Dating & why I am horrible at it
By Gabriella Iarrobino
“I just wish I could start a relationship about twelve years in, when you really don’t have to try anymore, and you can just sit around together and goof on TV shows, and then go to bed without anybody trying any funny business.”—Liz Lemon
Liz Lemon is my dating spirit animal. She just gets me. I wish she was real and I was a lesbian because then my work would be done.
But alas, my work is not done.
I hate the game. I’m terrible at it. If we were speaking in video games, it would be set to “easy” and I would search CheatPlanet.com to look for ways to make it easier.
The game usually involves plastering on too much make up, wearing something that your BFFs deem “hot but still cute,” (I put my foot down when it comes to heels, no pun intended) and heading out to bars to stand in a circle with your friends until a group of males comes over and buys you drinks all night. After one too many gin and tonics the game may end in an embarrassing and messy make out session on the dance floor of aforementioned bar.
Some of my friends are, still speaking in the video game metaphor, playing on expert and are the ones who contribute the cheats to CheatPlanet.com. They navigate the bar with ease, eye fornicating with the cutest guy in the bar until he comes over and chats them up and buys them drinks for the remainder of the evening. They are often juggling dates with numerous boys and their biggest issue is “which one to pick.” They love the chase; it’s their favorite part.
I on the other hand, despise it. I much rather prefer a night of Magic Hat beers and listening to my latest vinyl with a guy who has something interesting to say than dragging my over eye lined face around to the bars of Boston for the possibility of talking with a drunken guy who just stumbled out of Fenway Park. “Talking” usually involves yelling over whatever popular Katy Perry song is playing at the time.
Once my friends have their interest in a guy, they text them flirty things to keep them interested. They are often spotted giggling, looking down at their phones. “He’s just so funny,” they will say.
I on the other hand hate texting boys. It is a fact of 21st century “romance” that I have just come to accept. I use romance lightly, as actual romance would involve talking face to face, not using an emoticon that attempts to convey flirtation. When I’m in the texting phases with a new boy, it often involves me running over several drafts of a cutesy message with my roommate, which I usually just scrap for “hey, what’s up?” Throughout the duration of the conversation, I may type something that I find so embarrassing I have to erase the entire iPhone thread because looking at it makes me want to throw up.
After the texting becomes boring, my friends will then hang out/go out on a date with the guy. They again, get all prettied up and go out to dinner at some posh Boston restaurant where the guy picks up the tab. A hook up straight out of a Nicholas Sparks movie follows.
When it’s my turn to do that, I throw every single item of clothing that I own on my bed, trying on 80 different things before I decide on the classic black jeans/denim jacket combination. We may end up at a coffee shop where I awkwardly slip out my wallet and insist on going dutch because it’s the 21st century, damnit! And god help me if we end up back at one of our apartments because usually in the shuffle of all 80 outfits I tried on prior, I forgot to shave my legs.
See, dating is not my thing. I much prefer the boring stuff that comes with the familiarity of knowing someone, hence why Liz Lemon preaches my reality.
So until that person comes around, I’ll probably see you at a local Boston bar, awkwardly swaying to “We Are Young,” wearing a shade of eye shadow that my friend made me wear.
Or if you’re a guy who wants to kick back on my roof deck with a six pack and a rap/hip hop/indie rock/alternative/any kind of good music album, holllla at me.
Images courtesy of Google.