THE MEET-CUTE

Welcome back to the rollercoaster my friends.  Thanks to your encouragement, I’ve decided to strap back in and resume the ride.  I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?

At the risk of sending you into a shock-induced episode, I must confess that I [the Siren of Misfit Boys] once possessed even LESS savvy with the opposite sex.  However, one of the most important breakthroughs occurred when I realized that life is not a movie. 

Yes, this seems like a rather obvious fact.  But ladies, admit it:  We all want to live in a chick flick.  We want the love montages; the witty banter; the grand gestures.  Well, after life debunks these staples of sappy cinema, one begins to reject statements like “OH MY GOD, this is totally like [insert fictional couple here]!”

Just about every unrealistic romantic comedy begins with what is referred to as the “meet-cute.”  According to Wikipedia, this is when “two potential romantic partners meet” in a humorously awkward way.  As embarrassing as this is---I actually had a meet-cute; one that nearly sent me into a full-fledged romantic relapse.

Rewind to last Tuesday evening.  Mr. Marriage had just depleted my faith in humanity and I, broken-hearted, walked hungrily to the Tavern for a take-out dinner.  Still in my flowy performance attire, I noticed a man checking me out.  Tall, broad-shouldered and all-American, he embodied every attribute of the contemporary romantic hero.  But before I could work myself into a proper lash-batting, hair-twirling frenzy, he was gone!  

Dejected once more, I snatched my burger and went home.

A few days later, between work and about three thousand errands, I ran frantically to the Tavern for another quick bite.  Much to my surprise, the man who passed me up was there again!  I tried not to look over at him as I waited for my food…but I couldn’t help it.  After a few exchanged glances, the man approached me. 

“Hi” he said with a smile.

“Oh, hi” I replied trying to combat my rapidly blushing cheeks.

“Didn’t I see you in here the other night?”

“The other night… hmm… Oh yes, I came in after my gig” I said, trying to play it all off. 

Long story short, we got to talking.  He learned that I’m in finance by day and music by night.  I learned that he is in the Marine Corps.

Talk about chick flicks!  We were now one debilitating disease away from being a Nicholas Sparks novel.   I was about to transfer to the “When You Least Expect It” school, when he shook my hand and said:

“Well, it was very nice to meet you Alex.”

My lips formed a cordial goodbye but my mind spouted confused curse words.  WTF, no digits, no future meeting, NOTHING?   I simply couldn’t believe it.  But as you know, the “law of three” dictates that I would have to meet him again.  And in real life [with no creepy stalking required], I actually did!  Same place, same reason…

“So what, you live here?” I asked, giggling.

“You must think I’m such a degenerate” he replied.

“No, no… just a barfly… it’s okay” I said laughing.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”   

“Not at all!” A loyal wing-man, his friend suddenly leapt up. 

“Please, sit down” My Marine said “I’ll buy you a drink.”

An hour later, we were still talking when he FINALLY popped the question.

“Can I have your number?”

“Sure,” I smiled. 

“Great!  I’d love to call you tonight if you’re free!” 

“I might be!”

“I mean… I can’t make any promises, but if I’m out locally, I’ll definitely call you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I go back to Japan in two days, so my family might want me to stay in with them tonight.”

…

Well, there’s the universe I know and love!

“Oh wow… Japan eh?”

“Yeah, I’ll be in there for six months and then Afghanistan for another six months after that.  It’s really exciting!”

...Dejected once more, I snatched my burger and went home. 

After devouring what was left of my pity-dinner, I agreed to meet next week for a coffee date with a college football coach on POF...  Because who needs a meet-cute anyway?

STUDENT

I believe I’m experiencing the first signs of dating fatigue, readers.  You’re sure to sympathize with my exhaustion.  After all, you’ve been with me throughout this cringe-worthy rollercoaster all along.  I’ve recently come across a few people who think I’m trumping up these de-blog-cles for the entertainment value.  All I can say is… I WISH that were true! 

Taking some time away from the dating site got me thinking about strategy and whether or not I’ve subscribed to the correct one.

There are generally two schools of thought when it comes to finding someone:  The passive “When You Least Expect It” crew, versus the more active “Out There” group.

Have you thrown up your hands, tossed in the towel, and/or purchased feline companionship?  GOOD!  Disciples of the “unexpected” and “come what may” will tell you that you’ve finally reached the promise land.  They believe you cannot find what you’re supposed to have until you’ve completely given up.

