If there’s one thing I won’t reveal on a first date, it’s my last name.
Thanks to a robust writing portfolio and popular dating blog, if a dude searches my name after our happy hour meet-up, he could discovereverything I think about dating, love, and sex. Sorry you’re not sorry, Google! It is sometimes really, really frustrating to have the thing that you love to do be the thing you can’t tell possible boyfriends about (until they get to know you, at least).
Even though it’s something I’ve dealt with since I started writing about my love life four years ago, I’ve never felt ashamed about any of my blog posts until a few weeks ago when I went out with Aaron.
I know you exist.
Somewhere out in this mad city, or this crazy country or this beautifully ridiculous world, I know you exist. You have hopes that I’ve never heard, that I don’t know about yet, but these dreams paired with my wild ambitions will create our future. You have been walking on this planet, doing things and making things and being things that mean something to you. I know you are working that 9-6 (or 7 or 8) just like me, wondering when you’ll get where you’re going, even if you’re not sure where that is, exactly, just yet. I know you wake up every morning and you go to sleep every night, and in those hours, those minutes, those seconds in between, you make hundreds of decisions that have yet to lead you to me.
I know you are loved.
There is this family, these friends, these people that have the privilege to talk to you daily. These people have heard your laugh and felt your embrace, they know your voice when you speak and they have memories that go back to the decades I’ve never known you. There are people who think of you because you’ve actually spent time with them, there are women who have shared your heart and your hands, your bed and been stuck in your head. There are people who know your favorite dish, how you take your whiskey and what team you cheer for on Sundays and Mondays at the pub near your apartment, on some street in some place in some city. There are people who love you because you are already so wonderful.
A year ago, I published a blog called ‘Dear Boy.’ It was an ode to all of the jerks I went out with that year as a way to dismiss them and let ‘em go. I was amazed when I received so many letters from all over the world of women (and men!) experiencing the same let down.
I don’t know what it is about writing, but it sure does get it out, doesn’t it?
So in honor of releasing all the bad of the year to prepare for a bright, amazing year ahead, I want to encourage you to write Dear Boy letters again! You’re welcome to anonymously submit or use your name (or a fake one).
Just click this link and fill it out. I’ll email you when you it’s published.
To inspire you, here’s one from me:
Dear Boy Who I Though Could Have Really Been Something,
After our marathon date that lasted nearly 48 hours, I was smitten. Our conversation and chemistry was magnetic and I was so impressed with your follow-up. You were handsome and charming, and yet, a little more reserved than I usually go for. I thought stepping outside of my normal dating routine and going for someone who was less the life of the party and more an intellectual with a goofy side would be good for me. But what I didn’t realize is that you weren’t really grown-up yet. You didn’t know how to manage stress. You didn’t know how to balance life, work and love. You didn’t know how to stop being selfish and frankly, you didn’t know how to give a girl an orgasm. I was a little sad when we ended things – at some bar in midtown – but more than anything, I was relieved. I didn’t want another relationship where I did all the work, where I had to put up a big fight and do the wooing. I want someone who can do that all on his own. And I know I’ll find him, and I hope you are one day able to take a deep breath, relax and really let yourself fall for someone. It’ll be a lonely life if you don’t.
With love, Linds
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So here’s the honest truth: I haven’t had sex since July.
I know, I know—you would think for someone who dates as much as I do and is so open about her personal life, I’d be getting a little more nooky. But since I ended that kind-of-relationship with Patrick right after the Fourth of July, I haven’t been laid. Sadly, I haven’t even been touched more than a drunken ass grab outside some crummy bar downtown.
From my Facebook page looking in, I seem like I pretty much have it together.
I have a job that I really love, I signed with an agent this year to turn my blog into a book, I live in one of the trendiest neighborhoods in New York City, and I’m lucky that I’m a good enough saver that I make it overseas a couple times a year for a vacation.
I’ve been pretty d*mn successful (knock on wood) so far in my 20s, but the one thing I’ve yet to master is dating.
I’ve been online dating basically since I realized it was an option. For an article for the school newspaper my sophomore year in college, I tried to sign up for eHarmony, but I wasn’t old enough (ya gotta be 21), and so it called me “unmatchable.” After crying to my mom (and um, reading the fine print), I held off on signing up again until I moved to New York.
When I arrived in the city, I signed up for Plenty of Fish, and though I did have a little luck (met a millionaire for the first time!), I was still a little too young for the market; it was easier for me to hit up a bar in midtown to meet a dude over a romantic Bud Light than to fiddle with all those search filters. I ended up meeting my ex when I fell down in front of him on a bus (go figure), and after that relationship ended, I was determined to get over him stat, so I signed up for everything.
I’ve been thinking about London lately.
About how easy it was to get around the city, even with it’s hushed voices and last-calls at 1 a.m., instead of 4. I’ve been thinking about how the men were such gentleman, wishing me a good day and commenting on how ‘quite lovely, quite everything, quite was’ in their darling accents that stupidly remind me of Hugh Grant. I’ve been thinking about how even though I tried to have an afternoon delight in Kensington at lunchtime with a tall, handsome character I met in Shoreditch the night before – he refrained. I’ve been considering the echoes in my head from all the women who complained – over their cigarettes and their pimms – that the men are far too serious, that they want relationships too soon, that they just bore of them ‘quite quickly, I’m afraid.’ I’ve been thinking that maybe, a British man might be what I’ve been looking for, after all.
I’ve been thinking about Paris lately.