In between his overnight shifts this weekend, my boyfriend (that’s the first time I’m calling him that, and it’s weird considering he might soon be my ex-boyfriend) called me to check in and see how I was doing. Around Wednesday, I found myself in a bit of an emotional funk, feeling unsettled in pretty much every aspect of my life: my friendships, my relationship and my living situation, to name a few. There’s been a certain lack of stability with each one recently—most notably, the possibility of Officer Handsoming being transferred nearly two hours away for work, which he first warned me about last week.
After I quickly recapped my Friday night and told Officer Handsoming that I was still feeling like there were a bunch of balls up in the air, I took his silence as a sign that he was about to add to the anxiety. Keep reading »
So you’ve finally found The One (or at least The One For The Foreseeable Future) and you’ve committed to a serious relationship. Now what? In our new weekly column, Life After Dating, we’ll discuss the unique joys and challenges of coupledom.
“What should we do for Valentine’s Day?” I asked my boyfriend.
He shrugged. I shrugged back. We looked at each other.
“I hate those prix fixe dinners,” he said.
“Yeah, me too,” I agreed. “So what then? What can we do that’s not dinner?”
We mutually shrugged once again and went back to talking about documentaries we wanted to see.
And that was that. We’re not doing anything for Valentine’s Day. Well, nothing special, anyway. Keep reading »
Officer Handsoming and I had “the talk.” Well, sort of. I knew that if I didn’t bring up our relationship status soon, my exclusivity limbo anxiety would bubble up inside of me and explode. So, I forced myself to ask.
“I have a question,” I started. “I want you to be honest. Are you seeing other people, or, rather, do you still want to see other people?”
The Oh God, This Conversation Is About To Happen look on his face told me he knew that we were about to embark on a trip to Exclusiveville. Keep reading »
For the majority of my last relationship, my partner was in the throes of a slowly unwinding nervous breakdown. He moved to New York at the same time I did, and lived for a brief period in a state of almost too much togetherness, bound because we loved each other, but also because we didn’t know what else to do. There is a strange thing that happens when you first move to a new city. Stripped free of your usual comforts, you cling readily and fiercely to whatever is available. For us, it was one another, and that felt fine to me, but less so to him. With the stress of living in a new city and delving into a new relationship, his anxiety and depression blossomed beyond the average quarter-life crisis into something much more serious. Keep reading »
I walked into a posh, new restaurant in Alphabet City and asked a guy in a black suit (amidst other guys in ratty chinos and un-tucked oxford shirts) about my reservation. Like a gentleman, he laughed and explained in a sexy Aussie accent that he wore a suit because he was a sharp dresser, not because he was a host at this restaurant. Blushing cheeks, a good laugh and I had Jack’s phone number.
Jack the Australian had cool, blue eyes and black hair, and if I need to say more than that, I can. He was an air traffic controller. An extra cool, rom-com worthy job. He quickly racked up bonus points; funny in a dorky way, up for anything, including flea markets and whiffle ball, and actually used dish soap. He even had a continual Scrabble game going with his elderly neighbor. Keep reading »
There’s no worse feeling than not knowing. And after Patrick Bateman’s web of lies (which, let’s be honest, will probably haunt me for the rest of my life), I feel the need for constant relationship reassurance. I hate the unanswered questions, and I hate the unknown. Officer Handsoming and I are currently in that unknown, and I don’t like it one bit.
Allow me to set the scene: My friends and I were drinking champagne and decided to go dancing. Despite the fact that I’d already reached my desired level of buzzedness, I gladly accepted the shots of Fireball that the bartender bestowed upon us, even though I knew I’d regret it in the morning. While we were throwing back our whiskey, my chatty girlfriend made nice with a group of guys standing next to us, who were also enjoying some drinks on the house.
“Hi there,” a Leonardo DiCaprio look-a-like said to me, shaking my hand. I shook his hand back, and walked away to check my phone and text Officer Handsoming, who happened to be working an overnight shift. Keep reading »
Maybe I should be over this by age 35, when the vast majority of my peers are on the procreation train and it’s just something I should be expecting, but I still feel a twinge of, I don’t even know what to call the feeling, when I discover that a guy I used to date has gone and made a baby. It’s not quite wistfulness or jealousy — but it’s certainly unsettling.
The other day I was scrolling through Instagram when I discovered that I guy I dated briefly a bunch of years ago was a parent. He posted a picture of his wife (?) and his 9-month-old daughter(!?), who looked eerily like his much younger, female twin (like, she had the same haircut as him…it was weird). His hashtag: #neverdreamedthisdaywouldcome. “Damn right, you didn’t,” I replied to my iPhone screen, enlarging the picture to get a closer look. Below, the range of reactions you can expect to go through when you find yourself in this situation… Keep reading »
I’m happy to report that things are, for the first time in a long time, going well in my love life. In fact, they’re really great. Over the last month and a half, Officer Handsoming and I have hit upon pretty much every “getting to know you,” milestone appropriate for a six-week courtship, making this the most “normal” relationship I’ve been in for a long while. He wasn’t rushing to jump into bed with me, he didn’t ghost me after a couple of weeks, and most importantly, he doesn’t seem to exhibit any signs of having another girlfriend (a huge plus after the hell I went through with Patrick Bateman). Keep reading »
I am the oldest of four girls, a pack of sisters who descend in age like uneven stair steps, from 31 to 29 to 26 to 23. As the eldest of this pack, I am a consummate older sister — bossy, with a tendency towards lecturing, and a fondness for teaching “lessons.” In the context of my family, this dynamic has its place. The traditional roles of birth order are said to be fluid, but mine never is. I am eternally a big sister, and this dynamic has bled into my love life. Keep reading »
“Any Patrick Bateman news?” I jokingly asked my friends Rick and Beth.
“Last time I heard anything about Patrick Bateman was right before his wedding,” said Rick.
I nearly choked on my water. “HE’S MARRIED?! TO WHO?” He and Beth exchanged an “oh shit, we thought she knew” look.
“That girl. The other one he was dating when you guys got back together,” added Rick sheepishly.
The sound of boozy patrons, loud jazz music, silverware clinking against plates seemed to come to a screeching halt while I tried to register what I’d just heard: my lying, cheating ex-boyfriend, Patrick Bateman, tied the knot. Keep reading »