This diet, in keeping with the cleanse craze as of late, will rid me of all toxic waste. It will leave me feeling cleaner, prettier, stronger, and more focused. But on the Creep Cleanse, I can eat bread and pasta and chocolate. I just can’t date dirtbags. In fact, I can’t give them the time of day.

They’re bad for my figure.

After New Years this year, I became nauseated by the word “diet.” It seemed everyone around me was cutting their calorie intake in half, avoiding meals out, eliminating food groups and just generally putting themselves down. Friends, co-workers, and total strangers- all I heard about was how everyone needed to overhaul their diet. And then, several nights ago I helped a petite Asian girl with some blouses in the fitting room and when she left, defeated, I asked why she didn’t get the red top that looked stunning on her. She simply shook her head and smiled sadly.

“I need to fix myself first,” she said, in broken English.

And in classic clueless fashion, her boyfriend stood by and said nothing.

I’m not going to say I wake up every day thinking I look fabulous. I’m not going to say I have the utmost confidence in my body on a daily basis. But for the most part, I wouldn’t change much. And if improving my life means depriving myself of the things that make life interesting, it’s not worth it.

If I’m being honest here, there’s one offender I could definitely eliminate, and it’s all the douche-bags I waste my time talking to, texting, thinking about. It’s not just the obvious assholes that I’m talking about, either. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, some of these charmers can be deceptively appealing. How do I know which ones are off-limits on the cleanse?

If I have to wonder about whether they like me, if I have to wonder whether they’re going to choose me over another girl, if I have to wonder whether they’ll ever muster the physical strength to utter that forbidden word “girlfriend,” and if I have to wonder if they’ll ever change, they’ve gotta go.

Metaphorically speaking, I’m plucking these guys from my pantry and tossing them in the trash. They’re tempting and dangerous, and if I keep them around, I know I’ll pick one up in the middle of the night and I won’t be able to stop myself. But it’s all just instant gratification.

Once the thrill is over, I’m left feeling weaker and somehow uglier than before.

Last night I began the Creep Cleanse by responding to a text from one of these sketch-balls. “Sorry, it’s been fun, but I don’t have time anymore.”

I feel ten pounds lighter already.

I distinctly remember when our new theory on men came to fruition. Several months after graduating college, it crept over my whole group of girlfriends: older men. Why had we been wasting our time with confused, insecure, immature twenty-two year old train-wrecks? Older men had confidence, good taste in restaurants, nicer apartments- and they knew their way around South America, if you catch my drift.

Each of us had experiences with men at least seven years older than us (and in some cases, as much as twenty), and each of us were immediately struck by how much we had been missing out. They had already made their dumb mistakes with women in their past, and we could benefit from all their experience! One would assume that by his early thirties, a man has got some things figured out. He’s not playing all the games younger men play, and he definitely knows what he wants. And for all intents and purposes, one would assume that he would be looking for something more serious, a real relationship.

But oh, how we were blinded by their distinguished hairlines and adorable affinity for making pop culture references from before our time. And one by one, I watched as these seemingly “mature” gentlemen dropped like flies.

One of them, who also happened to enjoy playing video games alone on a Friday night, pulled the disappearing act with my friend Shannon and resorted to an apologetic drunk text out of the blue. Another, who had a fantastic job and insatiable wit, began initiating what one can only refer to as booty calls to my classy girl Kate, and his text messages resembled those of a seventh grader’s. My personal favorite is a customer that Kayla had a crush on, who showed up hammered to Boston Beer Works where we were playing pool, made a complete fool out of himself, insisted on taking a cab several blocks and “lost” his wallet in his own coat pocket.

Charming.

Whether they’re twenty-two or thirty-five, age is apparently not the issue. It’s not the age that makes the man, it’s the man who makes his age apparent, and acts accordingly. Which is to say, just because a guy is in his mid-twenties and at the beginning of his career doesn’t make him any less fit to date than a guy who’s more settled. And God as my witness, I will never discriminate based on age again.

Unless you’re old enough to remember when Reagan was elected. Then we have a few problems on our hands.

At some point, all of the nice, normal ones were snatched up and all that was left were the weirdos, the infantile, the lunatics, and my personal favorite: the commitment-handicapped.

But perhaps my pessimism was pre-mature.

