On The Opener: Fake It to Make It

AJ has been perched against the wall for a few minutes, separated from me and the others only by a few feet. As soon as I join her, he appears.

"So, I have to learn two new or interesting facts before the end of the night." Could've been a decent opener if he played it better, but he rushes it. Doesn't enunciate and project enough to push through the music and barroom noise.

I make him repeat himself, and his smile begins to look like it's a burden to maintain.

"Who gave you the assignment?" AJ asks, throwing him.

He hesitates before saying it's just for him, offering no further explanation. Apologizing when he has to repeat himself. Telling us he should speak more from his diaphragm. And, just like that, he's lost his audience.

He knows it, too. We see it in his body language as he moves to the side, literally slumps against the wall.

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Approaching a group... Getting us involved with an open-ended question... Downplaying any allusions on our part to dating or sex or flirtation...

I thought I'd seen a fledgling Strauss-ite at work, but it turns out his self-help preference was Dating for Dummies. So perhaps Strauss's art form isn't exclusive to the PUA set, after all.

Days 7-9 in The Stylelife Challenge are devoted to the approach, or what Strauss calls The Opener.

First things first, Strauss tells guys to discard any lame-ass pickup lines they might be stockpiling.

"Do you come here often?" "What's your sign? "You must be tired... because you've been running through my mind all day." "Did it hurt?... When you fell down from heaven?"

While sometimes good for a chuckle, these lines are cliched and groan-worthy at best, and entirely skeevy and offputting at worst.

Strauss goes on to tell guys exactly how they should approach a group of people -- by asking an open-ended question that appears spontaneous, is motivated by curiosity, and is interesting to most people. He then offers advice to fine-tune the approach.

Smile. Be original. Be charismatic. Put your audience at ease. Show off your personality. Use your body language to your benefit. Keep everyone in your audience engaged. Know when to make your exit.

That guy at the bar? He was the same twitchy geek when he walked up that he was when he left.

The difference between those first few seconds, when he had our attention, and the last few, AJ long gone and my polite dismissal via handshake? Very briefly when he arrived, he seemed confident, sure of himself, happy, and content. Even if he was faking some or all of those things, he successfully engaged us in a conversation.

When it came to maintaining that? He let two feisty women get the best of him in a matter of mere seconds. Without even meaning to, AJ and I poked holes all in his tinfoil armor, revealing his insecurities and effectively exposing his lack of masculine appeal.

If nothing else, Strauss must do his followers a service in hammering home the importance of maintaining that happy, confident, in-charge facade. Of playing it cool even when you're sweating bullets.

I've played the fake-it-'til-you-make-it game before, countless times in countless situations. There really is something to be said for it.

The Stylelife Challenge: Days 1-6

Note: I've been bad about this Challenge business. Clearly. I could give you myriad excuses about my hectic schedule and moving and temporarily misplacing the book and whatnot, but I won't. :) Instead, I'll just jump right back into this thing...

- Set goals.
- Define how you're perceived and how you want to be perceived.
- Get out and talk to people.
- Start working to improve your physical appearance, voice, posture, etc.
- Boost confidence and build self-esteem.
- Stop being your own biggest obstacle.

I'm nearly one week into The Stylelife Challenge, and so far I can't disagree with anything Neil Strauss is selling.

In fact, I'm looking back at the long line of mopes I've dated and thinking that not a small number of the group would benefit from his directed challenges. Were they enrolled in the Strauss school, the poorly dressed would've shrugged off their stretched, faded, and holy T-shirts for better fitted apparel. The couch potatoes would've gotten their asses moving to the gym or the track or the courts on a regular basis. The dull and monotone would've learned the art of captivating storytelling. The ones who needed to practice personal hygiene would've (gasp!) practiced personal hygiene.

And If they'd all done all that? Well, it probably wouldn't have made my dating life a shining example of how to navigate the world of love, but at least I would've been navigating accompanied more often with menfolk who put some effort into the business.

