Optimism Bias, Overruled

Optimism bias, or the tendency for people to be overly optimistic about their own endeavors against all statistical realities gleaned from the experiences of others, ruins a lot of things in life.

It's why everyone thinks they're going to be a star, why they'll sing their way to first place on American Idol, why they will be famous. And it's ridiculous. I mean, it's nice to dream big -- and plenty people in New York do so with good results -- but in general I think we've got to rein in optimism bias in day-to-day life.

It's why New Year's Eve, if you're expecting the RAWK HARD PARTY OF THE YEAR, sucks almost without fail. It's NEVER the best party of the year, there's NEVER enough champagne, and prince charming NEVER appears at 11:37, giving you 20 minutes to warm up before he smooches you under a disco ball. You'll have a lot better time if you settle for more meager goals -- you know, having someone else to sit on a couch with, and not barfing in the cab on the way home. Success! Your New Years is not likely to be, on average, more or less fun than anyone else's over the course of the decades. Keep that in mind and you'll have a fine old time, and avoid disappointment to boot.

This is why I try to keep my expectations for day-to-day life in check. It's why I don't cause a fuss when a blind date calls his coke dealer from the table while we're drinking sangria. I mean, on AVERAGE, factoring in the worst and best blind dates of all times, that's probably about average, yeah? It's not like he hit me in the face with an anvil, raped me with a crowbar, and threw me into a drainage ditch in New Jersey. Nor did we fall madly in love, spend the night eating unlimited oysters platters, and then run off to make little crackhead babies. We had a few chucks, then he called his coke dealer. Average.

Lately, though, I've been getting a bit down. Average wasn't cutting it. My life had somehow become an interminable gerbil wheel of gym, work, sleep, repeat, perhaps with some TiVo thrown in just to "spice things up." For all that, I might as well be living in the suburbs. I'd probably be required to be fatter, and wear uglier pants, but really, what was the difference?

Last weekend I resigned myself to another crap couple of days doing nothing spectacular. After all, I had to be up very early on Saturday to climb, and I had to be up early on Sunday for church. That left little time for nighttime shenanigans, and besides, no one seemed up for them anyway. I grumbled and moaned to my friends on Friday over IM, but no one had a hot hidden boy in their pocket to fix me up with, or was throwing a "rager" in a loft in Williamsburg. It was to be another night eating Lonely Soup for One.

As I was leaving work, my friend Eric called me and said three words I love to hear, "Let's make trouble." (I also love to hear, "You look hot," in case you're ever at a loss for words...)

I met up with Eric at his place on the LES, and we had "dinner," consisting of three garlic knots and a bottle of a very nice Bordeaux. The night was looking up. We left to go meet our friends (and one of my future roommates) at a bar down the way, and had another bottle of wine. Just as the tannins threatened to seep into my eyeballs, we took our leave and returned to Eric's for a lengthy three-person shredding challenge of Guitar Hero. I don't really like video games, but I'm sure if I did, I would say this is the funnest video game ever invented. As it is, I have nothing to compare it to save for long-ago Pong and Ms. Pac Man, but nevertheless, it was fun fun fun.


Eventually the Brooklyn-bound friend and I returned to the better borough, where we had MORE wine (unwise) and before I knew it, it was incredibly, unbelievably late, and I was floating on a boozy cloud of fermented grape fumes, even though I had sworn to myself that I'd be tucked in by 11 so as not to suck at climbing on Saturday. I missed the deadline by many hours.

I awoke on Saturday late and drunk, and was forced to take a cab to Chelsea to meet my climbing partner. Shaky and dehyrdrated, I knew it would be a miserable day, and gave myself a pass -- I'd phone in the routes but at least not let down my partner, because he needed me there to belay.

But, once I started climbing, something magical happened -- I had the best climbing day I've had in probably six months. I was ticking off routes with ease that a week earlier I'd been unable to do. I was up on the roof feeling light as a feather (though, given, I'm nearly 20 pounds lighter than the last time I was in shape enough to get up there -- it's INCREDIBLE what a difference that makes). I was gleeful and thankful. My low expectations had been exceeded several-fold.

I rewarded myself with some sushi and then headed out to take on a task I had long dreaded: LINGERIE SHOPPING.

I really, really hate lingerie shopping. Bras cost upwards of fifty bucks apiece, and it's not like I'm buying La Perla or anything. Every time I go in, I'm a different size, so I always have to wait on line at the dressing room (where this time, I kid you not, I had to wait for security to drag out a shoplifter before I could get in there). Underwear costs about 20 bucks a pop and you can't even try it on (I mean, gross), so half the time you get it home and it gives you a wedgie, makes your love handles spill over, or rides up your crotch. And the Victoria's Secret in Soho is always a mob scene.

