Why Are You Still Single?


It must be me. It was always me, I am needy, clingy, I have daddy issues, and I want to be literally handcuffed to the other person all the time. I know. That’s why I am single, that’s why men leg it so fast, they leave skid marks on the pavement and that’s the price every woman must pay in order to keep her marbles together in London. In the past month I was asked in total  of three times, the same age old question – Why are you still single? and again and again I find myself making up reasons why I haven’t got that special one (as opposed to other ‘normal’ people). It’s a short leap from mental illness and unlike in medicine there is no pill from singleness, there isn’t a pill which would whisk all your flaws,  they won’t prescribe you lobotomy and especially, they won’t hypnotise another person to love you.

There could be an algorithm to happiness, which is called online dating, but then can it calculate the divorce rate? Here’s the perfect match for you, you have 99% matches in music wine preferences, travels and books, however we strategically chose to not include points for neurosis, seasonal depression, bipolar tendencies, AADD, pathological lies, infidelity, fetiches and god knows what else that may come with the  package. I have always believed the universe prepared a surprise for me in a form of digital prince charming until he failed to turn up to the date. That was a sign impossible to ignore.

People ask me, are my standards too high? Well, define standards. Surely nobody starts a relationship with an attitude: she/he is a 6 after 5 beers. Of course, there is certain expectation in the significant other, unless you have no expectations of yourself and you will go down with pretty much anything anyone throws your way. Is fitness, intelligence, income, and good looks classify as unattainable standards? Is attentiveness, generosity, honesty and respect a high standard? We set standards according to our own, so shouldn’t people be asking me instead if I have such high standards for myself? Live a bit, stop learning that fourth language,  cancel your gym membership, take a pay cut, get fat. Can I have a relationship now? Probably not because numbers game is not an answer when searching for ‘the one’.

Is it me? Probably. Is that a problem? Probably not. Am I happy? Definitely yes. Thank you, stop asking why I am single.


Why Are You Still Single?

The Parisian Sensuality

e8357271cd0cc6adfbea61ce1caea9ffAfter yet another long break, I am back with a new post about Paris. So yes, I am obsessed with this city! Paris is the city of my dreams and I take it in with all it’s poverty and flamboyance, arrogance and sensuality, and let’s just throw in a dash sleaziness for the good measure.

Couple of weekends ago my friends and I, yet again, jumped on the train and traveled to the city of love. We had 4 fabulous days ahead of us, full of great events and lots and lots of wine. Although I have been making little Paris trips every few months, I never really experienced Parisian night life.  Except may be that one time when I tried to go home with a Belgian equivalent of Spartacus, which happened to be a total fiasco on my part as he decided not to get involved in a dysfunctional mĂ©nage Ă  trois with me and my friend, calling it the act respect to my male friend as opposed to blinding rejection. Anyway, new year – new me. This time I finally got to go out in a chat friendly environment where I felt my french was strong enough to introduce myself at the very least.

7433e3597a6294b9d124a2fa99a18fb8Saturday night was the opening of the club night season at the l’ Opera Garner restaurant La Boumette. Hello glam of my life! The event itself was organised through a french version of the meet up. To this day I still don’t know whether we walked into a mingling event or was it a pure coincidence we were mobbed by four parisian guys within minutes. The event was held sur le ciel du Paris in a fashionable L’Opera area.

Parisian events are slightly different to London. You still have your mixture of rich arabs and their blond bombshells girlfriends, but you also get creme de la creme of the parisian style front runners who look like they have just stepped down from the Montblanc ad campaign – perfectly groomed, sleek looking and of course, the look wouldn’t be complete without vintage tortoise shell frames. They all look equally nonchalant and self aware at the same time, which was incredibly pretentious and sexy. Perhaps parisian social scene hasn’t moved far from 19th century Dandyism which has always put image ahead of morals, the scene inspired Baudelaire himself.


Of course, I didn’t get to meet any of these classy guys that night. As it usually happens, there was another type of men who prefer to overcompensate their absence of creativity with pushy enthusiasm and sleazy confidence which cannot be combated with anything except for a change of location. Efficient yet very impractical. These guys don’t wait around bombarding you with subtle hints, they go straight in for the kill, latching onto any possible flare of interest or mere politeness to spark the proverbial flame of passion. It was like a romancing the stone on my part. Despite my best efforts of assuming the role of cock block in vain hope I may have a chance to have a great night with the girls, I lost the battle to the latter group.

Despite all that drama, what is refreshing about parisian men, however, is you can have a pretty decent conversation, which can be both a fun banter and an existential debate. I got relatively lucky with one of guys at the party. Ryan was a half french half Arabic blue eyed blond hair mec who had quality flirting skills, who also introduced himself as a stripper for Chippendale. It wasn’t hard to believe because he certainly had the body for it. After 10 minutes of conversation and vivid x rated fantasies (taking place exclusively in my head!), he finally announced he works in marketing which left me both aroused and furious, but I didn’t mind to be played like this at all. As the night was getting busier, I found myself talking to new men who were all equally interested in me. If it wasn’t the dating event after all,  I would definitely say, in Paris, we were more popular than a kebab place on Saturday night. I was on fire! Trailblazing across the room, feeling fabulous. All a gal need to shine is a guys attention.

