Ermagherrrrd! I have a date tomorrow with a gentleman who asked me out while I was writing at the beach, scribbling in the sand.
Headphones on, I was caught completely off-guard.
I don’t know his name. He is saved in my phone as “Hot Surfer Huntington Beach”.
Since I rarely get approached in public—a fact that annoys me—I am particularly elated. I owe it to the ocean to write more often.
Turns out, getting knocked up by a rich guy in Orange County is WAY more challenging than I’d anticipated. Not in sense that actual effort is required, but simply because the outcome is out of my control.
Just finding someone who makes it to a second date–even to a first date–is harder than dieting in a candy store. Hell, it’s harder than side-planking, especially while dieting, on a moving Pilates reformer in a candy store. And what’s the point of either of those, if never to find true love? If years of beauty investments, borderline orthorexia, and fitness fanaticism never helped me find my special someone, then what was the point in trying so hard to attract a mate?
Should’ve donut’d it up, and immersed myself in a D&D community instead.
Yet here I am. My biggest challenge is finding quality single men who are interested in an actual relationship. If I were simply a gold-digger, this would be much easier: it’s not hard to find clout clowns with cash. But I want real love (with someone who is financially-established).
In addition to kindness, vulnerability and authenticity rank high on my criteria list. These traits are now rarer than ever, thanks to AI and the use of ChatGPT. People are so concerned with how they’re perceived that they’d rather constantly censor themselves than have a genuine heart-to-heart conversation. There’s a continual need to impress rather than to express, which I find thoroughly unimpressive.
This rings exceptionally true with dating apps.
If I see one more dating profile that lists “clean sheets and the smell of coffee” in response to the “Simple Pleasures” prompt, or refers to how Rose could have saved Jack on the Titantic, I’m–
I don’t even know what I’m going to do yet, but it will be very dark and dramatic. Definitely drastic.
I feel like I’m playing a game in which no one truly wins. It’s a struggle to find men who actually want to go out on an actual, in-person date. Many seem determined to just message back-and-forth for the entirety of eternity, while my maternal clock ticks away.
I always thought that having children would be a choice I’d figure out with my significant other…because I assumed that by the time I was 30, or even 35, I’d have met my special someone. I never imagined that I would still be single at my age.
Thankfully, my life is still shockingly alright. Awesome, even. I’m relatively happy. I have no problem prioritizing career over family at this point, which seems to be my only option. I just turned 36, and am probably infertile. Blehh.
At least love and puppies are still attainable.
My current plan is to pivot away from the dating apps, since they have a low barrier to entry. Any JoeSchmo can sign up.
I’m now utilizing different ways to meet people…ways that have a higher barrier point of entry, and simultaneously help me socialize with a positive community while engaging in activities that increase my overall well-being.
So I’ve started attending early morning bootcamp style fitness classes–more “traditional” strength training, not just Pilates–and partner dance classes. Coffee shops and the beach are my new go-to’s for writing and reading. Running clubs are not off the table, although my cardio ability is currently questionable.
I wish more single OC men attended puppy yoga classes, but alack.
I’m still brainstorming other “high barrier to entry” activities. Even time seems to be relevant…as much as I hate waking up at the ass-crack-of-dawn, sleep deprivation seems like another barrier I have yet not explored. So if it takes suffering 5AM gym torture sessions to meet melt-worthy men: put me in, Coach.
I would love to find love, but at this point, I’ll settle for doing the things that I love…and hopefully one day, I’ll be doing The One that I love.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a positive feeling about a future first date…and significantly longer since I’ve have a good first date actually transition to a successful second one.
(Let’s not dig into who makes it beyond the 5th date…)
Beyond this, even meeting someone who seems like a quality human being–an interesting, seemingly-compassionate kind soul–is rare.
While I’m not holding my breath, I’m also not actively clenching my butthole.
I still don’t understand the concept of “talking” to potential romantic partners, nor how this cultural phenomenon exists at all. Yet countless men have complained about how women they’re “dating” /”talking to” (these are NOT the same) are “seeing” multiple men.