 If those relationships found on the brink of hopelessness don’t work out however, one may turn to the latter approach.

Shrinks, obsessive beautification rituals, dating sites and yes---blogs, are all a part of being “Out There.”  “Out There” is a lifestyle, an attitude, a projection.  To be “Out There” you must send the right vibe.  You must look people in the eye.  You must smile and giggle at jokes.  You must strive to be a better person.  You must eat delicately, and force yourself out even when you’d prefer to be in.  In short, you must be on at all times.

Besides the weariness, there is another negative side-effect of this method:  You inadvertently intrigue the wrong men!

 Recall if you will, Mr. Marriage.  Unfortunately, I must report a similar sorry saga. 

This past Tuesday, I was to perform at a charity event for which my boss volunteered me.  It was a wonderful evening, complete with cocktails, hor dourves, and 500 of Westchester’s most successful business people.  Prior to show time, my employer invited me to converse with him and a few of our clients.  Of course, it would only be moments until the least attractive, most inappropriate man was able to hone in on my coordinates. 

“My goodness, who is this?” he broke in. 

“This is my assistant, Alex” bragged my boss.  “She’ll be singing for us later.  And don’t let the size fool you!” 

“Yeah with me either” said the inappropriate man.  Once I realized this was an anatomical size joke, I blushed with embarrassment.  “Do you think you can dedicate your most intimate love song to me?” he asked, his wedding ring glistening in the party light.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to hurt the other gentlemen’s feelings” I replied. 

Nervous laughter suddenly erupted from the people around us. 

“You are adorable!” the inappropriate man retorted. 

“Aw, thanks” I said politely but blatantly unimpressed.  “If you’ll excuse me.”

I retreated to the ladies room in an attempt to avoid saying something snippy in front of my boss.  Just when I thought I provided exactly the right hint, it was time to go on.  The inappropriate [ignorant as the day is long] man made his way to the front of the crowd, clapping, dancing and cheering along.  Wow, thought Nice Alex, How am I gonna handle this one?!

Once off stage, the inappropriate man asked for my information…  Ya know, to hire me for some private parties.  I told him that I was in a rush to make another engagement but that he was welcome to request a business card from my boss if he needed to get in touch.

Like clockwork, an e-mail awaited me when I arrived at work the next day; one that emphasized my talent and beauty.  He concluded with the hope that he’d see me at another event ---or---maybe even a bar downtown.

It’s moments like these that make me want to jump ship, readers.  Perhaps I should give up---because it seems that even if you find someone to marry, you’ll have to wonder if he's hitting on other people’s assistants at cocktail parties. 

But will giving up eventually lead me to the proverbial promise land as so many believe, or will it simply mean settling for a singular existence?

What do you believe? 

LICENSE TO DATE (WARNING, PUNS INTENDED)

To satisfy a work requirement, I spent last week at a four-day, forty-five hour insurance class in the financial district. 

I can sense your jealousy from here, readers.

Though my week-long banishment would include a sterile, white classroom; a stuffy, monotone professor; and “fiduciaries” up my “unilaterals;” I was determined to embrace the positive.  In addition to my potential raise, perhaps this experience just might lead me to a handsome man in a nice suit.

Among the thirty-or-so people in my class, only one struck my fancy.  I first noticed his strong masculine face, followed by his athletic body, and finally his surprising grasp of the material.  Just when I was ready to issue this boy a “contract of adhesion,” I observed an unfortunate “pre-existing condition”:  A wedding ring. 

Oh well.  Mr. Marriage would have to remain a mystery to myself and the rest of my female classmates.

That was until the next day.  Mr. Marriage decided he would move up to be my desk buddy.  While this seemed normal enough, things took a creepy turn when he admitted to stealing my name off the class roster and Googling all of my YouTube videos.

Mr. Marriage:  “Bet you’re glad to get that test over with.”

Me:  “Oh yeah… it’s a weight off for sure.”

Mr. Marriage:  “Kind of like… that play you did in your underwear.”

Me:  “…”

Even Nice Alex couldn't redeem this disturbing exchange.  As I backed away slowly, I had a thought:  People should need a license to date!

