“Thanks doll. Me wuv you,” the text message read.

I read it again. Then I scooted the phone across the table to my friend The Captain. He read it and spit sushi out of his mouth.

The man on the other end of the offending phone is not and never has been my boyfriend. We went on one date. One. His message confuses me. Why is he telling me this? Why is he saying it like that!?

It’s been a long time since anyone told me “I love you” in a romantic sense. But no one, ever, has said or written it in baby talk. “Me wuv you” is like a bad car accident — I couldn’t stop re-reading that text. Thinking about it. Telling everyone about it. Trying to figure out what it meant and why it was sent.

Scott Halzman is a professor at Brown University in the department of psychology and human behavior.

“I think the purpose of baby talk is to protect the sender from rejection or embarrassment,” he says.

I see his point, but after one date? I’m concerned that this guy thinks I find baby talk sexy, or is perhaps confusing me with his 6-year-old child, or, or, or? I tell Dr. Halzman about the sappy text message and how it perplexes me.

Halzman agrees, “People look forward to sex with adults, not infants, so baby talk can dampen the sex drive.”

Talk about an understatement.

I want to be loved, but not “wuved.”

— Leah M. Charney
Contact Charney at lcharney@womensmag.com and www.datingandotherbadhabits.com.

Photo by Amanda Tipton, Koroko Photography.

My eyes are big and brown and haven’t changed as I’ve aged. They are still inquisitive and rimmed with long lashes. I don’t happen to think they’re my best feature, but the man in the hat thinks they’re beautiful.

A few weeks later another man — a very married photographer friend — declares randomly, “You know what’s the prettiest part of you? Your bottom lip.”

My bottom lip? But the man in the hat said my eyes.

“Your eyes are pretty, too,” the photographer says, pausing as though studying me like one of his compositions, “But your bottom lip is gorgeous.”

Beauty is indeed a thing no one can absolutely agree upon. For a guy trying to pick me up in a dark bar it was the eyes. For a friend whose whole life is art it’s the bottom lip. I’m curious to know what men I’ve actually dated find beautiful about me.

Since most of my ex-boyfriends become my best girlfriends I ask them. It feels awkward, like I’m fishing for an unauthorized confidence boost. But I really don’t know how else to get answers.

What is beautiful about me?

“It was the way you talked,” says the clever musician. “It was silly, eccentric. That’s what I found attractive.”

The way I talk? I love to talk and am often concerned I’m saying too much and hijacking conversations. But upon first meeting, at a time when he knew very little of or about me, the way I gesticulate wildly and tell animated, detailed stories about nothing was not only interesting, but apparently beautiful.

I unleash the question upon the rugby player, a Greek statue of a man who doesn’t skip a beat.

“You happen to life, you don’t let it happen to you,” he claims before expounding. “You influence — impact, I think would be a better way to put it.”

And that’s beautiful?

“I think so,” he says seriously, almost daring me to accept the compliment.

Like many women I have a hard time taking a compliment. I think it’s written somewhere in the girl handbook. But it was pointed out to me that defining beauty isn’t about conceit. Instead it is the measure of confidence.

It was much easier to ask the question than to accept the answers, or worse yet (gasp!) answer the question for myself.

So, deep breath, here we go:

I love my breasts and my bottom and those pouty lips, too. I have hair that belongs in a shampoo commercial. Sometimes I snort when I laugh and when I smile I scrunch up my entire face. But those are not my most beautiful qualities. No. Not even close.

I am kind, generous. I am a fiercely loyal friend. I believe in the possibilities. I live for the journey. I am stubborn. Defiant. Silly. Serious. I am a walking contradiction, always and never the same.

And it took the men who know me most intimately to remind me of all this. The men who have seen me both all dolled up and completely dressed down. The men who have seen me fragile and scared. The men who after dating me still wanted to be my friends. They have answered the mysterious question.

My eyes and lips are nice enough. But my character is luminous.

— By Leah M. Charney
Contact Charney at LMCharney@gmail.com and www.datingandotherbadhabits.com.

I have no idea what she meant by that — unless she meant kisses should be small and nutty and taste awesome covered in chocolate. But since the woman spent her life writing about kisses, I’ll wager she knew a thing or two. I have not ever written about kisses until now, but I have done a fair amount of kissing in my time.

I am thankful for kisses. Kisses are small things, to be sure, but oh-so-important. I wouldn’t want to live my life without them. Life in single-girl-world means sometimes spending weeks or months without so much as a single peck.

There are different types of kisses and different types of kissers. A quick Google search of kissing will turn up hundreds of Web sites devoted to types and tips and how-to’s.

