Monthly Archives: June 2014
It seemed as good of a time as any to start drinking shots of rum. We had missed the 9am tour bus headed for the Mayan ruins “Chichen Itza” because we made that last minute liquor run. My friend Adam sat on the edge of the fountain in front of our hotel and started his ritual of painting his ginger body with sunscreen. I hand off the handle of rum to Kendall, “This tastes like pure gasoline.” We stare into the sun for a few more swigs and head inside. There is something about The Ritz Carlton that inspires me to overuse the word “dahhhling”, and the chosen target of the day was the doorman. The poor guy had been unofficially designated as my morning chaperone. “Esscuse me miss? You left your bottle over there. Also, if you are going into downtown Cancun, make sure you don’t leave your bag open. If you are out late and drinking, make sure to arrange with the concierge for car service. Sorry you missed your shuttle…I tried calling you!” It was clear that we were the assholes who scored some sort of deal to stay in a place beyond our means. We had gotten very lucky on this particular trip as we had been upgraded to First Class and had a family discount at the Ritz. I couldn’t help but remember that I was still the same girl that at 10 years old, my grandmother would pay me to wear a dress for dinner at her country club and beg me not to wear shorts underneath or burp in front of her fancy friends. I march into the grand entrance and toss an over-the-shoulder Hollywood glance back at him, “muchas gracias, dahhhling.” We all instinctually start exaggerating the clicking sound our shoes make on the marble floor as we sashay up to the concierge. “We want to see the Chicken Pizza” I announce. “She means Chichen Itza. How do we get there?” Kendall always knows to remain locked and loaded with explanations when she is around Adam and me. The three of us operate best when utilizing each other’s strengths. I charm, Adam haggles and Kendall is the closer. Adam chimes in, “those tours are a bit much, are there any other ways to go there on a budget?” The concierge seemed to be running out of ideas and patience when my chaperone interrupted for the win. “Esscuse me miss? I will show you the way.”
We board a retired school bus heading for downtown Cancun and drop 50 cents into a plastic jar. Adam sits in the pleather seat in front of me and stifles a snort cackle. The same man who doesn’t flinch at buying Veuve Clicquot by the case wouldn’t be caught dead splurging on a frivolous taxicab. I adore this character trait, mostly because it marks him as an easy target for my shenanigans. Later on I went in for the kill, “Hey, I rented us a car! It was $300 a day plus tax and insurance! I hope you don’t mind, but I put it on your card!” I’m not a liar, but I like to lie to Adam. I enjoy timing the moment of impact to the moment his face matches his hair. With impeccable timing, the rental agent pulls around a clown car. “You paid that much…for this piece of shit? Ok…..” The car was really $45, but I live to exploit gullible Adam. “You would think they would have thrown in full sized tires” he says as he climbs into the driver’s seat. His anger is a slow burn which is just the way I like it. I hand him a paper placemat with a rudimentary outline of the country of Mexico. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks. “It’s our map…just follow the big black line to the little black line to the thing that looks like a pyramid.” In perfect succession, he discovers that we had no radio, air conditioning and torn up windshield wipers without fluid. Minutes into our drive to the interstate, Adam had to pull over to wipe down the windows with a towel as the brown dust that is omnipresent in Mexico created a delightful little film in front of his eyes and Adam took it as a personal insult. He sits behind the wheel about to blow up when Kendall and I reveal the real cost of the vehicle. His anger quickly turned to delight as he turned the car on with a smile and a “what a deal!”
Finding Chichen Itza was quite easy as all we needed to do was follow the busses full of Gringos. We had a nice enough time searching for virgins to sacrifice and taking inappropriate photographs. The one thing I wanted to do while in Mexico was to find this cave thing with magical blue waters inside that you could swim in. Although, I had no idea what it was called, where I could find it and I forgot to ask Google about it. At the time, all three of us had a basic handle of the Italian language and a sprinkle of Spanish terms. Our quest to find the glory hole was made all the more interesting when our questions translate to: to swim (in Spanish) rocks (in Italian) down in blue please thank you we need (in Spanish). We couldn’t understand why people kept insisting we needed a “la playa” so we instead started refocusing our efforts on finding our way back to Cancun.
