For the past five years, I’ve been in two serious relationships. In these five years, so much has changed. Donald Trump became president, Beyonce did NOT win Album of the Year for her faultless Lemonade, and Outback Steakhouse stopped offering blooming petals as a steak topper (the truest tragedy of them all).
You know what has also changed? Dating. All eligible bachelors are either married/engaged/deeply in love with a perfect woman who has shiny hair and deworms orphans in Somalia. Or they’re good looking and have options, therefore they don’t have to settle for me. All other jokers are either deeply flawed humans, immature fuckbois, or dumb. Sometimes a combination of the three.
And sussing out which is which can be tricky. Recently, I was at a party mainlining vodka sodas and I reached a level only I was on. I was in the space before full blackout but past creating any tangible memories. I found myself talking to a guy about something (who knows what, really) when I just put it to him bluntly.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Uh…yeah I do,” he replied.
“You’re wasting my time right now,” I said, beelining for more vodka.
The next day my roommate assured me my drunken antics weren’t that bad (“you just got really loud,” she confessed with a grimace that wasn’t really convincing). I had some McDonald’s and let the hangover anxiety set in.
I’m not a 23 year old anymore. I am over trying to get people to like me. Specifically, men. Back when 23-year-old Kate was running the show, I was constantly trying to impress men. Why? Because I had this notion that if I impressed them with my sexuality or whatever that maybe – just maybe – they would eventually see past that and see me for who I truly was. You know how many times that actually happened? 0.
But 27-year-old Kate is older and wiser. She’s also 10 pounds heavier and way more bitter. And she is done trying to impress people or make them love her.
I was at the bar the other night talking to a gentleman – we’ll call him Kevin, because his name was actually Kevin – when he made me an offer I could refuse. Namely, he promised a night I “wouldn’t forget” after knowing me for approximately 7 seconds.
“Look,” he put it to me. “I can do things to you you’ve never even heard about.”
I let him down easy (“um, that’s a big no from me…”) but he persisted. What would it take for me to go home with him? He promised me the moon and the stars, he told me all the things he can do with his mouth – which was an upsetting amount of things – and then topped it off by offering me a night of unbelievable pleasure.
But here’s the thing. I’m not 23 anymore. I am 27. Dating is not about having a few fleeting minutes of a stranger writhing on top of you in the hopes that, in the morning, he will maybe call you for an awkward dinner at a low brow Sizzler. It’s about finding someone who likes the same stuff as you and who tolerates you at your worst (aka when recounting the plotlines of Real Housewives in excruciating detail.)
A night of pleasure for me includes no less than one bottle of Merlot, a cheese pizza doused in ranch and Facebook stalking the most attractive people from my graduating class. A great addition to this would be a nice guy who is preferably six foot or taller, hates the same people as I do, and isn’t into butt stuff. Is that too much to ask?
So until that happens, this is where you’ll find me: