It's Friday night and I'm snap chatting while thinking of something compelling to say. I decide 3 different article subjects are uninteresting before exploring "Dream Yachts" in Snapchat's "discover" section.
Easily another 10 minutes lost there. I am no closer to a different subject and now I feel poor.
This is a writer's life. They say write what you know, and we can't all be the "Volume Dating" gal. For those of who you did not catch the piece on Elle, Cotton Codinha (great name) chronicled her six-week experiment in volume dating, a made-up term she describes as dating anyone and everyone. One woman's search for quantity over quality, this is a lascivious read. The devilishly juicy details took me back to dating, a lifestyle I've since swapped for my current coupled PJ position on a Friday night.
Basically, it's How to lose a guy in 10 days with text messaging. I can attest this is one of the best parts of dating men, the art of a text conversation. Shortly before my beau and I got together, we too had a charming text banter, the kind of wit you put work into. I can still feel the thrill of hearing my phone vibrate, it meant I needed to check my messages immediately and think of my next comeback.
It's a pity she didn't include Facebook photos in her article. It makes me wonder if people don't use it anymore. Have Snapchat stories replaced Facebook profile stalking? I have fond memories of the early days of Facebook stalking my boyfriend. I distinctly remember his photos and my searching through them trying to glean his interests and if he was really as nice as he seemed. He too confesses to Facebook stalking my photos, going as far back as a wedding I walked in 2 years before we began dating. It was true love.
But tonight I live through Cotton's misadventures cheering her on. This girl is cereal dating at an alarming speed without a firm objective, which is curious to me. Why sign up for the marathon race without an end goal? I suppose for the experiences, and she is getting plenty of them, but at a certain point once you've fumbled through 15 dates, do you need the other 30 if you're not searching for something? I wonder if I sound old, but remember that I too played the game and got tired of it.
The last few months of my single life were spent more with myself then frolicking Miami's finest dating options. I reveled in my Netflix nights, not even batting an eyelash when my roommate would walk through the halls clicking her heels. They were the sounds of a late night ahead. I can close my eyes and remember the scent of 5 perfumes interlocking; our apartment was nicknamed "the sorority" because there was always at least 3-5 girls sleeping over on the weekends. My roommate and I ran in the same circle of friends, so girls would frequently come into my room and try to convince me to come grab a drink with them. There's a new bar. It's going to be epic.
Months before, the FOMO alone would have moved my ass up out of bed and into some cleavage-clad outfit ready to see where the night went. But I was tired. I was not as cool as Cotton, and dating as a sport had lost its allure.
I binged teenage vampire TV with the faint noises of the ocean's waves breaking outside my balcony. This was where I wanted to be. I had earned the privilege of self love and satisfaction. I didn't want anything to do with anyone unless it was the real deal. Little did I know as I curled up in my moo moo pants –a hideous pair of PJs I've since retired because they were two sizes too big and covered with cartoon cows– that I would meet a great love soon. And now, here I am full circle. I got out of my moo moo pants for just enough time to forge a lasting connection and the privilege, again, to be home on a Friday in my newer (more acceptably designed) PJ pants.
Maybe Facebook and regular dating are relics of a past generation, but I certainly hope coming home to yourself is not.