The Culture of Comparison

Like many, this is the the time of year I start to reflect. I actually start in September, because I treat my birthday as my new year, and I give myself until December 31 to toss out clutter – both physically and metaphorically speaking.

One thing that came up in my refelctations (yes, I’m Wendy Willams-ing words), was that there were people in my life comparing me to them. Or comparing themselves to others. There was a lot of comparing. This… is not cool. Because the comparisons felt so different from my reality.

A few examples:

Comparison #1 – My Dating Life

It was assumed a few times that my dating life was filled with opportunity and privilege. That I had greater access to a wider pool of men and therefore, I had a better dating life.


Reality Check

I have not been asked out on a date ALL year. Like, all 365 days of it. Unless you count the dude who thought of me as a side dish on his fuck buffet. The year before that, it was NOTHING until November. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I’ve had “opportunity”, but I’m the opposite of Harvey Specter – I can’t close. I’ve talked at length to men I’ve found attractive and left with no number. I know their blood type, but I don’t even know a last name. Attempts to follow up? #FAIL

So please, stop assuming that your romantic/sex life is the worst. Enjoy a good date for being a good date. Enjoy sex for being sex. Don’t place expectations on yourself based on what you see on the ‘gram. You don’t know what that relationship is like when the filters come off.

Comparison #2 – My So Called (Bougie) Life

I have, a nice apartment in a nice trendy neighbourhood. I have a cute dog. I dine out. One time a friend walked in and said, “look at all you got”. I’ve been told that my life is parties, fun, and…I dunno, “cool”?

Reality Check

My apartment is expensive. I haven’t traveled anywhere in so long my passport expired and I didn’t even realize it. I have a dog that I bought on sale. He eats President’s Choice kibble – and table scraps. He is more therapy dog than he is accessory and yes, I was advised by a professional to get him to improve my happiness (and he has).

I have worked between 70 and 80 hours a week. (Trying to cut back to 50!).

While I truly enjoy my solitude, it would be WONDERFUL to come home to a meal because the thought of cooking (and cleaning) for ONE is exhausting. So I buy takeout instead of groceries. Laundry? Yes, it’s great I have en suite…because sometimes in order to have clean clothes I have wash a load at 12:30 am. I often come home and fall asleep in my clothes because I. Am. Tired.

Me, almost every weeknight

I do not begrudge your vacation pics…do not envy my rooftop patio pics.

Comparison #3 – “Well you can find clothes easily. It’s harder for some of us.”


Reality Check

I’m 5’3-ish, 150 lbs. My mother calls me fat. Old on the street call me fluffy. Cat callers will call me a fat bitch when ignored. The labels range from size 8 to size 12 and they all fit the same. I’m not built like a video girl and I live in a city with a disproportionate amount of video girls. So those comparisons are ALWAYS there and they annoy me.

I would rather eat all the foods and do all the nothing. But I can’t. I have a chronic illness. My diet and exercise choices aren’t determined the size of the clothing label; my illness has dictated that for 25 years. If I don’t maintain a delicate balance, I literally cannot walk. I’ve blacked out in the street. I often crawl on the floor of my nice apartment to the bathroom to throw up, because the soles of my feet are in fiery pain. There are days I scream and cry in pain until I pass out. I’ve missed birthdays, christenings, milestones, events, and work because of it. So I do what I can holistically, because pharmaceuticals aren’t effective. If that means the tradeoff is I’m a standard size, then that’s what it is.

Comparison #4 -You have it easier than me because gender/weight/skin tone/income

Reality Check

Think whatever you want. We could sit and play Oppression Olympics all fucking day, and no one is gonna walk away with a medal. We will sit and compare bad thing to bad thing to try and make the other person feel better about their shit until the end of days.

The facts are there are things that are good for me and there are things that are good for you. MY good doesn’t automatically mean that it’s BETTER than your good, or should be the good that you have. Get it?

You know how a bunch of folks will be saying, “leave x behind in 2016”? I wish we could leave behind this culture of comparison. Can we stop using other peoples’ #BestNine as our personal vision boards? Can we take our relationships with each other and focus on what we have in common versus what we have in comparison? I know what load I carry, and if you think this post was in any way some “woe is me” moment, you’ve missed the bloody point.