Le sigh.
As a society, let’s all get together on the same page. This is your official PSA: Talking to someone is not the same as exclusively dating. In order to actually date someone, you must first define the relationship (DTR) after an appropriate amount of dates.
To assume that just because you go on a few dates and you like the person, that they like you back, is almost adorable. Nay, it is ideas like this that contribute to situationships and the reason that so many of us are single.
Stop making our lives more complicated than they need be. If you want to be exclusive with someone, you must have that potentially-awkward “Do you want to be together?” conversation. Otherwise, until that conversation occurs, everything is fair game. Keep dating. Keep swiping. Keep trying.
No one gets to pretend to be a victim because they made erroneous assumptions.
As a former fat kid who was rejected after attempting to get a crush’s attention by leaving Twinkies on his desk, I have no empathy for men who complain about potential rejection. For all of the dudes who don’t have the courage to define the relationship: don’t worry, another man out there will.
(In my experience and research, the DTR conversation should occur after at least three dates, and before the eleventh one).
STFU & DTR. It’s really that simple.
I’m still processing how “forever” can mean such different things to different people.
Especially when one of them was a Catholic monk for 20 years.
As crushed as I feel for not taking my own advice and stupidly sprinting into a relationship, at least free EMDR therapy, ClassPass membership, UberEats delivery, and a Hawaii trip lessen the pain of my most recent breakup.
We dove in, too much too soon, and Daniel definitely led the way. Directionless, I followed.
He insisted I look at engagement rings (I made an entire Pinterest board), we researched places to move (La Jolla, which we explored together, was our favorite), and contemplated our future children’s names (Dell/Della; credit to Daniel). We even shopped at the Container Store together.
The Container Store.
He went from basically promising the whole happily-ever-after to not even wanting to do couples therapy.
I hate that I’m repeating the same mistake of rushing into love. Like my therapist explained, it takes time to determine whether someone’s actions match their words. No one can promise you that they won’t break your heart.
At least I warned him. After all, I’m the don’t-pick-me girl.
Because of my previous dating experiences, I attempted to pump the brakes early on, but didn’t. I still swear by my “Why it’s a red flag when he wants to get too close too soon” post, and actually sat Daniel down one morning, about two weeks into us dating, and read it to him.
“We are moving fast, and most people would think we’re insane. If you’re not as serious as you say you are, please just let me know now. I can’t afford to get my heart broken again.”
Daniel agreed, and insisted that he was all in.
I’d already called Mother Teresa unfortunate words on our first date, not understanding the depth of Daniel’s religious past (I just think shaming others automatically disqualifies your sainthood). I never pretended to be someone I wasn’t.
If he was going to run, I’d given him ample reasons early on to do so.
He knew me, and liked me for all of the reasons that Ryan didn’t…Daniel loved that I’m different. He encouraged me to speak my mind. Part of his job actually entails consulting companies about artificial harmony, which rang exceptionally true to me. Our honeymoon phase was nothing short of glorious, and even when we started to get into small fights (as couples do), we kept it classy.
And don’t get me started on the mind-blowing sex…
I believed him when he said he wanted a wife. I think he believed it, too.
At least when he decided a relationship (or at least, our relationship) was no longer a priority, he could afford our breakup.
You break it, you buy it.
Finally isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
I turn 35-years-old tomorrow, rebelling against everything that society has attempted to instill.
I am single, childless, and moderately broke (I have two roommates and basically live in a shoebox). I should probably want to kill myself.
But since I already failed at that when I was 12, I have a different view of aging.
Just surviving for this long feels like an accomplishment. I’m sick of everyone complaining about “getting older” when the alternative is death, and anyone can suddenly die at any point. What if instead of saying older, we said wiser? Or calmer, more enlightened?
Better.
The truth is, I’ve never been happier.
A few significant factors contribute to this; none are the typical box-checking milestones that I grew up believing constitute success.