Strauss claims he wants these guys to pay attention to appearance, particularly the little things (fingernails, eyebrows, etc.), because women do. And, by and large, he's right. Women somersault through hoops of fucking fire to look good. So why the hell don't we deserve a dating pool that does the same?

Strauss advocates adopting a sense of personal pride. Improving yourself on myriad levels to up your viability in the game. And I find absolutely nothing to argue with here.

That's the me now, though.

For years I did nothing to rid myself of the extra pounds. I wore what was comfortable, whether it was faded or holy or not. Simply put, I neglected myself. And, yet, I lamented the lack of interest from the males around me. Wondered why the ones who did come calling didn't treat me like a fairy tale princess. I told myself I wanted a man who could see past the superficial to the true beauty within me.

Yet when guys who were overweight or slovenly hit on me? Yeah... I tended to shoot them down. Didn't really bother to look for any prince inside those toads.

I wanted something from my potential mates that I wasn't willing to give in return. I demanded that they respect and care for themselves in a way I wasn't willing to respect and care for myself. And my potential mates looked at me and saw that, because I didn't respect and care for myself, they wouldn't have to either. I don't know why it took me so long to see it, but I finally have.

And now? I am not model thin. My fingernails are sometimes snagged, and my toenail polish doesn't always carry a brilliant sheen. I am human. I am flawed. But I'm constantly working to improve myself, in both the physical and mental realms, and I am going to demand the same from any future partners.

I don't know what the remaining 24 days will bring, but right now I think every guy out there should be living the lessons from Days 1-6, as much for themselves as for The Game.

This is Why Men Should Open Doors

So, my coworker and I decide to step out and enjoy the fleeting nice weather. I need to run an errand. He needs to pick up lunch.

At our first stop, I open the door and walk in first. He's right on my heels, telling me a story about his weekend of debauchery. When I pass through the door and drop my arm, my hand lands squarely on his package.

He stutters and laughs, loses his train of thought. Tells me he'll finish his story when I finish my task.

I beeline ahead, trying not to let him see my profile and the fire rising to my cheeks. Try to pretend nothing's happened.

At our next stop, I hang back and let him handle the door.

On Being the Other Woman

I admit it: I was jealous of a video game.

I never thought I'd feel like I was fighting artificial intelligence for the attention of a guy. My guy.

But I saw him thinking about Her all the time, talking about Her when we were at dinner or lying in bed or driving down the street. Planning how he could do this or that. With Her.

Sometimes I couldn't help but feel like he put more effort and thought into the game than he did into our relationship. I saw him taking for granted that I would plan everything and/or be willing to sit around with him on weekends and free nights. Watching him playing Her.

I should have known going in. He never hid or downplayed the fact that She was a big part of his life. But at first, while things were still fresh and new and we were constantly doing and going, She was less of an issue.

I even thought it endearing, at first, that he went to check in on Her first thing in the a.m., before taking a whiz or brushing his teeth. Found his brunch talk of manufacturing and investing plans entertaining, in a boyish way.

But when, one night as we lay together, I asked him for a story, and he told me Her creation myth, I began to resent the pattern.

She was everywhere. In everything we did. When he came to my place, he brought his laptop so he could check Her message boards as I cooked dinner. When we traveled, She always came along.

If he hadn't planned ahead, he couldn't stay the night. "Need to get home and update my skills." His investment in Her, his devotion and commitment to Her brought out my feelings of resentment, jealousy.

When I told him I saw Her as an issue, he told me he didn't. As I watched him walk away, leaving me lying in his bed, head resting on a tear-soaked pillow, to return to Her, I knew. It was over.

She, that game, had his human heart more firmly in her hands than I ever had or would. I had merely been a fling. The other woman.

'I Ain't Tryin' to Ride...'

I contemplated taking the stairs. The elevators in the aging building are, after all, taxed by ceaseless summons from residents with busy lives.

