Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

Over the years I’ve watched many friends get breast augmentation and breast reduction surgeries. Friends that didn’t need any work done in the first place were having their breasts done just because everyone else was.

I’ve always been less than confident with the size of my breasts. Having small breasts in a world where bigger is always better can be a struggle at times. I go back and forth on the idea of having surgery, but in the end always opting to remain silicone free.

I’ve always had small breasts. Always. I was teased throughout junior high school and high school because of the small size. On a daily basis, I heard that I was a carpenters dream– flat as a board and never been nailed. Every single variation of the phrase and many others has been engrained in my head forever.

As a teenager, I tried everything to increase bust size, from bust increasing exercises to spreading an opened can of green beans on my bare chest. Yes, really. I overheard two girls in the junior high school locker room discussing how that had helped fill their bras out. I had nothing to lose, so I tried it. It did, however, screw up my mother’s dinner plans when she noticed a key ingredient to her casserole was missing. I lied and told her one of my brothers had eaten them. To this day she thinks my brother Ben loves green beans.

I survived those formative years and somehow managed to come out relatively unscathed. So what if my breasts aren’t a double d cup. Isn’t there some truth to the saying, “more than a handful is a waste?”

And as per usual just when I start feel good about myself things have a way of going awry.

I found myself dating a breast man–One who enjoyed women who have more to offer in that department than I do… a lot more. Over the following year subtle hints were dropped that made me consider having a breast augmentation surgery. I tossed the idea around for months before mentioning it to him. Needless to say, he was ecstatic. He even offered to pay for half. Which, still to this day, seems odd; I don’t feel comfortable with someone else owning one of my breasts. After researching the technique and choices for implants I chickened out. I think part of it was that I realized I would be having the surgery for him, not me. And I’ve never been the type of girl who makes life changes for someone else. Especially a man I’m dating.

If someone doesn’t love my body the way it is, they shouldn’t be dating me. Later when we ended our relationship I was very happy I didn’t have the surgery.

At the end of the day, it’s about being comfortable with the skin you’re in. And though, I’m not always comfortable with my body, I’m getting there. One padded bra at a time.

It’s February, which means time for anyone who is single to scramble in hopes of securing a Valentine’s Day date. The stress is enough to turn me into the typical bitter anti-Valentine’s Day spinster.
If I didn’t love the holiday shopping so much I’d have booted the holiday years ago. Valentine’s Day and Breast Cancer Awareness month are by far my favorite color oriented times of the year. It’s no secret I love pink. Growing up with four brothers left me grasping anything girly I could get my hands on– thus developing my lifetime love of the color.

I’d considered having a single girl party, but all my girlfriends have found relationships over the past few months putting a kink into that plan. Perhaps the best thing to do, in this case, is boycott the holiday altogether. I certainly can’t ignore it. I love the conversation heart candy too much. So boycotting the date portion of the evening will have to do.

I’ve come up with four ‘alternative to a date’ plans to choose from for my evening:

1. Staying home and watching Lost. This isn’t any different than most Thursday nights, but to spice it up a bit I’ll crank the heat in my apartment to 85 degrees, wear tattered island clothes and only eat fruit for dinner. Watching the lives of this cast will make me suddenly appreciate my own boyfriend or not.

2. Force Ask, my friend, Arlo to bake me a heat-shaped chocolate cake. I’ll certainly need the anti-depressive qualities of the chocolate while I spend the evening reading old love letters, eating cake, and wondering where my love life went wrong.

3. Go out to dinner alone for the sole purpose of people watching. I would entertain myself during dinner by creating an internal dialogue making fun of the cheesy couples in hopes of making myself feel better about not being apart of one. Of all the plans, I see this one backfiring and resulting with me going home in tears wishing I had a boyfriend.

4. Take a road trip to Hardup, Utah. I would search for some sort of gift shop with a clothing line containing pithy sayings using the word ‘hardup’, or at least postcards bearing the town name to mail my girlfriends. After hearing about this alleged town for years, it’s time to find out if it really exists. What better day than Valentine’s Day?

However I end up spending my evening, I’ll try and add a little humor to a night that makes so many of us feel badly about our single status. I don’t need one specific day to make me feel badly for not having a boyfriend; I have a mother who makes me feel badly about that nearly every single day.

The Yuppie strikes again–click here to read this week’s “The Dating Years.”

Click to read the newest column of “The Dating Years.”

Sundance, blah, blah blah… By now, I’m sure most local residents are exhausted of hearing about this year’s Sundance Film Festival. First, it takes over our local news and radio and now, sadly, my column. Too damn bad. I’m writing about it anyway.