A co-worker of mine, Ady, has what I can only call a blossoming romance (those still exist?) with one adorable, considerate, patient guy who she’s gone on a few spectacular dates with and even sometimes for a night-cap at his apartment that doesn’t end in him coaxing her to stay over. He always makes sure to call her a cab, and he never gives her a hard time about not putting out. She’s made it exceedingly clear that she just got out of an on-and-off five year relationship and can’t jump into something too fast, and he is more than accommodating. He cares what her friends think, and he’s already making her mix-tapes. They have phone conversations that last three or four hours, and when he went to New York last weekend he already had the balls to say he would miss her.

Now, I could just say that Ady’s lucky; she found the last worthy male specimen. But I don’t believe in luck and if I chalked it up to that I’d be missing out on an important lesson. This colleague of mine has more self-respect and personal integrity than any female I’ve ever met. She offers up the best to those she cares about and accepts nothing less. And if you prove yourself to be flaky, or skeezy, or anything sub-par to her standards, she refuses to waste her time. You can see it in the way she walks, the way she laughs, and the way she shakes her head when someone does anything that’s suspicious. One night, when a date I was looking forward to turned into “Just come over to my apartment,” and I was disappointed, she rolled her eyes. “Next!” she said, before offering to go to dinner with me instead.

I don’t believe in luck, but I do believe in opposing forces: much like a karmic boomerang, I believe that you reap what you sow. If you plant the seeds of dishonesty in your life, don’t be surprised if it comes back to haunt you eventually. And in relationships, if you have truly come to believe that you are unattractive or undesirable, you will only attract those that have the same low level of dignity.

But by the same token, The Boomerang Effect can work to your favor. If you present yourself in only the most respectable way, you in turn will attract only those who recognize your worth, appreciate you for it, and furthermore, present themselves in the same way. Watching Ady wander down the street with her new man, I turned to my other co-worker and said, “That gives me hope.”

She laughed and said, “Does it? It makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing.”

We exchanged a knowing look. “Settling.”

Which is to say, accept nothing less than the best. This is a weeding process, folks, and there’s a lot of weeds out there.

It’s nearly impossible to make me uncomfortable. So don’t bother beginning your next repulsive or rowdy story with “Sorry if this is TMI, but…” or “I hope I’m not crossing any boundaries here…”

You could outline step-by-step and with acute detail your rectal surgery, and I’ll go about eating my dinner, fascinated. You could divulge with pained honesty the sexual problem your boyfriend is having and next time I saw him I’d look him in the eye and smile like I knew nothing.

I believe that I owe this, as I do most things, to my Mother, and the humiliating way in which she went about explaining “The Birds and the Bees.”

It was a sticky, late Summer night and I had recently started 4^th grade. On our way home, my Mother admitted she was too tired to cook and pulled into the parking lot of our local Chili’s. To this day, I refuse to go to Chili’s as it’s too traumatic (as if the food isn’t enough reason).

I was complaining to her that Mark, one of four boys in my class, had been making fun of the fact that I wore my hair in buns, calling me “Minnie Mouse,” and that after I half-hurled a chair at him in the cafeteria I had to sit in the Principal’s office.

A few bites into my potato skins and I noticed she had a kind of sick smile on her face. The kind of smile that an investigator gets when he’s just about to interrogate an unsuspecting prisoner.

“Honey, do you know what it means to have sex?”

I chewed on the congealed cheese and prodded around for extra bacon bits to avoid the question.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

I can’t wait to have kids for the endless amusement their blissful innocence will provide me.

“It’s when people touch each other. A lot.” I put my fork down gravely and leaned in. “In inappropriate places.”

To this day it’s incredible to me that she didn’t burst out laughing right there.

“Actually sweetheart,” she said, clasping her hands, “That’s not right.”

And thus, by the neon lighting of Chili’s, she explained an in-explicit but step-by-step guide to intercourse.

As we walked out, her arm around my shoulder, I knew I would never be the same. My stomach churned, and how was I to tell if it was the loaded potato skins or the knowledge I’d just gained?

No dis-respect to my Mother- I’m sure she had a good reason to engage in such a life-altering conversation where and when she did. I recently asked her about it.

“Were you just bored that night and figured you could get a few laughs?”

She sighed. “I could have sat you down on our couch at home, turned off the television, and explained things to you with a video or a pamphlet or some ridiculous thing. It just felt so formal and uncomfortable. I figured if we had that conversation in public, in a Chili’s off I-84, over greasy appetizers, you’d be able to talk about sex wherever, whenever.”

A regular Dr. Ruth.

1) I will not bother with anyone who exclusively contacts me via text message. Grow a pair and dial.

2) I will not accept booty calls…unless they’re on my terms.

3) I will not drink any form of liquor under an unrecognizable brand.

4) I will not agonize over anyone nor worth agonizing over.