Metaphorically burying my parents, which therapists had encouraged me to do for years, made a positive difference. It’s nice not to constantly be criticized, and not to tolerate conditional love that fluctuates based on what I achieve.
The holidays still suck, but it’s better for my self-esteem. I no longer carry the same self-hatred–a very heavy burden–that I internalized as a child. Plus, I have friends that feel like family.
Years of dating in Los Angeles, and even recent experiences here in Orange County, taught me how to be a resilient romantic instead of a hopeless one. I’ve had my heart broken more times than I can count. I no longer assume that when someone isn’t into me, it’s because I have small tits or that I’m “unloveable”.
It’s strange to be an age that Hollywood deems unfuckable, and to feel like I’m at my finest. It takes 10-20 minutes to get ready in the morning instead of hours. I don’t blow all of my money on the aesthetic procedures I thought I needed in my 20’s.
(Although for the record, my nosejob and two face tattoos–microbladed eyebrows–were absolutely worth it. And I’ll still gladly drive 2 hours to LA for my perfect California highlights, which took years of research and tears to find.)
I remember the dark days when I refused to leave the house without clip-in hair extensions, full-face makeup, leg makeup. eyelashes, mani/pedi, and a spray tan. I didn’t realize that I was so obsessed with my external appearance because I was internally devastated. Binge-reading magazines while growing up probably didn’t help.
5 Ways to Impress Him Tonight!
The Best Lip Color to Turn Him On
You’re Still Not Hot Enough: Read This Or Die Sad And Alone
Spoiler alert: my dating life was not better due to these “investments” that magazines had promised would help me find love.
Maybe I worked too hard at things I thought would make me someone’s perfect wife instead of working toward my perfect life.
Feeling like I’m helping others, and am part of a community, have been game-changers. I find myself infinitely more flattered by a client’s comment last week about how I have “amazing, kind energy” than anyone’s compliments about my self-constructed physical appearance. And I’m always stoked off anyone who takes the time to read my writing/insides.
I’m determined to be such a dope soul that people crave my vibes. That requires time–and yes, aging–to achieve, so I consider birthdays a blessing instead of a burden.
And even if I never find my special someone, I’ve finally reached a point in my life where I’m okay with dying cunty and alone…no matter what, I’ll still have fun.
You know that lightness, that fresh feeling of relief after you take a massive dump?
That’s exactly how I felt after staying up all night to handwrite my now-ex-boyfriend a 5-page closure letter, detailing the events that led to our breakup. I’m thorough like that.
It’s also how I felt after finally being able to poop three days into our first trip together, when we shared one bathroom with six people for his sister’s wedding in Indiana.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around how a 7-day trip that was supposed to make us ended up breaking up–or were we broken from the start?
This is also the same guy who I had been on 10+ dates with over a year ago, and when I finally said, “hey, commit to it or you don’t get to hit it” (which I’ve actually never had to do before), we decided to just stay friends.
Two months ago, he had some hallelujah! moment on his plane ride home from Europe, where he vacationed with his family for a month (and attended/performed at his friend’s wedding), and realized that he wanted me to be his girlfriend…
Enough to be his sister’s wedding date, anyway.
I don’t know why else he would fly me out knowing I couldn’t afford to miss work, be incredibly sweet to me through the wedding, then suddenly afterwards, pick fights that I had NO way to acquiesce…to the extent that I ended up sleeping on the couch downstairs our last night together, and asked him to drive me to the airport early the next day. He didn’t even argue.
When I asked him where his mom was, who I’d spent over five days getting to know and wanted to thank before I left, he said she was out on a walk. I quickly scribbled a thank-you note that I left on the kitchen table before leaving in tears.
Even on our way to the airport, he continued to yell at me, “You didn’t say goodbye to my sister! You didn’t hug her!”
What was he talking about? I had been nothing but my delightful self to his sister, mom, and entire family. I went out of my way to warmly engage with everyone–as a Pilates instructor, this is part of my job–and basically baby-sat one of the children who decided we were BFFs for two afternoons (to be fair, she was adorable).
