Context: Let the guest posts roll! Today’s post was submitted by my very hilarious friend LE, who doesn’t actually use Tinder but has met multiple of my Tinder boys before and approved of them all before they turned out to be dickwads. Talk about bad judgment (jk!!!). Take it away, LE!
Hi, everyone! While I would like to pretend to be one of the roommates that write this blog, apparently climbing their building pipes and sleeping on the balcony “doesn’t count” because I don’t help pay the rent.
OK, fine, I don’t actually climb up to their balcony – but only because I really don’t have that kind of arm strength, not because I think it would be strange. Even if I were one of their roommates, I don’t think I’d be well-equipped to contribute to this blog because 1) I don’t have a Tinder (or Hinge, or Bumble, or Farmers Only) profile, and 2) I don’t go on
many any dates.
Truthfully, I’m not asked on dates because, by the time someone would work up the confidence to ask, I’ve already been ghosting them for months. A recent viewing of Aziz Ansari’s stand up comedy made me feel bad about this way of conveying rejection. Sweet, sweet baby Aziz says this ineffective method of communication hurts his feelings… but bad habits are hard to kick.
You may recognize this conflict-averse character trait in yourself. In fact, some women’s magazine writers like to call it ‘fear of commitment.’ I, however, give it a medical term – ‘Romantic Anxiety.’ This way, I feel justified when I ask for prescription drugs from my pediatrician (shoutout to Xanax #holler).
For the past six months, I’ve worked alone in my office for the most part, save for some HVAC repairmen who I command to adjust the temperature when I’m hot (which is always… get it???). Every now and then I’ll get a visitor – and one very special day, a well-dressed young man came in to see me. On this blog, the writers give their love interests ‘Dear Abby’-esque nicknames, so in tradition I would like to call him ‘Un-ironic Letterman Jacket Wearer,’ or if that’s too long, Wisconsin. This is because he’s from there – not because his skin reminds me of the color of cheese curds (which doesn’t really sound like a compliment, but cheese curds are delicious, so it is).
While he was asking me about our building’s recycling program, I found myself sneaking a peek at his left hand to confirm his marital status. Normal flirtation technique, right? The coast was clear – so to say – and since then I’ve caught his eye a few times in the elevator or parking lot, which leads me to believe he’s interested in me as well (or that I am entirely delusional, and may need to hit up the pediatrician for a new prescription).
Here’s where my whole commitment problem starts to become dangerous (don’t worry, not in a ‘Fatal Attraction’ kind of way). The last time I saw him, our eyes met, and at that exact moment an emergency alarm went off in my head. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes: I work as an office secretary for a few years while we date (ice skating, apple picking, a summer trip to a two-star beach where we stay in a budget hotel), then we get married, settle in the suburbs, have 2.5 semi-athletic children, and grow old driving around in a used Prius while we listen to early 2000s pop music – which we fondly refer to as ‘the classics’ – the whole nine yards.
I. HATED. IT.
There’s something about being able to predict what the rest of my life is going to look like that really revs up my Romantic Anxiety©. I want excitement! I want intrigue! I want to become a career woman with one of those treadmill desks in her office who takes trips with her girlfriends to exotic Caribbean islands every winter! I want to move abroad and be featured on that international realty show where couples shop for million-dollar homes and drink a lot of red wine! I want one of my friends to become rich and famous and pay me to live in their mountain cabin so it doesn’t sit empty all year!
Where do I find the man who can give me excitement and intrigue? Has it been in front of me this entire time? Is it… Tinder?
Am I going to join in on the Tinder Train now just so I can spice up my life with a little uncertainty (like the kind of uncertainty that happens when you agree to meet a stranger who may or may not be a convicted felon)? Not without being heavily medicated. Sorry J. BUT I can understand the merit of this game. I’m not necessarily in a rush to find a man – I don’t think it will be hard to fall in love once I start looking (idk, ladies, falling in love seems pretty easy in romantic comedies and video games like The Sims).
But, stand by. Maybe Tinder is my next move. If so, will you let me guest post again??? Please??? I’ll let you house-sit my mountain home!
No, I needed to do something rebellious that didn’t cause permanent emotional damage, like the embarrassment of being myself around a stranger. And I didn’t want to rely on a man to provide my rebellion – that just sounds like a recipe for accidental pregnancy.
It may sound crazy at first, and I know my mom will cringe when she hears me say “Instead of finding a man, I pierced my nipple,” but the longer you think about it, the better it sounds. A nipple piercing is a very rebellious piercing because it insinuates that people look at your boobs enough for you to add embellishment (this may or may not be true, and I don’t care what you think). A nipple piercing can be hidden, it’s not permanent, and it causes no damage to the function of the breast. In the words of every woman who misquotes Lena Dunham, “I could have been a drug addict!” <– this is the actual quote, btw. LEARN.
Paying for bodily pain is not a decision anyone should take lightly, but I must say that I highly suggest the nipple ring. Even if I do end up in the suburbs, comparing canned soup prices alongside my 3 children (how did I get here from 2.5? Milk. Drink your milk, kids) with various food allergies, I will know that there is something unique about my life. I may even publicly breastfeed with this boob only just to stick it to The Man one more time! Take THAT, boring suburban Stepford life!
So there you have it. I think this’ll be a pretty sweet story to tell my grandchildren.
The next story I’ll tell them will be about my piercer being male and using the line “here, let me get this extra lube off your nipple… I bet you’ve heard that one before.”