On the dating frontier…

When I was living in Europe, I used to hope guys would approach me and ask, whatever European guys ask in their broken (read: sexy) English and varying foreign accents/dialects. I particularly enjoyed when I’d get the line “Where are you from?” It made me feel exotic. I understood quite quickly, that European men did not, in fact, find American girls “exotic.” That aside, people in general wanted to know where I was from. And, I just got tired of saying “Les Etats Unis” and having people nod and walk away. Long story short, I started telling people I was Greek. Not Greek-American. Greeky-Greek, as I like to call it. While in Paris, I blamed the confusion on my poor grasp of the French language — it was the difference between “I come from Greece” versus ”I am Greek.” They assumed, Greek people usually come from Greece. I just never took the time to clarify. Or when I did, I made it extremely complicated to follow. I ended up confusing the hell out of people. But, I must admit I greatly enjoyed the conversations which would ensue. And, the fact that I was having conversations at all was also a plus.

Flash forward, a year or two, I am now back in the States, and I have… evolved. I am a working girl. It took a little bit before I secured a position in PR, but I’m learning so much and loving it. In the “little bit” of time (which really felt like 17 eternities and then an afterlife) it took me to find a job after graduation, I panicked. Not because I was unemployed and my student loan payments were ready to kick into gear any minute, but rather because I did not like going out and not having something to talk about, in general, but mostly with men. See, American guys– scratch that– guys (girls, too) in America tend to ask “What do you do?” I’m not sure if this is a cultural difference, but I’m going to go ahead and label it as such. No guys were asking me “Where are you from” anymore, everyone seemed to be asking me “what do you do?” I was perplexed. I think this might be because we as an American society are obsessed with work. Work work work. Does anyone like what they do? Some people must, but most don’t. It’s one thing to work and love what you do, but in a lot of cases job happiness is not high on people’s priority list. Still, they want to talk about what it is they “do” all the time– even when they get home or when they go out. So, I have fallen victim to this. I started to feel trapped by this cultural idiosyncrasy. I too, must talk about what it is I “do.” But, first I have to er— do something!! I quickly forgot about all the places I have been or knowledge I had acquired, whether it was about myself or the world in general. Because I had no job, I had no philosophy, no values, no hobbies.

“What do you do?” Well..um, breathe, think, walk, eat, sleep for starters. I mean, I DO lots of things.. but somehow I got it into my head that guys wouldn’t be interested in all of that. (I mean, who wouldn’t want to hear about the epic nap I just took??). In the end, I felt myself becoming an empty shell of a graduate mere days after all the happiness and celebratory gatherings and wishes. It was the worst of many slumps I’d been in, save for the whole dilemma of 2000 (known better as… Middle School).

But now, I’m in a good place. I say good, not great, because I’m still feeling the back end of that post grad slump storm… but I’m much more prepared now. I’ve made a couple trips to Costco and the fallout shelter of my brain’s conversation cabinets are fully stocked with both old and new food stuffs. Now, I’m not only ready, but excited to reply to that once dreaded question.

But, life is not that simple.

It’s girls night out at a cozy little bar and I’ve got my game face on. Whatever that means. Basically, I’m left, waiting, hoping for a conversation to spark where I can share all the things I “do.” Obvisoulsy, you can never be too ready. I hear a voice from down below, and I realize a man has approached me with kind eyes and cheeks as rosy as one of Santa’s elves:

“Where are you from?” OH NO! Curveball… I swear, these guys must be reading last month’s edition of GQ or whatever the male equivalent of Cosmo is– hasn’t anyone been informed that I’m no longer unemployed. You’re supposed to ask me what I do. I answer in a disinterested voice:

“New Jersey.” He is stumped. He wanted me to be from somewhere more interesting, I guess.

“No you’re not. Where are you from originally?”

Now, I am faced with the option. Whether or not to play the Greek (read: “exotic”) card. He has set it up perfectly, all I have to do is play along; but, I opted out this night.

“Yeah, you’re right. I was actually born in New York.”

What I mean by that is, go away. I don’t feel like being exotic tonight.

“Oh, I thought you might be Irish.”

You thought wrong.

“Really?” Polite smile “Well, I’m not.”

Awkward silence.

“Well, I just wanted to let you know you look like someone from Riverdance.”

This was a new one. Suddenly his small stature was no longer an issue. He proceeded to tell me how gracefully I danced and that my footwork was mesmerizing, like that of a professional Irish folk dancer. At the end of the night, I was left with a smile on my face. I kept thinking to myself: YES!! One more thing I can add to the list of things I “do”…………RIVERDAAAAAAANCE!

Filakia,

Steph