Yes, I was out of my comfort zone and this was definitely a for-Ryan, about-Ryan event. Looking back, most of our short relationship seemed centered around Ryan’s world.
Yes, it was awkward to be at a wedding so intimate that I was mentioned in the wedding speech as, “For all of the family standing here…and then Korbi.”
But I felt I held my own, even in the face of challenging circumstances. For him not to see that, and to then essentially dump me afterward…no words can describe that pain.
Much like the nonsense in the audio clip below, none of it makes sense…unless he just wanted a plus-one to show off to his friends and family.
Why else would he drop me off at the airport and then not call me for five days? Why else care so little about me after the main event? If I’m your girlfriend, or even just your friend (as we’d previously been), step up and try to make things right—or just don’t pick solutionless fights in the first place. Take ownership, take accountability, take something other than my time: ask how you can make things better, and at least try to fix them.
That’s what I did our last night together, when I was so upset that I didn’t even want to sleep in the same bed as him. Below is one of the recordings from that night, before he drove me to the airport the next day.
Who is unhinged and has victim mentality here? I don’t know the narrative he told his family, but perhaps they should listen to this clip (as well as the other ones).
There’s he-said, she-said, and then there is the truth.
You can actually hear me say, “I have no idea what I’m apologizing for, but I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings” and give him a hug. That’s how badly I wanted us to just be okay: I tried to take ownership even when there was none.
But it’s like something in his brain was determined to stay upset, no matter what I said or did.
I have over 40 minutes of voice recordings from that night (and yes, he knew he was being recorded), because that’s how ridiculous the fight was, and I didn’t know what else to do besides document it. Granted, this was after two days of similar behavior (him lashing out or crying, me not understanding why but trying to console him), even when our “vacation” revolved entirely around him.
The whole thing is mind-blowing, especially considering how well I got along with his family. I adored his mom, his sister; everyone there, really.
Was he mad that everyone thought I was hilarious enough to win Cards Against Humanity?
I wasted a week of my life getting to know people I guess I’ll never see again. I had my heart broken by someone who couldn’t bother to pick up the phone to call me after spending a week with his family, but could ask about casual sex in the same text about me picking up my stuff from his place.
I finally blocked him.
Yet I’m still here, still surprisingly okay despite everything. I still know my worth, and that I’m worth being someone’s priority instead of their tag-along.
I almost wish I had been at fault, just so I could have a way to fix it, or to at least have learned some kind of lesson.
Maybe the lesson is that there isn’t always one: maybe it’s not always me.
Maybe my only take-away is that with guys like this, I’ll never come first…in more ways than one.
Some women fantasize about their wedding day.
Not me.
I fantasize about couples therapy.
Yep, I’m so high-maintenance that I don’t just want one special day all to myself…instead, I want ALL of our days to be special, and dedicated to us, for the rest of eternity.
That’s how insane and impractical I am.
Everyone approaches dating, and actual in-person dates, differently.
I don’t believe there are hard rules for “right” or “wrong” first dates. This depends entirely on each party’s preference.
Personally, I don’t believe in coffee dates. Coffee is part of my morning routine. Coffee is a beverage, a noun. Coffee is not a verb, not an activity worthy of looking socially acceptable for, nor worth making time for just to remain seated while getting to know another human being (bean? are bad dad jokes still trending?) and consuming a stimulant.
I’ve entertained a handful of coffee dates during my 20’s, and none led to anything promising, nor were particularly enjoyable. They felt like a waste of time.
Before you jump to conclusions and rant about how meals are an expensive commitment to a stranger, realize that there are other inexpensive activities. A hike or museum visit is preferable (and even cheaper than coffee), since even if my date is a dud, I’ve still enjoyed an experience.
Aaaand then I blocked him.
“Ahh yes, the hungry bumbler.”
Let’s just take a moment to appreciate his self-contradictions. He went from calling me “the hungry bumbler” to “looking a bit anorexic.”
So feed me, dingbat.