Take Guacamole Guy for example.  Had he taken a pre-licensing date class, he might’ve faired a little better on our outing last Thursday.  Sadly, he violated some serious regulations:

Faux pas #1:  Choice of Transportation

Maintaining multiple jobs is admirable.  However, when you’re a part-time dog walker (in addition to your burrito duties), it may put your date off to pick her up in a hair covered vehicle with the word “Scoops” sprawled across the passenger door.  Helpful hint:  if your car is somehow associated with animal excrement, it may be best to meet your date at the restaurant.

Faux pas #2:    The Dutch Treatment

Yes, women offer to split the tab.  However, we’re just being polite.  Gentlemen, when you hear the words “let’s split it” on a first date, that is your cue to smile and say “No no, I’ve got it.”

...Dating 101.

Faux Pas #3:  The Dutch Treatment (...continued)

When you consent to splitting the tab, it would be helpful to have some money on you.

If after you agree to pay for your share of the meal, you backtrack by saying “actually… would you mind…” stop right there.  Yes.  Yes, I do mind.  I ordered a Shirley Temple to be gentle your wallet, and now I have to put your $13 Margarita on my debit card? 

Not Good.

The tragedy is that sweet, funny guys are passed up every day just because they don’t know basic protocol.  And ladies, we’re not innocent either:  Bringing up past relationships, prematurely discussing serious commitment, leading with our insecurities as opposed to our strengths.  All these things will land us right by the phone with a chick-flick and a carton of Haagan Dazs every time.  

Wouldn't it be nice if we ALL had a text book to strategically, dispassionately tell us what to do?

Until such a resource arrives, readers… I press on.

BEAUTY: A STATE OF MIND?

This past Thursday I arrived home from rehearsal and remembered--I should probably eat something.  I decided to set out for a veggie burger at my local tavern, but mid-walk [to my HORROR] I realized it was St. Patty’s Day.  “Oh no,” I thought!  All the local, single youths would surely be out and about, quaffed to the nines, getting hammered; while I [no make-up, in baggy sweatpants, beat-up sneakers, and a purple pajama top] slink out alone for a late night dinner.

Ugh.

I stopped dead in the middle of the side-walk.  Had anyone seen me?  Was there time to turn back?  Maybe I could run home, throw on my face and then go out.  Suddenly, my stomach growled angrily as if to say “I’m not waiting another hour while you make yourself beautiful, Alex.  Suck it up and get some friggin food!” 

I took a deep breath and decided to own it.  I was what I was, and it wasn’t so bad.

As expected the tavern was packed, so I kept walking to the burrito place on the corner.  Ordinarily, I’d allow my bare face to define me, shyly approaching the servers and avoiding eye contact.  But not tonight!  No, tonight I would march right up there, tighten the draw string on my sweat pants and say “One chipotle shrimp quesadilla, extra guacamole!”        

Guacamole Guy met my confident order with a smile.  “Coming right up!” he replied enthusiastically.

Much to my surprise, this confidence rouse was working.  In fact, Guacamole Guy actually engaged me in conversation while I awaited my food.  I soon learned that he had recently graduated from SUNY Purchase and was waiting to hear back from NYU regarding grad school admissions.  He seemed smart, funny, and oddly handsome—but I knew not to get my hopes up:  I was in sweat pants, and he was just being friendly.

Unfortunately, my suspicions were confirmed when he allowed me walk out without even the slightest come on.      

“Oh well,” I thought as I walked away.

Just then, over the sound of bag pipes and loud tavern patrons I heard a distinct “excuse me, miss” echoing from behind.  I turned around to see one of the servers, running after me. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I forget something?” I asked, double checking my purse.

“No, actually the cashier wanted you to have this.”  He handed me a napkin.  On it was Guacamole Guy’s number.  “Have a good night!”

Was this the luck of the Irish?  Had something magical occurred?  I looked down:  The same baggy sweatpants, the same beat up sneakers, the same purple pajama top.  No, I had not been transformed, this man was simply attracted to me—bare faced, poorly dressed me. 

...And this little scrub strutted confidently all the way home!

TRAIN WRECK

When the 11:40 local train to Stamford jerked forward, the inertia sent me stumbling into a seated young man.
             
