Okay, maybe not mostly.
Because despite all the body positivity quotes I repost and all the confidence I pretend to have, there are days when being perpetually single gets old.
And my biological clock?
Oh, she's not ticking anymore.
She's banging pots and pans together while screaming, “HELLO?WE'RE THIRTY-SIX!”
So, I did what any ambitious, almost-middle-aged woman does.
I downloaded a dating app.
And it sucks.
Absolute trash.
Date Number One spent forty minutes talking about CrossFit and referred to himself as an “alpha male.”
Immediate no.
Date Number Two brought his mother.
His mother.
Apparently, she wanted to “help him choose.”
I wish I was kidding.
And now there's Date Number Three.
Brad.
Or Chad.
Something ending in “-ad.”
I stopped caring twenty minutes ago.
The man has spent the entire evening talking about himself.
His job.
His investments.
His golf game.
His Tesla.
His protein intake.
Meanwhile, every time I try to contribute to the conversation, he interrupts me.
Which is rude.
Very rude.
I didn't move to a new city to become an audience member.
