We all know I was married for sixteen years. That’s been stated already, right? At this point, if you’ve been following along, you know the marriage, the divorce, the starting over, and the fact that at forty-four I somehow found myself standing at the entrance of the dating world again like a confused tourist who had taken a very wrong turn.
What I did not know was that apparently, while I was gone, everybody held a meeting.
I was not invited.
And dating got a fucking software update.
I came back thinking I understood the assignment.
You meet somebody. You like each other. Somebody asks somebody out. You go on a date, talk, flirt, maybe kiss, go on another date, and eventually figure out whether you actually like each other or whether the entire first date was being held together by good lighting, sexual tension, and two margaritas.
Simple enough.
Apparently not.
Now we have talking stages, situationships, friends with benefits, casual dating, exclusive dating, dating but not exclusive, seeing each other, hanging out, vibing, hooking up, “seeing where it goes,” and my personal favorite: two people behaving suspiciously like they’re in a relationship while insisting they are absolutely not in a relationship.
I’m sorry.
What the fuck happened while I was gone?
Because I remember dating. I don’t remember needing a glossary, an organizational chart, three screenshots sent to my girlfriends for interpretation, and a fucking decoder ring to determine whether a man actually likes me.
After spending the last couple of months conducting what can only be described as involuntary field research from the trenches, I have questions. So many fucking questions. Questions I did not anticipate needing answers to at forty-four years old.
Primarily, what the hell happened to courtship? What happened to masculinity? Chivalry? Pursuit? Communication? Friendship? Actual dates?
And when did everybody become so fucking terrified of admitting they like somebody?
Because I don’t need a horse-drawn carriage. I don’t need twelve dozen roses delivered while a string quartet plays underneath my bedroom window. Honestly, that sounds stressful because my neighbors would come outside, somebody would probably call the cops, and I’d be hiding behind the blinds whispering, What the fuck is happening?
I’m really not asking for much here.
I thought dating meant a man could say, “I’d like to take you out. Are you free Saturday?” Then Saturday comes and we go somewhere. Maybe we have a great time. Maybe twenty minutes in we’re both privately wondering whether faking a medical emergency would be considered rude.
That’s dating.
But apparently a man choosing a day, making a plan, and actually following through has become so rare that I’m pretty sure it could trigger spontaneous ovulation.
Because somehow we’ve replaced actual dates with, “We should hang sometime.” Okay. When? “Definitely soon.”
Fantastic.
Should I alert the media?
I’ve learned there are people who will tell you repeatedly how attracted they are to you, flirt relentlessly, talk about all the things they’d like to do with you, message you every day, and somehow never make the incredible evolutionary leap from talking about seeing you to actually seeing you.
That’s one of the strangest things I’ve encountered. Sexual confidence? Plenty. Dating confidence?
Apparently endangered.
A man can tell a woman exactly what he’d like to do to her in a bedroom with the confidence of a tenured professor defending his dissertation. Details. Supporting evidence. Possibly diagrams.
But, “Would you like to have dinner Friday?”
Whoa, buddy.
Let’s not get reckless.
And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I started having another question I genuinely did not expect to be asking.
Wait. Am I courting him?
Because I have absolutely no problem texting a man first. I have no problem showing interest. I’ll ask questions, flirt, send you something stupid because it reminded me of you, check on you when I know you’ve had a rough day, and remember some tiny thing you told me three weeks ago because that’s what I do when I actually care about somebody.
I want a man to know I want him. Men deserve to feel wanted too. They deserve compliments, affection, reassurance, desire, and a woman who reaches for them instead of sitting on a throne demanding constant worship.
That’s not the problem.
The problem is when I suddenly realize I’m doing all of it.
I’m starting the conversations, asking the questions, introducing new subjects, learning about his job, childhood, hobbies, family, music, divorce, favorite foods, weekend plans, and probably the name of the dog he had in seventh grade. Meanwhile, somewhere around week two, I realize this man knows approximately four things about me.
