extreme or shooting for my dreams – no matter how unattainable they may seem. To me, the most terrifying risk is not giving the things that matter the most, my everything. I’d rather fail a thousand times than to never try once. My expectations are undeniably high for what I hope to achieve and where I want to go in life.

And the same level of elevated standards applies in my relationships, too.

In the past, as I would go on and on to my friends about a date gone awry, a relationship that fizzled quicker than it boiled, and how for whatever reason, it was impossible for me to find someone who wanted to stay on the same page as me – most of them, either out of frustration, wisdom, or from what they thought was the right thing to say, advised: “Well maybe you shouldn’t expect so much.”

Is going into a dating situation or even the start of an official relationship without any expectations the best solution? They say if we don’t really anticipate much, we’ll be happy and pleasantly surprised with anything we get…right?

Well, I don’t know about you – but I can’t seem to wrap my head around this idea. If we don’t have standards, if we don’t insist upon certain qualities or things that are absolutely non-negotiable, wouldn’t we only attract men who are completely wrong for us? Or even worse, end up with someone who isn’t right for us, but could be perfect for someone else? Or vice versa? Wouldn’t we miss out on someone who we don’t feel the need to change?

I believe there is this thin line between having unrealistic images and hopes for what a relationship or person will be, and demanding what you will and will not settle for. That regardless of how wonderful someone looks on paper or in person, if they don’t meet what we know we need to be fulfilled and happy, then entertaining a love affair is wasteful of our energy, heart, and time. Sure, men are people too, but so are we – and we have personal standards that we shouldn’t (and probably can’t) shake.

So yes, I have expectations, and no, I’m not willing to lower them just to be deemed someone’s girlfriend, have someone give me a Valentine’s Day card, or find my match that I’ve always been told I can’t live without. (Though, I’m pretty positive I can).

My ten non-negotiables are actually quite simple, in my opinion, anyways:

Ya gotta be employed

And legally, for the record. You could be a millionaire or make what I make, as long as you have a job and you’re not sleeping on your mother’s couch or in your childhood bedroom. If I’m going to be an adult, I want to date one, too.

Ya gotta be taller than me

I’ve only dated guys over six-foot, but I’m not opposed to seeing if a 5’10 man would fit my fancy. The only thing is I love high heels and always will; so if I can’t wear my highest ones and be at least a little shorter than you, I’m not interested. May be superficial, but absolutely true.

Ya gotta be self-sufficient

As in, it is not my responsibility to transform you. That’s up to you, bud. I don’t want to fix you, I don’t want to mend your every worry, your every self-defeating prophecy, or your every case of blue balls. I also don’t want to control every conversation or lead you through discussions – you should have opinions and charisma inside of you already, that are not because of me. Life is full of bumps and I’ll sit in the passenger seat, but you’re in the driver’s.

Ya gotta want to have sex (and it has to work)

Think all men are sex-crazed maniacs? They really aren’t, and I’ve dealt with the ones who never want to do the deed, who can’t seem to make it rise to the occasion, and who just don’t have a clue what they’re doing. At our age, we should know better. And if we don’t, we should make an effort to learn.

Ya gotta be honest

Being charming and funny are also recommended, but above all other things – you have to be genuine. A big part of my job is searching and revealing the truth, so I value it. Even if it hurts me, even if it isn’t pretty, even if it changes my mind about you – just tell me. I’d rather know than to be fooled or oblivious. And you should remember the one person you should never get on the bad side of…is a journalist.

Ya gotta have your own world

I’m not one of those ladies who wants to be the center of her man’s universe. Sure, I like to be doted on, admired, and reminded that I’m beautiful (who doesn’t?) – but I’m also very independent. Even when I’m married, I’m going to need some nights with the girls and nights just by myself. You gotta have buddies and interests and hobbies that have nothing to do with me, please.

Ya gotta have energy

I’m a fast walker, a fast talker, and always a gal on the go. While I enjoy a lazy  Sunday afternoon and will gladly sit through sports with you (as long as you’ll return the favor by going to a show), I mostly want to be doing something. And whoever I’m with, should challenge me mentally along the way. So if you’re going to date me, you’re going to have to keep up with me – this may mean you’ll need to have Red Bull within reach.

