I had a picture in my mind of how my next dating experience was going to go. I’d meet a nice guy, maybe at a friend’s house party or while we both tried to flag down the bartender at one of those speakeasy-esque bars that serves cocktails with perfectly square ice cubes. We’d exchange some witty words, some knowing smiles, and clink our glasses as we got a second round. He’d ask for my number and would call a few days later. Our first date would be during the day—maybe to a museum—followed by a dinner date the next week, if things went well. I had in my mind that, next time I got on the dating mechanical bull, I was going to take things slow and steady so I didn’t get bucked off too soon.
But then I met The Young One. Keep reading »
Last week, I met a friend for coffee and, as we sipped our cappuccinos, I pumped her for details on the date she’d been on the the night before. “It was alright,” she said, sounding unenthused. “He was just really … young.”
“How young?” I asked, worried we might be talking about a guy with a fake ID.
“Twenty-six,” she said, wincing ever-so-slightly as she pushed out the words.
“That’s not that young,” I said, rushing to the defense of this guy I’d never met. But as I pointed out that there was five years between them—not the biggest age differential ever—I could tell by the look on her face that it wasn’t going to change her mind. When you’re not feeling it, you’re just not feeling it—and I respect that. Keep reading »
There are few things I love more than a good pun. And a sly piece of word play? I like to think that I deploy them often. I am all about analogies, and probably use them more often than a “Real Housewife” gets Botox. I, Dater X, am a word nerd. I’ve known this about myself for years, and generally it’s something I like potential suitors to match.
But in the the past week while exchanging emails with Petr, the Czech sculptor I met in Prague 10 years ago, I’m finding that many of my usual rhetorical rhythms simply don’t work. Keep reading »
Ten years ago, after flicking my mortarboard in the air at college graduation, my best friend and I embarked on a rite of passage backpacking-through-Europe trip. Together, we traveled through France, Italy, Austria, Germany, and the Czech Republic, buckling under the weight of our backpacks and taking extra croissants from continental breakfasts at hostels in hopes that they’d last us through lunch. By day, we overdosed on museums and took roll upon roll of photos at historical sights. By night, we headed to plazas and parks to chug bottles of wine outdoors—something you can’t do here unless you want to get a ticket—and have deep conversations with people our age, both locals and fellow travelers. I was single for the trip, but somehow managed not to hook up once the entire month. I remember sulking about this fact at the time.
Fast forward to today, when an email popped up my inbox from my travel companion. She was forwarding me a message from some guy with an ultra Eastern European last name. Keep reading »
You know how, once in a while, someone asks you your age and your mind goes blank, leaving you sounding like a total idiot tripping over the word, “Uhhhhh…” That’s how I feel about my magic number. Confession: I have no idea how many men I’ve had sex with over the years. I cashed in my v-card at age 16, and for a while kept a mental tally of the guys I had sex with, who were usually of the boyfriend variety. Somewhere in my early twenties, I reached the 10 mark and from there, keeping count just felt kinda wrong. About a year ago, a friend asked about my sex number and I went home determined to do a tally. But after I reached the second guy in the list whose name and identifying characteristics I no longer remembered, I abandoned the endeavor and vowed never to do it again. I know that my magic number is more than 15, and I’d like to say that it’s less than 25. But I’m just not sure anymore. Keep reading »
For most single women out there, New Year’s Eve is a big deal. On December 31st, we’ll get all dolled up—preferably in sequins and heavy eyeliner—and hit the town in our 2011 New Year’s Eve glasses. (Question: How exactly are those going to work?) It’s one of the few nights a year where debaucherous drinking is not only condoned, but encouraged, and where grabbing a random stranger for a makeout session is not only okay, but tradition. The next morning, as we nurse our hangovers, we’ll have the satisfaction of standing up, wiping off the dirt of the past year, and jumping feet first into a new one—a fresh 365 days in which every possibility is open.
Yes, kiss or not, New Year’s Eve should be a great night. But for me, January 2nd will be a much bigger day. See, it’s my parents’ anniversary. As much as I think about it, I still can’t seem to wrap my head around the idea that, in less than a week, my parents will have been husband and wife for 40 freaking years. Keep reading »