I still remember my first adult “date” in New York City. I was seventeen years old and my brother took me to the Monday night party at a very happening club called Pangea, where I met an Israeli promoter named Ilan, who invited me to accompany him to dinner and another club called Sway the following week. He was super cute and I was super excited, especially when I saw him on MTV’s Room Raiders and realized that I had been picked up by a real celebrity! Little did I know that “dinner” was actually a comped promoter fiesta, consisting of about twenty lithe blondes, all of whom would be joining us to adorn the banquettes of Sway afterwards. And yet, I stayed until the very end of the night, hoping to get the attention of Ilan, who spoke to me once an hour to ask if I wanted more Grey Goose in my vodka-cranberry.
Boy, how the times have changed. Now, Ilan the promoter would have been history at the first mention of a group dinner, let alone a date that in any way evoked the word “club.” The past twelve years have done a serious number on my naïveté, metamorphosing it into what some people may refer to as “bitter”, but I prefer to think of as “wise.” Below are some telltale symptoms of my new condition, which will help determine whether you too, have officially entered the point of no return known as Seasoned Dating!
Men have started to look YOUNG. Jailbait young. You start off flirting with them but are quickly hindered by the innocence in their eyes, which immediately dims any potential sex appeal that they may have had otherwise. By the end of the night, you are offering them career advice and deliberating which on of your niece’s friends is most likely to break up with her college sweetheart first, so that you can set them up.
Your criteria has changed, and James Franco is officially out. Where you once looked for poetic virtues (blue eyes, deep soul, Allen Ginsberg quoting skills), you now look for the same requirements as an HR person: a resume without employment gaps, no arrests, no record of mental illness or substance abuse. Literary skills not necessary.
Your interrogation skills rock. In fact, your latest talent has become yielding important information through a few carefully formulated questions. Did you always live alone? (Translation: Have you ever had a live-in girlfriend and are you even capable of commitment?) Just be aware that guys are often in on the trick – my brother’s friend recently informed me that New York women know how to determine a man’s financial status in three questions: Where do you live? (How much money do you make?) Where do you work? (How much money do you have?) Where do you go to school? (How much money are you going to have?)
The Number Game is over. Remember the struggle of keeping your Number, i.e. the quantity of people you slept with, countable on two hands? Well, that ship has sailed. Double digits are officially here, and the great news is that nobody is counting! If necessary, pick a believable number (probably the one you lost track at) and stick with it forever.
You are totally fine sleeping with somebody and never seeing them again. In fact, sometimes you prefer it this way, mainly because you know that associative memory is a brutal bitch and that seeing his face again will only bring back the ad nauseam of both the encounter and the consequent hangover. Not everything needs meaning, or continuation.
You no longer demand – or offer – excuses. There is absolutely no need to explain to somebody why you never followed up – that’s what He’s Just Not That Into You is for. Just the other day, I bumped into a guy I had gone on two dates with at a party. Instead of scrambling to think of an excuse when he vaguely alluded to the fact that I hadn’t texted him back, I just shrugged and smiled. C’est la vie, baby.
Sleep has become a serious priority. In fact, unless you are comfortable with the person, sleeping over is now viewed as a completely fruitless pursuit, as you are essentially incapable of sleeping anywhere but your own bed. Instead, you sneak home to get four uninterrupted hours of sleep that you know will make all the difference in the world.
You are like a giant romantic thundercloud, hovering over everyone’s love parade. Not only have you lost patience with your eternally-naive friend who plots her wedding china after every date, but you have also become a menace to society, capable of destroying the 22-year old at the nail salon by cracking the mystery of a guy not texting her à la Miranda on SATC. That is, until you acknowledges that everyone must learn from their own mistakes, and move on.
All the single guys you know are suddenly viewed as potential husband material. Every. Single. One. For a few beautiful, promising hours, they actually stand a chance – that is, until you land back to reality and see them exactly for the hopeless commitment-phobes that they really are!
You have officially become part of the Mom Roster. This is the Rolodex of vetted singles from “nice families” who have failed to make their love lives happen on their own and are now in need of parental matchmaking assistance. As a new member of my mother’s Miami-based one, I am proud to report that I’m still not deemed desperate enough to date the super short guys! Personally, I think the whole thing could be leveraged into an excellent app, or even a Sotheby’s-esque auction component. Number 6, we move to Marina Khorosh, born 1986, speaks three languages, good child-bearing hips, unpredictable moods..
ANY BIDDERS?