We spent the next twenty minutes with me singing Mariah Carey songs with Scott Stapp’s voice as Adam harmonized with his impressive whistling skills. Kendall stared out the window looking for a place we could find some mixers for our rum when suddenly she saw it. “Katy, those are stalactites, right?” She was right to ask me after I had spent exactly two summers pointing at stalactites in a cave and I was clearly an expert. A small road sign did, in fact, resemble a cave. We decide to take our mission off map at the next exit. If Cancun is an Epcot parody of Mexico, then we suddenly found the part of Mexico where heads are found in coolers. We follow an emaciated dog down a dirt road through a village where the families in clay houses slept in hammocks. I stared out the window fantasizing, as I often do, about the news of my death traveling back to the states. “We had to identify her by her dental records” the medical examiner would say to my family. I was so distracted as I was making mental vows to floss better if I survived, that I didn’t realize we had pulled over in front of someone’s home. A picnic table on the front porch had a few coconuts and Kendall was offering to buy them. A heavyset woman flashed us a smile filled with gold teeth and disappeared inside her house. She returned with the same grin and a machete held high in her right hand. “We can outrun her!” I say as Kendall pulls out a camera to document our own death. Three coconuts were decapitated as their innards spilled out. Our mixer problems solved and our necks still attached to our bodies, we carry on. Several locals shook their heads as we kept asking for the magical swimming cave. We were about to give up all together, when we pulled over one last time to ask someone to point us in the direction of the highway. Adam found a small jewelry store and started talking Italian to the sweet couple that ran the joint. By some luck, the woman knew Italian. We asked her if she knew where we could find this cave and if no, how the hell we could find our way back. A crooked smirk came across her face as she pointed 50 yards away to a small wooden ticket booth being manned by a single small child.
We pay our pesos as a seven year old takes us through a gate heading underground. We meandered through the damp darkness which was occasionally lit by basic lanterns. Eventually, we find the ceiling opening to the sky. A tunnel of sunshine shone like a spotlight making the water below it glow an impossible blue. There was another Mexican couple on their way out, leaving us to play by ourselves. Most of the swimming hole was covered by a stalactite roof and hundreds of bats. We immediately change into our bathing suits and jump off a cliff into the water. The water was cool and effervescent as schools of goldfish tickled our toes. At some point a man came and said something to us in hurried Spanish, to which we replied with three thumbs up. We took to floating on our backs with our arms curled around our coconuts for an occasional sip of legit goodness. We watched as the sun started changing the sky from blue to orange to purple. We knew we had very few minutes before dark, so we thought it would be best to find out if our car actually had headlights. We make our way through the pitch black tunnels by memory and cell phone lights. Panic set in when we found a large steel door covering the entrance as it immediately dawned on us what that man was trying to say to us. “No one is around to hear our screams” I say dramatically to Kendall. Adam suggests we head back to the water hole to make a plan in the fading light.
We collectively agreed that our best option for survival was to scale the rocks up to the top of the cave where the skylight was. “We’re from Colorado, we got this” we all concluded. With our clothes wrapped up in our towels like satchels, our bathing suits and our cursed flip flops on, we start the climb. Boulder by boulder we get closer to the top, never once letting go of our precious coconuts. Our shins completely torn up, we finally get to a point where we could stand up straight and look out of the hole.
The most likely chance we had at a successful escape was over a tall wooden fence. We scramble across the slippery rocks and we decide that I had to go over first, being that I am the shortest. Kendall and Adam boost me up to the top and I fall over the edge with a flop. As I stand up to brush myself off, Kendall and Adam jump down gracefully. It was then that we were face to face with a mariachi band that was about to perform right on the patio of a crowded restaurant. Every single person froze in place to observe the three gringos wearing bathing suits and holding coconuts. We do our best to put on our “nothing to see here” attitude and we walk towards the door of the restaurant, stopping by the bathroom before exiting. Not a word was exchanged by anyone and we made it all the way to our car before unraveling in fits of hysterics.
