Schooled

Fifty-three percent of college graduates are now female, and the majority of those pursuing professional degrees beyond an undergraduate education is women. Despite the dismally slow climb toward equal pay for equal work*, women have recently outpaced men as far as earnings growth and given the close relationship between education levels and pay, this trend will most likely continue.

Sounds wonderful and very well it's about time until you consider the implications of such a turned table on the dating scene. Among college-educated adults, the pool of potential mates has expanded more rapidly for men than for women. Yes, ladies, there are now less fish in the sea who can read as well as you.

Several of my female college students have told me that they refuse to "date down," meaning they refuse to date a man who is not as educated as they are. Statistically this presents a new problem for women who are marriage-minded. It makes sense, too, that men who are not college-educated make up the fastest growing segment of people who remain single throughout their lives.

So, we have roared and come a long way, baby, but a pesky new question must be asked: have we priced ourselves out of the market? Have we schooled ourselves out of the sea, so to speak?

*the pay gap is closing at a rate of a half cent annually...so, in about 60 years someone like me won't make $2 million dollars LESS than a man doing the same job over her lifetime. awesome. really.

Dear Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes or Why I Should Have Been a Serial Killer

disclaimer: this is for entertainment purposes only. I have never displayed any of the tell-tale signs that suggest someone is likely to grow up to be a serial killer. For example, I have never hurt a small animal. In fact, I once saved a one-winged pigeon from my swimming pool (which my dog had bit off in one of his lesser moments) and tried to nurse it back to health for a week, despite the snickering from family and friends. Henry's eventual death, by the way, nearly killed me.

Dear Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes:

You don't remember me, but I remember you. Fairmount Blvd. The 20 mph zone. That bend by the church. Just. Past. Sunset.

I was the tall blonde driving the car you chased after having jumped out of the bushes brandishing that big radar gun of yours (twice). I must say that I'm somewhat flattered. You have displayed a kind of diligent concern for and devotion to my safety hitherto unmatched by any of my previous male suitors.

If you weren't always wearing that ridiculous pseudo-Columbian guerilla camo outfit while skulking about the manicured lawns, I might actually consider dating you. I mean, you wouldn't have to spend much time getting to know my friends: you've already met several of them at our little rendezvous spot (if I was a jealous woman, I might take issue with this, you bad boy). But the fact that my friends currently hate you wouldn't worry me. I'm sure that over time they, too, could forgive you the fact that you have thwarted several of their well-planned trips to Whole Foods and a Disney vacation here and there for the kids with your generosity when it comes to handing out speeding tickets.

Well, I have enclosed for you yet another $95.00 check, and being the good sport that I am, I'd like to express my concern for your safety as well. One of these days YOU ARE GOING TO GET HIT--as in vehicular homicide. Of course, let's be honest. There would be some benefit to this: I could finally make Louboutin happy and buy those shoes I've been saving my discretionary money for FOR LIKE FIVE YEARS, and you would no longer be mistaken for a lost and missing trick or treater. Nor would you be punched again by our less inhibited Cleveland motorists. And the hate mail would stop, too.

I have a point here, Romeo.

Given the crime rate in Cleveland, I think you could be spending your time elsewhere. Like, say, oh I don't know, finding Mr. Sowell the Serial Killer BEFORE he buried 11 women in the walls of his house. Word is that Mr. Sowell has been at it since 1989. And you, Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes, are participating in the equivalent of speed dating with women drivers in Cleveland Heights. Very poor form, Mr. Cop Hiding Behind the Bushes.

Had I been a serial killer in Cleveland, at least I'd have the shoes.

m.

P.S. one of the priests over at the church even cut down the bushes after his parishoners started complaining about your little Rambo antics and stopped attending services. It's one thing to mess with a girl's footwear or a child's love for Tinker Belle. I don't think you need me to tell you that it's quite another to mess with the Big Guy. In this regard, I've got to tell you-- you're playing with fire. The super long eternal kind...

the biology of a breakup

Eventually you will begin to wonder (obsess is such a strong word) what your ex has been up to while you, in the mean time, are SO NOT busy determining which navigating clicks on Facebook qualify as creeping exactly.

It is at this stage when the fantasies kick in. Even for those who were handed the short end of the stick when it comes to imagination, the brain will shock and awe with the sheer creativity of the possible scenarios it will oh so very vividly paint for you. On a bad day, that leggy harlot of a secretary of his will be involved. On a good day? A drowning in a puddle of regretful tears, which takes the full 11 minutes to work itself out.

Rest assured here, you are not crazy, nor do you actually want your ex to drown. In fact, it's been proven that for sixty days after a breakup the front lobe of your brain is four times more busy than usual imagining what your ex is doing, thinking, and feeling. You are also suffering from a chemical withdrawal from oxycotin, dopamine, and vassopressin. So, short of going all Lindsay Lohan, you are fighting a losing battle, my friend.

I say ride it out.

In the near future you will probably learn that he is NOT wining and dining Whatshername nor is he writing you weepy, apologetic letters. In the near future, in fact you will probably learn that he has simply replaced with you something mundane like growing house plants while he is SO NOT busy wondering you've been up to...

Tomorrow: Dear Mr. Cop Hiding behind the Bushes or Why I should have been a Serial Killer ;)