Ya gotta let yourself go

I don’t think I’m God’s gift to men – and I know you’re not God’s gift to women. But, we could be sent from the heavens to meet one another. So please, don’t take yourself too seriously. You don’t have to be the best dancer and you don’t have to sing on key – but if you can’t have fun in our living room or at a concert – I’m not going to crave having fun in other parts of the house.

Ya gotta be open-minded

Yes, I want you to have your own opinions, but I also hope you are tolerant of those things you don’t believe in, don’t like, and of those who are different from you. Brownie points if you’re addicted to community service and volunteering as much as I am.

Ya gotta like NYC, the kiddies, and the puppies

Sure – I’m not at the point where I’m ready for children, but I can’t be with someone who doesn’t want them…ever. Also, I can’t rationalize picking a mate who hates the city I adore. As for the puppies – who doesn’t love them? I mean really?

Maybe I’m being too stubborn and overly ruthless – though those qualities have served me well in my career – but when it comes to finding love, I choose to believe that I’m worthy of the best. And when or if I meet Mr. Right, he’ll know that he has someone who is more than precious – but irreplaceable, because I hold myself, him, and our love to great expectations.

And that will never be open to negotiation.

PS: I’m curious to what your non-negotiable list. Comment below or email me and I’ll tweet them!

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The He Who Won’t Leave: Mr. Smother

We’re supposed to love the one we’re with and believe the grass isn’t greener on the other side. We should wait for the one we can’t live without, not just the one we can live with. If at first we don’t succeed, we try and try (and try) again. We should never forget that life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. And yes, one day, our prince, will surely come.

I’m not sure how they can make many more adages meant to illustrate that love and all of its blunders and fascinating experiences are worth every bump and victory – but if I actually believe in any of them, it’d be the question that rings loudly in my mind often:

Why can’t we make the one we like, fall for us, and how do we get the guy who we don’t like…to go away?

We’ve all met that guy and we’ve all dated him longer than we should have (and would have preferred). There isn’t anything wrong with him, but he is completely, utterly, totally, opposite of what we want, need, or desire. Still, for whatever reason, we keep him around, not because he’s filling in a gap like Mr. Temporary, but because he’s just so into us. And if only, that one guy that we really do like, would treat us the way he does, then everything would be right in the world.

I mean, he brings us presents, he cooks us dinner, he is all-so-accommodating, he is at least a decent-kisser (or suitable in bed), and well, he’s attractive – so the eye candy isn’t bad. Not to mention, he boosts our ego and pets our pride. And so, we agree with those voices in our head that say “well, it’s better than being alone, right?” until one day we wake up and realize, as Vince Vaughn did in Wedding Crashers: we’ve managed to attract a stage-5 clinger. Luckily for me, the one I effortlessly hooked; wasn’t a virgin as well, but Mr. Smother was everything I never wanted.

Our romance (if one can call it such a thing) was incredibly short-lived, probably just shy of a month, but it happened to be around a time where I was rather happy, yet superbly bored. To expedite the college experience and move to NYC faster, I was taking summer classes, running and playing tennis almost daily, and drinking sangrias with my friends into all hours of the night (perhaps that’s why I made my only ‘C’ in college that semester in biology? Nah, probably because it was biology). My life was moving at a sweet North Carolina summer pace, and one day as I was “working” in the library and went to pick up pages I printed, I stumbled right into blue-eyed Mr. Smother.

He was studying for his MBA and literally printing out one of his books, instead of buying it at our bookstore. He claimed it was a cheaper alternative, and being the balls-to-wall gal I am, I accused him of hogging the printer, when all I needed to print was a measly four-page report on human skin cells. He cleverly asked why I wasn’t taking anatomy, to which I rolled my eyes, but gave him an encouraging smile anyways. After he finished printing, but before the printer overheated – I gave him my business cards (yes, had those even in college), and hoped he would call.

