A friend of mine recently informed me that she had downloaded Tinder for a very specific purpose. No, she hadn’t decided to start actively dating, nor had she been inspired to follow my How to Have Sex Like a Man guide and master the art of casual sex. (Neither have I, for that matter. Some things are best left to the pros.) Rather, she had sourced the app for purely educational purposes, i.e. to exercise her skills in something as seemingly simple as texting.
“I’m Latin – I just don’t understand how it works” she professed, claiming that a recent attempt at a relationship had gone to shit simply because she hadn’t know how to correctly communicate via her super-hipster Samsung galaxy device. (Honestly, I blame the phone. That thing is confusing.) Instead of cute one-liners, she had engaged into something that swung between sarcastic humor and a too-honest stream of consciousness, proceeding to scare the poor chap away in the matter of days. Still scarred by the experience, the perfectionist in her decided to take matters in her own hands and practice the art of witty banter in the safe haven of online dating.
The other night, my best friend and hubby-in-law, one of the most in-sync couples I know, had an argument. The reason? He had ‘liked’ some random girl’s selfie on Instagram – mouth open wide, staring into the mirror with an expression of blank stupidity on her face – bref, the usual Instafuckme pic, just like the million others sweeping the Internet like some fast-spreading digital plague.
While I normally mock unreasonable jealousy, deeming it is a completely fruitless pursuit, this one hit a spot. To start, I would hardly call it jealousy – nobody actually thinks that their boyfriend/husband is going to run away with some girl who stacks her breasts on a selfie stick as a hobby. Rather, it is the idea of men virally following these girls – quite literally, like a bunch of dogs following a foul smell – that is unnerving.
I recently realized that I’m over my ex.
Just to make it clear, we broke up exactly 3 years ago (give or take a few days), which means that I’m about 2.5 years late on this pronouncement. Just consider me a late bloomer who didn’t discover the magical forces of young love until the age of 22 and consequently took the breakup to a whole new level, embarking on an Eat Pray Love mission that led me all the way to Paris. In any case, all is well that ends well, as I am over him in a way that circa 2011 me never would have deemed possible, showing that time does indeed heal some stupidity.
Here are some telltale signs.
Recently, one of my best friends became a man.
No, she did not undergo a sex change, cool as Lea T has made them out to be. Nor did she retire her wardrobe, predominantly comprised of Dries and (paradoxically lesbian-esque) Céline. Rather, she simply began having sex like a man – selfishly, indulgently, without any overthought or repercussions.
It all started with a Tinder date. They met up, shared a bottle of wine, she felt herself attracted to him and invited him back to her place around the corner. Two hours later, they were having the best sex of her life. The next morning, an amazing thing happened: instead of exuding the routine paranoia of a woman after a one-night-stand (“What have I done? Have I blown it? Will he call?”), she exuded the glow of a man after a great f*ck. After a day of dirty texting, they scheduled their next “date”.
I did not make resolutions for 2015. It seemed redundant and futile, as though setting myself up for a year of continous little failures. Avoid processed sugar? Take full advantage of the gym membership that costs 1/3 of my salary? Attempt to write this marvel of a blog more than once a week? These are generic promises that I make to myself on a weekly basis, with often questionable results.