Because my body has changed so much in the past few months, none of my clothes really fit anymore. Replacing them is going to take awhile, but bras are a priority because it was getting embarassing traipsing around the locker room with what looked like two flapping, empty coconuts loosely strapped to my chest. At my peak weight, I busted (very sexily, I might add) out of a 36B, but my tatas have deflated so much I assumed I'd have to downgrade to a 34B, or, god forbid, a 32A, which I haven't worn since junior high. I held my breath and puffed out my chest.

Somehow even THIS grim task was redeemed. Miraculously, my latest bra size is a 34C. It's probably due to a new vanity-sizing policy at VS, but I'll take it.

For one weekend, improbable fun, improbable strength, and improbable cup size overrode the concept of optimism bias. And I thank my lucky stars.

Dreams of a Geek Sandwich

During the last two months of 2006, I was busier than a bartender on payday, and I blew off blogging. As you can see, my alliteration skills didn't suffer, although this blog has. Now, my workload has abated (although I fear I'm due to get slammed in February), but I'm still not back in the swing of things. I'm attempting to figure out why.

I think part of it is that after the intense concentration required to achieve each of the 624,345 deadlines I had in the past few months, I'm enjoying not doing much. I became a little manic during my busy phase. I became a list keeper, and everything on my list each day had to get done, be it 12 things or 120. And I *did* get them all done; I became somewhat manic and even more neurotic than usual, but dammit if I didn't pull down (for two months, anyway), a salary that is more commensurate for one with a law degree than one with a BS in journalism from a land-grant university.

Now I'm spending my days trying to decide if there's some way, at my advanced age, that I can lure Beauty and the Geek dreamboats Scooter and Nate into my boudoir -- one, both, I don't care. Call me, boys! Alas, it doesn't make for good blogging.

I'm sure someday someone will come along and arouse my ire, providing fuel for what often amount to little more than vitriolic rants. Until that day comes, think of me as at peace, at home with my TiVo, nurturing crushes on 22-year-old dorks who sing in Star Wars bands. Sigh. Dreamy.

Let Me Be Your Creepy Crush

I was recently asked if I might want to be the subject of a magazine story about crushes. The reporter would interview me about my crush and track my progress (or more likely, the lack thereof) in catching his eye. My intentions would at some point be revealed to my crush, and our pictures -- mine with a longing gaze, his with a horrified grimace, no doubt -- would run alongside the story. "CAN THIS GIRL FIND TRUE LOVE?"

The first problem is that I don't at the moment have any intense crushes. However, I considered trying to drum one up because getting my glossy, stylized mug splashed across the pages of a big magazine might actually provide a new and interesting opportunity to get an actual date (assuming, of course, I didn't come across as cuckoo bananas during the interview, which given the nature of the article, is likely). Perhaps some smitten reader of the magazine would recognize me for the lovable soul I am, make a plea-filled call to the reporter, and weasel my contact information out of her. He'd then call me and offer to take me out for dinner, ply me with foie gras, and pledge eternal love. Yep, I'm sure that's how it would go.

Of course, it might also attract a coterie of creepy stalkers, but I already have some of those, so what's a few more? Get in line, nutjobs. Here's my address. Please, move in right next door. And let me provide an outline of my weekly schedule for your ease of stalking.

The second, and larger, problem is that admitting to a crush in a popular general-interest magazine would be embarassing beyond all imagination for both I and the object of my affections, especially since from the outset, the subject of my lusty fantasies wouldn't know he was the unwitting subject of a magazine article every time I batted my eyelashes at him. If someone did that to me, I'd want to take out a restraining order against him, not date him.

In summary, it seems as though I am going to find another sneaky way to get myself a date. Valentine's Day is coming up, after all.

51% of Women Are Pathetic Cat Ladies

I was heartened today to see an above-the-fold article in the New York Times with this headline: : "51% of Women Are Now Living Without Spouse." Finally, my family would stop looking at me as though, at 31 and unmarried, I were some kind of minority freak. They'd stop patting my hand every time I came home and opining at family reunions, "Whatever happened to [boyfriend from 3 years ago]? We sure had high hopes for that one..." I never understood their sentiments anyway, coming as they were from people who'd been bored for 25 of the 30 years of their marriage, from people divorced for longer than they were married, from people who eat or drink themselves into a stupor nightly to escape, at least mentally, the confines of their own "blessed unions." *I* was the happy one. Couldn't they see that? I'm the one who gets to travel on a whim, spend my time with a diverse menagerie of fascinating friends, do whatever I please on any given day. I can devote my hard-earned money to fun, good books, nice clothes, fancy dinners, my own savings, and what I deem to be worthy charitable causes, not to fund my husband's country club fees or visits to the titty bar, let alone diapers or strained peas. Life is fine.