A week later, when he hadn’t, and with nothing left to do but indulge in my love-addict commissaries (or study for class?) – I decided he just “wasn’t that into me” and I’d probably never run into him again, so what did it matter?

Well – ironically, exactly a week later, at the same printer, at the same spot in the library, there he was, printing away something again. Full of sass (and having decided it must be fate), I marched up to him and we had a witty rapport that ended in him inviting me to a karaoke night with his friends. With other plans, I graciously declined and we engaged in Facebook messaging until, finally, he asked me to go hiking with him. Even though I was raised in the South, that doesn’t mean Mother Nature and I are fond of one another – I’m not sure she appreciates me aerating the ground with my heels, and I don’t enjoy her scary woods and mud she creates. However – because it was a guided trail, and the mountains are lovely (and so was he) – I agreed.

The drive to the parkway was very nice and our conversation flowed as easily as the winding country road– though I recognized some pretty apparent warning signs of my disinterest: he was studying accounting…and loved it, wasn’t really interested in New York…and had already read every article he could find that I wrote online. At first, I was a tad creeped out, but decided maybe it just showed he was supportive of my career. Then again, at the time, I didn’t realize how Google-able I was.

As the date and our climb ascended, I gathered that I probably wouldn’t be too interested in a relationship with him, but I did enjoy his company. He was easy to be around and if anything, maybe he’d be a new male friend – that’s always been something I didn’t have much of. Once we reached the top and took in the view, we sat to rest on a rather large rock (with creepy looking moss, I might add) – and he blurted out a sentence that should have been my reason to run all the way back to my apartment from the top of that mountain:

“So, Lindsay, I have a girlfriend.”

Caught completely off guard, I replied, “Oh. That’s cool…um…someone you just met?” To which he quickly admitted, “No, more like, we’ve dated for four years. But it isn’t going well.” Well, damn. I suppose that makes it easier to break it to him that I wasn’t quite into him, I thought. But then again, now he’s seemingly unavailable – did he just become a little more attractive? Oh no…

We talked more about their issues, kind of similar to Mr. Unavailable, and had a friendly ride back to campus. I didn’t expect to hear more from him, until he asked if he cook me dinner – and for whatever reason, I decided it would be a good idea. Our conversation was light, and when I finally worked up the nerve to ask him how things were going with his girlfriend, he widely-smiled and declared that because of me, he knew he could find much better things, and he broke up with her. Then he kissed my forehead.

At this point, I was equal parts freaked out and flattered. Maybe I was just the catalyst he needed to get out of a toxic relationship that lasted entirely too long. Maybe I was just meant to come into his life, shoo him away from Ms. Wrong-for-Him, and show him there is better love to be had and to find. Or maybe, he had his eye out for me, not as his rebound, but as his next girlfriend of several years.

The next week, he wanted to spend every single second of every single day with me and texted more frequently than I could keep up with (and that’s saying a lot).  He started asking if I wanted to visit his family in his hometown for a barbeque and invited me to his company’s summer cook-out. He even asked if I would bake cookies for it. On the side, he was a bouncer at one of our local pubs, and he asked if he could just sneak into my apartment to fall asleep with me because he missed me…after not seeing me for two days. Again, apparently off-my-knocker, I allowed him to. He tiptoed into my one-bedroom at 3 a.m., crawled up next to me and in a baby voice that still makes me shudder as I type, asked: “Can I borrow some of your toothpaste so I can brush my wittle toothers?” In the middle of the night, the last thing I want to discuss or see on a man – are his “toothers.”

Seriously?

Once he left in the morning, I made a very cruel decision to start ignoring him. He would call, leave messages, send texts, and eventually resorted to Facebook. For about ten days, I wrote him off until something in me felt really guilty for putting him off (as so many guys had done to me in the past), and invited him to my apartment for a movie he mentioned he wanted to see. Truth be told, I wanted to “test how I felt” with him. We talked, he avoided the fact I abandoned him, and I held back the need to instruct him on how to speak like a grown-up, and we made out on my futon. At some point between him rubbing the side of my face and nearly gagging me with his tongue, and then telling me how much he had fallen for me – I realized I was going to hurt him so badly.