5) I will not feel guilty for indulging in said agonizing.

6) I will not wonder “what if?” and wait for things to happen, instead committing to taking matters into my own hands.

7) I will not waste time politely conversing with people at bars that I don’t care to know.

8) I will not buy cheap bras.

9) I will not allow myself to dwell on people from my past that didn’t make me happy anyway.

10) And finally, I will assume, until proven otherwise, that I can have anything or anyone I desire.

A New Year brings a new outlook. The ball has dropped and I have a new set of them that ensure no regrets and no dull moments in 2012.

So I raise a glass to all of you: Here’s to raising our standards.

1. Male in question goes through the traditional pursuit process with several successful dates
2. He expresses increasing interest
3. He suddenly and inexplicably drops off the face of the earth
4. He returns out of the blue weeks/months later

The first time I experienced this disappearing act I thought it was completely bizarre, and was even more floored when I received random texts and calls from him after 2 months of no attempt at contact. Had he been abducted by aliens for a short time and re-placed on planet earth? Had he undergone a temporary partial lobotomy and then reversed it? Or had he simply forgotten about me until something reminded him of me again?

Nick did everything right from the get-go. He took me to dinner at my now favorite tapas restaurant and somewhere in-between pitchers of sangria I knew he was a keeper. He had a spectacular sense of humor, didn’t take himself too seriously, and seemed genuinely more interested in hearing about me than talking about himself. We walked through the park and he kissed me, saying “I’m sorry, I told myself I’d wait until we got to your door but I couldn’t.” You can cringe, but it was undeniably adorable. On our second date we went to Tavern on the Water, where the conversation was even better. After dinner, we walked along the docks and made out near the boats. I had a night-cap at his apartment in the North End and he insisted on getting me a cab home. That week, he consistently texted me and even walked me home from work one night. I was straight with him from the second date that I didn’t intend on sleeping with him yet, and he had no problem with it. “It’s better that way,” he said. “But I’m sure it’ll be great,” with a grin.

And then…he vanished. We tried to make plans, none of which worked out because he was in and out of town for weddings, work, etc. I made an attempt at getting in touch with him when he got back to the city and he always responded, but never attempted to make a date to see me. I gave up, assuming I’d hear from him once things calmed down for him at his job- but he never did. Almost two months later, I saw him from afar at a local bar and avoided him, furious that he fucked with my head like that. That night, I got a text message at 2 AM “Where are you?” And the next night, 2 AM like clockwork, “What are you up to?”

I didn’t know whether to be amused or pissed. I politely told him that if he wanted to see me, he could call me and ask me out properly since a drunk booty call at 2 AM really isn’t my style. He never responded.

Then, a month later, I received a phone-call at 2 AM. So he had listened- except for the fact that the phone-call was at 2:43 AM. This guy had balls.

Incredulous, I texted all of my girlfriends immediately- and none of them seemed as shocked as I was. Apparently, they were jaded by this disappearing act as they had all experienced it before. “Classic case of wanting what he can’t have,” Kay said, “Idiot.” “That actually makes total sense,” Allyson said, “I’m not surprised at all.” How was this lunacy so understandable?

And then it hit me. It was something he said on our first date- “I can’t casually date people. If I’m dating someone, it’s because I see it going somewhere real, and I’m in it for the long haul. I can casually hook up, but not date.” From the very beginning of his courtship, Nick had filed me under “Girlfriend.” I was the girl you take out to nice dinners, take it slow, walk home from work, offer to help move her boxes, etc. He went through all the typical steps of pursuit, and then he fucked up. He dropped the ball, and he knew it. Feeling ashamed that he didn’t make more of an effort to keep it going, he retreated to his man cave and neglected to call or text me, figuring he had blown it. Thus he thought he’d give the whole thing one last ditch effort and shove me into the hook-up compartment at the hopes of at least getting laid out of it.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that men compartmentalize their lives. If he’s filed you away under girlfriend, you’ll know based on the first few dates- and if he hasn’t, you definitely won’t be going out to nice dinners that end in polite, respectful goodbyes. He will order you a fourth martini without asking and aggressively pursue the removal of your clothes.

But when it comes to dating, numbers can make “semi-attractive” or “better than average” far more measurable. For example, 6’2 in a suit might be a 10 from the back, but when he turns around he’s a 4. Or, as was recently observed at a holiday wine mixer by the insatiable Kate, while he may be a 9 in profile, he’s a 3 dead-on. If he’s a 10 in personality and a 6 in looks, added together and averaged out he equates to a solid 8. Numbers can, in fact, be exceptionally entertaining- and useful! Who knew?

