One late afternoon recently, I lay on the couch with my legs up over the arm of it in front of the window, a cool breeze delivering soot and assorted deadly viruses. The sun was beginning to set and the sky looked like something one would wear to a Grateful Dead concert. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have someone to lie next to and watch this romantic sight?
With no dates on the horizon, I started to formulate a plan. I was a smart woman—surely I could find a dating loophole. It was there on my somewhat empty couch that the Ball of Lint Theory formed. If, as they say, it takes money to make money, and it is easier to get a job when you have one, surely the same applies to getting a man. People sense need and desperation, in jobs and in love. You gots to have something to gets something. You gots to have love to make love.
Then I started thinking about this interesting article I read about the guy who, as a social and economic experiment, started with one red paper clip and went on Craiglist with the goal of bartering and trading up until he had a house. He actually did it in a mere 15 trades. I applied this theory to my own life—my love life—and figured all I needed to do was start with someone who’d agree to be my boyfriend quickly without any resistance and then start trading. For some reason, when men sense you have someone in your life you are much more desirable. When I was married I got hit on all the time.
As with all revolutionary scientific ideas, in the beginning it is never a smooth road. There are hypotheses that must be tested, controls to gather and variables to introduce. But I think of myself as a romance and dating renegade. I do it so you don't have to.
I asked a guy that I knew would say yes to being my boyfriend—he had been asking me out for two years. I didn’t have much to pick from. It was either him, the homeless or the incarcerated.
Over those two years, his idea of flirting was to tell me that he had shaven balls. He also relayed to me that an Asian woman he dated was so hot for him she masturbated in his car while he was driving. TMI! He was not-so-jokingly plotting the death of his ex-wife’s new boyfriend. That I could at least admire. He’d stare at my tits when we spoke, even in a professional environment. He was not above commenting on their fullness or perkiness. He would tell me about how he got his eyebrows threaded and about his quest for back hair removal. This was the most perfect Ball of Lint ever!
All went as planned. The “boyfriend” was sweet and nice and guys started digging me. At his birthday party, his friend actually asked me out. A woman doesn’t need TWO balls of lint though. One of the ramifications of dating a Ball of Lint is that other Balls of Lint think they have a chance.
“What do you see in him?” asked a guy whose pants were so short I could see his white socks, trying to make his own play.
My milkshake started bringing all sorts of boys to the yard. Amazingly, I got a date with an editor of a magazine I had crushed on for a year. He must have smelled eau de boyfriend on me. I was hoping he’d be my next trade. Alas, I got drunk on our first date, criticized his ex-girlfriend, who happened to be my nemesis; I had no idea he had dated her until the third margarita. That was the last time I heard from him.
The tricky part was that I just didn’t feel physically attracted to the Ball of Lint. Maybe it was because of all the back hair talk. It is sad because he was very nice, but I just didn't feel any chemistry; I only kissed him four times in six weeks. I avoided physical intimacy as much as I could, thinking if it came down to it, I’d prefer having ass sex to having to make out with him. It was a means to an end. I realize it was a mean means to an end, but hey, he got something out of it too.
He was also way too up in my bidness. He started befriending my friends to get information on me. His ex-wife and her sister started reading my blog. He left an envelope for me under my door while I was sleeping. One night I was going to dinner with a guy friend and he found out where I was going and had the manager comp us. A nice gesture, but I felt sort of smothered.
Still, it felt great to have a good morning call and a talkdown call every night. We did fun stuff like food shop at Trader Joe’s, him wheeling the cart and me throwing organic foodstuff in. We’d see movies, drink Bloody Marys, eat oysters, play with the dog, watch silly TV. I got him hooked on “The Bachelor” and we’d watch every Monday on the phone with each other. But the whole point was to trade to another.
It was while dating him that I met the HW. Tall, rugged, authoritative looking. The complete antithesis of lint. I was at an event and there was this creepy real estate guy who would not leave me alone at the bar. I looked up and there was HW, smiling. In a sea of conservative suits, he didn’t look like he belonged. I mouthed, “Save me!” to him and he came over and did as instructed.
I hurled questions at him: Was he a Republican? Religious? A commitmentphobe? All deal breakers. All his answers were spot-on. The clincher was when he told me he majored in English and quoted E.E. Cummings to me. A bit contrived, but still kiss-worthy. Staring into his intense blue eyes, I asked him if he was ready to fall madly in love. He didn’t blink or look away.
He was “the house” and I wanted to live in him. I hadn’t felt like this about any man in years, including while I was married.
I realized it was tricky trading from “lint” to “house” with no transitional trades, but hey, I was an outlaw.
On our first date, he cooked me dinner. On our second, he stuck his fingers up my ass while kissing me. I was hooked. I quickly got rid of the Ball of Lint, riding high on my theory.
I had hoped the HW would be pliable like the “boyfriend” had been and eager to mesh his life with mine and do the mundane, like food shop together. Unfortunately, the HW said, “Women are dangerous; you are dangerous,” and always kept me at arm’s length. While I didn’t sleep next to the Ball of Lint because I was repelled by the idea, I didn’t sleep next to the HW because he refused to.
We dated loosely for a while and it drove me nuts. I finally found someone I really flipped for, and I needed exclusivity.
Ultimately, while I am still wild for the HW, he is a commitmentphobe and clearly not ready to fall in love. Either that or he is just not that into me. Shocking, I know, but sadly, true.