But climbing 15 flights after several beers, in that tight skirt? I decided the task was better left undone and pushed the Up button.

With my head down in the appropriate awaiting-the-elevator/avoiding-potential-eye-contact stance, I initially only took note of the mismatched pair revealed by the opening doors because of her jerky, frantic movements.

The aging, frizzy-haired woman tugged roughly at the hem of her wrinkled button-down and fought to align her baggy, ill-fitting suit with her wasting body as she half-jogged from the elevator to the exit door. She was still pulling violently at her pants with one hand, adjusting, it appeared, her underwear beneath the fabric with the other, as she pushed through the glass door and out into the cool night air.

Were she to have stepped out of the elevator and proceed to the door in a normal fashion, I might have kept my head down. Might've missed those telltale signs of the addict. Meth, most likely, given her uneven movements, her darting, untrusting eyes, the hair damaged beyond all external chemical possibility, the skin-on-bones body, the haggard face…

Or, perhaps, I merely associate addicts with Meth because it’s been the drug of choice for the only true addicts I’ve known. Because so many of those problems I keep a thousand miles away are inextricably tied to that deadly, addictive, soul-stealing, life-crushing drug. The drug made so popular and recognized as so terrible because you (Yes, You!) can make it in your home, with things you can buy at The Wal-Mart.

Something in her movements, her expressions, the way she carried her body as if she wished it could fold in on itself as she practically ran from whatever it was she'd left behind up there… something told me Meth wasn’t her only problem. Her only secret.

My mind raced. "Was that woman a... No, it couldn't be... Could it? In my building???"

I wondered, fleetingly, about her life. She looked older than my mother, but her face doubtlessly carried more age from hard knocks, more age from hard hits, bumps, lines, and shots, than age from years.

What circumstances could have led her to the unhappy life revealed in the deep lines etched on her face? What could have driven her to this place, at this time, with me here to witness her frenzied, unkempt flight from my building?

The man who accompanied her down -- very tall and dark and thick by comparison -- stepped forward as if to leave as well, only to step back, stand aside, hold the door.

Stepping into the small compartment, I pushed the uppermost button for my uppermost floor and glanced up toward the man swaying awkwardly in front of me. He looked over at the sole lit number, leaned in slightly, and said, "I ain't tryin' to ride all the way up there just to..."

Just to what? I wondered. Does he think I could be like her? One of his ‘girls’? I focus on indignation at the presumption to prevent my mind from wandering down that familiar tract, exploring the potential what and how and why and when that led me on such a distinct path from those who were once so close to me.

As his words trailed off, I noted his wide, bloodshot eyes, the slow circular orbit his upper body followed as his feet stood planted firmly, one in the elevator, one out.

He leaned pointedly my way and half-whispered, "Wow. You're beautiful."

"Thank you," I forced a smile. "You have a nice night."

Those Deep South manners do, it turns out, serve a purpose, after all. He took the hint. Took the necessary steps to vacate that metal box.

I watched the doors slide silently closed and exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Later, on the phone with a friend, I replayed the whole interlude, laughing it off. Pushing it down. Trying to make light of the grim, unnerving scene.

----------------------------

The next morning, I find a message in my inbox. It’s traveled a thousand continental miles to reach me, to drag me back into that world of my purposefully buried knowledge as new drama unfolds.

I know the sentences and paragraphs on the screen before me don’t tell but part of the story unfolding now in The ‘Sip. They don’t even cover half, I’m sure. The grittiest facts will have been weeded out for my benefit. Those details that cast the tellers in an unflattering light, eliminated for theirs.

While the fine points might change, I already know this story. Sadly, we all do. It’s almost certainly the beginning of a long, turbulent cycle for the players down there, and I’ll only be clued in, bit by unsavory bit, as I piece together what I can from this source and that.

Who knows how long it will last this time. Whether the yield merely will be more heartache and suffering, or if the ramifications will be more finite... Prison? Death? And, of course, there are the children to consider…