Thunder announced the beginning of our flooded journey back to Cancun. “Goddamn windshield wipers, I can’t see anything” Adam curses. I stare for clues on our placemat map as I tend to the scrapes on my knees and Kendall optimistically declares “well, at least we have dim lights.” “Our vacation was almost ruined! Get it?” I jab Kendall in the ribs. This was a declaration of what ended up being an hour long pun war, which Kendall quickly shot back “yeah, it got pretty rocky there for a minute.”
A few years ago, I was the focus of an intervention. “You’ll never get a boyfriend when you spend all of your time at gay bars!” The look of genuine concern radiated off of about five of my friends. I stopped laughing once I realized that they had put some planning behind this ambush. I had my stock arguments against their logic, but recently I started thinking honestly about their words. Sure, I love the dancing, music and cute bartenders at my favorite gay bars. I dance on stages with my few friends and dozens of new friends. I never have to worry about getting rejected or impressing a potential date, and these beauties let me touch their luscious abs. For a few hours, I feel completely free and exceedingly fabulous. Above all, it was a guaranteed good time and it was safe.
Safe. That was the word that made me wake up. I had found another cynical bone in my body. I reviewed my dating history and realized that at some point I had unknowingly thrown in the towel. I spent quality prime dating years in my twenties prioritizing funny dating stories and my gays over finding a good match. I don’t regret this in the slightest, but it made me look at dating under a new micro and macro lens.
New dating expectations show a scary glimpse into the state of our social society. In the past, I would look forward to a new prospect with as much anticipation and anxiety as a child looks forward to Christmas. The first flirtation usually contained compliments and coyness. Getting asked out was like winning some sort of lottery and the first phone calls leading up to that first date would last for hours. Discussions about each other’s family, vacation history, dreams, and sharing each other’s interests paved the way for future meaningful conversations. I would spend hours choosing the right outfit to match the right venue. His choice of activity or restaurant usually translated into how hard he would work to win your love. It would also show a peek into whether they were traditional, creative or lazy. My prepping had to be perfect, from the right scent to the outfit that shows that I am dressing up just enough to impress, but casual enough to seem down to earth. He would come pick me up and I would get butterflies the instant I opened the door to see a put together man, complete with a smile. Sometimes there would be flowers. The date would be an experience including nerves, opened doors and pheromones. He would grab the check and I would offer to help pay as he would tell me not to be silly. A sheepish thank you would escape my mouth as blush spread over my face. As the night would wind down, the biggest questions I had were: is he going to kiss me and will he ask me out again? I would immediately phone my friends and dish on every last detail such as what he looked like, his hobbies and if he went in for the kiss or not.
Believe it or not, these dates weren’t fifty years ago. They were less than ten years ago. In such a short while the dating experience has changed so drastically that it is no wonder many newly divorced individuals are in a blind panic when they get back into the game. Not all change is bad, as progress is progress. Gays can now date openly in most places -hell- they can even marry in some states! Women have not broken the glass ceiling, but they have gotten closer. Alternative relationships are no longer taboo, and in some cases will earn you a special on TLC. If the 1960’s were the decade of love, then are the 2010’s the decade of “love everything, kinda”?
We whole-heartedly operate within various degrees of FOMO, aka “fear of missing out”. We are so engrossed in technology and possibilities that it has become part of our identity. Don’t believe me? How many times did you check your Facebook today, even for a few moments? Did anyone comment on my photo of last nights dinner? Why didn’t that witty status only get two likes? Why hasn’t he responded to my friend request yet, it’s been three days! Did Kimye leave a new tweet? Did anyone send me a new life on candy crush? Is it time to become “official” with him by updating my relationship status, or will that scare him off? Should I take down my dating profile, or will he think I’m moving to fast? With all of this self-chatter happening in the space of a moment, the only way to cope is to convert it to white noise and take a deep breath. If you aren’t a slave to the cyberworld, then congrats! But, your next date only communicates with text message and status updates… So good luck!
