When Squad Grows Up (And You Don’t)

Musings of the Mind · by Marina Khorosh

I recently renamed my group chat The Stepford Diaries. Then I almost exited it altogether. Call me immature, but the prospect of listening to endless debates on the most lightweight stroller on the Bugaboo market made me want to inflict physical pain upon myself in a not-so-lightweight way.

Please keep in mind that, a mere decade ago, the members of my group chat were passing around a tiered, backless Alice & Olivia dress to slut it up at 1 Oak. And negotiating their way into Bungalow 8 to do illegal narcotics next to B-list celebrities. And driving to the Hamptons for one night to cuddle in random beds with Veuve Clicquot magnums (and strangers.) Today, these same women are passing around quinoa puree recipes and cuddling in bed with their multi-member households.

Love the Guy, Hate His Style? Here’s How to (Subtly!) Fix It

DD x Vogue · by Marina Khorosh

Love and acceptance go hand in hand. Having learned this lesson through trial and error sometime in my mid-20s, I made sure to apply it to the continuation of my dating career, a mission that proved to be particularly difficult when faced with men of, how shall I put it, questionable sartorial aesthetics. From square-toed shoes to violently patterned Carhartt sweatshirts to Givenchy skirts artfully layered over leggings, I encountered—and practiced Buddhist levels of patience on—men of all stylistic visions. Yet, no PC approach could have prepared me for the prospect of bringing a certain Yamamoto cape–donning ex to a family dinner. In what I still consider to be one of my weakest moments, I resorted to the trusted-yet-cowardly “it’s not you, it’s me” cop-out, figuring it was for the greater good of sparing him my Russian father’s inquisitive stare. Months after our breakup, I wondered whether I had been too rash in disregarding an otherwise excellent human based on something as superficial as his outerwear. After all, isn’t there an entire school of thought centered around the notion that a man’s wardrobe eventually becomes a reflection of the tastes of his significant other, a sartorial spinoff of the popular “Behind every successful man is a great woman”? And so I turned to a group of women with far better track records than I in the dating department to see if a man’s tastes, or at the very least his wardrobe, can, indeed, be changed.

The Fashion Girl’s Guide to Creating the Perfect Online Dating Profile

DD x Vogue · by Marina Khorosh

An important PSA for all the single ladies out there: Summer is right around the corner, and you’re officially out of excuses to postpone your dating agenda. All your lackluster cold-weather claims (My sweats are too cozy, I would rather watch Scandal, and Who needs real men when you have Fitzgerald Grant?) are now rendered invalid. In fact, these days, dating is nothing if not a total joyride for the homebody, providing anyone with a functional smartphone with the tools to spark up a connection from the comfort of their very own athleisure ensemble. Since your romantic future may now hinge on the few carefully selected photos you present to the online dating world en masse, here are some key tips for creating an online dating profile that will put your best foot, angle, and outfit forward, all while effectively relaying the message you want to send out into the world. Welcome to the fashion girl’s guide to your online dating profile.

Ethan Embry Deux

Misery Loves Company · by Jordan Nadler

This modern-day fairy-tale is brought to you by Jordan Nadler, whom you should probably follow on Twitter.

There we were, two windswept lovers wrapped in an embrace on Avenue Lowendal at 4:30AM, kissing like the world was going to end. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, “Jesus Christ.” Little droplets of rain trailed down our skin as he traced over every crevice of my body.

I put my hand around his as it began to gravitate towards The Place of No Return. “I think this might be a government building,” I laughed, looking next to us. “There is definitely a camera here somewhere.” (I’m all for a good makeout sesh but would love for Jean-Pierre the security guard to not be a part of it.)

“I don’t care.” he said as he ran his fingers through my hair, tightened his grip and pulled me in closer to him. “Let’s go upstairs.”

10 Ways To Know You’re a Seasoned Dater

Those Who Can't Do, Teach · by Marina Khorosh

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.

The Story of Mr. Faux Serendipity

Misery Loves Company · by Marina Khorosh

They say New York is a place where you can meet the love of your life walking down the street. “They” are not lying. If you look at the “Missed Connections” section of Craigslist, multitudes of couples appear to emerge as a result of the L train commute. A friend of mine met her husband rollerblading by the Thompson street deli. I myself once met a guy while standing in line at Jamba Juice: he bought me a wheat grass shot and I thought he was my future husband – that is, until we went on a few dates and I discovered that he was a Persian Jew who couldn’t eat shellfish, let alone marry a shiksa.

One friend of mine, whom we will call Kate (think Kate Beckinsale in Serendipity) had never had a romance blossom from a chance encounter. Despite having spent twelve years in New York City, no handsome stranger had ever swept her off her feet in the midst of a mundane Tuesday, a fact that she would bitterly mention while manifesting her disdain for the modern dating culture. “I’ve never even had my Katherine Heigl romcom moment, and now I have to use an application to date?” It was clear that she was pining for a serendipitous twist of fate, which made it even more exciting when she called me a few weeks ago to inform me that she had met a cute guy at her local supermarket.