This may as f6a8641fcb42540d6881c9669306699cwell be a parisian thing. And just as other parisian things I like, I like the straight forwardness and confidence which parisian guys have. British guys may have a great sense of humor (which is a truly great advantage), but when it comes to making a move, it’s usually so subtle, almost like a metaphorical dog whistle perceived only by a certain type of women, if any at all.

Parisian sensuality felt like a breath of fresh air. In a modern world, plagued by extreme feminism, seduction has become closeted part of romantic interaction to the point where men decided to skip it all together. Of course, french guys don’t linger too long on platonic chit chat either and they don’t call if french banter after all. It wasn’t really my intention to meet anyone that night because I only had 2 days left in Paris and I wanted to spend them wandering the streets, drinking wine and daydreaming about how one day I book my one way ticket to Paris.



The Parisian Sensuality

Are We Bulls**t Shoppers Or Just Optimists

tumblr Dating in London is never dull, even if you don’t get any dates, time to time you get the reality confirmation that being single isn’t actually so bad. Being single is always going on a date with destiny. You never know who, where or when falls into your lap and give you a minute thrill, or at least a promise of the possibility of potential happy ending. Unfortunately, being single in London has its down sides too. Sometimes, instead of being all-you-can-eat buffet, it turned into a fast food joint where you take a bite and spit it out without chewing. It has zero value and zero satisfaction. It’s official – dating in London is now box ticking exercise.

Dating scene in big city is not for sensitive souls. It’s brutal and unpredictable. It doesn’t follow any common sense or logic. In the absence of sound advice, sometimes I resort to the only thing I do best – generalisations: everyone is taken. Playing the game turned into full on battle, and I found myself right in the middle of it without any clue. What I grew to understand is that romance does not sustain itself. Unless you feed it with hope and idealism, it will slowly turn into cynicism and bitterness. It’s easy to swear of men and engage to yourself over a bottle of wine, but it takes optimism to shake off yet another dating disaster without effectively doubling in size. Lot’s and lot’s of it.

How do you stay positive? Do you play numbers game searching for the one, or the one next to him/her? Or do you patiently sit and wait hoping for the best? Neither is the right way. Women’s and Men’s magazines are bursting with pop-scientist and pseudo – intellectuals giving advice on how to find and sustain successful relationships, but that means fuck all if we have no self-respect, or confidence or integrity. People don’t approach love by cold calculations and detailed plan of seduction – if only in bad fiction and seduction seminars. Embracing my inner coach I would only say one thing – to have optimism is to have confidence about the future or the success of something. If going on dates raises your confidence about finding a right partner, then it’s the only way to go. Dating out of fear of ending up forever alone can dart you right into the arms of bullshit sellers, effectively have your heart broken and a casual STI. Not a great idea. And by dating I don’t mean going on dates with only one goal of getting laid.

Regardless, for majority people in London getting a date isn’t difficult, majority but me. I’m not online dating and I rarely go out, but even when I do, meeting a worthy candidate becomes a sales skills building exercise: appear too desperate and you’ll end up with a sausage roll, play hard to get – you could end up hungry. If you play the whole program right, you could end up with a phone number. I would jump the gun and mention the actually date, but this is another level of sales negotiations supported solely on a question – What’s in it for me? Last weekend I got to thinking. We play games with each other because it’s fun. If you actually forget your ticking time bomb and go out on a limb to a bar on Saturday night, you could actually have lot’s of fun. So last week I did just that (not that I actually apply “ticking time bomb” to myself) and met a guy who relentlessly tried to get my number for about an hour, must say he did intrigue me a little bit, but sometimes you get that gut feeling they are in it for all the wrong reasons. Despite long negotiations about nothing between me and him, my friend (with sort of my approval) gave the guy my number.

Cutting long story short, I never heard from him. I was dumb folded. First thought – why bother in a first place? Second thought was – I’ll write a blog about it. Whatever the reason for not getting in touch was, I derived an invaluable lesson (like you always must do) – count your losses and move on. Of course, I don’t exclude some preposterous circumstance like a stolen phone by a gang of savage raccoon,  but realistically, in this scenario i’ll just adopt an idea he was married. From my personal experience, finding anything worthwhile on Saturday night in town has a chance 1/10 , finding yet another bullshit seller is guaranteed. I don’t believe in virtues, but whatever happened to sincerity and integrity? Am I in the wrong of being optimist that may be, just may be, one of these midnight rendez-vous would end up with at least a date?

Two words come to mind: Cruel Intentions. Seducers are rainbow sellers – victims are bullshit buyers, or may be they are just optimists who sometimes get a bad nut. Love them of hate them, can’t live without them. p.s. I did get a text message with an excuse he was busy – a week later which is as good as never.

