Strict Scrutiny: The Dating Game

So I'm having a Carrie Bradshaw moment ("I began to wonder...") and felt the need to write about "dating." I promise not to do this too often, as there is only so much that can be said. But bear with me this time and I promise I will get it out of my system...

As most single girls can attest, by the time you reach your mid-20's...oh my God, I literally just remembered that I am 25. My birthday was 5 months ago, and I had actually forgotten I was this old. How can this be possible? Law school is destroying my sanity. (Also, if I was still 24 I was going to try to claim early-20's. Denial is a powerful cocktail, kids. Especially when mixed with Myers rum and a Tyenol PM, as mine is soon to be.)

Ok, anyway, back to my Carrie Bradshaw intro: mid-20's, single girls. Likely, by this point you have run up a decent tally of boys. (They are all boys. Even the ones who've hit 30.) But lately it seems like each one I meet is a new and less-improved version of the last. So from now on, it is time to start applying strict scrutiny as the standard of review for all guys who enter my life. Granted, I'm not sure what constitutes a "compelling" interest. But I can certainly name a few examples of what is not compelling. In no particular order...

• If you are engaged.
• If you are married. Seriously, 6 months is still newlywed. Go home to your wife.
• If you tell me you're getting back together with your quasi-lesbian ex from back home.
• If you tell me you're getting back together with your quasi-lesbian ex from back home, but actually get with a girl in my class. Reminder: I passed the LSAT - I will solve this logic problem.
• If your nickname involves a food item (or a large, if cuddly bear...you know who you are.)
• If your pick up line is "I hate you for being a Republican, but it's so hot." If my political views are offensive to you, why are you hitting on me?
• If your pick up line references Obama, Sarah Palin, or Joe the Plumber. Find new talking points.
• If you have a tattoo of a children's toy from the 80s. Honestly, we get it - you're never going to grow up.
• If you listen to gangsta rap. You will never have street cred. Let the dream die.
• If your Facebook profile has quotes from any of the following: Learned Hand, Richard Posner, your professor, case law, lame songs, pretentious authors, pretentious poets, pretentious hipsters.
• If you ride a motorcycle. Though really this is just my attempt to end my adolescent bad boy fixation. (Please see below)
• If you are wearing a popped collar and a Croakie. I know, coming from me this may sound surprising. But let me be clear: I condone, even encourage, the latter and I may make exceptions for the former.* But in combination, no. Just no.
• If your idea of a date starts with a text message at midnight. We all know what that is, and the word "date" is not involved.
• For that matter, if all contact comes in the form of 160 characters or less? Just dial the number and hit the green button, it's not that hard, guys.
• If you wear CZ earrings. I know this trend has pretty much disappeared, but I think we all need to remember our history, lest we be doomed to repeat it.
• If you are my height barefoot...grow four inches and then return. Because I am never barefoot. (But let's be honest, I have never and will never stick to this. I'm just aspiring to find one guy over six feet tall - a girl can dream right?)

*For instance, after 10 PM; while wearing boat shoes on a boat; at the horse races; while fist pumping at the Tombs; if the Georgetown night gets extra yuppy; if multiple RBVs are involved; while mimosas are being served to ugly people on the deck of Old Glory; if the Polo is not already pink (or an equally over-the-top pastel).

So much for the liberal youth

Word on the street is that the preschool crowd is coming out in support of John McCain. Well, at least amongst the 4-5 year-old demographic. No word yet on the crucial 2-3 year-old vote.

An email from my brother, talking about his 4 year-old son:

"At preschool they vote on ice cream, vanilla beat out chocolate and strawberry. He then told us that one of the president guys is bad and steals money. He said Connor told him. We asked if it was McCain or Obama. He said it was Obama. We asked him how Connor knew and he said his dad told him."

Here's hoping ACORN got Connor registered...

Jen Lancaster

I am in love. No, not a girl-crush. This time it's for real. My friend JB, who has impeccable taste in literature (not to mention handbags), introduced me to Jen Lancaster. She too was a sorority girl at my wonderful alma mater (Go Boilers!), so I had a feeling we could be onto something good here. But there, on page two. That was it. She had me at Veronica Mars. Seriously, a woman who references my favorite girl detective AND makes fun of Paris Hilton?? In the first two pages!? PLUS, she uses the type of witty faux-footnotes to which I have always aspired but which Blogger has foiled time and again.

So I am now spreading the gospel. Bitter is the New Black; Bright Lights, Big Ass; Such a Pretty Fat. Go buy any or all immediately. You will not regret it.

Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

I am developmentally stunted. They spent years telling us how advanced and fabulous we were in TAG class, but they left me utterly unprepared and disadvantaged in one key area: boys.

Seriously, put a bunch of nerdy kids together all day, every day throughout their formative years and they are bound to end up a bit retarded about the opposite sex. For example: in fifth grade, a girl in our class wrote a fake love letter and signed it with the name of a boy in our class. A boy who walked straight into high school and straight out of the closet.

So anyway, I left grade school behind years again (although law school doesn't seem to realize this), but I am just now realizing how behind I am.

Case in point: I keep falling for bad boys. This is the same fixation that every other girl got out of her system at age 15...except me. And it's not just any bad boy, but THE most cliche of all bad boys. You know, the one in the leather jacket, smoking a cigarette and leaning against his motorcycle.

I met one the other night. He started talking about his bike and I practically squealed. "Oh my god, I can't believe you ride a motorcycle! [batting eyelashes] Isn't it dangerous?? [touching arm]" (Answer: yes, just ask his busted knee.) You could practically hear the Grease soundtrack start playing.

Luckily (yeah, luckily) my memory is pretty spotty by this point, so the rest of the embarrassing details are lost in a haze of High Life and hormones. Of course, had this actually been high school we would have made out under the bleachers and I would be home by curfew. Instead, I woke up the next morning with various items of leather and motorcycle boots strewn across my floor and a hell of a hangover...

I blame TAG.

(Also, shh, don't tell my parents.)