After 10 days of heavy antibiotics (thanks to an impromptu trip the ER), when my friends suggested margaritas on a Friday night, I happily obliged. We went through our usual catching-up work — craziness, what exercise class we’re planning to go to, the awesome event we should all sign-up for — and then we turned to the most entertaining topic: dating.
The two ladies I happened to be snacking guac and downing tequila flights with that evening were single like me. And though we’re all at varying levels of singleness, we all settled on one little fact: it’s hard. But while they stayed mostly optimistic about it and at least somewhat excited about the prospect of new dates (that could hopefully, turn into more than happy hour partners) — I was on an entirely opposite end of the spectrum. I’m tired of dating.
I didn’t really notice how jaded I’d become until my friend pointed it out. Our second stop was a bottle of rose outside (because that’s a smart decision after margs, not), where I decided to show them the ‘ridiculous’ messaging conversation I was having with someone on Hinge. It went a little something like this:
“Could you believe that he asked me out without basically asking me anything? He’s a terrible communicator and frankly, I’m not sure how I’d stomach one date with him,” I said.
“Um, Lindsay. You said you didn’t want to go out with him until you knew more about him, so he asked you what you wanted to know…” my friend questioned, confused.
“I guess. But he was rude about it. And not even, like, proper grammar or anything. He’s not making an effort,” I replied.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, I think you sound very angry about dating. Maybe it’s time for a break?” she smiled, pouring more rose for me.
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