Think back to the best kisser you’ve ever known. Perhaps that person is your spouse, or a lost love of long ago; or maybe the best kisser was that stranger on New Year’s whom you spent a mere two minutes with. It doesn’t matter who your best kiss was with, but I’ll bet you are thankful for that moment.
The kiss is sometimes a thing we look most forward to. My best guy friend recently had a first date with a hot Boulder doctor. The date went great, until the kissing part came.

Photo by Flickr user e.esders.

“Maybe you’re a good kisser, and she’ll be a fast learner,” I said, trying to comfort him during our post-date pep talk.

“I dunno,” he responded. “It’s real bad. It’s like a horse eating an apple.”

Ouch.

I’ve also known bad kissers. I’ve shared moments with “washing machine” kissers who slobbered all over my face and chin. I dated a boy in high-school who was a “chicken” kisser — he’d lunge forward with quick, piercing pecks, like my lips were bits of corn feed. Then there are the “vacuum” kissers, who Hoover through the mouth with such force I’ve feared for the safety of my teeth. Still, I am just as thankful for those bad kisses because they taught me to appreciate the good ones.

I have learned how I felt about someone just in the way I kiss him, and have in turn learned his feelings for me. A few years ago, I was dating a Perry Farrell look-a-like who unexpectedly kissed me goodbye by planting a soft, sweet kiss. On my forehead. In one motion, he had clarified our relationship — it was going nowhere — and less than a week later he was gone from my life.
The kiss is something we often take for granted, until we miss it.

Take my friend, Ginger (not her real name). When we were in college at CU, there were young men to be found at parties every weekend. Recently she recounted the tale of one such party. It had gotten late and was time to go.

“But I haven’t kissed anyone yet!” she bemoaned.

“Will someone make out with Ginger so we can leave?” her male bodyguard and buddy pleaded to the party.
Cue the line of men. Six or seven of them.

“So who’d you pick?” I asked.

“Oh, I kissed all of them,” she said, “And the last one was the best kisser. I was annoyed I didn’t start there.”
She paused. “I miss college sometimes,” she said.

But it’s not the parties she misses. It’s the opportunity for kisses.

– Leah M. Charney
Charney is sassy yet classy and always up for a good kiss. Contact Charney at lcharney@womensmag.com and www.datingandotherbadhabits.com.

Photo by Jessica Gronewold

When Bob Dylan tells you it’s time to let go of a relationship, it’s serious. Bob said! That means I have to do it.

I know I’m in trouble when pop songs start speaking to me. Which is to say I’m in trouble a lot.

But specifically, Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” might be the greatest song when trying to figure out how to get over a guy. When he opens with, “It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe. It don’t matter, anyhow,” I know he means it.

It’s the kind of advice my best friends would give. Except by the time I get to Bob, I’ve usually stopped talking to my gals about whatever guy has taken over my brain. If I have nothing new to say, my friends aren’t going to be able to provide any new advice or insight.
Yes, I know it’s silly that I can’t get past it (whatever it is).

I know he wasn’t that great.

I’m aware I’ll meet someone better.

These things are true, and when our friends tell us these things over and over, they’re just trying to help. But when no amount of rational thought will allow me to move on, it’s time to put down the ice cream (or in my case, the bacon) and pull out the big guns. I go to my music collection. Sometimes it’s to be with my fellow brokenhearted and emote all over the place. Other times it’s the loudest, angriest, rockinest thing I can find.

I know music is an important part of the get-it-over process for a lot of folks, but I decide to consult the experts.

Ryan Stubbs is the guitarist/bassist/violinist for the Denver band Everything Absent Or Distorted. They’re a band full of boys who sing songs about girls. He and Bob aren’t good friends, but he’s got his own tunes to kick him out of break-up funk.

“‘Soon Enough’ by The Constantines has helped me,” this rocker explains. “The lyrics are great.”
I check into the song and find out quickly what Stubbs is referencing. When the Canadian band wails, “Soon enough, work and love will make a man out of you,” it reminds that heartbreak is key to growing and moving on.

I call Sam Hill while she’s on the air at radio station Alice 105.9 FM. I figure she’s an expert since she listens to pop songs all day for a living. When I tell her about my conversations with Bob she seems to understand. I ask if she and Bob have had conversations, too?

“Well, ‘Purple Rain’ makes me cry. So when I listen to ‘Purple Rain’ and I don’t cry anymore, then I know I’m OK,” she confides.

I try to have a conversation with Prince, but he’s just not as good a listener. So back to Bob I go.

And just when I think about calling what’s-his-name to seek out answers or further punishment, Bob chides,

“We never did too much talking anyway. So don’t think twice, it’s all right.”

Yeah, Bob. You know what? You’re right.

— By Leah M. Charney
Charney is a sassy yet classy music lover who still believes in mix-tapes. Contact her at lmcharney@gmail.com or www.datingandotherbadhabits.com.