Vol. 2, Post #82 Dear Abbe

Part 3 in what's now become my "Do Not" Trifecta. My weekly sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, (people with readers).

For the last two weeks, I’ve written different one-size-fits-all letters to men, and then women, about behaviors surrounding dating that should be banished from your playbook. Now it’s time to turn the tables on…me.

In “Dear Kevin,” I advised men who liked to get all sex chatty too early to cool it, and in “Dear Tracy,” I suggested that women who liked to dissect their not-yet-boyfriend’s behavior with more nuance that the Super Bowl play-by-play cut that shit too. By the way, do you know how challenging it was to choose names that were generation-appropriate (not too old, not too young) and likewise, were not the names of some of my close pals? Note to one of my besties Jessica who is not reading this, I’m sure, you lazy motherfucker. You got lucky, as Tom Petty sings.

So now, order in the court. Abbe, step forward. You’re in the hot seat.

Dear Abbe,

Stop going out with men named Ira. This is a literal command as well as a philosophical suggestion. You and Ira are not a match.

I suppose we can begin this letter to you, Lady Shove, by reminding you that ahead of your date a few weekends ago with, yes, a man named Ira, you were trying to convince yourself to be a tiny bit more expansive with potential suitors. This has been an internal conversation banging around your brain for years, and honestly? It’s a total waste of time, Abbe. You, my friend, are a reverse snob of the highest order.

When it comes to dating, you immediately dismiss anyone working a corporate gig (unless the person working that gig has a life outside of banking, finance, whatevs, in which they explore their creative side with gusto); likewise, you HATE country clubs, golf resorts, luxury vacation locales, and other recreational meccas where the focus among the wealthy white people who populate these places is on bucks, botox, and related BLECH. And while you have no business doing so and superimposing your disdain on others, you deeply dislike jam bands and the current iteration of anything Grateful Dead, baseball caps, the word “awesome,” ANY kind of sporting event, Las Vegas, I mean, the list goes on. You distrust most typical heteronormative EVERYTHING and you’re not quiet about it.

So…Abbe…if that’s all true (and it certainly is, you Hideous Woman), why in the world would you go out with someone named Ira who embodies much of what you outlined above as Awful Beyond Words? BECAUSE PART OF YOU THINKS THIS IS WHAT YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING AND IT IS NOT.

STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY.

How many more times will you go out with Ira or Ira Adjacent? You know precisely who/what I am talking about: Men who want to date a Nice Jewish Girl who will ride them in Reverse Cowboy until they both have hair-raising orgasms. A woman who can braise a pot roast while she’s applying Aquaphor to her new tattoo. A woman who can make small talk with aging relatives or biz colleagues as easily as she can exchange makeup tips with a drag queen. A woman who can comport herself with grace and decorum at his office party but won’t suffer any bullshit talk with a douche-y bro VP or his stupid cunt wife when they espouse horridly offensive nonsense like “I’m a liberal but I vote with my pocketbook” or similar. A woman who can curtsy to the Queen of England or, conversely, squirt on his face. Abbe, stop dating men who begin the evening (like that weekend date, oh Ira) by asking, “So, have you always been a rebel?”

You are not a rebel* and the men who think you are, are not your men.

*(Sidebar: Since I’m the one who is writing a letter to myself, I can editorialize at will, and it’s true, I am NOT any kind of rebel, not by a long shot. Please. Just because I’m not sipping a Starbucks Latte in yoga pants and tasteful diamonds doesn’t make me Wendy O. Williams, who, by the way, performed all of her own stunts. Let’s watch a Plasmastics video, shall we? When this came out, MTV made them attach a WARNING to it so people wouldn’t try this at home. Now that’s a rebel. I’m a late-in-middle age Jewess with a great ass, a filthy mouth, a reasonable amount of ink, and a vivid imagination. That’s not a rebel.)

Also, duh.

