Given up on internet dating
She finds men are failing at baseline tasks like keeping plans, remembering birthdays and adequately acknowledging her existence in public.
After a healthy round of vomiting, I passed out cold on the floor of my workplace, as I had drunkenly locked myself out of my home. When I got back to Toronto, I asked him what the hell was going on. Many hetero cis women I know have even given up sex.The ever-growing proclivity for staying housebound and heart intact even led to the launch of an entire apparel company a few years ago: Montreal’s Stay Home Club peddles sweatshirts, tees and patches extolling the simple virtues of “having no life.” Grey hair, granny dressing, Netflix, sassy cats and janky grocery carts are in. When I embraced my own untimely spinsterhood last winter, I called my friend Kristan, whom I’ve known for half my life.She and I had been through similar versions of hell with men.Rachel and Quinn, the lead characters of the hyper-meta show about producing a reality dating show, embody exactly the ethos I was obsessed with: do you, do your work and don’t give a f-ck about men. We still want to believe in love, sure (though claims of having found it are met at the brunch table with barely suppressed eyerolls).This attitude is reflected in so many of the women characters we love right now. So, dutifully we Tind while watching said shows, wading through the faux-polyamorous fedora-clad mansplainers, the “Sun’s Out! ” tee-shirt-wearers and the tranquilized-tiger-snugglers, hoping to find someone vaguely palatable.The most commonly told narrative of the (heterosexual) woman, she points out, is this: she spends her life with other women until her mid-twenties, pauses to have a family, then she either divorces or her partner dies, landing her back in the company of women friends til she meets her own demise.
“I see a reprioritization around the enjoyment of life or the things that one enjoys doing, rather than the feeling that you’re a social pariah if you don’t marry,” she says.
The first time someone faded me, I did not take it well.
I sent the male in question untold number of reproachful, schoolmarmish texts. I told him over tiny $15 chalices of flora-laden water laced with gin that I understand anxiety and would try to support him through it, but that regardless of the reason, I couldn’t be involved with tepid men. My distress wasn’t merely about having been rejected, though that was part of it.
She got angry—and he accused her of unfairly escalating the situation.
When she told me the story, I laughed so hard I cried.
So we’re deprioritizing love, relegating men to utilitarian side dish and investing in our friends instead.