Which brings me to the point system: we all work on this system, whether we know it or not. John remembered your dog’s birthday? Points for John! Mike made breakfast in bed? Points for Mike!

Julius resisted the trap when you asked him which of your friends is the hottest and said he didn’t notice? Points for Julius! He scored!

And conversely, Greg offers you a lukewarm Bud Lite from his back pocket instead of just buying you a drink at the bar? Major point deduction. That’s actually appalling. I suggest you remove Greg from your life as soon as possible.

And if only it all evened out. If only the equation left us with a solid number we could understand. But life isn’t that simple, folks, and we’re constantly learning new quirks about the people in our lives, which may add or subtract points, depending. Without further ado, I’ll walk you through one such confusing circumstance…

Let X= Josh, a universally attractive male.

“I just returned from London, lived there for a year on business.” +20 points

“Notting Hill? I’ve seen it a million times!” -15 points

“Oh, no thank you, I don’t drink.” -30 points (sorry)

“Back in college, when I played Varsity ice hockey…” +25 points

“Can’t get enough of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond.’ My favorite show.” -15 points

“I have a cat. That’s him in my profile picture!” -20 points

“Vegetarian? No, in fact, I pride myself on turning my veg friends carnivorous…” +20 points

“I only got in a fight once. I punched a guy at Wonderbar because he was harassing a female friend of mine.” +30 points

“You’re from Connecticut? Oh, I’m sorry…” -20 points

“I don’t really watch sports.” -20 points

“Friday night? I’m trying to remember…Oh, that’s right, I was playing World of Warcraft…” -15 points

Assuming that everyone starts at a completely neutral position of 50 points…

X+20-15-30+25-15-20+2-+30-20-20-15= 10 points. Ouch.

OK, I’ll throw the guy 10 points because on his way back from the bathroom he snagged me a mini-slider…

"Two Women at a Bar" - Pablo Picasso, 1902

I have a confession. Thanks to my grandparents’ incessant playing of a certain tape on long car rides when I was a child, I have Waylon Jennings‘ ”Lookin for Love” completely memorized. It’s nothing short of agonizing.

If I may…

I’ve spent a lifetime looking for you
Single bars and good time lovers, never true
Playing a fools game, hoping to win
Telling those sweet lies and losing again.

I was looking for love in all the wrong places
Looking for love in too many faces

The point of all this, of course, is that every weekend, at least one girl I know is primed and ready to continue the seemingly endless “manhunt” at various bars around the city. Statistically, the majority of long term relationships begin either through your work or at school. Relationships that begin at a bar last an average of one month, and only 8-10% lead to marriage. Which is not to say we’re all antsy to get married, but one month is pretty pathetic. How else are we supposed to meet someone?

I present to you…the right places:

1. “Networking” organizations: It’s always beneficial to network. I’ve gone to events around Boston never intending to meet anyone who had similar interests and ended up with great contacts for jobs…and moreover, they’re usually swarming with cute, passionate young professionals.

2. The Apple Store: See previous love letter.

3. Shows: For Boston ladies, Darryl’s in the South End has a Reggae Night, The Beehive has blues on Sundays, Wally’s is always packed with Jazz aficionados, and you can take your pick of any Somerville or Cambridge music venue. Whatever city you live in, you can find a show that plays music you like, and it’s a perfect conversation starter for that adorable patron (or musician!)

4. House Parties- I wish I was kidding, but the best luck I’ve had has often been by meeting people through friends, particularly when they throw a soiree at their apartments. It makes the whole number-exchange less awkward (because you can do so under the guise of friendship) and you have someone to vouch for the fact that they’re not a lunatic (mutual friends). So organize a party and insist that everyone bring at least one friend from another circle!

5. Sports bar: This is the one exception to the “bar” rule. I’m not saying you can’t meet a guy at a bar, but don’t have that expectation. If you’re going to a bar on a Friday, go to be with your girlfriends and have fun. Better yet, go to a sports bar on a Thursday to watch the game around happy hour, and in no time you’ll be chatting with strangers.

There’s no science to this, but Jennings was on to something. The places we’ve been taught to look may not be the most conducive to something that’s lasting. So by all means, keep bar-hopping- but for the love of God, don’t expect to find your future husband there.

