In keeping with the grain of individual sustainability and happiness, I’m going to rant a little bit. Is it me or has dating gone completely down the old porcelain squatter? I want to take a moment to acknowledge that there are many different and equal types of dating and the following rant is not an all-encompassing “every man on Earth” rant but rather a tirade of personal experience and frustration.
There comes a point in every young woman’s life when her past self-assured and grandiose statements come back to kick her in the ass. This is mine.
There was a time – long, long ago – when my friends were coming to me with dating woes, asking for advice about shitty guys or relaying horrifying stories of heart break. And I, being the smug little bastard that I was, hoisted myself up on my high horse, aptly named “long term relationship,” got comfortable in that saddle of “the one” and “future plans” and started waxing poetic advice to the masses. “You’re just picking the wrong guys,” or, “Why do you always go for the asshole?” or, “It can’t be THAT bad out there?” I was the holy grail of answers, the compass, the GPS of the seas of love, spewing out wisdom faster than you could say “Dr. Phil.”
Wrong. I was wrong. It is that bad out here. Actually, it’s worse. I am ill-prepared for the sea of love. My ship has holes in it and I forgot to pack limes and now I’ve got emotional scurvy. I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle. I want to take old me and shove all her old advice up her you-know-what.
That “long-term relationship” horse bucked me and that saddle of dreams turned out to be woven of hell- fire and I found myself dazed and confused and right back down to cold, hard, dirty Earth reality. 1,000 bottles of wine and a kidney stone later, I find myself in the tremendously eye-opening position of having to find a mate. Now I’m navigating my way through some sort of weird alternate universe of ‘dating’ where apparently rules of etiquette, or manners, or even just plain common decency hold no sway. It’s like the land of Mordor where people have never heard of such things as politeness, honesty, or even of returning a goddamn text message (which takes all of what? 6.3 seconds?!), and I’m surrounded by a bunch of scary looking, half-starved creatures all looking for some magic ring.
What planet does the dating game come from?! I am aghast! Speechless! To all my friends that I’ve spent countless hours chastising and smugly comforting and starting sentences with, “What worked for me was…,” I am deeply, profoundly sorry for my ignorance. It really is that bad out there. Also, I think I gave you bad advice because – as evidenced by the fact that I’m writing this alone at 12:30am, wishfully eyeing the empty bag of Ruffles next to my bed (sour cream and onion obvi) – none of that advice actually worked for me and I may have inadvertently lead you astray and prolonged your single-ness. Oops. I digress.
Back to the frozen, mid-January, savage, wolf-ridden, windy, barren, tundra that they call ‘dating.’
Really, in what universe does a guy ask you to go for drinks, repeatedly, for two months and when you finally agree and arrange a date he promptly disappears off the face of the earth? WTf is that?
Or that guy that’s all like, “Aww I find your independence so CUTE. And those ‘dreams’ you have are so endearing. But you’re not actually going to go out dressed like that are you… Not as MY girlfriend, anyway.”
Remember Joe? That guy you dated for three weeks and had the best time ever with? The Joe who whispered, “I think I’m falling for you?” And then you never heard from him again? He went into hiding more effectively than Osama. Yes, that’s right, you remember: the Joe that re-emerged two weeks later at the farmer’s market with his fiancée clinging to his arm!
Or, the Godfather line of modern dating: “Hey listen, I really love ya and that was a great couple of years (of your prime and youth that no amount of serum will ever buy back) but I just don’t know who I am. I gotta go see what’s out there, babe. I gotta find myself!” Hey, dude, I know exactly where to find ‘yourself’ – just behind that sign that says, “Are you fucking kidding me????” Next to that pile of poop you just spewed.
And, really, is it so hard to answer a text message within a 24-hour time period?! Even my mom sends back texts faster than that and she still signs hers, “Love, Your mom,” like it’s snail mail and I would never know who sent, “Did you call your urologist?” At 7:30am. It takes 3.4 seconds to answer a text with a simple, “Yes,” or, “No,” or, “Hey busy, I’ll msg you in a bit”. Why must I agonize over my phone for days at a time when I am not getting any younger and the wrinkle serums are getting more expensive as we speak?! Animals!!
And God forbid that I have some sort of emotional history. God forbid that I’ve been a fully functioning human being capable of producing emotion for the 28 years that I’ve occupied a space on this planet. Remembering past experiences and relationships must make me craaaazyyyyy! Who makes memories anymore, amiright? Who remembers things that happened? Crazy girls! Huh? No! We all have history at this point. We all have baggage, right? Hell I’ve got more baggage than a Boeing 747! But, here’s an idea, how about helping me unpack that bag instead of staring at it – and me- like it’s some ticking time bomb waiting to explode and wreak havoc on the universe. It’s not contagious, for the love of Pete. My lanta.
There was that time I met a lovely man at a bar who told me to stop acting like such a, “pissed off feminist,” when I told him if he touched me again I’d break his fingers. There was that breath-taking streetside profession of undying adoration as I was riding my bike down queen street, minding my own business. Prince Charming yelled out his car window “I wish I was that bike seat!” MARRY ME, KIND SIR! With poetry like that you’d put Romeo to shame.
Is this how it’s always been? Am I being punished for my previous supreme state of arrogance and errors of judgment? I repent! I repent, I repent, I repent!
Ok, I’m done. But yes. It’s a terribly difficult dating world out there. It feels like grade school phys ed all over again. Everyone’s picked their partners and I’m left scuffing the damn gravel, pretending I feel sick so I can go home and eat Dunkaroos with sprinkles and marry my cat in the backyard. Except that cat died (RIP) and they discontinued Dunkaroos. FML, indeed.
Fries or Salad 