Once in awhile, I get a (worrisome) sign from God that I’m progressively becoming French. This time around it came in the form of the Backstreet Boy, a character who merited his nickname via his fly Mohawk and tight, cuffed Levis that took you straight back to the days when 5 man-children would croon “I want it that way” through your Discman headphones. Anyway, more on his formidable style later. Lets start with how we met.
When I was little girl and didn’t know that I would be one day meeting men on Tinder, I always dreamed of meeting the love of my life on an airplane. Exhausted after a business trip to an exotic locale (my vision of the future also involved a career as an international diplomat), I would slip into my first class seat, only discover a Don Draper lookalike ready to divulge his innermost secrets over dirty martinis. Granted, we would be an item by the time the plane touched the ground.
I think it was Mark Twain who said “Children and fools always speak the truth.” I will go ahead and add teens to this equation. I always find that spending time with my 17-year-old niece is an invaluable experience that allows me to see life through a simplistic prism and reaffirms the notion once so effectively conveyed via Mean Girls: real life mirrors high school. This time around, the kid hit a nail on the head while volunteering a description of a guy her friend was dating: “He’s just one of those Basic Douchebags – he is used to always getting his way and f*cking girls over, so once he finds somebody who can play his game, he’s like “she gets me” and decides he’s finally found his equal and he’s in love.”
Dear loyal readers, you will have to excuse me for my recent laziness. However, I have a valid excuse, as I am currently in New York City, experiencing an ongoing case of FOMO x ADD. From foods made out of alien super food ingredients, to clothing from every brand under the sun, to a seemingly insatiable pool of men in (occasionally poorly cut) suits, New York presents a land of endless options that make focusing on just one thing damn near impossible.
As I often iterate, being a mother is one of the most terrifying and challenging jobs there is. With it comes an incomparable wisdom, an ability to configure life’s priorities and abstain from useless over-complication that us semi-youngsters are so prone to. Last week, I asked all of you lovely readers to send me the most genuine, organic, old-school advice your wise mothers instilled upon you. Without further ado, here are some of the best gems from our moms, our real life Superheroes!
Let’s face it: alcohol is not only a social lubricant, but a dating lubricant as well, and not of the R-rated, jelly-flavored variety. The majority of us who are not strung up on life – or Adderall – find ourselves relying on the magic elixir to smooth out awkward situations, evoke fake feelings of fulfillment, and find depth where there is none. Those of us who are dating in a country filled with Men of Mediocrity may find ourselves doing this a bit too much, resulting in painful hangovers that do nothing but proliferate the budding sense of despair. Which is why I recently decided to conduct an experiment in which I deprive myself of this joyous substance for exactly one month and analyze the effects it has on my body, my mind, and my dating life. This experience can be described as simultaneously painful, masochistic, and eye-opening all at once. Let me elaborate with some key learnings.