At some point it hits you:
You weren’t getting to know me. You were answering my questions while I got to know you.
There is a difference between responding and conversing. If I ask how your day was and you say, “Good,” that’s technically an answer. Congratulations.
Mine was pretty good too, thanks for asking.
Oh.
You didn’t.
😂
And yes, women absolutely do this shit too. I’m not pretending women are all sitting around communicating like emotionally evolved woodland fairies who have never sent “I’m fine” while being spectacularly not fucking fine.
But I’m a woman dating men.
So this is the side of the circus tent I’m currently standing in.
And one behavior absolutely fascinates me: “Well, I didn’t text you because you didn’t text me.” I have now encountered variations of this mentality enough times that I genuinely don’t know when keeping score became part of courtship.
Oh.
My apologies, Princess.
I didn’t realize I was supposed to pursue you, reassure you, initiate contact, maintain the conversation, make you feel desired, and presumably arrive at your house carrying flowers while you descend a staircase in a fucking ball gown.
Do you need me to open your door too?
Because I can.
But this relationship is getting confusing.
Wanting reciprocity is healthy. Men should absolutely expect effort from women too. But wanting reciprocation is not the same thing as sitting completely still until a woman proves herself interested enough to drag the relationship toward you.
If you like her, fucking act like you like her.
Risk it.
And that brings me to masculinity, because apparently we’re all terrified of that word now too. I’m not talking about some outdated caricature where the man controls everything, makes every decision, suppresses every emotion until his blood pressure finally takes him out, and occasionally grunts at his family from behind a newspaper.
Hard pass.
I’m talking about confidence, initiative, direction, responsibility, emotional steadiness, keeping your word, and being willing to risk rejection. I’m talking about a man being able to say, “I want you,” without first requiring notarized documentation proving she wants him too.
That’s attractive to me.
And no, my independence doesn’t contradict that. I can open my own door, buy my own dinner, run a business, raise a child, manage a household, solve problems, make decisions, and carry my own shit. I’ve been carrying my own shit for a very long time.
That’s precisely why hearing a man say, “I’ve got it,” can feel so fucking good.
Not because I can’t.
Because for once, I don’t have to.
That’s what I think people misunderstand about chivalry. Holding a door doesn’t mean you think I’m incapable of operating one. Planning a date doesn’t strip me of autonomy, and walking me to my car doesn’t mean I’m a helpless Victorian woman who might faint because my ankle became exposed.
Sometimes consideration is just consideration.
Sometimes a woman who carries everything in her everyday life wants to be around a man who makes it safe for her to put some of it down.
Then, just when I thought I was beginning to understand modern dating, somebody apparently handed me the advanced vocabulary.
What the fuck is a situationship?
From what I can gather, a situationship is sometimes two people doing approximately 87% of relationship activities while maintaining an emergency exit labeled:
BUT WE NEVER SAID WE WERE TOGETHER.
You’re talking every day, sleeping together, spending weekends together, sharing personal shit, cuddling, checking in, missing each other, getting jealous, and possibly leaving a toothbrush at somebody’s house.
But don’t ask what this is.
Whoa.
Pressure.
Why do we need labels?
I don’t know, Brad. Because the IRS has fewer classifications than modern dating and I’m trying to figure out which fucking form we’re filing.
And then we have friends with benefits. Look, consenting adults can do whatever the hell consenting adults want to do. This isn’t me clutching pearls over casual sex.
Have fun.
Be safe.
Hydrate.
What fascinates me is how many arrangements we’ve created that allow people to receive pieces of a relationship without necessarily accepting the responsibility of one. Sex without commitment. Companionship without commitment. Emotional intimacy and affection without commitment. Sometimes even exclusivity without commitment.
Eventually I’m sitting here thinking:
So…a relationship, except we’re scared of the noun?
If both people genuinely want casual, wonderful. Nobody needs my permission, approval, or commentary. The problem comes when one person thinks they’re casually spending time together while the other person is quietly building a home inside the connection.
