I really (really) liked David.
I was a 19-year-old, wide-eyed, excited kid that immensely enjoyed the attention from an older (by um, two years?) guy who wanted to wine-and-dine me. (Mostly from his apartment, since I couldn’t, you know, order a glass without being carded in my quiet, sleepy college town.) He was an engineering major with a big passion to design skyscrapers (and I wanted to live in NYC, it was fate!), and though his room was messy and his shirts smelled like mildew, after two dates, I was pretty much smitten.
This was originally published on eHarmony’s blog.
If you’ve been single for a while, you’re probably used to the first date dance by now: he asks where you’re from originally, you ask about his job. He asks if you prefer red or white wine, you ask about his hobbies. It usually feels like the same ole’ conversation just with a different person, unless you stumble across a truly magical (and rare!) amazing date.
Over cocktails and appetizers with a friend of mine recently, she caught me up on her current dating life. She’s been seeing a dude for about six months, they go on dates (and sleep over) a few times a week, he’s introduced her to all of his friends, they’ve discussed going on vacation together early next year and she feels like she’s (maybe, kinda, definitely) falling in love with him
So, he’s your boyfriend then?! I asked, excitedly. That’s great!! You’ve been single for a while now!
Oh, no, we’re not like, official, official, she said, taking a quite large sip of wine. We’re seeing each other. And I think we’re only sleeping with one another.
Last week, I decided to do what many dudes do on Tinder: get straight to the point. Now—not every guy I’m matched with goes in straight for the date, some like to be chatty. But most exchange a few niceties before asking for my number and seeing when they can buy me a glass of Pinot Noir. (Saturday, at 8 p.m., in the East Village, if any tall, successful, kind-hearted man is available out there. Somewhere. Anywhere. Anyone. Bueller?)
It’s hard to believe that Confessions of a Love Addict is four years old today.
I get those damn butterflies in my stomach every single time I think of how far this blog has come in the past few years. And my heart feels like it’s about to burst when I think of how blessed I am that you all come back to read my thoughts, hear about my adventures and stick with me through any breakup, job change or difficult time.
I know I’ve thanked you before, but let me do it again:
A year ago today, I turned 25.
Truth be told, I didn’t want to be the big 2-5. In fact, the whole idea of being in my mid-twenties really freaked me out. There was something ominous about making the transition from fresh-out-of-college to real-life adulthood. Sure, I have been on my own for years, but when you’re a quarter of a century, it somehow seems way more serious than it did before.
But I really didn’t have a damn thing to worry about – 25 was (by far) my best year yet. So much so, that as I turn 26 today at 2:14 p.m., I’m secretly wishing that I could stay 25 forever.
At 2 a.m. on a Saturday night last summer, The Canadian walked into my life. He waited for the creepy guy hovering over me to head to the bar, and then he slipped right in as he said, “You’re the prettiest girl here, why are you talking to him?”