Quantified Self

Quantified Self is a website where self-trackers—people who record and look for patterns in the empirical data of their lives—post their findings.

I've had six boyfriends so far in my life, with the average length of relationship being 14 months. The median is 12 months. Two out of the six—a full 33 percent of all of my romantic entanglements—had the last name of Wilson. And no, they weren't related.

My average span between boyfriends is 7.4 months. (The median is 4 months.) According to my own empirical data, I fall into 3 patterns between boyfriends, I move on at 0 months, 4 months or 12 months. Considering my last relationship was 10.5 months ago, that means I am 1.5 months away from my next boyfriend.

I've been single 41% of my adult life.

Well.

Isn't that something?

Fall

Last night I was Uptown at a painting studio with Jenna. Before us was a picture of Venice that we were both trying to copy. This painting involved a little more drawing than painting for my taste.

I dipped my paint brush in yellow and twisted as I pulled it out to coat the bristles evenly.

"You remember when Harvey called us asexual a couple of weeks ago?" she asked, unprovoked.

"Mmm hmm." Damn that little arched window on the Venice building.

"Well, I wanted to say that I'm not asexual. She doesn't bring any guys around for us to look at!"

I laughed.

"I didn't think I should say that at the time."

"You should have!" I encouraged. "Harvey would have liked that."

"I would date, but I just don't think about it because I don't have the time. I don't even know where I could fit it in," she continued.

"Yeah, you are the busiest person I know." I moved on from the window and began working on the water. "We do need another guy in our group though."

"Why is that?"

I placed my brush down and faced her. "The numbers are uneven. We have you, me, Katie and Harvey," I counted on one hand for the girls. "And Harvey's husband, Swayze and Governemnt Mule," I counted on the other. "We need another guy."

We went back to our paintings.

"There are guys at my work, but they don't go out or do anything," she remarked.

Harvey, the de facto leader of our group, apparently lit a fire underneath Jenna by calling her asexual. All of a sudden, I'm a whole lot more excited by Fall. Fall always seems like a new beginning to me. Maybe its because that's when each new school year started, so Fall was always a time to buy new shoes and reinvent yourself into whomever you want to be.

Fall also seems to be the time people start getting together. Spring is for breakups, Summer is for flings, and Fall and Winter are for dating. Jenna and Mel are on eHarmony with me, so I feel like I have fellow teammates taking the field with me, because Fall is also for college football.

Sextistics

Full of dinner and wine and chocolates and all of the other Valentine's Day cliches that I love, Christopher and I watched another TLC documentary last night called Sextistics: Your Love Life. It was absolutely fascinating because it contained all the information that I've ever wanted to know about American love. Part of me wanted to geek out and write down all of the statistics as they appeared for discussion on my blog, but I withheld because Christopher was sitting next to me. I thought if the statistic was really important, I would remember it.

Without further ado, some cold, hard numbers about American love:

• Men and women will fall in love on average seven times in their lifetimes. This is a surprisingly large number.
• Being in love has the same brain chemical equivalent as being high on cocaine and heroin. Dopamine and all that jazz.
• Women will kiss an average of 79 "frogs" before finding their mates. I find this number oddly comforting, probably because my number is somewhere in the 40s — 60s. I have a little padding room.
• Women have sex with an average of nine men in their lifetimes. Oops.
• Men have sex with an average of 12 women in their lifetimes.
• 44% of people have had sex in a car.
• 10% of people are virgins on the wedding night.
• 25% of all couples do not consummate the wedding night, presumably to some giant number of glasses of champagne imbibed at weddings per year, something in the millions.
• There are 4,100 engagements per year in the United States. I think this number seems a little low considering our population is 330 million according to the Olympic opening ceremony statistics.
• The 51% divorce rate is true. However,
• If you get married in your forties, the divorce rate is 7%.
• Marriage in your thirties: 16%. I did all kinds of mental fist pumps to this number, because it's practically impossible for me to get married in my twenties at this point and I can totally work with 16%. Statistically, I will probably not get divorced!
• And finally, marriage in your twenties: 77% divorce rate. Suckers.
• Men have over 4,100 orgasms during their lives, while women only have roughly 1,400. I narrowed my eyes and looked at Christopher and said the huge difference in numbers is due to men not taking the time on women. Christopher didn't miss a beat and said it was due to men masturbating more.
• Couples in their twenties have sex eight times a month.
• Couples in their thirties have sex six times a month. However, if they have children, this number is reduced to four times per month.
• Good news is couples in their forties have sex six times per month, so sex will increase as the children age.
• People will kiss for two weeks of their lives. I scoffed and said I pretty much already nailed that number with this one guy from college.
• People will orgasm for 150 hours in their lifetime. Total brain melt!