Insulting a woman’s appearance is the worst approach to address someone who has a different dating style. If you’re that repulsed, move on in silence.
Also: don’t come at my appearance when you’re only 5’9″. I don’t normally take low hanging fruit, but your personality seems ripe with Napoleon complex, so I’ll juice dat m’fuka (not Ebonics, just efficiency. I’m not racist, like some people…).
Grow up. Literally, figuratively, mentally, respectfully.
As I type this, I find myself in a dark place.
Mostly because my lights are off. Despite an abrupt ending to an intensely short romance that fizzled last night, I’m happily snuggled between blankets, listening to the roaring rain outside.
A decade ago, this would have deeply wounded me. Now, I feel only the slightest singe of sadness.
Lately, I’ve been dealing with the exact opposite of my previous LA laments: instead of Peter Pan syndrome and fear of commitment, these dudes are too eager to jump into something serious (without being serious about the work that accompanies a real relationship).
On paper, this initially seems like a dream come true.
Not looking for a hookup, whoa! I’ve seen significantly more profiles like this since moving to Orange County.
Unfortunately, like communism, this works better in theory than in actuality.
I base this conclusion not just on my most recent experience, but on two similar situations in December and January.
When I find myself cancelling previously scheduled dates to focus on, and spend more time with someone–we’ll call him David–who I’ve just met, I should have slapped myself because I’ve made this exact mistake before.
I wanted to believe that David was different because in addition to matching on Bumble, we know a mutual friend I’ve adored since middle school. But sharing the same social circle means little to nothing…being law school friends is very different than dating each other.
Red flag #1: He immediately wants to spend excessive time with you.
As someone who is into “the nice guy” and also into ignoring social norms–clearly for both the better and the worse–I want to believe that this person is actually into me. I want to believe that David, and the aforementioned men, recognize a good thing and want to lock it down before someone else does.
I don’t want to consider that maybe they have attachment issues, and maybe they always want to be in a relationship, regardless of who it’s with.
If it’s a red flag that I’ve been single for almost a year now, it’s just as much of a red flag–if not more so–that David’s previous relationship was two weeks ago.
Constant texts and phone calls initially seem sweet, but if you find yourself receiving these early on, keep your guard up.
If he wants to make a second date the day after your first date (not schedule it–which I love–but actually have it occur by going to his place like you two are already dating), think twice.
I know I should know better. I just want to believe that everyone is an outlier.
Red flag #2: He bombards you with gifts.
…especially when he complains how his previous relationships didn’t appreciate his generosity enough.
This is typical covert contract nice guy behavior. He sends you things not because he’s truly a nice guy who actually adores you, but because he wants to publicly be seen a certain way, and have leverage over you in the future (“I sent you an Uber to get from my house back to yours! You don’t even care!”).
When I was sick and David voluntarily sent me delivery, I was a smitten kitten.
Fuck diamonds, I want sandwiches.
And shoes. I love shoes.
I didn’t stop to consider the fact that he was sending food and offering to buy me shoes before we had even met.
Red flag #3: He’s just as quick to leave a situation–usually even quicker–than he is to enter it.
When I invest hours of my time talking to someone and getting to know him, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to figure things out when they go awry.
When, not if.
I mean, how are you going to handle our future teenage daughter when you can’t even handle me?!
According to John Gottman, a psychologist known to predict divorce between couples with 93.6% accuracy, a successful couple stays together not based on the number of times they fight, but on the way that they fight.
If you can engage in conflict and disagreement without name-calling or hostility but instead with humor and a willingness to problem-solve, you’re on the right track.
In fact, not fighting is a huge red flag. If you’re honest with yourself and with your significant other/potential partner, you’re going to disagree.
When I confronted David with concerns, he didn’t even try to assuage them. I was upset that he seemed to insult me more than compliment me–no girl wants to constantly be told that she “has Amber Heard vibes” and that she’s “frustrating”.
When I asked him, while packing up my stuff to leave his place, what he even liked about me, he responded that I was “beautiful” before he went stupidly silent.