Back to this letter, in which I’m telling you to smarten the fuck up, Abbe…

I know what you’re doing; hell, I UNDERSTAND what you’re doing. You think that life would be just a little bit easier if you could embrace the collared Polo shirt boys and relax into a certain comfort zone of ease that is made even cushier by big salaries or juicy 401ks. For a lot of people, it is. But that’s not your crowd, when it comes to lovers. So own it.

If it’s really not what you want — if the very thought of eating chips and salsa at Garcia’s in Port Chester ahead of seeing The Dave Matthews Band playing The Cap Theatre is giving you hives — just stay away and pick potential partners who feel the same. The fact remains, who the fuck are you to roll your eyes at anyone’s joy? Stay in your lane. No one wants a snarky bitch to ruin their guac and soft rock.

You can’t have it both ways. Every time you tell your pals that you’ve met a really nice man and that you’d be crazy to pass him up, it’s almost a sign that you should RUN. You don’t like nice men.

Well, OK, that’s not entirely correct. Your ex-husband is a gem. You’ve dated your share of good guys. But the good guys who talk to you about their midlife crisis sports car purchases and their retirement accounts? Those are not your people and you should leave them to the women who appreciate expense accounts and reggae bands at resorts in Aruba.

And no, that doesn’t mean you are relegating yourself to only dating loners, little black rain clouds of despair, broken birds, pseudo punks, tortured artists, or addicts (even though you’ve dipped your toe into all of those waters far too often over this past decade, Little Girl). But you should accept the reality that is your own seemingly fetishized tastes for Creative Types and not even tangle with those who push pencils, count beans, go camping, wear Tevas, care about Mets vs. Yankees.

Let’s recap the men you are currently sparring with, shall we?

1. Musician, semi-former, currently enjoying Carl Jung’s dream studies so that’s been a fun chitchat, great chemistry, slow burn due to some life circumstances. You think he’s worth the wait. He could be your Kris Kristofferson.

2. Chef, fifteen years your junior. Oy, Abbe. You and the chefs. This one is clearly going to be another nine-alarm fire if you two seal the deal and you’ll probably also gain twenty pounds unless you two just fuck it off. Seems to be at the tail end of a loveless relationship so you need to stay CLEAR of that until he is. Good thing that this is a boundary which you will hold till death. But let’s cut to the chase. You are dying to fuck him. He is so your type.

3. Wonky Ivy League professor; teaches a pretty topical tech course, has a PhD. Less is known about him, but the initial vibes are very nice indeed. May have the kind of hair that you like to run your fingers in. Met at the local crappy Mexican place; you gave him your card, after which he got in touch promptly. We’ll see. BONUS. He TOO thinks The Douche of Woodstock is in fact a total prick, so we know he has good taste.

There was a time when all of your friends — ALL OF THEM — wagged their fingers at you and said, “NO MORE CHEFS! NO MORE MUSICIANS! NO MORE SMARTYPANTS THAT ARE TOO CLEVER FOR THEIR OWN GOOD!” But let’s just face facts: that’s who you like. Go right ahead and embrace it — better any of them than Ira.

As you age, Abbe, you seem to know yourself better and better in so many ways. Why try to force your round peg into Ira’s square hole — that sounded so much dirtier than intended.

Stop trying to be the woman that you sometimes THINK you’re supposed to be. Isn’t that what you preach as a Young Old? Just doing what you like and to hell with the rest of it?

You have permission to fly your freak flag, finally. Ira has left the building. Wave buh-bye.

Signed, Your dumbass self who still pretends she’s going to open a restaurant, play drums for Courtney Love, or write Bubbe’s Great American Coming Of (Old) Age Memoir of the 21st century. Then again, who’s to say you won’t?

The IRA I’m highlighting here— if you haven’t realized by now — is Ira Stone from When Harry Met Sally (played by actor/comedian Kevin Rooney — another Kevin!) who was the man that seemingly charmed and seduced Harry’s wife Helen. Let her have him.