After six years of living, working, and dating in San Francisco, I was burnt out.
I’d dated a handful of guys in the church, got engaged and broke it off, attempted long-distance, and tried several dating apps.
It’s astonishingly self-aware, and is the kind of letter I wish I received more, instead of the one blaming men for all the ills of the world.
Then you read this letter by Emily Bracken posted on Medium and reposted on Huff Po. I’m around the corner, down the street, on Facebook, in your office, at our local coffee shop, a complete stranger. In the meantime, which of the things on Emily’s list will you admit to?
And if I did remember their names, it was because they were horrible to me. " And is tossing the foundation and embracing the sweatpants a sign of defeat, or a sign of empowerment?
By the time the guy rolled up, half an hour late and no valid excuse at hand, I was drunk, silently vowing to never again put so much pressure on myself that I thought a blowout would make or break someone's feelings for me. Until recently, the common lady/age trope was the cougar—an older women pretending to be younger.
Become that person and you’ll attract that person as well.
At work, I was known as the girl with endless dating stories—so much so it almost became my identity.
On a lazy Sunday afternoon, I was reflecting on some goals I had created for myself at the beginning of the year.
Slightly over a year ago, I sat at Mexican restaurant waiting for a guy I was supposed to be on a third date with.
I'd gotten a blowout, chosen to freeze my ass off in my favorite off-season skirt, and worn Rag & Bone bootie heels so high that a commercial airplane could fly into my head. Everyone else in the restaurant gave me sad eyes as I ordered my third jalapeno margarita.
Soon I couldn’t even keep up with my conversations.