And so, right before he left, I simply said: “You know, I think you’re great and I think you’ll find someone who is perfect for you. Maybe it wasn’t your ex-girlfriend…but it also isn’t me. I would love to be friends, if you’re up for it, but I understand if you’re not.” He flashed me a smile, hopped up in his Jeep Cherokee, and I never heard from him again.

What I learned is that though we can’t always have the man we most desire or for reasons we’ll never understand, the love we feel isn’t always reciprocated – allowing someone to leech onto us, simply because they’re there, doesn’t give us a nice next round with Karma. It may be better to love and lose, then to never love at all – but seeing someone lose their heart because you wanted to up your pride, doesn’t give anyone love.

And after being the one who was smothered, I realized that when I start to be really into someone… taking a deep breath, and brushing my teeth before I get to their apartment, is probably the best tactic to keep a could-be relationship, plaque free.

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I Am Ms. Right

Somewhere in this world, and perhaps in this city, lives a man.

He is a living, breathing, actual person with a history that I don’t know. He was born somewhere and he may or may not have moved away from his hometown. He has a freckle in an odd place that’s hidden away under his clothes. He has an ex-girlfriend who broke his heart, a certain way he loves to be kissed, and he may care less if the Jets won or loss. He has a food that he can’t get enough of, a vegetable he isn’t the biggest fan of, and a scar that has a story. He has buddies he’s known since elementary school and a teacher who made an impact that lasted past the classroom. He knows every single word to a few songs, has read a book or two that he couldn’t put down, and he has a place he dreams of going, but never has. He may have an affinity for Southern-raised women who are writers with blue eyes and big city dreams, who also have the independence and ambition to make them a reality.

I haven’t met this man. Or if I have, I don’t know it yet. But this person, with all of his incredible and messy qualities, is the man I have faith I will meet, and possibly marry one day. I don’t believe in the idea of a soulmate who makes your “half” a whole, but I do trust there is a single person for everyone, who is suitable (and preferable) for life-long commitment.

Before this journey, the fact that my person, my hubby-to-be, existed, and I had no control over when I’d meet him – really bothered me. I would watch all of my friends, either on Facebook or in real life – getting engaged, talking about how they met their match, and waltzing down the aisle, and all I could think was: “Why not me?! Why don’t I deserve to meet my guy? Where the hell is he?”

And so, to combat these desperate thoughts that made me feel unworthy and unattractive, I immersed myself in romantic illusions about him – and at any given moment, I prepared for our paths to cross.

Somehow, fantasies of an elusive Mr. Right: what he’ll look like, how he’ll kiss me, how we’ll meet, how we’ll both ‘just know’, and how it will all play into a divinity I’ve yet to experience – are easier to dream about then to focus on what really deserves attention: myself.

And that’s a self-defeating approach I’ve seemed to master. I’ve had a reoccurring dream about being married to someone named Brian Ward, who I’ve yet to meet – but if you’re out with me, and a dude says his name is Brian, my head whips around quicker than it does when I see a sample sale near my office. I’ve filled nearly two notebooks full of “Letters to My Husband” that have chronicled my life since junior year in college, and I only stopped writing in it when I started this blog. As ridiculous as it may sound, I went to a psychic (who has been scarily accurate thus far) and she told me to put a rose quartz in the most right-hand corner of my room along with a list of all the qualities I looked for in my future husband, to bring him near me, faster.

Yeah, you guessed it, I followed instructions. The little package even made the move to New York, only to be packed away when I decided I had enough of this love-addiction mess. Until I realized that my expectations of this man, who while I’m sure will be charming, will most likely not be a prince, and will really have no need to rescue me from anything. So what was I doing putting all of this energy into him? Especially when I haven’t even, technically, met him?

While I was picturing him, getting lost in the endless wondering of when (or if) I would meet him or pondering if I could catch a glimpse of him on the next train or bump into him at the next cocktail hour – I had forgotten that a relationship with myself is really the one I needed to be working on.