“Long night?” he asked, sensing my frustration.
“Yeah, a bit,” I chuckled.  “You?”
“Very” He said.  “What brings you to New York City?”
“A second date” I sighed as I searched for my Metro-North ticket.  The boy laughed.
“Will there be a third?”

There will not be a third.  And I’m very disappointed. 

As you may remember, Marathon Man’s debut showed great promise.  Though he left his 'macho' at home, I was still very excited to see what would come of our next date.

This evening, we planned to grab sushi at Nobu and see a jazz show at the famous Village Vanguard.  He claimed to have the night timed to perfection!  In fact, he texted several times to stress the importance of my punctuality.  So, as to not jeopardize our reservations, I got ready early and hopped the 5:54.

He was late.

Our greeting was awkward:  He came in for the big kiss and I offered my cheek instead.   Embarrassed, I fumbled for a smooth recovery.

“So where are we headed?” I asked.

He didn’t know.

Several moments later, we were still waiting for his tele-nav to kick in.  In the interest of time however, we eventually decided to cab it. 

We were finally Nobu-bound!  I just knew this date would improve once all the transit nonsense was behind us.

“Welcome to Nobu, do you have a reservation?”

We didn’t.

Luckily, we were able to get a table relatively quickly.  Okay, so here we go… cue the chemistry, right?

“So, what do you think of Jersey City?” he asked.
“Um, oh… I’ve never been there.”
“Yeah, but what do you THINK of it?” he asked again.
“Uhh, I… I really don’t know.”
“Because you know, people have some pre-conceived notions about Jersey City” he said, his face begging for a response. 
“…Well, I don’t.  I’m sure it’s nice.” I said, smiling.

I felt terrible.  I mean, this race had just started and already Marathon Man was losing steam.  Was I making him nervous?  What was going on here?  Nice Alex quickly appeared over my right shoulder and told me to try harder.

So for the next hour, I ignored his frequent watch glancing, laughed at his jokes, and pretended not to notice that he was repeating all the questions from date number one.  By the time we left for the Vanguard, I was exhausted!
               
“Sir, why didn’t you just take 7^th?” asked Marathon Man with a twinge of condescension.
“How could we have taken 7^th when it’s a one way going the wrong way??” the cabby shot back.
“It’s not a one way going the wrong way” he whispered to me.

It was.

But it didn't matter, we had arrived!  I was finally going to see a show at the Vanguard---the place where over 100 live albums had been recorded by such artists as Wynton Marsalis, John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon, Barbra Streisand, Brad Mehldau…etc.  Surely nothing could go wrong here, the sacred home of a musical genre we both claimed to love!

 “I’m so bored” he said, leaning in half-way through The Paul Motian Trio’s first set.

***

 “Wow,” my train buddy interjected. “That’s a bad date.”
 “I know,” I wept.  “And I had such high hopes!”

It was just then that I noticed this boy’s broad shoulders, his deep voice, his blue eyes, his law books, his sense of humor, his straight teeth…

“I’m Alex by the way.”
“Devon” he replied, shaking my hand.

And just before I could inquire further, it was my stop.

THE SMALL AND MEEK?

Plucked, concealed, lined, gelled, glossed, styled and approved by my gay husband, I left for Grand Central Station to meet Marathon Man.  I already knew I liked what the cross-country running investment banker had to say online, so now it was time to see if we had any chemistry in person. 

I was delighted to find he showed up(!), was slightly taller than me(!), and planned quite a lovely evening.  We were to start with drinks at Pegu Club, (a fabulous mixology lounge on West Houston); and continue onto a posh Asian speakeasy named Angel’s Share.  Tasty drinks, amazing food, and wonderful company---what more could a girl ask for?

Well… I’ll tell ya…

The first thing that struck me about Marathon Man was how young he looked.  His baby, shaved face combined with his slight stature and slender running body made him look all of seventeen.  This contributed to one experience that left me feeling like a “Daddy’s Girl” more than I ever have in my life.

The bar stool to my left seemed to be the drunk seat.  The first man who sat there actually fell asleep, covering the bar in his long Asian hair and drool.  He began to tilt in my direction like a chopped tree, but luckily I was saved… by the bartender.  Noticing the apparent intoxication of my woozy next-door neighbor, the servers propped him up and removed him before he could topple into me. 

Relieved that Drunky was gone, Marathon Man and I had a chuckle and continued on with our great conversation.  That was until a belligerent, incoherently mumbling man replaced him.

