Getting in touch with my inner crazy, I recently forever spurned Mr Grey, for real this time. Remember? The shmuck that inspired to write high literature such as The Grey Relationship, My Dating Ego, Please Don’t Be Nice, and Grey Grey Grey. Yeah, see theoretically that ended a long time ago. That was, in essence, a lie, since we continued to see each other ‘as friends,’ which come to find out (shocker!) doesn’t work at all.

At least it didn’t work for me. My current theory is that there’s no way to be friends with someone you used to like in a ‘Model Behavior way’ unless you’ve moved on to the extent that you’re so sickeningly happy with someone else that the Ex couldn’t penetrate your aura of calm with a industrial strength machete. Needlessly to say, I’m a long road away from being a female relationship Buddha. In fact right now, I’m more likely to be wielding a machete myself. I’d come home from ‘friendly’ nights out with the former object of my affection and realize I was:

1. Alone
2. Angry
3. Miserably unhappy.

Not while we were out. No, in chaos of going out there was still the mirage of hope that this story might finish somewhere over the rainbow. It’s rather the moment I entered my humble residence after another failed fantasy sequence (and a ginormous waste of time) that I’d get irrevocably sad. Seeing him was essentially a fail proof way to make me more and more like someone who needs a straightjacket. Because even if during the day I could recognize that I didn’t even want him, the minute you dimmed the lights, gave us some wine, and turned on Ministry of Sound, I’d get overcome with (as lame as it sounds) nostalgia. Nostalgia for what exactly is unclear since we were never technically happy in the first place.

Plan A in coping with this problem was to pull a disappearing act. Never again take his calls, emails, texts, block his number (if only the tech freaks who created the iPhone took the time to include this break up feature) etc. I figured I’d be a master at this since men do it to me all the time. Unfortunately, I’m too soft hearted and found it eventually impossible not to respond to him. So after coming home ready to star in one of those ‘where does your depression hurt’ commercials for the ten zillionth time, I knew a drastic course of action had to be taken. I couldn’t resist his ‘friendly’ advances (which ultimately made me suicidal) so my only choice was to cut off this masochistic game at the source.

So after splitting a cab home and saying goodnight in the happiest of spirits, I sent what I like to call the ‘Death Text’ (which is sort of like the emotional equivalent of the evil Death Star in Star Wars). It’s an inevitably melodramatic and over-the-top text message that says something like, “I’m begging you please, never contact me again, EVER!” Because here’s my new analogy, guys:

Women are like a house. Get a realtor, look around, but if you don’t want to buy and move in, GET OUT. It’s not fair to live in the house when ‘you’re in town’ or when ‘you feel like it’ or to rent out a room when ‘it’s convenient to you’ if the girl has serious feelings for you. If you don’t want to invest and start a mortgage, get the Hell away and let the poor house go back on the market. Because if you’re a part time tenant the piece of real estate has zero hope of finding a true owner. And that’s just cruel, whether you do it under the guise of ‘friendship’ or ‘business partners’ or ‘hook up buddies’ is irrelevant. Be the bigger person and find a house you actually want to move into. Or just wander the streets a homeless player with no place warm to sleep at night.

Now I’m not only equating my gender to property, it seems I’ve come full circle and am asking guys to do the disappearing act (the exact thing I dreaded in college). Further proof that women are irrational and crazy.

My new motto: “I’m crazy and I like it.”

Late on a weekday night, I found myself at my friend’s elegant New York apartment enjoying a cup of herbal tea after an utterly uninteresting night out. We’ll call my friend Rio because his background includes a decade long stay in Brazil, as well residence in several other South American countries. As we sunk into the sofa listening to Portuguese love songs we got to discussing (surprise surprise) the enigma that is male-female relationships.

“Describe sexy,” he prompted me.

I went on to pause, gather my thoughts and illustrate sexy as:

“Confident, independent, and strong.”

“Interesting,” he replied. “Because I’d describe sexy as vulnerable, dependant and warm.”

Thus ensued a conversation in which we dissected our theories about the difference between Italo-Latin and American love.

In a nutshell, Rio made the point that Brazilian woman are experts at being feminine – they’re used to relying on men. They constantly ask men to do things for them with the charm of a child and males relish in attending to their every need since it makes men feel ‘like the shit.’ Interesting, right? Because as girls growing up in America the mantra is that we can do everything ourselves, should strive for utter independence, and never rely on men for anything. Ever. To which Rio responded:

“You’re never going to keep a man like that. Okay, you’re never going to keep a Latin man like that. Men stick with the woman who makes him feel like he’s ‘the man.’ He wants you to ask him to do things for you.”

“Wouldn’t I be bothering him?”

“Are you kidding? If he loves you and can fulfill your needs that’ll be the high point of his day. That’s the feeling he’s going to crave and come back for: Validation of his worth.”

Me: “I guess that does explain why so many guys I like end up with stupid, silent, needy lapdog girlfriends.”

Rio: “Those girls aren’t as stupid as they look. They’ve learned to use their feminine vulnerability to keep men. Again, if I want someone independent who didn’t need me I could hang out with my co-workers. That isn’t what male-female relationships are about.”

“But don’t you want a best friend? An equal?”

“Best friend, yes. An equal…”

“OMG this so wrong.”

“No, no, no. You’re misunderstanding. Yes, an equal. But American women often seem so busy proving their independence that they miss out on the whole tango of love that’s about how men and women fundamentally need each other.”

“You just said ‘tango,’ didn’t you?”

“Why would I be interested in a woman who doesn’t need me?”

“I thought men liked the unattainable. That they like to chase things.”

“True. But once he’s got you, he doesn’t want to hear about other guys and how ‘independent’ of a superwoman you are.”

“So basically I gotta get vulnerable, when my life mission since puberty has been to never appear vulnerable.”

“Yeah. And get feminine.”

I gesture to my outfit, “I am feminine!”

“You look feminine. But you don’t act it. You’re so guarded.”

“Because men are assholes!”

“You came in here and just made yourself your own tea. You never even asked me if I wanted some.”

“You were in the other room. And since when do non-British guys like tea?”

“Being feminine means focusing on the five senses. Scent, smell, touch. Slow down! Enjoy life. Be caring like a mother, innocent and playful like a little girl.”

“Gross.” I stop to think, “I have no idea how to do that.”

“Americans get divorced cause they got it all wrong. Women are meant to be feminine. Embrace it. Use it in your work life too. You’ll get ahead and manipulate men even better. Doesn’t mean you aren’t smart.”

“Does this femininity project mean I can’t talk and make jokes? I mean, that’s a big part of my personality. I verbally run a mile a second.”

“Of course, be yourself. Although at least at the beginning, with women, less is more.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“You act the way you do right now and go to where you’re going on Brasil, not one guy is going to talk to you.”

“That would be tragic.”

“Cater. Ask him to do things for you. Play along. If he loves you, he’ll feel great accomplishing your tasks. He doesn’t pull through, means he’s not into you. Men will slay lions for the woman they love. They won’t make dinner reservations, but they’ll slay lions.”

“Okay. Let’s try: Rio, will you drive me to JFK when I leave next Monday?”

Rio: “Absolutely fucking not.”

Off my twisted face –

“The asking to do stuff doesn’t include airport transfers.”

Me: “Huh. Good to know.”

Yet another theory to stuff in my carry on.

Those who want to learn more should be directed to the simultaniously ingenious and ridiculous concept of wikiHow which actually has an article about how to be feminine. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t skim it.