I’m an avid film buff and have been attending the festival for years. Every year there seems to be an underlying theme to the festival. This year, in my opinion, the theme is relationships past. This theme was pervasive in a screening I attended, A Complete History of my Sexual Failures. Maybe the theme could also be found in another film I attended, Megane. However, I wouldn’t know since it was in Japanese and the man in front of me had such big hair I couldn’t see the subtitles very well. Out of complete boredom I created my own story line, one that didn’t exactly fit under my proposed Sundance theme.

A Complete History of my Sexual Failures chronicles one man’s journey to interview all the women who have dumped him over the years and through the cathartic process receive some sort of closure. This was done in hopes of curing his erectile dysfunction. Yes, erectile dysfunction. I’ve always hoped this wouldn’t pop up into one of my columns, but here it is. At least it has nothing to do with me!

The movie is British and by default brilliant. The man in the film, Chris Waitt, not only found the closure he and his penis so desperately needed, but somehow managed to gain a girlfriend in the process. The girlfriend attended the screening with him and took part in the Question and Answer period following the film. I had to admire a woman who didn’t seem to mind her boyfriend sharing the intimidate details of his sex life with the world, but at the same time was thrilled not to be in her position. Of course the fact Waitt doesn’t brush his hair throughout the entire movie didn’t exactly make him prime datable material for me.

There seems to be a lot of past relationships and self-analysis going on lately–first High Fidelity, then Scott Baio is 45 and Single, and now this movie. I find the idea intriguing. Luckily I don’t have to go off in search of all the men I used to date; three of them happen to be attending movies with me this year. In all fairness I guess only two were real relationships. The other was just a guy who offered a pretty mouth to stick my tongue in.

Okay so the easy part of this catharsis is done: finding my exes. Now what? Do I ask them where I went wrong? Do I ask them to list some of my fault in hope or correcting them? Or do I just ask why the hell our relationship didn’t work out? As I sat and pondered this, I wondered if perhaps asking all these questions would cause more damage than actual help. After all, I’ve been fortunate enough to remain friends with these men. Do I really want to discuss our history and risk the offhand that talking about the past will bring negative emotions to the surface? I’ve worked really hard to make these friendships work, the last thing I need to do is sabotage them because of some silly thought brought up by a Sundance movie.

Besides, do I really want to know what’s wrong with me? Logically at that point I probably should do something about it. And frankly therapy really isn’t in my budget right now. Maybe next year…

I’ve always been one to take things slow. Case in point, I’m 32 and still in college. I like to space things out in my life. This includes dating– especially online dating.

On average, when meeting men online I like to exchange email for a couple of weeks before meeting them face-to-face. A few friends have pointed out how much time and emotion I waste doing this. Therefore, I decided the next time a man suggested we meet right away, I would agree.

After only one day of emailing a particular man we agreed to meet for coffee. He filled the prerequisites of having a job and hair, so I figured he couldn’t be all that bad.

Five minutes into the casual ‘date’ I was contemplating sending out an SOS text to all my friends begging them for an emergency call. Though, out of guilt, I didn’t. Sitting on a hard wooden seat, I tried to carry on a conversation with this man whom I knew I could never date. Sometimes you just know. Sure, we had quite a few things in common, but in person he just irritated me. It was all rather disappointing.

I sat there being interrogated by this man and found myself not wanting to share any personal information. That’s never a good sign. I answered all his questions as ambiguously as I could. This wasn’t good enough for him and he continued trying to needle more information out of me. (Note to all men: if the woman you are with doesn’t want to answer your questions, take the hint and STOP ASKING HER!)

Still looking for an out, I saw a friend of a friend walk by and waved at him. To the untrained observer it looked like the typical “hey, what’s up” wave, but really it was a plea to be saved. If only he could have thrown me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and run like hell.

In all fairness, my date seemed like a nice enough man: well-educated, handsome, and amazing eyes. Without a doubt, he’s man worthy of meeting the parents. Of course you’d have to drive separately to avoid listening to him laugh at everything that comes out of his mouth.

Forty-five of the longest minutes of my life passed and we finally parted ways. I walked out knowing I never wanted to see this man again, let alone date him. I’m nearly positive he felt the same way. I’m sure I came across seeming cold and uninterested. I felt like a failure for wasting his time and mine and promised myself next time to have a phone conversation before meeting. He had, in fact, suggested this, but I’m not really a phone person so I opted to just meet first. I have no one but myself to blame.

If dating makes me want to be a teenage girl and cut myself in the bathroom to numb the emotional pain, perhaps it’s time to take a break for a while. I’d consider taking time off, but I have another coffee date in an hour. Here’s to hoping this one is better!