If, like me, you’re incredibly aware of the years passing, the clock ticking, and the pool of eligible life partners narrowing, it can be tempting to settle for what’s right in front of you. Some days, it might feel like the only option. But as I approach my thirties, I’ve seen this play out in my extended social circle more often than I’d like. I’ve witnessed the end-game. And, let me tell you, people, it’s not pretty.
I’ve always been a relationshippy kind of gal. I detest the hookup scene, hate being single, and feel like serial dating requires so. much. effort. A boyfriend, though — that I can get on board with. Life is generally improved when you have a go-to buddy to share your experiences with. Plus, kissing is fun.
Now, just because I prefer having someone by my side, doesn’t mean I’ll hitch my wagon to just anybody. Being alone may not be ideal, but it’s certainly superior to coupling up with someone who is merely “meh”.
If you aren’t yet familiar with the concept of Uber Pool, it’s essentially Uber, but you pick up a couple extra passengers along the way who are all headed in the same general direction.
Taking an Uber Pool is always a bit of an adventure. You never EVER want to request Pool when you’re in a hurry because the algorithm can take you loops out of your way and tack an additional 10-30 minutes onto your ride depending on where you’re going and the time of day.
Recently, I experienced one of the more awkward Uber Pool scenarios…
My wise little sister recently explained to me the importance of having a “roster”.
For all of us single gals out there, it’s apparently imperative to have a lineup of guys who will conveniently make themselves available to you should the need arise. I’m not sure what that “need” entails exactly, but I suppose it runs the gamut.
Like… if you want a buddy for bowling after work? Call Guy #1.
Feeling horny and want to hook up? Oh, that’s Guy #4’s role.
Just want a foot rub and cuddles on the couch? Guy #2 is alllll about them schnuggles. He might whip up a meal for you too, if you ask nicely.
Guys, guys! For those of you who don’t know, it’s officially cuffing season!
And damn, I want to get cuffed.
Being alone is boring. Everyone else is all huddled up in their annoying little twosomes, whiling away the wintertime cold, and I’m over here by myself eating chocolate chips from a jumbo bag until I feel sick. So really, what’s so bad about wanting a casual relationship of my own to help pass the time?
Ok, ok, a little background.
First of all, cuffing season occurs between Halloween and Valentine’s Day when the weather is shitty and all you want to do is attach yourself to another human being and cuddle under the covers for four months straight. Of course, once the holidays are over and the weather improves, there’s an understanding that you’ll both go your separate ways, because when the sun finally comes out, who has time to be held back by their winter fuck buddy?
What’s the farthest you’d go for a hookup?
Not just any old makeout sesh either. A once in a lifetime shot. The real deal. A guaranteed, pleasure-filled evening with the guy or gal of your dreams.
Would you go across town? Drive across the state? Hop on a plane cross country? Would you traverse an ocean for someone?
And does the destination matter? Like, is it more okay to book a last minute flight to bang someone in LA than someone in Omaha?
I sent him a tweet and he responded via Snapchat, so I replied with a goofy selfie snap and then sent him a text to follow up when he didn’t open it after a few hours. He called me and we chatted but he asked me to send him an email to finish up since I had to hop off early to run errands. I did that, but realized he never mentioned anything about the postcard I sent from my work trip so I Facebook messaged him to ask if any snail mail had shown up at his door.
Can we all agree that this is ridiculous?
The sheer number of ways in which we communicate with each other has gotten so out of hand it’s positively absurd.
Election season is like a modern day rendition of medieval warfare, in a way. A power struggle to end all power struggles.
You fight for something that resembles freedom from your claustrophobic cubicle in the midwest. Your laptop your trusty steed. Excel your Excalibur.
Some people might say that in the wake of a breakup you mourn the loss of your lover, your confidante, your best friend. You might feel as if you’ve lost your sounding board, your cuddle buddy, your default dinner date. Maybe in some cases, depending on how the relationship dissolves, you lose your dignity?
Well, I lost my fucking umbrella.
We’ve all met him. The Perfect on Paper Guy.
The man who went to Princeton undergrad, before attending Johns Hopkins Med school and finished at the top of his class, all while running a non-profit on the side that helps under-privileged children fulfill their dreams of playing soccer in America. As a doctor, he spends his hectic days in the emergency room saving kids lives while I post Twitter ads for tech startups. In his free time he gives back to the community while I sit on the couch digging into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and watching The Bachelor.
My ex boyfriend was really good at filling up the Brita.
He wasn’t good at giving massages or cooking dinner or vacuuming the cat hair off the couch, but he always made sure there was cold, clear, clean water in the fridge.
Living alone, I’ve realized, I’m really terrible at this. Refilling the Brita, that is.