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.
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.
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.
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
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 