sweet.

During my sordid years of part-time retail employment while I was in high school, I was told by a sickening weasel-like man, who unfortunately happened to own the company I worked for, that there is next to no mistake you can make that a customer won’t forgive if you’re sweet enough. Detest the sniveling little man as I did, these words have stuck with me and have proved truer than I would have thought possible over the years. Apparently this formula isn’t solely reserved for those times when you’ve accidentally overcharged someone’s visa card by $200 or when you misjudge the width of their calves and get them stuck in a pair of custom fit riding boots. This sweetness stuff seems to work in the real world, too.

Nowhere is this truer than in that lethal gladiatorial ring we call the dating game. Almost any hackneyed form of communication will be accepted if it’s coated in some sort of pretense of being “sweet”. Not just sincere sweetness either: since there isn’t enough genuine sweetness to be had, often times we’ll knowingly mislabel the saccharine, “I’m just trying to win you over to get a favour” or, “we both know I’m just trying to get you into bed” varieties of sycophantism as “sweet”. Of course these seem to share less qualities with legitimate raw sugary sweetness and are more akin to the aspartame sweetness of Sugartwin (which, I’m told by sweetener connoisseurs, tastes as if it has the capability to unclog most even the most troublesome household drain).

Every time (and this is by no means an infrequent occurrence) that one of my girlfriends is presented with a relationship/dating-type email heavy in ambiguity and shrouded in mystery, the team of experts (otherwise known and the blind who are leading the blind) comprised of all her other girlfriends, is called in to pour over the text in excruciating detail to try and crack the male code to ascertain its true meaning. Having been involved in more of these crisis pow-wows (as both an email recipient and consultant) than I’d care to count, I’ve noticed the fickle nature of interpretation and forgiveness at work, and how the sweetness factor plays in.

Butcher the language as you will on a sweet card, email, or voicemail and it will be adored no less. Tucked away in my jewelry box I have an affectionately saved message that reads something like, “Your amazing. Can’t wait to see you soon again” which myself and the experts crowded around and confessed to melting a little bit inside when reading it. Exclamations of, “He sounds perfect!” and, “Wow, Prince Charmings do exist!” were heard around the room as hearts fluttered. Fast forward a few weeks to a crisis meeting. This time the line in question reads something like “I think we’re better as friends, I wish you all the best in the future.” Once again, emotions are running high amidst the pow-wow: “What were you doing with a worthless sack of crap who can’t identify a comma splice?” and, “Seriously, look at the syntax in paragraph two. What a philistine” and, “My god, his veiled reference to post-modern Brechtian theatre in his conclusion is clumsy and jejune.” Alright, I may have made that last one up.

Basically, the moral of this story is, for your own sake, proof-read any bad-news emails carefully. It would be a sorry mistake to assume that an email of a personal and sensitive nature will only be read by the recipient. It will be read by numerous people who are ready and waiting to scorn and ridicule any slip up in grammar, spelling, and writing style. If possible, to best prepare yourself for being put through the wood chipper of criticism, write your cold hurtful news as an epic poem in iambic pentameter and have it approved by an accredited English Literature scholar at your Alma Mater. Perhaps recruit a local artist to paint some accompanying watercolours. Sound time consuming? Not to worry, just think of all the time you can save on birthday and Valentine’s Day cards which you can feel free to drunkenly write in pigeon English scrawled by a crayon held in your mouth, still assured that hearts will melt.