I still contend the Ball of Lint Theory was revolutionary and would have worked had I not tried to go from lint to a house in one trade. Maybe I was his Ball of Lint.
With no dates on the horizon, I started to formulate a plan. I was a smart woman—surely I could find a dating loophole. It was there on my somewhat empty couch that the Ball of Lint Theory formed. If, as they say, it takes money to make money, and it is easier to get a job when you have one, surely the same applies to getting a man. People sense need and desperation, in jobs and in love. You gots to have something to gets something. You gots to have love to make love.
Then I started thinking about this interesting article I read about the guy who, as a social and economic experiment, started with one red paper clip and went on Craiglist with the goal of bartering and trading up until he had a house. He actually did it in a mere 15 trades. I applied this theory to my own life—my love life—and figured all I needed to do was start with someone who’d agree to be my boyfriend quickly without any resistance and then start trading. For some reason, when men sense you have someone in your life you are much more desirable. When I was married I got hit on all the time.
As with all revolutionary scientific ideas, in the beginning it is never a smooth road. There are hypotheses that must be tested, controls to gather and variables to introduce. But I think of myself as a romance and dating renegade. I do it so you don't have to.
I asked a guy that I knew would say yes to being my boyfriend—he had been asking me out for two years. I didn’t have much to pick from. It was either him, the homeless or the incarcerated.
Over those two years, his idea of flirting was to tell me that he had shaven balls. He also relayed to me that an Asian woman he dated was so hot for him she masturbated in his car while he was driving. TMI! He was not-so-jokingly plotting the death of his ex-wife’s new boyfriend. That I could at least admire. He’d stare at my tits when we spoke, even in a professional environment. He was not above commenting on their fullness or perkiness. He would tell me about how he got his eyebrows threaded and about his quest for back hair removal. This was the most perfect Ball of Lint ever!
All went as planned. The “boyfriend” was sweet and nice and guys started digging me. At his birthday party, his friend actually asked me out. A woman doesn’t need TWO balls of lint though. One of the ramifications of dating a Ball of Lint is that other Balls of Lint think they have a chance.
“What do you see in him?” asked a guy whose pants were so short I could see his white socks, trying to make his own play.
My milkshake started bringing all sorts of boys to the yard. Amazingly, I got a date with an editor of a magazine I had crushed on for a year. He must have smelled eau de boyfriend on me. I was hoping he’d be my next trade. Alas, I got drunk on our first date, criticized his ex-girlfriend, who happened to be my nemesis; I had no idea he had dated her until the third margarita. That was the last time I heard from him.
The tricky part was that I just didn’t feel physically attracted to the Ball of Lint. Maybe it was because of all the back hair talk. It is sad because he was very nice, but I just didn't feel any chemistry; I only kissed him four times in six weeks. I avoided physical intimacy as much as I could, thinking if it came down to it, I’d prefer having ass sex to having to make out with him. It was a means to an end. I realize it was a mean means to an end, but hey, he got something out of it too.
He was also way too up in my bidness. He started befriending my friends to get information on me. His ex-wife and her sister started reading my blog. He left an envelope for me under my door while I was sleeping. One night I was going to dinner with a guy friend and he found out where I was going and had the manager comp us. A nice gesture, but I felt sort of smothered.
Still, it felt great to have a good morning call and a talkdown call every night. We did fun stuff like food shop at Trader Joe’s, him wheeling the cart and me throwing organic foodstuff in. We’d see movies, drink Bloody Marys, eat oysters, play with the dog, watch silly TV. I got him hooked on “The Bachelor” and we’d watch every Monday on the phone with each other. But the whole point was to trade to another.
It was while dating him that I met the HW. Tall, rugged, authoritative looking. The complete antithesis of lint. I was at an event and there was this creepy real estate guy who would not leave me alone at the bar. I looked up and there was HW, smiling. In a sea of conservative suits, he didn’t look like he belonged. I mouthed, “Save me!” to him and he came over and did as instructed.
I hurled questions at him: Was he a Republican? Religious? A commitmentphobe? All deal breakers. All his answers were spot-on. The clincher was when he told me he majored in English and quoted E.E. Cummings to me. A bit contrived, but still kiss-worthy. Staring into his intense blue eyes, I asked him if he was ready to fall madly in love. He didn’t blink or look away.
He was “the house” and I wanted to live in him. I hadn’t felt like this about any man in years, including while I was married.
I realized it was tricky trading from “lint” to “house” with no transitional trades, but hey, I was an outlaw.
On our first date, he cooked me dinner. On our second, he stuck his fingers up my ass while kissing me. I was hooked. I quickly got rid of the Ball of Lint, riding high on my theory.
I had hoped the HW would be pliable like the “boyfriend” had been and eager to mesh his life with mine and do the mundane, like food shop together. Unfortunately, the HW said, “Women are dangerous; you are dangerous,” and always kept me at arm’s length. While I didn’t sleep next to the Ball of Lint because I was repelled by the idea, I didn’t sleep next to the HW because he refused to.
We dated loosely for a while and it drove me nuts. I finally found someone I really flipped for, and I needed exclusivity.
Ultimately, while I am still wild for the HW, he is a commitmentphobe and clearly not ready to fall in love. Either that or he is just not that into me. Shocking, I know, but sadly, true.
I still contend the Ball of Lint Theory was revolutionary and would have worked had I not tried to go from lint to a house in one trade. Maybe I was his Ball of Lint.