     “Is everyone in here just like me…” he slurred “Fuckin… white and Jewish?” It appeared the man was addressing this question to me, and he kept repeating himself until I answered.

     “Um… I don’t know sir.  I didn’t take inventory.”

     “Well maybe you fuckin’ should!” he shot back.  Suddenly, the sleepy Asian wasn’t looking so bad.

Surprised, I turned to face my date and… nothing!  No offer to switch seats, no male bravado, no instinct to protect whatsoever.  I slowly began to realize that though Marathon Man is wonderful, he could probably never protect me in a volatile situation.

Now---don’t get me wrong, I’m not writing this guy off.  But there’s a small part of me that wants someone broad-shouldered; someone take-charge; someone… well, like my Dad.

My Dad is the kind of man who leaps out of bed when he hears a noise in the house.  My Dad is the kind of man who would throw himself in front of a gigantic, drugged-up delinquent to keep him from coming onto our property.  My Dad is the kind of man who intervenes when he sees a drunk 42-year-old hitting on me at a party.  He is not the kind of man who would sit passively as an intoxicated patron cussed at me.

No, I did not want Marathon Man to get into a fight; and no, I did not want him to make a scene; but perhaps a small acknowledgement of what had transpired might have been nice.

Overall however, I’m nit-picking.  The date was [easily] the best I’ve had with an Internet prospect and I do plan on going to a jazz club with him next week.  We have a ton in common and I’m willing to see if more sparks fly next time around.

But one question still nags me...  Do all women want a broad, protective man who will make them feel as safe as their Daddies do?  And if so, will Marathon Man fit the bill?

THE COFFEE BEAN AND THE GRAPE

I recently received some hilarious advice from a dear, dear friend:

“Men are like fine wine: They start out as grapes; and it's our job [as women] to stomp them and keep them in the dark until they mature into something you'd have dinner with.”

For every woman who is giggling and nodding her head right now, let's break this down:  

Man (Raw vine fruit) + Woman (diligent grape stomper) = Relationship (sophisticated alcoholic beverage). 

Now, the desire to refine, elevate and motivate a man feels very [natural, nurturing, maternal, feminine… in short] right.  But does this equation really add up?  And if so, are some men simply “unstompable?”

Following your advice readers, I did decide to give Barista Boy a chance.  Through a few short conversations I learned that his true passion is graphic design.  As it turns out he works free-lance doing projects for local businesses while barista-ing on the side for some extra cash. 

“Once I have enough saved up” he said “I’m goin’ back to school so I can really do it full time…  By the way, here’s your latte.”

Okay, okay… so maybe there is something deeper beneath the green apron.  But before you toast romantic optimism [Seymour!], keep reading…

We arranged to meet for a late Friday night drink.  As planned, I called him to confirm the details once my dinner let out.  But shortly after sending me to voicemail, Barista Boy informed me (via text) that he was in Connecticut.  Why?  Because that’s where “his ride” wanted to go.      

Nice Alex:  “Oh, huh… that’s happened to me.  I mean… not since high-school, but I can see it.”

Cynical Alex:  “I’m sorry---does your friend have a gun to your head?  WTF?”

My actual reply:  “No biggie, it’s getting late anyway.  I’m sure we’ll talk soon.”

I suppose he took that literally, because the following Monday…

Thirteen text messages?!   

“When R U coming to get coffee?”

“I reallu wanted to do something with you, I just have dumb friends.”

“R U mad @ me?”

“Come in to Starbux… im hear rite now”

“U can call me if u want”

Etc, etc, etc.

Is it possible that this wayward grape has the potential to become a liquid delicacy?  Sure, it’s possible… but I fear that (much like the coffee he prepares) Barista Boy may need to be ground, not stomped.

On the other side of the coin---I’ve been conversing with a 25-year-old investment banker from New Jersey.  He has a full-time job and is also up-starting his own business.  He was a runner in college and is now training for his third marathon.  He loves old music, plays jazz guitar, and isn’t too rough on the eyes either. 

This is the closest I’ve come to butterflies, readers!  Assuming he shows up for our date and is everything he says he is---this could actually be quite promising.

-BUT- if a man is already wine---does this upset the equation?  Must I be able to refine, elevate and motivate a man for the relationship to work?  Or is it possible for two people to just fit effortlessly?