That’s where grown-up communication is supposed to come in.
Which brings me to one of the strangest things modern dating has apparently decided is normal.
Ghosting.
Ghosting is fucking weird.
Men do it. Women do it. Apparently we’ve collectively decided that instead of having an uncomfortable thirty-second conversation, adults should simply disappear into the mist and hope the other person eventually figures out they’ve been voted off the island.
And I’m not talking about somebody you exchanged eight messages with on a dating app and the conversation naturally died. Sometimes a conversation just fizzles. Nobody needs closure after “Hey, how are you?” “Good, you?”
I’m talking about when you’ve actually established something with another human being. You’ve talked regularly, shared things, flirted, gone out, maybe become intimate, maybe spent weeks or months becoming part of each other’s routines.
And then…
Poof.
Nothing.
We’ve somehow reached a point where adults will discuss sexual fantasies with somebody before they’ll say, “Hey, I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, but I don’t think we’re compatible.”
How the fuck did THAT happen?
You don’t need a dissertation. You don’t need a seven-paragraph explanation, PowerPoint presentation, exit interview, or tribunal of your peers. You just need grown-up words.
“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, but I don’t think this is the right connection for me.”
There.
Nobody exploded.
Rejection sucks. Being rejected hurts, and rejecting somebody can feel awful too. But discomfort isn’t an emergency, and sometimes being an adult means having a conversation you’d rather avoid because the human being on the other side deserves basic respect.
Which brings me to something I think we’re forgetting underneath all the swiping, chemistry, attraction, sex, labels, non-labels, talking stages and whatever-the-fuck-we’re-doing stages.
You actually need to be friends.
Before I want somebody to become my partner, I need to genuinely like him as a human being. Not just be attracted to him. Not just enjoy the dopamine hit when his name appears on my phone.
Not just want to climb him like a tree.
Although, for the record, both things can absolutely be true.
😂
Eventually you’re going to have to talk. Somebody gets sick, somebody has a horrible day, somebody’s kid is being an asshole, work sucks, bills happen, laundry reproduces while nobody is looking, hormones show up with a baseball bat, and one of you will inevitably leave something six inches away from where it fucking belongs.
The dopamine settles down.
Then what?
Can we laugh together? Can we be stupid? Can we talk about serious shit and completely ridiculous shit? Can I tell you something uncomfortable without wondering whether you’re going to disappear because feelings entered the chat?
Can you tell me I’m wrong without trying to hurt me? Can we sit quietly together? Do I trust you? Are you curious about me? Do I actually know you—and do you actually know me?
That’s friendship.
And friendship isn’t the consolation prize you hand somebody you aren’t sexually attracted to.
Friendship is the foundation underneath the attraction.
I don’t mean everybody needs to spend six months platonically holding hands before they’re allowed to kiss. Please. I’m forty-four.
I have neither the time nor the hormonal patience for that level of historical reenactment.
I mean build something underneath the sex.
Because someday sex isn’t going to solve whatever is happening between you.
Friendship might.
And no, dating twenty years ago wasn’t some magical romantic utopia. Men cheated. Women cheated. People lied, used each other, had casual sex, disappeared, broke hearts, chose the wrong people, and made absolutely spectacular romantic mistakes.
Assholes were fully operational before Wi-Fi.
We did not invent emotional unavailability with the iPhone.
But technology changed the mechanics. Twenty years ago, meeting somebody usually required a little more friction. You approached someone, talked, got a phone number, called, asked them somewhere, chose somewhere, and then actually showed up.
There was vulnerability involved because rejection happened in real time.
Now there is an apparently endless catalog of human beings inside your pocket. One conversation gets slightly awkward? Swipe. Somebody doesn’t respond quickly enough? Swipe. She has one trait you’re unsure about? Swipe. He doesn’t immediately create butterflies?
Swipe.
There’s always another person theoretically waiting.