So there you have it, some pretty interesting numbers. I was below most of the statistics, so I have some life to live as long as I don't sleep with anyone else for the rest of my life. And then I'll still be above average on that one.

What do you think of the statistics? Too high? Too low? Spot on?

Permanently and Unapologetically Single

I wanted to write this post last year, but never got around to it before Christmas, so this is a year in the making!

The following is an excerpt from When the Messenger is Hot by Elizabeth Crane:

Good for You!

Someone finally took a picture of me I don't hate and since I was wearing a red shirt I thought it would be the perfect holiday card. I made fifty copies and put a special nondenominational greeting on there (Hey, Happy Holidays! I thought the Hey gave it a personal touch) and sent them out. Then I started to get some cards back with peculiar responses like, Good for you!, even though I hadn't written any news worth praising on that particular card and then I finally got an e-mail from someone who said she hoped she caught me before I sent too many out because she didn't want me to embarrass myself and I looked at the card again to see if I was exposed in some way or if the printers said, Hey, Merry Christmas! by accident. But the card was just right, and so I e-mailed her back and said I didn't understand what she meant and she e-mailed back that most people who send photos like that also have husbands or babies in the photo. I e-mailed her back again and said that I am not most people.

Did you know what was wrong with the card? I didn't. It would be just like me to do something exactly like that and not realize why people were responding the way they did. To be so permanently and obliviously single. I had no idea that single people are not to send out photo Christmas cards until I read this. And then I felt scorn for the woman who tried to ruin it for the protagonist.

I am single because I feel single. A boyfriend is not enough. I want more. The husband. The baby. The smug photo Christmas card. For the first time ever, I feel like I have a chance at that. And that has nothing to do with Christopher. It has to do with my therapy and finding some glimmer of self-worth and learning to trust myself.

It makes me want to send out a photo Christmas card next year. Not because I am not like most people in that I don't have a husband and a baby, but because I am not like most people.

Wow, this didn't go where I thought it was going to go. The one last year would not have been so hopeful.

Be the ball

I was sitting on my couch last night, charity knitting in hand and my secret love of TLC Sunday-night documentaries on TV. This week's documentary was the 650-lb Virgin.

The no-longer-650-pounds-but-still-a virgin laid on the massage table for his very first massage. As the masseuse rubbed his scarred skin, he asked, "Do you have any dating advice?"

She immediately preached on the necessity of dependability. "If you say you're going to call, call. If girls can count on you for the little things, then we know you'll be there for the big things."

Yellow yarn knotted across my fingers, I shook my head vigorously. I'm so glad that point made it on TV!

She paused, then said,"Be the person you want to date. If you want a nice, caring person, then you be nice and caring. Be the person you want to date."

I don't know if I have ever had that thought, but I do know I have never had that thought so articulately. Be the person you want to date. It was enough to make me stop and think. Am I?

So, dear reader, are you being the person you want to date?

WTF

A guy friend asked me if I would like to see a movie this week. I checked the Facebook message Swayze sent me and saw that he only asked me to see the movie, not our normal circle of friends. We have spent a lot of time together this summer doing things on our own, but this is usually because no one else showed up, not because we planned it that way. And here he is, planning it that way.

