Heart on the Pedal

A case for flirting.

I didn’t realize I had forgotten about flirting until I found myself in a bikini applying pink lipstick for a morning at the beach. The lipstick was part costume, part joke, part long-game to convince my husband he actually did like pink on me. The stakes were low, but I pulled my hair into a high pony (again, costume) and pranced down to the water, feeling somehow loosed from the tent stakes of my settled adult life, even though they were still right there with me, one of them quite literally riding on my hip. 

The lipstick was inconsequential. I was poking at Jivan, performing for him. Playing was the point.

There are more reasons than the obvious to flirt. In a 2004 review of research, professor David Henningsen identified six core motivations for flirting: sex, fun, exploring, relational, esteem (an attempt to boost one’s own), and instrumental (attempting to get something from the other person). Men are more likely to view their motivations for flirting as sexual, while women are more likely to cite relational or fun motivations. For married people, flirting is a way to maintain and develop intimacy, a means of “creating a private world with their spouse,” notes professor Brandi Frisby. 

Researchers have studied everything from the nuances of non-verbal communication (for example, the direction your feet point say a lot about how you feel about someone!) to the most successful conversation openers, and it appears that despite our vast differences in personality and background, we all tend to behave the same way and share the same fears about putting ourselves out there. If you Google flirting, the first results are nothing but attempts to learn how to do it. Everyone wants to know what works, what behaviors to try, what specific words to say. You can’t guarantee a good outcome via a Google search, and even if you could, you’d ultimately rob yourself. It is precisely the not knowing if your move will result in success or shut down that makes flirting intoxicating. 

Anxiety is so entwined with flirting, a double helix of fear and pleasure, that the end of it once seemed like a relief to me. Is he interested? What should I say? What will happen next? Exhilarating, but I craved the mapped roads of commitment. Thank God we don’t have to date anymore is something all my settled friends in their 30s say now. Back then, I thought the ring on my finger would trigger the retirement phase; having already landed my partner, I could move on to bigger worries. Which is exactly what we did, rolling through major surgeries, first mortgage, and the birth of our children in quick succession. 

A scene: 3 am in bed with the person I love. In the distance, a tiny wail scratches me into consciousness, where I lay interminably, wondering which of us is going to address that wail. Repeat one or three or five times before the alarm goes off and we get up, a skeleton, a dried-out sponge. At daylight, a muttered good morning to that partner may be the only expression of love—much less interest—I can offer. If flirting flows from a sense of vitality, then the deadening, sleep-deprived years of early child-rearing shut the faucet right off. Kids can’t be the only culprit, even though they’re a common one. Sub in a grueling career or even just the daily grind of routine multiplied by a decade and the result is the same.

Once you know the way home, you stop paying attention to the drive. 

Flirting is a signaling behavior. Its primary utility is to express sexual interest in a partner, and if successful, to initiate some level of advance in the relationship. This is the flirting we commonly think of, and it’s the flirting people tie themselves in knots over. However, all the research on flirting behaviors reveals a broader, more complex story. Flirting with sexual intent is actually only a part of the flirting that goes on. We are flirting for many different reasons with all kinds of people—often platonically—even after we’re happily partnered and settled. Why? Henningsen summarizes it this way: “Flirting interactions tend to be playful, and people often engage in them just to have fun.” 

Fun? There are plenty of ways to have fun. We flirt to feel alive. Relationship expert and psychotherapist Esther Perel—the child of Holocaust survivors—notes that trauma survivors can be categorized into two groups: those who “did not die” and those who “came back to life.” This insight crystallized the focus of her work, as she explains: “...my book is not about sexuality, my book and my work is about eroticism. It is about how people connect to this quality of aliveness, of vibrancy, of vitality, of renewal. And that is way beyond the description of sexuality. It is a transcendent experience of life, because it is an act of the imagination.” 

“Erotic” is an uncomfortable word for the American ear—we’re used to hearing it as a descriptor for bodice-ripper paperbacks or the neon-lit shops that accompany interstate truck stops—but Perel uses it as shorthand for “the qualities of vitality, curiosity, and spontaneity that make us feel alive.” Taken together, these qualities have such important work in initiating the relationships and structures that form the foundation of our adult life. They carry us forward, cannonball us into saying yes. And then their obvious usefulness fades as the next phase—commitment and responsibility—clicks into place. The fade out is faint enough to be imperceptible. It doesn’t register as a felt loss, because of course there are moments of spontaneity or transcendence tucked amongst all the hard work of routine. Of course there are! But time does its work, and we do ours, and without notice, the flame of this eroticism can wink out. 