And I can’t help wondering what that has done to our willingness to stay curious about one person long enough to actually know them.
Technology made access easier.
I’m not convinced it made connection easier.
Maybe it just made avoiding vulnerability easier.
You can flirt without asking somebody out, send a fire emoji instead of an actual compliment, maintain multiple conversations without deeply investing in any of them, disappear without watching someone’s face when you tell them you’re no longer interested, and keep somebody just close enough to receive attention without ever deciding what they actually mean to you.
And maybe that’s part of why everybody seems so fucking exhausted.
We’re surrounded by access.
And starving for connection.
After being back out here for a while, I keep coming to the same conclusion: I don’t think relationships need another term. I don’t think we need another dating coach explaining exactly how many hours you’re supposed to wait before answering a text, and I refuse to believe double-texting is a federal offense.
I don’t think showing enthusiasm makes somebody desperate. I don’t think caring first means you lost. And I definitely don’t think pretending you don’t give a shit is somehow more emotionally sophisticated than actually giving a shit.
I think we need some really boring things back.
Effort. Consistency. Communication.
Effort means I don’t have to construct the entire connection by myself. Both people reach, ask questions, make plans, initiate affection, show interest, and contribute something besides a pulse and an unlimited data plan.
Consistency doesn’t mean texting me every waking second. People work, raise children, have responsibilities, have bad days, get overwhelmed, and occasionally need to disappear underneath a blanket and not speak to another human being.
Consistency means your behavior generally matches what you’re telling me.
I don’t get Prince Charming Monday through Wednesday and a missing-person investigation by Friday.
Communication might be the simplest one and somehow the one we’re collectively fucking up the most. Say what you mean. Ask when you don’t understand. Tell somebody when something bothers you, when you like them, when you’re scared, and when your feelings have changed.
Don’t punish somebody with silence and expect them to decipher why. Don’t create secret tests they don’t know they’re taking. Don’t make somebody guess whether you want them.
And don’t fucking disappear because an honest conversation makes you uncomfortable.
I don’t want dating twenty years ago back. Women have changed. Men have changed. Relationships have changed, and some of those changes are fucking fantastic.
I don’t want to surrender my independence. I don’t want rigid gender roles. I don’t want a man who believes masculinity means controlling me, and I certainly don’t need somebody riding into my life to rescue me.
What I want brought forward from old-fashioned dating is the part we apparently left behind.
Intentionality.
Ask me out. Pick a day. Make a plan. Ask me questions and actually listen to the answers. Remember something I told you. Call sometimes. Flirt with me. Make me laugh.
Open the door. Walk me to my car. Tell me you want to see me again. Risk looking interested.
Risk hearing no.
Let me know you.
And give me enough room to show you that I want to know you too.
Be my friend underneath all of it. Bring effort, consistency, and communication to the table. I’ll bring mine too.
Because I’m not asking somebody to chase me while I sit on a throne being worshipped.
I’m asking for two people to move toward each other.
And maybe that’s what I’ve learned most since stumbling back into dating at forty-four. I didn’t come back expecting some perfect man to sweep me off my feet, and I certainly didn’t expect dating to look exactly like it did before I got married.
I knew things would have changed.
I just didn’t realize how many people had become afraid of the simplest parts.
Choosing somebody. Trying. Risking rejection. Being honest. Being vulnerable. Having the uncomfortable conversation.
Actually fucking dating.
So maybe we don’t need to bring back dating from twenty years ago.
Maybe we just need to bring back the courage it required.
Court each other. Become friends. Show effort. Stay consistent. Communicate. If you like somebody, fucking tell them.
If you don’t?
Fucking tell them that too.
And if you’re sleeping together, spending weekends together, talking every day, sharing your deepest thoughts, getting jealous, cuddling on the couch, and leaving your toothbrush at their house…
For the love of God.
At least consider the possibility that you’ve accidentally wandered into a relationship.
Because apparently while I was married, dating became complicated as fuck.
And I’m starting to suspect it never had to be.
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