It was a movie on an inconvenient day for me at an inconvient time. It was a movie I didn't even want to see. But he had asked only me, so I made it happen.

I ducked out of my board meeting 15 minutes early and began weaving through traffic to the theatre. On my way, he sent a text message asking me if I wanted him to smuggle in a beer for me. I gave the thumbs up and raced to make the movie.

I climbed the steps in the darkened theatre following his direction. When I reached his prefered row, I walked in to the middle as far as I could and I put a one-seat buffer between me and the next couple.

And Swayze put a one-seat buffer between us.

I stared at him incredulously as he emptied his cargo shorts pockets with loads of snacks and 3 cans of beer. He cracked open the first can and left the other two between his feet. My jaw dropped. I debated calling him out on it, something like thanking him for keeping his cooties to himself, but the roar of the previews and the sheer shock of it all left me silent.

I slumped in my seat. Who was I going to rate the previews with? I always rate the previews. With the buffer, it would be too much of a hassle to lean over and shout, "That one is going to suck!"

"OMG," my coworker said when I recounted the story to her.

"No, not OMG," I corrected. "WTF."

I was stuck in the theatre for the next 2 hours and 45 minutes while I watched Transformers, which thoroughly sucked as promised, with the sweet smell of Foster's beer plaguing my nostrils. Social awkwardness aside, the beer antic was just rude.

Leaning away from my one-seat buffer like it was contaminated with tuburculosis, I rested my cheek in my hand. It was Tuesday Night Knitting Club and I skipped it and the rest of my board meeting at work for this. This... bullshit. I understand that when guys go to the movies with each other, they use the buffer, but I am not a dude. He asked me to go with him. He wanted my company. He didn't ask anyone else. And he's the type of guy who has no problems going to movies or to see bands alone, so I know I wasn't playing a loneliness buffer, so what the hell is that seat doing between us? Meanwhile he's oblivious, snacking on his bags of snacks and drinking his beer. (And he was so dumb about it, he'd open each can during a quiet dialogue part, not when the theatre is shaking with deafening explosions.)

I sat there and wished I had a boyfriend for no other reason than to avoid wading through the crap that is man. I wondered why I was out at all. When they're not taking a dump in your car, they're doing other shitty things like asking you to see a movie and then not sitting with you like there is something wrong with you.

If we hadn't known each other for years, I probably wouldn't have been so polite about it. Swayze's done a lot of nice things for me over that time, like taking me to see Cirque du Soliel earlier this year (Where we sat next to each other), taking our group of friends to his parents' home on the water (where we sat next to each other), meeting me for countless happy hours, sushi lunches and concerts (where we sat next to each other). So maybe he has a movie problem. Or recently developed a Sarah problem in the last 10 minutes.

Dr. Phil gives more bad advice

Dr. Phil had an episode the other week about mistakes women make that keep them single. (Let's just gloss over the fact I just admitted to watching Dr. Phil, shall we?) Apparently some publisher decided that Bachelor #8 (you knew him as Huge Chin Guy) from The Bachelor acquired enough experience from "dating" 25 women at once to write a book that forever categorizes women into stereotypes by their mistakes: Working Girl, I've Been Hurt Girl, Too Old Girl, etc.

Huge Chin Guy and Dr. Phil then parade five women on stage and take turns pointing at each woman and telling her what she does wrong. Here's a gem from the transcripts:

“You met a guy. No job. No direction. No chance of getting a job. He broke your car. He offered to get it fixed. What happened?” Dr. Phil asks.

“Well, he stole it. He drove it to California with another girl, came back, slammed it into a wall and blamed me,” she explains.

“And you felt guilty?” Dr. Phil asks.

“Yeah. I don’t know why,” Jennifer says.

Meet Low Self-Esteem Girl.

The two men jolly up and seemingly solve each of the girl's problems with, shockingly, advice from Huge Chin Guy's book! You too can buy this book and find out what's wrong with you! Yea!