Trust. There is something that you have someone else envies. Compare what YOU don’t have to what you DO have. If there is something you want for YOUR life, go after it. If there is something in YOUR life causing clutter, GET RID OF IT. Make space for the things you want. DON’T look at someone’s good fortune, good moment, or good filter and think, “I wish I had that”.

“That” which you covet? You don’t want THAT.

You want how it makes them feel.Fill your life with the things that give you THAT feeling.

Because you don’t know what the tradeoff was for them to have that.



Dinner For One…


I get it.

What I’m happy about is that I “got it” a lot quicker than the last time.

I wanted a date. You wanted to fuck.

Now. These things aren’t mutually exclusive. Just because I wanted a date (first), it didn’t mean that you weren’t going to get fucked. But I can see how you might think that. But to forget that you had made plans for a date? While still remembering that you wanted to fuck me?


We didn’t even get started, so I can’t even be mad…

(or even bitter) 

I AM annoyed. I wasn’t sure why at first. So I slept on it.

But I woke up. Annoyed. Thought about it some more.

Then it hit me.

It was the, “I have a lot on my plate” line.


Cue up Sunshine Anderson, because I’ve heard that all before…

I get having a lot on one’s plate. I do. I really do.

But I’m not parsley, luv.

I’m the fucking steak.

The main course that you can’t wait to dive into. The one you make reservations for. The one you wait to be cooked to perfection. The one you’ll stand in line for when you can’t make a reservation.

I’m not drive thru.

So. Just like that (poof), you are gone.

Nope. I’m not interested in seeing the dessert menu.

I’mma just order some takeout.



A Secret

Every morning.

I get up, chill with my dog, shower, pick out a black outfit from the sea of black clothes in my room, put on makeup and face the world.

Every day, I’m reminded that this world hates me.

I’m not talking about my friends or family. I’m talking about the world at large. The world I have to work in, live in, and fake smile in.

The world that tells me that I have to listen to others before my voice is heard.

The world that denies me my due because of the colour of my skin, or the curve in my waist.

The world that tells me I must acknowledge EVERYONE and their needs, but say nothing when those same people look right through me and don’t even pretend to acknowledge that I exist.

Can I let you in on a secret?

Listen carefully.



I fucking hate you too.


In the name of research, I pulled out an old journal from ten years ago.
Shaking my head at the fact that I haven’t learned ANY dating lessons.
Those who ignore history…


I put away the journal when I found what I needed. Right then, a ghost appeared.

IG notification: hey girl! That ex that you can’t shake just liked a photo of you! 

My reaction:


Texted one of my girls a screencap.

“Why don’t you block him then?”


So I did. Unfriended him. Blocked. Removed. Him. Along with others.

It’s not 10 years ago.

I WILL NOT ignore history.

I’m giving you up
I’ve forgiven it all
You set me free

Send my love to your new lover
Treat her better
We’ve gotta let go of all of our ghosts
We both know we ain’t kids no more


Last night in weird dreams…

In my dream, I had a crucial meeting with “Jenn Whitfield”. Possibly a job interview.

(I have NO idea who she is)
I was running late. I was in an apartment (not mine) trying to get my dog organized (because for some reason I was bringing him along).
I couldn’t find the other shoe. No matter what pair of shoes I chose, I couldn’t find the other shoe. At one point, I cried out in frustration, “you HAVE TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!!”.
Black suede knee high boot? Couldn’t find it. Black and white Mary Janes? Nope. Patent pump? No go.
(these aren’t shoes I’ve ever owned or have been interested in owning). 
I look up Jenn’s info on my iPad to message her via LinkedIn but I can’t get a signal. Looking at the clock at the beginning of my dream, I had 15 minutes before I was due to leave for this appointment.
By the time I looked Jenn up, it was 15 minutes AFTER the appointment/interview was due to begin. I burst into tears and try to find a cab in the street in the rain.

To dream that you are late signifies your fear of change and your ambivalence about seizing an opportunity.

to dream of changing shoes: may represent a major change in life; such as a change of jobs or change in a relationship.