Yeah, no.
The fact that he wouldn’t bother to read even a single blog post of mine, when I told him how much it meant to me because I’m professionally pursuing writing, spoke volumes.
David wanted someone–maybe at one point, wanted me–to squeeze into his relationship box so he could check it off, but he didn’t actually want to know nor understand me.
Just like the other guys, I doubt he ever reads this post.
(Although I’ve been wrong…it’s happened once before).
Isn’t the whole point of using dating apps to expedite the meeting-in-person process? Discovering chemistry and compatibility between two people is hard enough; why make scheduling your initial get-together just as grueling?
I’m still struggling to understand why, when given my phone number, an alarmingly high percentage of matches prefer to slide into my DMs via Instagram rather than text or call me. Although more LA men would rather attempt to jerk off to my online photos than actually enjoy my presence in real life, a significant amount of Orange County app users seem just as addicted to the ‘gram.
If you’re lucky enough to have my personal cellphone number, that’s your golden ticket to directly connect and to make plans. These in-the-flesh encounters are frequently referred to as dates, which should be your ultimate goal when using dating apps. They’re definitely mine: I provide my phone number within a few messages, so we can coordinate schedules and proceed from there.
I prefer limiting text correspondence prior to meeting, since this feels like a waste of time. Everyone is different, so I’m not arguing that my approach is “right”.
In fact, my male friend had a negative experience with a girl who felt he did not text her enough prior to their actual date, so she ended up cancelling.
I still think he dodged a bullet…not because she had certain correspondence expectations, but because she did not articulate these needs. Communication is crucial, especially in communicating how you communicate.
That said, a short phone call prior to meeting is not only acceptable but also a savvy maneuver, since this gives you a better idea of conversational compatibility than a text marathon.
As much as I despise FaceTime, I’m not opposed to a quick session, just to verify that I do look like my photos.
Should you ignore this opportunity and attempt a lesser means of connection, you risk not only losing this person’s interest (ahem, mine)–how many successful souls regularly check their social media messages?–but also losing your tact. “Connecting” on social platforms is not the most intimate nor effective way to interact.
Viewing an Instagram profile is one of the worst ways to learn who someone truly is…and an especially inaccurate method of verifying identity.
Yet here we are.
And sure enough, Hinge-cringe Matthew was not trying to confirm my authenticity. Instead, he proceeded to DM me slightly crude (almost kinda flatteringish?) messages in response to specific photos….
*in unsolicited response to edited Instagram images. I don’t use dating apps to gain social media followers, nor to validate my self-worth.
That’s what sending selfies to ex-boyfriends is for.
Because of his approach, Matthew and I are not closer to connecting. If anything, I feel more disconnected, and have lost pretty much all interest.
We are not enjoying a meal, a hike, the beach, nor a museum together….and meanwhile, he views my online photos in an almost voyeuristic way, from the comfort of his hammock (just speculating, but I imagine this as his happy place for scrolling while LOLing). In return, I gain nothing.
Once upon a time, men slayed dragons…but hey, way to woo me behind the comfort of your digital screen.
For the record: Matthew never attempted to make plans for a first date, despite his fascination with my online presence.
Perhaps even worse: having someone’s phone number and being too afraid to call.
How do you get to know someone without talking, be it over the phone or more importantly, face-to-face?
If you can’t have a phone conversation with the possible love of your life, what chance do you have at a successful relationship–or even a successful career?
If only this social media fixation was limited to these two interactions. Alack, years of extensive research in LA–and now OC–prove that this is an obnoxious yet ubiquitous part of dating culture. Seems like all we can do is set our Instagrams to “private” and just keep swiping…
#UnfollowDGAF
Successful dating doesn’t always result in a romantic relationship (although that’s ideal). Forming meaningful connections, while learning about yourself and others, can constitute success. Acquiring more knowledge is also a perk.
Below are the top three life hacks I’ve learned from my experiences.
#1. Order fresh wasabi next time you get sushi.
