Editor’s Note: Today is a very special day for Dbag Dating. After years of vying for a male contributor, I had the pleasure of meeting a charming (and very cute) Miami expat at an art show the other day. We got chatting, I told him about the blog, he told me about his own dating nightmares.. Boom! A match made in dating disaster heaven was born. After a bit of, um, mild pressure, my new friend assigned himself the pseudonym of Marcel Mignon and got typing. Without further ado, here is his first chef d’oeuvre.
“How’d it go last night?”
I stared at the question that had popped up on my screen, which, coincidentally, happens to be one of my personal favorites. Whether met with elation or dread, you are almost always guaranteed an entertaining story.
This time, I was the one under interrogation. Pressing one hand against my cheek to feel for any bruising, I used the other one to forward a screenshot that I felt sufficed as a response:
My biggest fear during the 29th year of my life was that it would be my last summer of wearing cutoff jean shorts. In retrospect, I assume (or at least hope) that my frivolous concern had more to do with symbolism rather than vanity. After having spent my early 20s on an ever-swinging pendulum between who I should be and who I want to be, I had only recently grown entirely okay with my real self: my offbeat personality, my often unstable career as a freelance writer, and a style so basics-driven that I could easily get dressed in the dark. Denim shorts, worn not as weekend gear, but almost as a warm-weather uniform, paired with linen button-downs and Converse sneakers, felt like an emblem of this self-acceptance, which made the thought of retiring them at the age of 30 feel hasty, unnecessary, just flat-out wrong.
I realize that there is no longer a rule that dictates a cutoff age for cutoff denim—or any other youthful clothing item, for that matter. I’m aware, technically, that 30 is about coming into your true self, about having amazing sex, about blossoming into a real woman in the best sense of the word. And yet, sometimes all it takes is yet another profile of an over-accomplished young mother-slash-entrepreneur-slash-style-icon showing off her impossibly chic existence (as satirized in this brilliant Julie Houts illustration) to experience an urgent call-to-action to grow up in every realm of life. Or is this mindset a result of living in America, in a culture driven (and often, misled) by quantitative results? Are Europeans, particularly the French, who are known to celebrate the process of getting older, less fixated on age as the barometer of one’s life (and wardrobe)?
Read more HERE!
Full disclosure: I hate going out. What used to be a favored pastime in my early twenties has since become a bona-fide punishment, an ordeal that essentially starts with me mentally fast-forwarding to the moment that I get to go home, remove all traces of makeup, and cuddle up to my dog.
It was supposed to be fun and glamorous and liberating, wasn’t it? I blame the misconception on Sex and The City, the OG Fake News that sold us a warped version of being single in your thirties. Every weekend, Carrie & Co. would put on 3K worth of brand-new designer clothing and strut out to the Manhattan hotspot du jour and blow another few hundred bucks on fancy food and nasty pink Cosmos and have the time of their damn lives. MOMENTS LIFE IS MADE OF. Oh, and there would be brunch the next day.
This imperative tutorial was brought to you by the prolific Rebecca Suhrawardi.
I recently experienced my first ghosting.
My introductory encounter with this modern-day ailment was inflicted by a man a few years my junior – a 35-year-old man, to be exact. Anybody who has ever dated in New York knows that 35 is the developmental dark hole, the age when men don’t know WTF about anything female-related. Sure, they may be proudly wearing certain hallmarks of manhood, like a secure job or a their first piece of real estate. But, when it comes to relationships and emotions, they are either frightened and confused or simply don’t give a damn. It’s a tricky time to engage with a guy – you are almost better to go younger or older, but 35 – oof.
The experience, unpalatable as it was, got me thinking about the times I’ve successfully gone out with younger men. Let me pause here to state that there haven’t been that many – I prefer older men because I’m an Alpha female on the outside and a loving mushball on the inside (Scorpio!) and need someone who is strong enough to take my Alpha female hand and lead the way, and be bloody mature about the whole thing. I also like a man that has his feet firmly planted on the ground, and it takes time for a man to get there, developmentally. Besides, it takes a lot to tame a firecracker such as myself, and I have found that age and experience help the case.
Last week, my friend had sex for a plate of meatballs. Before y’all run out to stock up on minced beef, let me give you a quick rundown.
Step 1: Friend meets guy on Bumble, chats.
Step 2: Friend goes on Date 1, is not attracted to the guy but enjoys their conversation.
Step 3: Friend goes on Date 2, chemistry fails to emerge but pleasant colloquy continues.
Step 4: Guy invites friend over for a “home-cooked dinner.” She agrees, if only for the sad, simple reason that men don’t volunteer their cooking skills too often these days. She arrives to his Gramercy abode to find him going all Mario Batali on her with an Italian feast of pasta and meatballs (homemade! with ingredients from Eataly!). One bottle of red wine in they start hooking up, at which point she discovers that her Meatball King is a terrible kisser. And yet she still proceeds to have sex with him, an experience that quickly unveils itself to be about as unpalatable as the kiss.
Brooklyn Heights strolls. Photo by Caroline Owens.
How often do you come across a couple that met in kindergarten? If you live in New York City, the probability of encountering such endangered human species is about as low as, say, meeting a single 30-something-year-old male sans commitment issues. (Yes, I’m always projecting.) This is why when I had the luck of meeting Rachel Jo Silver and Justin Boelio, two Michigan natives who first laid eyes on one another in Miss Ruben’s kindergarten class in the late 80’s, I decided to do humanity a favor by documenting their unique union on this paramount platform. (You’re welcome, social anthropologists everywhere.)
What’s even more striking than the longevity of Rachel and Justin’s relationship is the actual fabric of it, built on respect and patience and the kind of mutual trust that allowed them to embark upon their very own joint venture. In 2016, the Brooklyn Heights-based couple launched the wedding video platform Love Stories TV, which you should explore right after you are finished with this interview! (Disclaimer: even the most cynical folks may turn into mush.)
Oh, they may also have the most compatible body language that I have ever seen, but I don’t want to get creepy so I’ll stop there.