Only I think Dr. Phil and Huge Chin Guy were diagnosing for zebras instead of horses. You see, each of these girls were man-hunting by boozing it up every night of the week at local bars. The idea of meeting someone with a lasting relationship potential at a bar is almost unheard of. Cosmopolitan (once again, glossing over the fact I read the source) published some survey that 3% of married couples met each other a bar. What Dr. Phil should have said was, "For the love of God, put that White Russian down!"

Which segues into my next point: each girl on that stage was fat. And not fat-with-a-great-face or even fat-with-a-great-personality, but rather, fat-with-greasy-hair. Only one girl on stage was attractive and that was because she recently dropped 100 pounds after her divorce.

So to conclude--just because it's liquor doesn't mean it has less calories, shampoo is our friend, and Irish Car Bombs can still give you beer goggles even though it isn't actually beer. You're welcome.

Crunch This

I called the gym to renew my membership. I was speaking to what I could only assume was a perky, caffeinated, 30-something with abs that made the skin on her stomach look wrinkly.

"Okay, Hon, well let me just look you up in our system."

"Okay," I put another chocolate cookie in my mouth and chewed. I figure because it's a soft cookie, she can't hear me cheat.

"So did you get married in the past year?"

I choked on my cookie. Is that what is supposed to happen after you join the swanky gym in the swanky part of town for a year? You get married? Was this a guaranteed result that I had somehow missed?

Does this mean I get some sort of refund?

Noah's Ark, only drunker and with keg stands

I attended my second Christmas party of the season Friday night. I ventured away from the city and tested the suburb party waters. The longer I spend in the city, the more I feel like I belong. I prefer skyscrapers to strip malls, Zagat rated to extra value meals, and the ease and security in knowing I live at most six miles from anything-- the Capitol, work, art museums and zoos-- it's all five minutes away. I don't even mind paying for parking anymore. E has to entice me to leave the city: free booze and a DD just happened to be the magic answer that night.

At the party we hug and kiss hello everyone we know, which happened to be a short list as we were friends of friends. I make friends easily so I wasn't daunted that we didn't know most of the people there. I was actually excited about the idea.

Until we met everyone.

"Hi, I'm Carol and this is Bob."

"Hi, I'm Richard and this is Denise."

"Hi, I'm Andy and this is Beth."

Um, when exactly did people come in pairs? When exactly did I become one of three single people in a house full of marrieds!? E and I and a girl from Alabama. All standing by the trash. Right where we belonged.

I'm too young to be the only single person in a room. Or am I? When we walked in the door, a girl-- who had the remarkable talent of actually trashing out a Banana Republic dress by adding porn heels and black lace-- squealed at me and and cooed, "This is my house!" She was younger than me and clearly playing house. I should be so lucky to ever own a house like that, much less a starter home with my new husband where I was the Bridezilla of the Year as rumored by dirty whispers anytime she left the room.

I thought I had a few more years before this started happening. I wasn't ready for it. Not just yet.

WTF

My favorite married friend struck again.

She called up to say she found the perfect guy for me. No prison time (that she knows of) and he's hot. She gave him my public blog address and he's very interested. She keeps saying over and over how hot he is, hotter than the others she tried to set me up with.

"I'll think about it; send me a picture," I told her.

I watched in horror as this slowly uploaded on my screen:


Did he just send me a picture of his tattoo? And it says, "Redneck?" He has that permanently inked on his body? He's the hottest looking one?

Okay, I have to find a nice way to tell her to stop trying. Seriously. Now.

A Big Resounding F to the U

My married friend, who only has the best of intentions, called me while I was at work Friday to scold me for not updating my another one of my blogs of all things. She has two kids and spends all day on MySpace. She doesn't understand things like I can't answer 20 e-mails a day, IMing is a work no-no, and I probably shouldn't be gabbing on my cell phone. I called her back after work, when I was barefoot in my SUV and maneuvering through traffic.