Are We Bulls**t Shoppers Or Just Optimists

Angels and Average Women

I promised myself I will try to stay away from ranting as much as possible because it means I am taking myself and life too seriously. While some people find ranting as a form of validation of their ego (like I have an opinion and therefor I disagree with everyone), I find it unnecessary waste of personal energy trying to be upset about trivial things like Whole Foods ran out of edamame beans and now I have to eat regular beans (speaking of first world problems), but this recent encounter with my own shadow side knocked me out. I had to set it free.

A little background story. Couple of weekends ago I went to Paris with a friend of mine who happens to run catering for the Victoria Secret  fashion show 2014 in New York. It’s kind of a big deal for me because despite not owning a single Victoria Secret item, this pompastic celebration of  female shape is probably the only thing that sends me straight to the gym without any inner debates. Personally, I would pay 10k to sit at the front row just so I can validate my belief that *paraphrase* from  The Sex and The City – proximity to beauty makes me feel more beautiful. Unfortunately when you come too close to the light, chances are you will crash and burn. For me the light source was called my overdraft. So as a girl who recently had to get out a bunch of stuff onto e-bay just to pay her credit card minimum payment, I came to a conclusion that beauty won’t save the world, however, Victoria Secret angels will most certainly save all regular girls from roaming male fantasy for the significant part of their waking hours.

A long time ago I made a promise to myself that I would not be intimidated by seemingly genetically superior bunch of women who can wear mom jeans and still look sexy as hell. I was doing great. That was until I found myself having a dinner in a group of three “almost” single straight guys talking Victoria Secret Models. Verdict –  within first two seconds I accomplished the impossible – I became the invisible woman.  20 minutes and 4 cigarettes latter, a faint outline of my figure has appeared to one of the guys when he asked me what my dream car was. Shocked by the emotional value of this conversation, I had to act fast in order not to tumble down the scale of self worth even more. As I was getting sucked into this male fantasy, dominated exclusively by Victoria Secret models, conversation gained more depth of unattainable – luxury car topic. I had a choice – cough on my own cigarette smoke or mention some bad ass vehicle just to keep the testosterone going.  So I mentioned Mercedes SLR. I received a nod of approval.

Strange thing happened after we returned to the table. Although I was the only girl at the table, ironically I was transformed into “one of the guys”.  I wasn’t sure whether I should be upset or flattered, however I knew between Miranda Kerr and SLR, I did not occupy any fantasy at that moment, except for my own fantasy – being in bed with a bottle of vodka eating a cake.

As I snuck out yet for another fag after drinking the whole bottle of red tout seul, I stood staring at my own reflection in the tea shop window. I knew it was a huge mistake, however being totally self indulgent on that particular day, I allowed myself a little self pity party  (which I won’t lie later in the night turned into full blown emotional break down). I was looking at the person who was below average height, size 8 healthy looking “youngish” woman with mild skin problems. And this wasn’t pure objective observation.

When you compare yourself to a perfect human being, observation can turn into self loathing. To add a philosophical shade of grey to my misery, I quietly admitted to myself  that I’m not getting any younger. This drunken analysis of everything that was wrong with me escalated so far, my inner “know it all” voice confirmed it – I’ll end up forever alone.

How did Victoria Secret topic resulted in this? It was a work of mad evil genius, called my mindAlthough this sounds like a revelation of some self loathing, insecure and neurotic woman in her late late twenties, most of the time I would say I make rational decisions in life and I am not that easily intimidated by other women. However, can I jump the gun and suggest that many confident women are feeling this way time to time. Why is this bothering us? Despite the statistical evidence that physical attractiveness and sexuality do not guarantee happy marriage or successful career, why these women still make us feel inferior?

If Victoria Angels can awaken our inner demons, then I believe that media is doing a great job creating hell on earth by suggesting  impossible standards of beauty or reality in general. Sadly while some men (even if it’s only 3 of them at that particular moment) out there think that a model strutting down the runway in sexy lingerie is a desirable standard for what woman should look like, the rest of us who aren’t 6 feet size 0 glamazone are reducing themselves to a set of physical features that stand somewhere on a scale of cuteness, at about 7.  You can posses all the rationality in the world, however when it comes to self criticism, nobody can escape the feeling of not being good enough.

After giving it another though the next morning also equipped by a splitting hangover, I condemned my self for putting me in the victim’s position. I was so blindsided by my own episode of vanity while staring at that shop window that I forgot that none of it really matters to me that much anyway. One of the keys of succeeding in life is playing the game you can win, even if it means inventing it yourself.  I knew perhaps I won’t occupy any man’s head today or tomorrow, but I was happy for being where I was – in Paris – country of cheese, wine, patisserie, carbs and gorgeous men, who despite of fantasising about Victoria Secret models before going to bed, still go out to fish for regular girls and drive CitroĂ«n cars. With this particular thought I ordered myself fattest chocolate eclair. I still knew I had to run it out on the treadmill, however I knew in the game called me vs. supermodel, i’d definitely win the patisserie eating round. Oui oui.


Angels and Average Women