Really, I knew had a choice: I could get lost in this fantasy character I’ve established in my mind, with dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and perfect, succulent lips who makes more money than I can dream of (but is insanely humble and talented) – or I could first accept myself, and then accept him, for whoever he is. This doesn’t mean I settled for less than I deserved or lowered my standards, but I realized that instead of writing him letters and wishing on a “magical” pink-colored stone, I could just go about my life and let whatever is meant to happen, happen.

I still have a ways to go on this journey, but I hadn’t realized how much progress I made until a handsome stranger locked eyes with me on the subway yesterday and I smiled back, before getting off at my stop – and it occured to me: I haven’t thought about running into Mr. Right in such a long time.

And that was it. I did it. I finally let go of anticipating our encounter or wishing on stars to meet him.

And today, I’m a living, breathing person. I have dozens of stories that he doesn’t know. I’ve been lucky to love some wonderful men, and I’ve learned from the ones who have done me wrong. There are foods that I would never give up, for any diet, and I admittedly have memorized most Backstreet Boy songs. I have a scar on my left wrist that’ll forever remind me of the car accident that changed my view on charity. I’m full of endless hope and can be inspired by even the slightest of sightings, conversations, or words. I’m short, but my personality isn’t.

Regardless of when he stumbles into my life or what he is really like or what color his eyes are, I am just as important of a character, of a person, as he is. And finally, he isn’t my top concern, my highest priority, or the thing I worry the most about. I don’t dress to impress him, imagine all of the ways I could meet him during the activities before me each morning, or curse the universe for delaying our impending marriage.

Instead, my look, my style, is my own. I look forward to the moments of my day where I’ll do something that’s fulfilling and helps others. And I thank the heavens above for giving me the chance and the drive to devote my passion, my enthusiasm to the most important, most beautiful, and most life-altering relationship I’ll ever experience: the love I have for me, or what I’d like to call myself…Ms. Right.

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Girl’s Got Game

It’s a story I don’t need to tell because it’s been told for decades before me, with different variations along the way: boy and girl meet and seem to hit it off, boy and girl exchange numbers, boy says he will call; girl waits around for approximately three days before “casually checking in” and officially starts freaking out.

As they say at the start of the Olympics, “Let the games begin.”

Sadly, as we figured out through “He’s Just Not That Into You” – our mind games and obsessing and reading into mixed signals (that maybe aren’t as complicated as we make them), start from the time we have that very first crush in kindergarten. By the time we reach middle school, we’ve decided who is in our league and who isn’t, and in high school, we fall so deeply in love with a sweetheart (could be reciprocated or unrequited) that we can barely stand to think of anything else. College rolls around and that first love syndrome leads to the first real heartbreak, and we battle the trenches of utterly confusing, mingled, and mangled “relationships” that may or may not have strings attached.

By the time we reach our 20s – if we haven’t mastered the game of love (and lust) in all of our battles and victories of the past, we decide either in frustration or in stride, that it’s time to start learning the tricks of the trade.

So we start dating Mr. Google, read blogs and articles that give us clues and how to give “the look” that’ll get us a drink and more, and we talk constantly (through BBM, Twitter, Facebook, Gchat, and so on) to our girlfriends, analyzing what we should do and what we shouldn’t, what he thinks and what he doesn’t think, if he’s interested or not interested.

And then, if you’re like me – you become such a pro at getting a man to look your way or ask you out on a date, that the whole first date scenario…sincerely becomes a play-by-play that you can predict. The game becomes irrelevant because it stops being interactive and you realize you’re just going through the motions as opposed to getting into the spirit and the energy of the practice.

I won’t say that I enjoy dating, but I also don’t dislike it completely either. One of the reasons I started this journey was due to the fact that I was getting too caught up in the “game” that I became discouraged. Dates were becoming absolutely and completely boring and I was sick of scripting what would happen before I even arrived at the restaurant.

I’m not sure if that means I mastered the game or I lost it.