I’m shocked that I didn’t discover this when I visited Japan, nor the number of times I’ve gone out for my favorite food. It wasn’t until a Costa Mesa date last year, when the gentleman called a restaurant in advance “to make sure they have fresh wasabi”, that I took note.
We didn’t make it beyond one date. I was actively appalled by him complaining about “being the smartest person” in his engineering program at Cal State Long Beach. The fact that he resembled a toaster, unbeknownst to me through his Bumble pictures, didn’t help.
But his win of wisdom has served far beyond a single, eventless evening.
Every time I order this, I’m in heaven. I have yet to encounter a sushi restaurant that does not have fresh wasabi, no matter how hole-in-the-wall it may be.
Like many things in life, all you have to do is ask.
#2. Never get body acne again: use Hibiclens in the shower.
I wish I had known this during my adolescent soccer-playing, track-sprinting years! I actually learned this from a chemist, who took me on an unforgettable Jamaica vacation, while I lived in North Carolina.
Hibiclens is an antiseptic soap used in hospitals, and is less than $15 on Amazon.
Ever since I started using this on a shower sponge, I have not broken out in even a speck of a freck. I recommend the pump version–the larger the better–to truly bang out your buck.
Science is a beautiful thing.
#3. Pen caps can be used as chip-clips to prevent products from getting stale.
I’ve grazed many kitchens, and am shocked by how many affluent men fail to have—or use—chip clips on their products.
Yes, this makes a HUGE difference in the longevity of your food!
This negligence was especially painful to encounter two months ago, with an engineer who lived in a Coto de Caza house that was so big, I frequently found myself lost in his hallways. But all of his cereal, chips, and anything that had been opened, was stale to the extent that it was inedible.
You can have all of the money in the world, but who cares if you don’t know how to use it?
I technically learned this from another North Carolina guy, although we were (and still are) friends more than anything.
If you can’t afford chip clips, or just don’t have them around, immediately rescue your reserves by using a pen cap on the top of packages. Be sure to release all air within packaging prior to sealing.
Hopefully you can reap these benefits without the headache and heartache that I’ve already suffered.
One of the times I seek love the most is when I’m lonely. This is also one of the worst times to attempt to find, and to form, a connection.
It’s like grocery shopping when you’re already hungry. Item list be damned: that frozen pizza, ice cream, cheez-puffs and other lusts are going in your cart, regardless of practicality.
You know better—these were not premeditated purchases, you know they’re no good for you—yet that craving is just too strong.
We all make bad decisions when we’re hungry…and even worse decisions when we’re thirsty.
My advice? Sleep with your water bottle.
Or if he’s just telling you what he thinks you want to hear…
If he’s really sorry, he’ll send delivery food.
Not all men are linguistically savvy (see previous post), but those who possess verbal caress may not necessarily be of higher caliber than those who don’t. Provide the opportunity for them to prove themselves.
In fact, a distinct characteristic of a fboy (/fgirl; I only speak from my own heterosexual experience, so I apologize for my limited perspective…thus far) is that their comments and behaviors emanate entirely from attempting to persuade a target to sleep with them–without disclosing the intent for a casual fling.
This (fboys vs. players vs. nice guys vs. “covert contracts”), warrants a separate blog post.
Actions speak louder than words. It’s easy for him to simply say, “I’m sorry”…but it’s a little harder for him to put his money where his mouth is.
If he’s genuinely remorseful and not just lazily trying to creep back in your pants, he’ll go the extra mile–or at least pay UberEats to do so. Feasts delivered to your doorstep are the new flowers, but significantly more practical.
It’s that simple. For both you and for him. He clears his conscience–and yes, by accepting his delivery apology, you can now NEVER mention this incident ever again. It’s a small price to pay for getting fed from the comfort of your home, in your sweatpants (not the aforementioned gray ones), without even having to blend your eyeshadow.
If he doesn’t send delivery, then he’s not truly sorry.
