Every generation is different and Generation Y (those born between 1978-1990) is no exception. We’re like Generation X on steroids. All the things that shaped Generation X: globalization & technology (Boeing 747), immediacy of information (internet), crumbling family structure (divorce) are reaching new heights. MTV has taught Generation Y to filter information at rapid pace and the iPhone not only gives us the power of google at our fingertips — we can take it with us in our pocket!

The prevailing parenting structure of Gen Yers had our elders letting us believe we could be anything we wanted to be. Many youth sports today incorporate a “no-cut policy“. We were winners if we just showed up for the game. People call it positive reinforcement. I call it bullshit.

The typical Gen Yer boy believes he’s the best thing since sliced bread. He’s a winner because he’s been told he’s special, different, and unique his whole life. And he probably is all of the above because his mother needed fertility drugs to help in his conception at age 35+. While growing up, he was coddled and cooed at as if he was the next Messiah. If I want to date him, I have to become Mary Magdalene. She’s the “penitent sinner” aka reformed whore, and the questionable wife of Jesus.

That must be why some girls dress like whores. They haven’t quite figured out the reform part yet.

A few months after my last major breakup, I received some blunt advice “Get back to your date weight.” I don’t think anyone would ever mistake me for a heifer, but somewhere in the span of the relationship I let myself go (a whole five pounds!). It sucks, because it’s usually the girls that put on weight after getting hitched.

I’m pretty lucky. For the most part my weight has been relatively stable through my adult years, and now that I’m sexy, single & ready to mingle, those five pounds somehow magically disappeared!

But the term “date weight” takes the form of many names. Among some girls it’s also known as the “Hey baby” weight. It’s different for every girl, but it’s the size & shape you achieve when random people on the street eye you once-over and yell “Hey baby!” Within San Francisco, the homeless like to use “Hey pretty lady…” because even the bums are classy like that.

For girls: tell me you’re a free-spirited bare-foot bohemian beauty. Or tell me you’re a straight-edged tattoo welding hipster who secretly wants to overthrow the government. Both versions tell me loads more than the alternative.

For boys: tell me you’re a cozy cable knit sweater snuggle by the fire and drinks hot chocolate kinda guy. It’s even okay to tell me you’re a label whorin’ striped shirt metro-confused individual. But tell me you care, or at least think about it.

I view my clothes as extension of my personality. It’s how I communicate to the world without saying a word. So, I was shocked into silence when a superior at work informed me that some of my outfits did not fall into “proper work attire”. I was clueless to her meaning so I asked for clarification, “Do you mean here (pointing to my chest), or here (think stripper-esque tramp stamp location)? Without directly answering my question she said, “I think it’s mainly when you lean over and show people something on the computer…” I quickly shuffled into the bathroom and evaluated myself in the mirror from every angle. Ok. Maybe she did have a point…but just for the record, I am never falling out at work and I never ever gratuitously flaunt both my cleavages.

According to Elisabeth Squires, author of “Boobs: A Guide to Your Girls,” American breasts are getting bigger while shirts are getting smaller. A study goes on to tell us that it’s really the boys that judge the book by its cover! Bra fitters everywhere will tell you that E is the new C cup.

I wonder who blew the whistle on my über chic style…I work in an office where the ratio of women/men is 4:1. On my immediate team, there’s only two boys — both married. So….hi, call me the new office homewrecker.

I’ve always been good at compartamentalizing my life. Twelve years of private school taught me how to creatively express myself within the confines of a stifled uniform. So this past weekend, I bought myself a new uniform. How did I not learn about the power of pencil skirts until now?!? Because let me tell you, my tush has never looked better!

During college, I realized some people viewed me in this particular spectrum of rainbow light because I befriended everyone: chatted up the boys, lovingly slapped girls’ tushes (like boys in football), baked goodies for all…But I chose not to date intensely during those years because I had my eye on the prize — a college diploma! Just because I’m not incessantly on the prowl like a baby cougar doesn’t mean I play for the other team. Trust me, I’m a helluva team player. But even the best players take breaks during the off season.

My last boyfriend used to say that I’m the kinda pretty that doesn’t need a lot of makeup. Actually what came out of his mouth was, “You don’t wear much makeup, do you? Hmm…I thought you liked chicks when I first met you.” Seriously. Since when did natural beauty = lesbian?!?

Then there was the time I walked into an interview…When I used the term “exboyfriend” in a sentence, I could hear the sigh of relief across the table. She rushed into saying, “I soooo wanted to ask you what it’s like being gay in an Asian American household! There was an air about you when you entered that made me think you’re a lesbian. So, you’re really straight?!?”

If someone could pinpoint what about my personality whispers lesbian, please tell me. I’d really love to know. Until then, I say: Always keep ‘em guessing.

I’ve been told I’m vain. Usually these half-joking comments follow my story of visiting a plastic surgeon. Not that I’ve actually had plastic surgery; I’m definately not against it and I have utilized the services of one once or twice. Dictionary.com’s definition of vain is: excessively proud of or concerned about one’s own appearance, qualities, achievements, etc.; conceited. As much as I like to walk to the beat of my own drum and steer a little bit left of center, I realize that society has norms that I can’t ignore. At the tender age of 6 months, I got a bad case of baby acne. Who would have thought that exists?!? My parents freaked out because they knew that being a girl meant that I’d have to be pretty to really excel in society. It’s generally the first question mom’s ask when they hear their darling baby boy has a new girlfriend, “Is she pretty?” Don’t lie. You know it’s true. It’s cause they secretly want cute grandchildren. Thankfully, the only scars I have of my baby acne is a smattering of larger than normal pores across my cheeks — looks a bit like freckles.

