A long time ago, there was a young man who posed the question: “If I have two bunnies, and we put them together in a bunny love shack, how many bunnies will they exponentially breed over a year?”
Ok, so that’s not verbatim, but the mathematics behind it is important. I know you don’t spend your days contemplating mathematical equations and red hot rabbit sex, but stay with me.
The word problem of the breeding bunnies was formed by Leonardo of Pisa, otherwise known as Fibonacci. At least, he is the 13th century guy who was given credit for naming the sequence of numbers that would answer the question
To break it down, in the Fibonacci sequence you add two numbers in the sequence and the following number is their sum. Ex: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, etc. etc.
I’m actually terrible at math, but in this instance, I have developed my own mathematical theory on dating: The Fibonacci Dating Sequence.
Essentially, you are at any given point in your dating life the sum of the previous parts—if you are able to take the lessons learned from those experiences and add them together. (And yes, the 1 is repeated in this sequence. We’re all young and stupid once. We get a free pass.)
The following date in the sequence—with say, a complete sociopath—combines all of the previous experiences leaving Amanda with the knowledge that she doesn’t like to be peed on and is not a fan of going out with sociopaths who lied about being engaged.
Instead of a dating learning curve, I have a Fibonacci pyramid of dating knowledge that can only culminate in one thing: me meeting someone who likes decent beer, has a functional bladder and has no lusty feelings for fish.
Yeah, there are flaws in my theory. There are people who date the same type of asshole over and over (and over) again. For them, I think there’s a missing sequence that they aren’t adding to their knowledge base. That would make it more like algebra.
X + halitosis = bad date + X
In this situation, bad breath may not seem so bad. But when X=melted all of your spoons to freebase, that would constitute a bad date. But if you forget the value of X and only remember the bad breath you get stuck in a spiral. The bad breath being the deal breaker, the spoon melting could happen again, perhaps with a different iteration such as a pesky little meth habit.
Since I have a deep loathing of algebraic equations, I’ve decided to stick with my original math dating sequence and remember the bad so it doesn’t get repeated.
Lesson learned: The most important part of bad dates is the lesson learned.
Oh, Valentine’s Day. Usually, I’m somewhat saddened by the lack of flowers being delivered to my desk. This year, I’ve decided to look on the bright side. Valentine’s Day is not a day to wallow in the pathetic wasteland that is my love life. It’s an opportunity to steal Valentine’s Day chocolates from my coworkers.
“What? There was a giant box of Godiva on your desk earlier? I have no idea where that went. This chocolate on my face is, uh, Hershey’s. . . from the vending machine.”
Do they really need all that fat and sugar when they get to go out to a calorie-laden meal later? No. I’m saving them from heart disease. They should thank me.
I’ve also found Valentine’s Day to be useful in discounting the calories from my stolen goods because, frankly, if I’m not getting any affection later on, I at least deserve a damn piece of chocolate.
And later, after I have consumed a bottle of very special Barefoot Pinot Grigio by myself, I will take the time to call or text all of my friends to tell them how very special they are to me and how much I really love them . . . and to reiterate that I’m not just saying that because I’m drunk.
Lesson learned: Regardless of the greeting card industrial complex that orchestrated this holiday, it’s always good to celebrate love. Especially your love for wine.
Earlier this week I received an email from Infant Brit. We haven’t been in contact since we broke up three years ago after he decided to give my headboard a golden shower. I guess, in my memory, I’d romanticized our relationship a bit. Other than “the incident,” was he really all that bad?
So I responded that I was doing well and asked how he was. And then he sent me this: “How’s your love life? I thought you’d be married with kids by now.”
Oh, right, we broke up because he has no tact.
Then it came flooding back to me. He was just awful and really disturbingly dirty. Not dirty in a fun way, dirty in the physically disgusting way. For example, one evening he was in my apartment and had to use the facilities. After a fair amount of time he came rushing out asking me what to do.
He had clogged the toilet.
Honestly, I don’t care if he, or any other guy, clogs the toilet. The plunger is right there, take care of it. In fact, I don’t even need to know about it. Alas, Infant Brit was not quite good at taking care of these ordinary things. He claimed that he had no idea how to fix a clogged toilet, and instead, added more toilet paper and overflowed said toilet. Apparently, water pressure and the mechanics of modern plumbing don’t exist in England. Or in his apartment in San Clemente.
Then he proceeded to tell me this was my fault.
How was this my fault? Because it was my toilet, I must have clogged it well before he spent half an hour in there.
I was left to plunge it myself, and then clean up the mess.
Lesson learned: This lesson is for guys, always know how to plunge a toilet. (And never make a girl you’ve just started dating clean up both your urine and your feces, at least not in the same week.)