"I thought about you this morning," she says. "I was driving to work with my husband-- we carpool you know-- and I said we're in our thirties, our kids will be in elementary school. When Sarah's in her thirties, she'll just be beginning to have kids. It'll be harder on her body and the chances of her having a girl will be astronomical. It'll also be more likely she'll have twins."

My mouth opened and closed a few times, words never appearing. I felt like I was slapped in the face. I felt like I was at Bridget Jones's dinner party with the smug marrieds. "Yes we're single because we have scales under our clothes." Inwardly I knew she was jealous and was justifying having children at such a young age to herself, but I've never had being single thrown in my face before. I thought I still had a few years left before that started to happen.

I called E, who would understand perfectly how I felt. "Did you tell her that you're more financially stable having kids in your thirties?" she snapped. My married friend had just admitted that day that he mother gives her money when she needs it.

"Or that couples who wait until after 25 to marry have like an 80% chance that the marriage will work out?" I responded. We've both done our reading. The married friend just finished telling me a story about almost filing for divorce before they decided to squeeze out the extra kid.

"Who's to say I even want kids?" I continued. "Maybe I want an enormous alcohol budget."

"Or travel money instead of college tuition."

"Damn right!"

Then I went on to tell E how much I've grown. I've lived on my own since I was 18, and have been financially independent since I was 22, but moving to a new city and starting over made me stronger than I ever realized I could be. I couldn't believe how much I have changed since April.

E agreed and said the married one will never be this strong because she's never lived on her own and will never have the lives we lead.

I've been operating under the impression that I'm a strong independent girl for the past few months now. My MO has completely turned a 180. I'm picky when it comes to dates. It's been about whether I like the guy, not how he feels about me. Screw whether he likes me or not. It's what I feel that counts.

This was factor one in Saturday night's meltdown.

Life is good.

Right now I feel like life is great: I get to eat whatever I want, I have sole power over the remote control, and I get to hog the covers at night. My friends keep me busy and I'm always out enjoying some sort of urban adventure. Life is good. My married friends, however, feel the need to set me up because I'm 25, single, and living alone.

Even though I grew up in a privileged area, it was still the south. Girls still swooned over boys at bars that include mechanical bulls. Tight jeans, chewing tobacco, and NASCAR... oh my. The girls I remained friends with from high school married such boys. Two of them married young and had kids young. One of them had the kids, but didn't get married. It's the south; we're the largest contributor to Jerry Springer guests.

I, however, wanted more for myself. Not to say that they aren't happy, but that isn't the life I wanted for me. I don't want to spend my Saturdays at the track, watching the mud races. I want to be Intown, hitting on the cute boy who owns an art gallery. Our choices are just different.

My married friends feel bad for me and have made it their mission to find me a man. I'll get phone calls about a bartender from Longhorn in some hick town. He has a two-year-old, but don't worry, he's not on speaking terms with his ex-fiance.

Oh sweet Jesus.

I kindly turned down the offer, careful not to say anything specific because he is so-and-so's cousin.

Last night, I get another phone call:

"Yeah, I have Billy passing out your photo and trying to get you set up."

"Um, where is he doing this?"

"At work."

I'm running through my mind. Billy is a jack-of-all trades from ballet dancer to computer engineer and I can't remember where he works. "Where is that?" I ask.

"At the auto garage."

I almost dropped the phone. She has a man named Billy passing out my photo at a mechanic shop. I could just imagined men in mustaches and grease stained uniforms with their names embroidered inside the red little ovals, exhaling cigarette smoke between yellow teeth while looking at MY photo. I stifled back a cry.

How do I tell her that this isn't my scene without sounding like I'm looking down on her life?

I lied.

"Well, I just started seeing this other guy, but thanks for the offer!"

The truth is, I don't want to settle. I would rather be alone than be with someone who irritates me. Call it a self-preservation thing-- otherwise I'd be worried about the very real possibility of murder-suicide.