To dream that you are under stress, reflects the actual stress that you are experiencing in your waking life. The stress has carried over into your dream state where even in your sleep, you are unable to relax. The dream may call attention to some setbacks, obstacles, self-doubts, or criticism that you are facing in some waking situation or relationship. You are on the verge of breaking down and need to take some leisure time off to distance yourself from these issues.
Me? Stressed?

A Tale of Two Dates…

Gather ‘round children…for a tale of this kind is only told once a year. Seriously. I get asked out on a date about once a year. By the time I landed the second date, I should’ve bought a lottery ticket.

First, there was FlyBoy. We will be calling him FlyBoy because I want to.

Went to a favourite watering hole of mine on random Friday night. FlyBoy walked in with his best friend and greeted the owners…and then disappeared. Which was the only reason he caught my attention. FlyBoy had a full beard going on and I’m one of the FIVE women in this world that dislikes beards. Throughout the night, he kept coming and going, and each time he came back, he’d lean in for a kiss on the cheek. Which I declined.

(But the attempts were cute)

That left his friend. His friend completely summarized my all my past experiences with men in bars: drunk, says stupid shit in trying to flirt, annoying. The Weird One

BUT this time? This WeirdOne did something so strange…

As it was approaching last call, WeirdOne offered me a drink, which I declined. There we were, positioned at the end of the bar having an awkward convo. A dude walks in and picks up his drink from the bar. WeirdOne tells him that it’s MY drink and says it in such a way that the poor bastard starts begging for an apology. Turns out, the poor bastard was outside smoking…his buddy told him that there was a drink waiting for him…he thought it was that one. He begs for my forgiveness and then says to the WeirdOne, “dude I didn’t mean to offend your girl like that…” while practically genuflecting.

“She’s not my girl.”

(Damn right I’m not your girl)

“You better work on that then. She’s gorgeous.”

When the poor bastard walks away, WeirdOne turns to me and says “you like what I did there?” While giving me such a big smile, one would think that I was handing out gold stars.

He didn’t get that drink for me.

It really belonged to the poor genuflecting bastard.

He STOLE someone’s drink to give to me.

Who. Does. THAT?!

Thankfully, FlyBoy returned to flirt some more. He actually solicited references from the owners to get that cheek kiss! After a tense post club snack with him and the WeirdOne, he decided to walk me home instead of heading to his buddy’s place.
Outside my door, he laid a movie-style kiss on me, and told me that he’d been wanting to do that since he first saw me.

He got more kisses after that…on a date we had two days later. I haven’t really heard from him since then. If I reach out, he responds. But otherwise? Meh.

Now. Remember Bumble?

Well. I did keep it on my phone for a few more weeks (okay, it’s still on there). As the deletion deadline approached, up popped BumbleBoy. I’m calling him that because…obvious.

He liked my opening line. We chatted. Chats turned to phone numbers being exchanged. Phone number exchanges turned to an invitation for a date. Like I said…two dates in one week? HAS NEVER happened. EVAH.

We met up for drinks. Just as witty IRL as he was online. Lover of scotch (hello!) and dogs (hello!!) and weed (ermmm). While our conversation was great, he had the attention span of a fruit fly…oddly enough I could roll with it (I’ll credit twitter for this new skill).

Speaking of credit, I’ll give credit to the boost in confidence, or the liquor, but I swear the cute bartender was trying to flirt with me when BumbleBoy went out for a smoke. I did not mind.

BumbleBoy decided to walk me home and went in for the cheek (but so very close to the lips kiss). I thought “what the hell?” and let him kiss me. He also said that he’d been wanting to kiss me ever since he saw my photo.

(Okay. So my lips are a thing. Who knew?)

BumbleBoy has locked in a second date, which I’m looking forward to.


I don’t want to jump his bones.

He’s very cute. But physically? Not my type. I like men who look like they’re hungry…and he looks well fed? It’s my thing. I don’t like super muscular men either. Wiry. Skinny. Lean. I have a thing for scrawny-ish men! You know what? Life is too short to be generous. Even if I don’t end up jumping your bones, I should want to jump your bones.

In writing this, I was reminded of something that my date of 2014 said to me:

Never give a woman a reason to NOT want to fuck you…

p.s. I’m officially in the “cougar” years of my dating life. I can remember what I was doing the year each of these boys were born. Le sigh.

p.p.s. Who should I try to date next?