We’ll see…

WITH WHIP

My decisive online persona gave way this afternoon when I stopped into my local Starbucks. 

Amazing---I’m able to handle Giant’s rejection so rationally; yet when forced to pick one caffeinated beverage [in an alternate yuppie language] I fall to pieces.  Tall, grande, vente?  Skim, soy, whole?  Oh and to whip or not to whip?  Too many questions! 

Why [when I could just go to Dunkin’] do I put myself through such an anxiety-ridden ritual?  Four words:  My. Cute.  Barista. Boy.

I know what you’re thinking---and you’re right.  It’s shameless.

The truth is most women have some version of this creature in their lives.  Whether he runs your office deli, tends bar at your local watering hole, or pumps gas at that station down the street---he works in service, flatters you needlessly and gives you outrageous discounts---just for being you. 

“One tall, white chocolate mocha?” he asks with an omnipotent smile.

“With whip” I reply, relieved that he knows enough to suggest my default drink.

We exchange pleasantries, he charges me $1.50 and I’m on my way. 

Well---that’s how it usually goes.  However, today My Cute Barista Boy had other plans.  Today my sugary goodness would only cost me...

“My number?”

“Yeah!  I’d love to take you out sometime.”

I couldn’t believe it!  Up until this moment, I figured My Cute Barista Boy was generous to every attractive coffee drinker who didn’t verbally abuse him.  It never occurred to me that he had a genuine interest in taking me out.

“Umm, well…”

I had to gather my thoughts.  I mean, what did I really know about My Cute Barista Boy?  He’s 25 and working at Starbucks.  No college degree.  He wears an earring.  He just broke up with someone.  Online this would be an open and shut case.  But in person…

“Sure, my number is…”

What am I doing?  This is insane!  Stop, Nice Alex, Stop!  You do not date your cute barista boy.  You blush modestly as he pretends to slide your credit card through the machine! 

But it was too late.  My Cute Barista Boy had my digits.  All ten of them.

“Aight!  I’ll text you this weekend.”

Curse you, Nice Alex.  Curse you.   

STOOD UP (BUT STILL STANDING)

Sad but true.  Tonight, I join the 20% of 20-something-singles who have been stood up for a date. 

The guy:  An outrageously tall Jewish man from New Jersey.  According to his profile, he works in technology and [ironically] “values personal integrity in a mate.”    

The Jewish Giant seemed very smart and very nice.  We exchanged e-mails for about a week and spoke over the phone once before planning our date.  He was to call after he got out of work this evening at which point, we would meet up for a meal here in Westchester County.  The proposed time was eight o’clock.

Well imagine my shock and dismay when after a late shower, detailed make-up application, skilled blow-out and painfully thoughtful clothing selection, my Jewish Giant had still not phoned. 

Of course, being the lady I am, I certainly was not going to call him.  So here I am, left to sort out my feelings on this odd, odd event. 

This is what I’ve come up with so far:

Was this ideal?  Definitely not.  But I’d be lying if I said I was completely broken up over this. 

Lest you think I’m a callused, unfeeling bitch, allow me to clarify. 

Had this happened in the conventional dating arena, I would probably be a weepy, ice-cream devouring mess.  In my head, I’d likely be in frantic search of my tragic flaw:  “Did I sound too desperate when I agreed to our date?”  “Was he turned off by my last text?” “Did I smell bad when we had coffee last week?” 

As you can see, in the field of rejection analysis---some women are unparalleled in the discipline of self-torture.  But the reality is---whether the ‘stander-upper’ is an ass-hole or simply an absent minded professor…he is probably just not for you. 

It’s as simple and impersonal as that. 

Online, this is a concept more easily grasped.  Tonight I was able to change into my sweat pants, turn on some jazz and revisit the Jewish Giant’s profile.  Sure, we had some things in common, but we hadn’t yet developed any chemistry to latch onto.  Thus---I was able to rationally put this in its proper place.  And my freshly stocked inbox didn’t hurt either (ten new messages… five of them interesting).

As empowering as this might have been, it was simultaneously frightening.  Is this technology allowing us to trade intimacy for indifference?  OR is this just a better way to screen the ‘stander-uppers’ from the studs? 

It’s a question I should probably keep in mind as I continue on this cyber-search for love.