However, for the sake of this confused breed of 20-something male and every woman who has dated him, I’ll outline a few blanket statements on the topic:

1. Real men can order white wine with confidence when the mood or meal is right, but will never, under any circumstances order an Apple-tini.
2. Real men also have a “go to” standby cocktail so as never to be the dbag at the bar hemming and hawing indecisively. They know yours by heart and make sure you never have an empty glass in hand.
3. Real men worry about their Mothers, and talk to them on a relatively regular basis.
4. Real men will never invite you back to their apartment unless it’s presentable.
5. Real men have at least two or three things they can cook well, just in case they need to impress you. They make make these meals in the first few months of dating and run out of options, so you better grow to love them.
6. Real men spend time putting themselves together, but never more than you.
7. Real men do not “diet.” They may attempt to make better decisions about their eating, but it will never include the complete avoidance of carbs, the usage of artificial sweeteners, or the counting of calories.
8. Real men call. Period. At least in the beginning.
9. Real men never tell the waiter “We’re all set,” when asked about dessert without consulting you. They look at you for the cue.
10. Real men have had a dog, currently have a dog, or eventually would like to have a dog. I dated a guy who fit none of these and I immediately dis-trusted him.

How blasé of me to think that I could just wing it on a case by case basis. Particularly as someone who adores plans, order, and strategies that lead to semi-predictable outcomes, how naïve I was to think there wasn’t some sort of greater organization to how I am meant to behave in order to get what I want.

“You split the check?” My boss asks, clearly horrified. “I don’t even acknowledge the bill’s presence. I don’t make eye contact!”

And that’s not the only rule I’ve broken.

“It lasted how long? Oh jesus christ, that’s just asking for trouble. You never let a first date go on for more than two hours.”

It’s come to my attention that there are two approaches to the dating world: the school that plays the game and follows “the rules” (all mocking aside, this is an actual book title) and the school that thinks it’s all a bunch of BS.

At 23, I’ve gone back and forth between the two methods, constantly searching for the answer as to how I’m going to get what I want. And yet, as of late, I have found myself burnt out from it all. Constantly attempting to avoid seeming over-eager, wondering if I should wait one more day before calling, or if I should call at all, timing my text messages so as to give the impression of being busy, is downright exhausting. Tragically, I realize that I only apply this behavioral rigidity to my own situations, and if a friend asks if she should contact someone she’s interested in, without hesitation I say “For God’s sakes, call him!” From a neutral, logical standpoint, why shouldn’t anyone? But when it comes to our own personal lives, we’re self-protecting by nature, and so in order to circumvent exposing ourselves too much, we employ a set of rules.

While getting my hair colored recently, my gorgeous (read: jennifer Love Hewitt doppleganger) stylist pouted as she weaved foils into my hair. “I don’t know what to do,” she explained, “I met him a few months ago, and I’ve only seen him once since. He told my friend he thought I was cute.” “I don’t understand what the issue is,” I said in-between sips of their complimentary cappuccino. “He’s clearly into you. You want to go out with him. So ask him out. Done and done.”

“But…” she trailed off. And instantly I knew.

“But you want him to call you.”

She smiled. Exactly.

A friend of mine recently faced a similar dilemma with an ex of hers who is suddenly back on the market. They agreed to meet up for drinks, but hadn’t made specific plans for a date.

“So pick a night.”

“But…”

Again, what a fool I was. “But you want to see how long it takes him to make the effort.”

“Exactly.”

How satisfying it is when they finally call. How incredibly validating- you wanted to call them but you held out, and see- they eventually reached out to you! You are desirable! You are worth pursuing!

And yet, as alluring and addicting as it is to enforce these rules and see that you can win, if we treated everything in our lives that way I am certain that we would rarely get what we want. Do you really think the job of your dreams is going to come knocking on your door with an offer? Is the European vacation you’ve wanted forever going to fund and plan itself?

The most satisfying thing in the world is ultimately getting what you want, regardless of how you get it. When I think of all the time I’ve wasted waiting around for some guy to make a move, or over analyzing what to text him, it disturbs me to think of how I could have better used my time.

If I hadn’t let a certain first date go on for longer than two hours back in October, I would have thought the guy was perfect. But because I let it drag on to after-dinner drinks, I soon realized he was a dud who had no musical, culinary, or general taste whatsoever and who had a penchant for being stark naked whether his present company liked it or not (see “The Naked Man.”) By disregarding a rule, I prevented a huge waste of time. And if I hadn’t split the check with my last boyfriend, he probably would have taken me for a presumptuous brat since I found out several dates in that he was in-between jobs.

The people who succeed in life are the people who know what they want and don’t sit around waiting for it to come to them.

If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that games are for twelve-year-olds, and that rules were made to be broken. And on that note, I have a phone call to make…