The Great Adventure

THE GREAT ADVENTURE_DBAG DATING_KHOROSH

So, you spend your twenties “discovering who you are;” carving out your “identity.” If you are of a particular millennial breed, perhaps you even create a “personal brand” around said identity, tailoring it, perfecting it like Michelangelo’s David or a clay bowl in one of those Color Me Mine pottery places that Charlotte York was eager to join. Perhaps you move to Paris to take that self-discovery process to the next level, and you start a dating blog. A few years later, you write a book loosely based on that blog. You analyze yourself into a stupor. By the time your early thirties roll around, you are convinced that you did it. You. Know. Who. You. Are. (Somebody who loves “adventures,” hates party brunches, needs quiet mornings and five hours of alone time a day.) You are defined. You are finite. 

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Goodbye To All That, Hello To Something Completely Different

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I always knew I wanted children. Unlike everything else in my life – partners, professions, even countries – I never bothered to question it, assuming that, at some point in my adult existence, I would move into this daunting yet (allegedly) fulfilling world of self-cloning.    

And yet, time went on. As one year rolled into another, a different kind of adult existence set in. It was one shaped by singlehood, the kind when you are alone for so long that it becomes your comfort zone; the kind where you set your own terms and live purely for you – gluttonously, frivolously, without any extra cares or responsibilities. The more time passed, (and the more independence and opportunities I accumulated), the more fun it became: the impromptu trips, the month-long “research” sojourns in Paris, the long mornings spent drinking coffee and writing my heart out. Life in a bubble with me at its center. 

When I finally did move in with my boyfriend at the age of 33, after only six months of dating, it was great, but it also came with a sacrifice I hadn’t been prepared for. Suddenly, the routines I had carefully cultivated over the years were crudely cut short, interrupted by breakfast-making sessions and blasting news and household chores I had never needed to deal with. (Fact #1: men produce debris merely by existing.) I could feel myself losing not only my focus but also my creativity, as though my newfound happiness had plugged this fountain from which good words and ideas emerge. (Or, perhaps, said words and ideas had always been generated by solitude– a chicken or the egg scenario, so to speak.)  Read More

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All The Good Advice You Shouldn’t Follow

DBAG DATING ALL THE ADVICE YOU SHOULDN'T FOLLOW

Dear 2.5 readers who keep coming back after nearly a year of my abstinence from this blog, thank you for your unfailing loyalty. While I’m sure you give very few [BLEEPS] as to why I was absent, the explanation actually doubles as my lead-in into this paramount piece. And so, here it goes.

At first, I was Busy. A real, goal-driven kind of Busy, the kind that deters you from leaving your desk all summer, quietly observing all of Instagram using the Mediterranean as their own personal hammam while you and your Havianas slowly meld into the scorching city cement. The kind of Busy that forces you to cut out all social interaction with people who have no interest in feeding you (Busy leaves no room for pride) or breaking booze with you (Busy leaves no room for wellness). Anyway, I was Busy.

Then, I met somebody. I want to tell you that I abstained from blogging because I didn’t want to jinx my blossoming romance, but that would be a lie. The reality is, I was a-still Busy and b-too preoccupied trying to get him to like me via various acts of chivalry, such as watching his dog while he went to New Orleans for one day to party. We are still together, and I no longer watch his dog on weekends while he parties, because he is no longer allowed to party or do anything remotely fun without me. (JK, I’m super chill. SUPER. CHILL.) Also, if you meet him, he will probably tell you that I’m being dramatic and he was just “taking it slow.” Don’t listen!

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Can Gold Digging be “Feminist”?

Can Gold-Digging be “Feminist”? The Debate(NB: Please note that the author of this post took a good week to reflect on whether her “spirited” reaction to this topic stems from her own personal frustrations with her lack of “female energy,” dry fasting skills, and her overall laziness to become a JetSetBabe and snap up a life sponsor. She had concluded that this is probably true; has still decided to move forward with it.)

If you’ve been privy my (mildly unhinged) Instagram stories, you may have noticed that I recently developed an obsession with a blogger-slash-life-guru named Anna Bey. Anna is the founder of the website JetSetBabe and “online finishing school” School of Affluence, which teaches women to become “high-caliber women” and “navigate successfully in high society.” Those of you envisioning European royals and tech moguls, feel free to swap out that vision for greasy oligarchs atop mega-yachts. (Here’s a guide to being on a yacht, btw.)

At first,  my fascination was that of pure entertainment. The articles were unapologetic-bordering-on-shameless, with titles such as “How to Look Rich on Instagram” and “Do You Meet More Men In First Class?” Was this a joke? A brilliant piece of satire? It was almost too easy to mock – and yet, impossible to look away.

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New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me (And My Sex Life) Down

New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me (And My Sex Life) Down

In the past months, I have been trying to break my longstanding European – oh, who am I kidding, French – streak by attempting to date the kind of man my mother has been tacking to her mental vision board of my life since 2005 – “a nice Jewish boy with a stable job and good family values.” (Please keep in mind that my mom isn’t Jewish – she is just that satisfied with her choice of husband.) Mom expressed concern that the world had run out of age-appropriate options in the decade I had dedicated to moody Frenchmen. I calmed her nerves by showing her Hinge, a luxury outlet overflowing with clean-cut boys with Stanford degrees, JPMorgan jobs, Machu Picchu pictures, and cute nephews. My mother would have 90-day-fiancéed me to any of them, but, alas, Hinge has to yet configure that option. (Brilliant. I know. You’re welcome.)

After years of dating Europeans, I knew the sudden switch would come with a culture shock. I truly wasn’t expecting my love life to immediately pan out like some saccharine Andrea Bocelli music video – in a way, I didn’t even want it to. And yet, nothing could have prepared me for the systematic, bland, cheap lack of romance that was waiting for me on New York City dating turf.

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Seeking Answers? Try Asking For Them

A Woman’s Right to Answers_Dbag Dating

Why isn’t he writing? What if I hadn’t sent that stupid text yesterday? What if I send this brilliant message now? What did he mean by “talk soon”? Why did he send me an emoji of a girl getting a head massage? What does all of this MEAN?!  

Rare manipulative geniuses aside, most of us have probably been in this predicament – guessing, speculating, deciphering messages, torturing our friends for probable scenarios – in summary, granting the objects of our affection far more energy than they deserve. Frankly, I could have learned Spanish in the amount of time I’ve wasted on this bullshit.

Well, NOT ANYMORE!

This past fall, a platonic friendship took a brief romantic detour, then quickly reverted to its original format. We never really discussed what had happened, which I was okay with – at first. As time passed and communication got weirder, the vague question mark that had been left hovering over the situation gradually began to sink deeper into the surface of my mind, garnering unprecedented gravitas. Suddenly, I needed to know what had happened. I needed him to like me. I needed to win.

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