So if your Santa Fe chicken sandwich and carrot cake from Veggie Grill don’t magically appear at your doorstep–assuming you’ve clearly expressed your needs–you know the true depths of his apology. Proceed accordingly.
Why would you want to be on the receiving end of someone who can’t deliver?
**Epilogue: GSM and I did finally end up going on a date. I didn’t completely write him off since he did Venmo me for delivery (not as impressive as accurately ordering specified items and having them delivered to my place, but I still consider this an effort to fix his mistake).
Although the chemistry was definitely lacking–maybe he should have worn those gray sweatpants–overall, we had a pleasant time. (Both our post-date texts expressed mutually cordial, “Thanks for the fun night, you’re great blah blah.” Thankfully, neither of us has reached out since). Beyond anything, I respect his ability to take accountability. If nothing else, his actions at least salvaged his reputation.**
Far too often, texts I receive from men are so cringe-worthy that I have to wonder, “Are you trying to be repulsively inappropriate, or does it just come naturally?”
I’m not easily offended, and have been told I have a dark sense of humor; I appreciate British cheekiness, as well as Joss Whedon prior to the allegations of him sucking as a human being.
We’ve all sent dumb texts that we later regret, especially myself.
But not to this extent of stupidity. And not two hours–yes, TWO hours, folks–prior to even meeting in person on our first date.
Horrific texts are especially noteworthy within the Orange County dating scene, which I’m relatively new to but still seasoned enough to recognize a difference from other demographics. Men here seem to be better mannered, more respectful of my time, and more excited about sharing delightful dinners.
This is not Los Angeles, where I somehow survived relatively unscathed after accidentally serial-dating for about a decade…and attempting to heal with just as much therapy/self-help/Reiki/getting my yoga certification/volunteering for the Suicide Hotline/I could go on.
I really didn’t mean to date for that duration. That’s the most-insane part: During those dark years, I actually wanted to find love.
So moving to the O.C. about 4-5 months ago, and serendipitously stumbling upon a crapton of potential suitors who seemed to want “something real” gave me hope. I even found myself in a relationship within my first month here. Sure, that ended after about six weeks, but at least our issues were drastically different than those I encountered in previous relationships. After L.A., finding even the slightest thread of boyfriend-material felt like a miracle. The short amount of time it took to find someone who could engage in conversation without making me want to punch myself in the face (at least not on the first few dates) inspired hope.
I had even more hope when I met a cool, collected Colombian chick during my employment as a Pilates instructor at Lifetime Fitness in Laguna Niguel (where if you don’t drive a Tesla: you’re poor, sad, and forever alone). After an hour of learning her life story and how she met her husband, she gave me the phone number of “a nice guy” who “just hasn’t been lucky in love”. I could definitely relate.
For anyone who avidly believes in meeting people organically, this anecdote is for you.
This was not a random meet-up from Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, nor any online app. This was finally an in-person, responsible referral, insider-trading type set-up: “Oh, I know him and he’s great!“
Wholesome. Pure. Organic.
Interestingly, the results were just as horrendous.
“I will wear gray sweatpants. Look for guy with 2”
Where do I start?
Again, I can’t over-emphasize the fact that this was not about being offensive so much as it was about not being funny. Why pick a 2″ boner–which is too unbelievable to be comical–instead of 4″ or 5″? Why underestimate yourself, but more importantly, why underestimate me?
Fortunately, I’ve developed a fool-proof dating technique–an easy test–to give faux pas-guilty felons like this a second chance.
GraySweatpantsMan (GSM) deserves the opportunity to fix his mistake. That’s what’s most important: not that GSM committed a hilarious social crime, but the way that he handles–ideally, addresses and fixes–his reputation rupture.
How effectively is he able to take accountability and move forward (if at all)?
Through grueling years of self-conducted case studies, I’ve perfected the most efficient way to determine whether your potential partner/lover/luster/side-piece/whatever is truly sorry.
My method is simple, free, requires little to no energy….and may result in dinner delivered to your doorstep.
Stay tuned.
Brazenly Bad 