2022 has been an unexpected, uninitiated renaissance of sorts for me. Like opening a long sweep of curtains and letting light in, I have emerged from seven years of mothering tiny babies and toddlers and feel turned on. I don’t mean in the sexual sense, but more literally, as if a switch has been flipped, waking up from power save mode. I’ve felt reconnected to my body, my creativity, my style, my silliness, my brain. Some of it is brand new—running—but so much of it is old—music, art, playing dress-up. All along I’ve assumed this aliveness was a return to a previous version of myself, but maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe the electricity comes from change, from shifting seasons, from an in-between time where I could be anything and anything could happen. 

The most interesting examination I read on flirtation argues that flirting is a liminal experience. A liminal space is a space of transition, a threshold between two things, but a threshold that exists as its own singular place. Liminality is a state of suspension, a state of ambiguity. The author, psychologist Rune Moelbak, goes on to cite psychoanalyst Adam Phillips, who defines flirting as: 

“…a general life attitude that does not apply only to romantic encounters, but is broad enough to include all the ways in which we play with different possibilities without committing to any. Hence, we can flirt with different careers, with different ways of being a self, with different fashion senses, with different ideas, and so forth. Flirting thus becomes a designation of an eroticization or enjoyment of the possible.” 

From making out in a hotel lobby in NYC to running my first ever endorphin-boosting intervals to wearing lipstick any time it felt right to getting actually turned on by fragrance to eating head-on shrimp to dressing up in the belts and bandanas of “safari summer” to playing Frisbee for the first time in a decade, every tiny, fragmentary moment that felt compelling this year suddenly made sense. They are linked by the bright thread of possibility, brought together by a break from who I’ve always been or what I always do. Remember Perel defines eroticism as an act of the imagination? People need the narrative unfurling of possibility in our life. We need the reminder that we’re still writing, not merely following a finished script. We need moments that make us wonder again what happens next?

My past year hasn’t been all pink lipstick and endorphin highs. The very life transition that unlocked this state of possibility has also sent me into way too many worry spirals about what’s next. Esther Perel argues that you cannot play if you don’t feel safe, and to that, I’d add you cannot play if you don’t have the space. There are seasons of life that have demanded so much from me, from us, that I couldn’t have accessed this same playful energy even if I wanted to. But I am here now, and whenever I get “there,” I want to bring the lessons of flirting with me.

"Flirting teaches us something about who we are and what we want. It brings us in touch with our desire, it evokes a cherished identity, it makes our body our teacher of who we are, and there is often something very vitalizing about this. We feel more alive, we feel more connected, we feel more human; we are intrigued not just about the other person, but about the unexplored unrealized potential of ourselves. Who knew we had this in us? Who knew we really wanted this? Who knew we had been missing something in our lives? Flirting brings this out, and we like it.” — Rune Moelbak

Fire needs air, says Perel, and desire needs space. My unplanned, subconscious return to flirting—to staying open to the world, to Jivan, to new experiences, to myself—has acted like a bellows, waking up the coals of commitment. I don’t know what’s next. But when I drive home from an early morning run, flushed with that salty sweat glow, I roll down the window and turn up the music every time. I stick my arm out and trail my fingers, surfing the breeze like a kid. I kiss the world. Like poet Stephen Dunn writes, “I want all the fire one can have without being consumed by it.”

current status

listening :: Obsessed with the work of composer Nicholas Britell lately (again). I think he’s brilliant. / Speaking of flirting, the duo Emotional Oranges has a very fun vibe. He’s a producer for Drake. She’s a vocal coach for Adele. Their tracks have a back and forth dialogue (with sexy beats) that I find irresistible. / Dreams — The Cranberries, a 90s hit that holds up flawlessly. / January Burn — Jivan, excellent playlist maker that he is, made this one four years ago, but it’s a great mix of background beats for getting stuff done. / Rosy Cheeks — A fall playlist for when you’re flushed from sitting too close to the fire or feeling lovey-dovey.

reading :: “The New Quantified Self” (Haley Nahman) // Because I am deeply soothed by metrics, I was equally disturbed by Nahman’s insightful exploration of the modern trend of tracking everything: books read, minutes of REM sleep, steps walked, time spent meditating, top artists on Spotify, etc. ad nauseam. She points out that “….it’s also useful to think about the broader ideology we’ve subscribed to as a society about what it means to know ourselves and to live well. There is something fundamentally fearful about our desire to quantify our lives—art consumed, habits codified—as if we can stave off death by measuring its antecedent in infinitely smaller units.”