I know I’ve written that appearance isn’t everything. It’s true, I still stand by it. But just as I’m not going to walk into an interview with a Brittney Spears (pre Federline) crop top, I’m going to spare the rest of society seeing me at the height of this allergic reaction. Gimme a week or so and I’ll be back — better than new!

I once got the compliment (at least I think it was meant as one) that I’d make a great trophy wife. I can clean up well (cute but not intimidatingly hot), college educated (but not post-graduate), and I don’t mind being thrown into gatherings where I don’t know a single soul (helpful during Christmas parties schmoozing with the boss). I couldn’t believe someone had dissected my life into that many compartments — I felt like the frog I carved up in biology class in high school. eWe.

One of the worst experiences in my life was meeting a boy’s parents and family for the first time. I was already super duper nervous but he neglected to tell me I was walking into a minefield. After asking me when/where I graduated from college, and my respective age, the evil Cinderella stepmother did the math and calculated I took nearly twice as long to graduate. “Oh….” was her response as her botoxed face hid her disgust. Things quickly went downhill as my career choice was brought into question, “It’s just laying things out on the computer…don’t you make things pretty?” I think I even saw someone eyeing the width of my childbearing hips during the course of the dinner.

Pretty girl syndrome doesn’t actually mean the girl has to be pretty. Actually it doesn’t have to be a girl. But I do think it affects more girls than boys. Truth is, if you don’t see each other as equals, things aren’t going to last very long.

Between hula hooping and my natural klutzy sensibility I’ve been getting a lot of black and blue marks all over my body. It’s not pretty and it’s definitely not how I like to present myself. While I’ve been rubbing copious amounts of arnica gel to break up the bruises, it tends to look worse before it gets better. So right now, I look like a roller derby chick.

This past weekend, I ended up at a house party in the Mission district. Rather than trying to cover up all the bruising, I rolled with the punches and channeled the motorcycle gods in my favorite ripped jeans and black leather. While desperately searching for a bathroom I heard someone yell in my direction, “Do you ride?” I shook my head sideways and kept a forward momentum because I really just needed to pee.

Once I was back outside I heard the same voice to my left during a pause in conversation, “So…you like motorcycles?” I finally turned to see the face of the boy that came with the voice. He looked every bit the all-American, cruiser cowboy, classic rock, with a great smile. I launched into a story of how my co-worker and I were planning to take lessons once we got our schedule and finances in order. He grinned at the idea and said, “I’ll take you around after you learn and I’ll show you the good roads around here.”

Nice. That was a near perfect opening. How come he didn’t ask for my number? I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have opened the conversation if I didn’t dress the way I did that day. Now, what facet of my personality should I conjure up tomorrow?

On a good day I’m 5’3″ and that’s first thing in the morning when I’m at my best. That puts me squarely in the petites section, but I like to pretend I’m taller because height = power. It’s already known that beautiful people earn more at the workplace than their homely counterparts; this includes height. Tall people project an air of confidence and I want every inch of that when I enter a room. So, let me strap on my four inch heels while I write the rest of this piece…

If all boys should learn how to dance, I forgot to mention they should first learn how to walk. Girls learn how to walk in heels for the sole purpose of looking sexy — for themselves or other people. Most boys don’t even have to worry about the heels. Just stand tall, and walk without lumbering. Any walk resembling Paul Bunyan is not cool.  If you need inspiration there’s a bunch to choose from: John Travolta, Saturday Night Fever; Brad Pitt, Ocean’s Eleven; John Wayne, in any of his cowboy movies; Usher, anytime/anywhere. Just don’t go overboard. If you start taking inspiration from Soulja Boy’s Bird Walk, or the Pimp Walk, (or any walk with an adjective in front of it) you’ve probably gone too far.

Sometimes when boys realize I’ve got heels on they tell me, “That’s cool, I like shorties.” What kind of backhanded compliment is that? The only time I instinctively put on flats is when I’m on a time crunch and I’ve got to run. Be glad I’ve got on heels. It means I like you enough to not run away.

It never fails that every time I walk past a bakery, I’m overwhelmed by the warm scent of freshly baked bread wafting through through the air. My mouth waters instantaneously in a Pavlovian way and I’m positive my body is cranking out the serotonin in response to the anticipated carbs. Researchers at Northwestern University recently concluded that our sense of smell actually sharpens when something bad happens. Women tend to sniff out mates that are best suited to them biologically and research has shown than being on the pill screws with mother nature. All this research tells me is that scent is a very powerful thing. But that’s why the fragrance market is a multi-billion dollar business.

The first time I remember that scent played a starring role in my life was a year after I brokeup with my first boyfriend. I was standing in the frozen food aisle of the grocery store trying to chose between a pint of cherry garcia and a pint of classic vanilla bean. Then it hit me — the unmistakable scent of ETERNITY for men, by Calvin Klein. My body couldn’t process the flood of emotions that surfaced. I took a seat on the floor, right next to the popsicles.

More recently, on my speed dating adventures, I had an interesting run-in with the power of scent when one boy innocently asked, “What’s one favorite thing you like about yourself?” I blurted out in knee-jerk reaction kinda way that I like my hair. So, he leaned in and sniffed. This was halfway into our four minute date, I’d known him all of two minutes and he was trying to see if we were genetically compatible?!? I guess there’s something to be said for getting right down to business. I must have somehow managed to pass the sniff test because he pushed for my number at the end of the date. Did I give it to him? Yea, but he has still yet to dial it. I chalk it up to being another number hoarder — boys that are into seeing if they can score the digits, but never actually intended on using the information. That’s right, prove me wrong. I double dog dare you.