Regardless, now I find myself at an odd crossroad. I’ve learned a lot from the dating scene, but because I’m not seeking (letting them come to me instead), a lot of the pressure has been taken off. I take some winning strategies with me on dates with guys, but I try to leave the fixation of expectations in the wind. I don’t project who I think they are, but I take them at their face value. And if he doesn’t call, well, he just doesn’t call and it’s time to turn on Jay-Z’s Onto The Next One.

The next man up to bat is Mr. Rescue. He’s been quite sweet this past week and pretty reliable with text messages and wit. Though I’m not quite sure where we’re going as I write this blog, we do have a reservation for dinner, and it’s snowing outside – so maybe I’ll get to kiss in the snow. As insignificant as it is, because I gave him a Mr title, he decided I needed one too, so he refers to me as Ms. Bradshaw. Quite cute, indeed.

And so far, I don’t feel like my head’s in the game or I’m really reading into anything. The obsession factor isn’t existent and I haven’t figured out if there is a chance for something of substance with him or not. If overcoming love addiction means learning to really take my time and choose what’s best with me, then I’m well on my way to health.

I don’t think a “game” is always necessary and I’d like to say that we should all stop being active members in the contests, but I don’t think it’ll ever go away. We all like some chasing, a spark of challenge, and a great story to tell the grandkids one day. As long as there is healthy sexual tension, the game will continue, and in the words of Shakespeare, we are all merely players.

Though I’m sure my rants and my analyzing (I am a Virgo, after all) will come back at some point, along with my first-date grilling methods – for all of you love addicts out there, like me, here are some pretty helpful tactics I’ve discovered that really help the game not seem so strenuous:

Don’t save his number.

I view my phone as the Holy Grail of my life. Maybe that’s a little extreme – but if you’re going to be saved in my phone, I either think you’re someone who is going to stick around or you have a voice I’d rather not hear. So when a guy gives me his number when I meet him, I take it – and then I delete it. And really, I don’t save it for a while – I think with Mr. Possibility, it took me about a month to allow him into my phone. This not only makes a guy seek you, but it prevents you from listening to the red, red wine when it whispers: “you should text that cute boy from Thursday” in your ear.

Ask open ended questions.

If you really want to get to know someone, ask them about themselves. Sounds simple enough, but as people we like to talk about ourselves and it is easy to go on and on about what you do, what you think, what you feel, on a first date. I’ve learned that if I slow down and let the guy open himself up a little bit, the date is far more enjoyable for me and I make better decisions for date two. Plus, if I’m totally not interested and can’t wait for the date to end, it gives me a break.

Stop making rules.

Ok – we all have boundaries and little things we usually stick-to-our guns about, but why are those so important at the start of dating? And really, why do we tell guys we’re on dates with, what our rules are? He goes in for a kiss and you say “I don’t do that on the first date!”, but why? That kiss could be the kiss that trumps all smooches to date –so why not try it out? And where did the three-day rule come from? Sure, it’s there, but it doesn’t have to be. When I loosened up on the rules, the game became so much easier and less complicated.

Make other plans.

In the past, when I first met a guy, I used to clear out my calendar for the weekend following “just in case” he texted me or wanted to wine-and-dine me. Yes, I’ve been that girl who cancelled plans with friends for a man, but really, chicks should always be before dicks – especially if it’s a man you don’t even know. Now, instead of “playing hard to get” or “being unavailable” – I really just have other things filling up my time. This isn’t playing the game; this is having a life outside of a man.

Demand dinner.

A lot of my friends in college and even now constantly ask me “how do you get so many guys to take you on an actual date and not just drinks or something casual?” Well, because I never agree to drinks. Maybe it’s my southern upbringing, but to me, if a guy wants to get to know me, I want to actually go on a date. This doesn’t mean a fancy restaurant with candles and flowers, but if a guy asks me if I’m free for drinks on Tuesday, I’ll say, “No, but I’m free for dinner on Friday.” Cocktails are for my girlfriends and I, not for my new male game player who I’m considering allowing getting to second base.