cooking :: One-Pan Chicken Piccata & Orzo // Ali Slagle’s headnotes in her cookbook I Dream of Dinner are unconventional in their brevity and quirky specificity. I love them. The note for this one-pan take on chicken piccata reads like this: “Slumped, spoonable, sunshiny (like a cat snoozing).” Sold, right? The recipe delivers: it is all of those things and more, easy and bright and comforting. Ideal for this time of year when you need a quick weeknight dinner that tastes sunshiny as we go (not) gently into that (not) good night of daylight saving time.

Storm in the Mountains, Albert Bierstadt, 1870.

reading :: “What We’ve Lost Playing the Lottery” (The New Yorker) // My only experience with the lottery is winning a scratch-off in an office white elephant exchange, so I can’t say I’ve thought much about the lottery other than holding a vague idea of its profits funding state education. This fascinating look at the history of the lottery in America punctures that belief by demonstrating how misleading (and successful!) the pro-lottery lobbyists have been. Turns out that lottery revenues not only make up a teensy, insignificant part of most state education budgets, their existence makes it difficult to pass necessary tax increases and disproportionately impacts low-income citizens. Ultimately, the author asks: “….whether governments charged with promoting the general welfare should be in the business of producing them [lotteries], publicizing them, and profiting from them,” but the whole piece is worth reading for its historical perspective and insights into the American psyche.

reading :: “Go Ahead, Buy A Piano” (The Atlantic) // Short, sweet, beautifully written, convincing. Michael Owens reflects on returning to a childhood love through the impractical purchase of a piano: “…some things in life are meant to be heavy and indebting and antiquated; they are meant to demand regular and highly specialized maintenance; they are meant to bring forward the weight of the past, to urge it upon us, to keep us unreasonably awake.”

listening :: “I’ve Always Struggled with My Weight. Losing It Didn’t Mean Winning.” (The New York Times) // This is it. This is my pick for if you click on just one link in this edition. The author traces a lifetime of feelings about his weight into a bigger, moving exploration of body, identity, and change. It’s so tender and the writing is enviably good. I really liked listening to it because the author reads his own work instead of voice talent, but you can read the essay here if you’d rather.

Jarvis, Elizabeth Peyton, 1996.

drinking :: mulled wine // There’s a tiny, seasonal home goods/gift shop in my town run by people with very good taste and a knack for creating atmosphere. A vibe, you might say. Anyway, when they open their shop for the holiday season every year, they do so with a large pot of mulled wine simmering in the back of the shop. Dark, fragrant, a hint of sweetness—theirs was the best mulled wine I’d ever tasted. They don’t have a recipe (of course), but they did offer me a ratio, and now I share it with you. ‘Tis the season: 2 parts cider, 1 part red wine, mulling spices, sugar to taste.

loving :: Citrus Press // The Pampered Chef was the MLM of the moment when I was a teen, a role that ~ Beautycounter ~ has stepped in to fill now that all those teens are grown up and selling their own MLM stuff, BUT Pampered Chef did produce some good products. Most notably, this citrus juicer, which we inherited as a cast-off from my husband’s family and couldn’t believe our good fortune after a few uses. It just works so much better than any other citrus press I’ve tried. We pack it with us on every beach trip, and Jivan once earnestly suggested it to a friend who wanted to get a favorite kitchen tool tattoo.

november thrills

accidentally falling asleep on a relative’s plush carpeted floor after Thanksgiving dinner / the color of wet, wine-red leaves plastered to pavement by rain / distant, choral hush of the heat kicking on / buttoning up your nice winter coat against the cold for the first time this season / the football game that someone you love cares about playing in the background / catching your spouse’s eye during a family event / lil’ pile of middle-of-the-night discarded socks by your bedside / the wispy scratch of dry leaves skittering across the road / a warm robe in a cold house / the sensation of balancing on a tightrope or high-dive before the plunge into Christmas / leftover pumpkin pie with black coffee for breakfast / hiding packages as soon as they arrive

(Tell me yours!)

Until next time — try your hand at pie crust, have a bonfire, give blood if you can, and after the tryptophan wears off, take a family walk on Thanksgiving.