Technology isn’t the enemy here. Without the convenience of Facebook, I would have lost touch with most of the 800 friends I have known in various capacities during my life. I don’t need to communicate with answering machines when I want to talk to my friends. A simple text or email will be answered when they have a quick second. An instant posting to social media and my photo/video capabilities on my smart phone save me from having to describe with words the crazy guy I sat next to on the train. “Here is a glimpse into my life” I portray to my network. Online dating has opened up a world of opportunity as well. I don’t NEED to meet the drunk guy at the same bar I go to every weekend. I can meet the guy outside of my territory and comfort zone who does something exciting that I know nothing about. By process of elimination, theory has it that I can choose someone whose values match my own in a matter of minutes. This, of course, is depending on their capacity for honesty. I am not cool enough to be above social media and I am usually the first to download the newest app. But, I would be remiss to overlook the temperature reading I feel after each first date. I feel an overwhelming sense of “meh”.
I often coach my managers to evaluate performance issues with our staff on a simple graph. Are they failing due to a lack of effort, or a lack of skill? With effort issues, can they be counseled into an attitude adjustment? For skill issues, will extra training and support help them learn the skill sets to perform to my expectations? I have learned so many useful life lessons from my work that it is practically embarrassing. I find myself using a similar graph to handle personal problems every day. Am I failing because of effort or because I need to learn a new lesson? This has helped me make hard decisions about my life path in everything from weight management to professional aspirations. This becomes even more complex when you add another human to the mix. Their level of performance in the relationship is based upon their own issues regarding effort and life lessons. Success is met when both parties are aware of where on their own graph that they reside and what they are willing to do to change that. This is much harder than it sounds. Self-awareness is a scary reality to live in. You can photoshop and edit the way you want the world to see you, but in real life you do yourself a disservice if you don’t take a hard look into the mirror to fix your true self. Admitting that you might be a “princess” who needs people to do everything for you, is not something anyone wants to do. Realizing that you are lazy in relationships and that the other isn’t acting “crazy”, but neglected…is not easy to admit to yourself. Your baggage isn’t going to disappear magically, and remember that every one of your friends relationships that seem to require zero effort…is a myth.
Our generation has become so dependent on instant gratification that the majority of us have become quite lazy. With our social interactions, you see this by birthday cards replaced by wall postings and showing up to a first date in a sweatshirt. Why place a large amount of effort into a stock without a guarantee? I still dress to show my best side when I go on dates, but when I feel a lack of effort on their part, either in wardrobe or in lazy conversation skills, I will admit that I feel less inclined to show my full effort. Why choose to care about someone, when they are busy wondering how many dates until intercourse. Why spend another drink with him when he is distracted by answering text messages -possibly sent by another potential date. No stock, no loss. We split the bills, feel pressured to sleep with people too fast in order to just maybe keep him around, and we drink to many beers. My follow-up gossip sessions are about who paid or and about what red flags I found. It’s not that women are losing the dating game, men have it hard too! There are men out there that genuinely want to take a girl out properly, but the girl is in it for a free meal or to buffer their heart while they are trying to snare the guy they really like. More possibilities can equal more dates. By sheer numbers, if a guy pays for every single first date then it is no wonder that dive bars are en vogue for the locale. Even break-ups have become lazy. We simply stop texting back. From the jump, we have a potential major effort issue to hurdle over, even before the baggage is exposed.
What if we stopped dating by quantity and considered quality? What if we considered our own graphing prior to going out with another? How can we be our best, balanced self? If this happened universally, we would have everyone showing up ready to make a real effort and ready to work on their daddy issues. What do you think, dear readers?