But back to the article. I didn't quite have time to finish it in the paper version on the subway, so I clicked on it at lunch to read the rest. Unfortunately, as progressive as I like to think my favorite newspaper is, the photographer was phoning it in today. Why?

The article is illustrated with a middle-aged woman petting her cat.

Really? REALLY?

Couldn't the woman be off having a rock climbing adventure, or holding hands with a foxy 22-year-old with whom she is having a hot but wildly inappropriate affair? Couldn't she be doing something a little more empowering, and a little less cliche, than PETTING A CAT?

Eff you, New York Times.

Strange Personal of the Week

I like to read personals. I don't know why. I don't like to respond to them, and my forays into Internet dating have been alternately crushingly boring or alarming.

My favorite personals are in the New York Times on Sunday. They're all really quite sweet, posted mostly by older gentlemen, most of whom I imagine have moustaches, have sherry glasses in a cabinet at home, and wear old-fashioned hats. I guess they give me some hope that since I'm apparently not going to find Mister Right anytime soon, maybe by the time I'm in my mid-50s someone will be looking for a younger older woman of substance and I can finally respond to one of these things.

Usually the NYT ads are very genteel, men and women seeking out opera companions or someone who enjoys yachting and snifters of brandy. But today I came across one that was obviously posted but a man who has not yet, well, worked out all of his kinks in old age.

"Self Made Multi-Millionaire. Handsome, generous, athletic, 40s, 5'10'', 180, avid golfer, runs and works out daily. Seeking attractive, tall, blonde or redhead, 25-35, fitness instructor or dancer WITH MUSCULAR CALVES, for fun, romance and travel. NS."

I can do multiple sets of 240-pound calf raises and have red hair. Maybe I should reply. I see calf massages in my future.

Bubby's Brunch: Bad, Bitchy, and [What's a Word for Horrifically Overpriced that Begins with "B"?]

Maybe it's just because I'm suffering from a case of cramps that would bring down the most stoic of frauleins, but I am feeling PISSED. I don't often complain about the treatment I get in restaurants or mistakes made that affect me when I'm eating out. I love restaurants and eating out and it takes a lot to make me unhappy when I'm waiting for someone to slip a plate of foie gras or a chilled dish of oysters under my nose. Furthermore, I'm utterly empathetic to the injustices and slights endured by restaurant workers everywhere. In my life, I have been both a cocktail waitress and a server at a steakhouse, so I understand that most days consist of jerks yelling at you and turning around five minutes later to pinch your ass, only to not tip you when they finally get move their fat can toward the door. But today just warrants a rant.

I met up with my friend B. for a late brunch. He suggested Bubby's, and since I've heard it mentioned countless times as among New York's best brunches, I agreed with enthusiasm.

We arrived and put our name in and began salivating over the specials, namely the fresh crabmeat eggs benedict and the cheddar, apple, and bacon omelette. We had a half hour wait, so we settled in at the racous and rowdy bar with a nice spicy Bloody Mary and a small glass of juice, which together were a rather shocking $14 (especially given the use of rotgut vodka), but what the hey.

Forty five minutes later we'd still heard nothing so B. approached the (saggy, sour-faced at far too young an age) hostesses and inquired politely where we might be on the list. Well, as it turns out, we weren't ON the list.

The chunkier but marginally less ugly of the two said she'd "See what she could do" since we "CLAIMED we arrived earlier, but she didn't remember us." Nice.

Thirty minutes later, after the hostess most definitively did NOT "see what she could do" (unless she saw that there was nothing she could do), we were finally seatetd, and I was already out $24 for a thimblefull of OJ and two bloody Marys.

The complimentary biscuits were tasty and I began to get excited about the special eggs Benedict, although I made a backup selection in case they were out of it. Which, of course they WERE since by this time it was already nearly FOUR P.M. Our waiter, who I'm sad to say appeared to hardly speak English (which is fine, but you know, it helps to know English if you're trying to turn the tables over 5 times in the matter of 3 hours or so), offered no consolotion, not even a throwaway "Lo siento."

"Gosh, you'd think a place charging EIGHTEEN dollars for an omelette could afford to hire legal residents," my companion remarked. Really, it was no offense to our waiter, but rather, a condemnation of the obviously greedy management. Plus, my brunch companion expects waiters to be HOT if you're paying double digits for a plate of eggs. I tend to agree. Luckily, there was some eye candy sitting in a booth across the way, so he sufficed for our purposes.

Our food arrived 30 minutes later and we tucked in. Three bites in I realized they had brought me not the cheddar, apple and bacon omelette, but one with goat cheese and red peppers (which, incidentally, I don't really like all that much). At this point I was too weaek from hunger and steamed to go through it with the waiter in my crappy Spanish, and the hostesses were still shooting daggers at us with their eyes, since apparently we had become a "problem table" somewhere along the way, even though we're the kind of people who ALWAYS tip 20 percent or more and endure the longest of waits with nothing but a polite smile.

On the upside, the bacon, coffee, and biscuits, were excellent. But, nearly 70 dollars later, B. and I had both agreed to spread far and wide the word that Bubby's should be avoided unless you like having your wallet drained by bitchy people who serve you mostly blah (not to mention the wrong) food.

That's it. I'm emailing Lockhart. Bubby's, you messed with the wrong (dangerously cramped-up) girl this afternoon.

Haiku of Annoyance: A Note to Roommates Everywhere

Garbage cans are not
A game of Jenga. Must I
always clean it up?

(Feel free to post your own Haiku of Annoyance in the comments.)

Ten Things Tuesdays: What I Got for Christmas

1) A delicious jar of Harry & David Pepper & Onion Relish. Mixed half and half with cream cheese, this stuff is the ambrosia of the gods and is unavailable for retail purchase in New York City. Unfortunately, some hatchet-haired security wench at the airport took it away, so I am going to have to go dip free until my mail-order shipment arrives in mid-January. Given that my blood is now running half-cheese after a week in the Midwest, I'm not sure what kind of DTs this is going to bring on, but I'm not looking forward to it.

2) Cash. Cash was a lot more fun when I got to spend it -- not that I don't appreciate this year's cash! I do, I do. Keep it coming! But this year's cash is going straight into a Roth IRA, and I can't tell you just how very old that makes me feel. People this mature are supposed to have kids, and I have only my houseplant to whom I can pass this kind wisdom. I'm sure it will appreciate the annual compound growth of this year's maximum $4,000 contribution when it's 60. Verily, at this rate, I think my philodendron will outlive me.

3) Yelled at for 30 minutes by a raving drunk who happens to be a blood relative. Merry Christmas to you, too. It made me want desperately to come back to New York, where people are normal.

4) A big fat gift card to Crabtree & Evelyn. Normally gift cards are kind of a cop-out but I scored this year. Crabtree & Evelyn makes my favorite massage oil of all time. If only my houseplant could slather it on my aching back. I think I"m headed there after work; maybe some aromatics will help ease the pain of the first day back at work.

5) The ability to fit into a size six. Thanks, me! Those countless hours on the treadmill paid off and left me clapping with glee in dressing rooms at year's end. My sister, another gift-card giver and 9 months pregnant (making me look EVEN THINNER by comparison), took me shopping at White House Black Market, where I found a hot little party dress 60% off. It looks kinda like this, but not really (mine's cuter!). Only a size 4 and a size 6 remained, and thanks to my new lack-of-beer-belly, I got to buy one instead of stomping out in fatty frustration. Now, where to wear it...? Suggestions?

6) A camping cup with a carabiner for a handle. I love how my brother keeps it real and reminds me how much I enjoy living in tents.

7) Lift tickets to Copper and Keystone. You'd think that 2 feet of new snow in Denver would automatically translate to endless powder in the mountains. But, you'd be wrong. All it did was snarl the airports to a crawl. Nevertheless, given that Vermont has a base layer of ZERO FEET, even the inches-thin dusting of new powder I got to enjoy during two days of boarding sent me into waves of adventure-sport ecstacy. Plus, none of the other tourists could get there, so we had the mountains all to ourselves!

8) Lily Allen's album. Run out and purchase. You can say you knew her when. She's gonna blow up huge.

9) A handblown glass ornament from Germany, where my brother lives. If you're going to give Christmas ornaments, that's the classy way to go.

10) Dinner at Blue Ribbon in Soho. I'm still thinking about the raw bar and the lamb chops...I had never been happier to be back in the city.