He reached his hand between my legs, and as I sat there, in the dark, in his car, at 1 am, all I could think was, “Damn, nothing!?” I tried to act into it, and I kinda was, but after four drinks, all I could think was: I wanna eat some cold cuts and go to bed. It’s late. I have work in the morning.
I could hear the sigh in my head going off like a fire alarm. Ugh, is this really who I am? Wasn’t I Miss Fuck Feast? Miss fuck anywhere, fuck anyone, wild times, let’s party? And here I am, on a Wednesday night, a mere four drinks in and ready to call it a wrap. Because I want to be sharp for work tomorrow morning. So I can make money.
When did I become this person!
Recently, but also for a long time. I think I always wanted to be this person, this career driven woman, but I spent my 20s fucking around (literally), and perhaps I spent all my libido chips in the lottery of my 20s and now, in my 30s, meh. Fucking this dude seems…fine? Okay? Whatever? Do I really not care that much? Isn’t this all I used to care about five years ago? All I wanted to do was get laid. Now all I wanna do is get paid. Am I okay with this?
I’m definitely okay with telling this dude to call me so I can slink into my kitchen and eat cold cuts and then go to sleep. That sounds fucking amazing.
I mean, sure, yeah, okay, I couldn’t just keep fucking people fecklessly forever. Or, I could have, but I didn’t want to because doing the same thing forever is pretty fucking boring. I guess for you, dear reader, perhaps there’s been a blip in communication. I was Miss Fuck Feast, Miss fuck ’em all, Miss party thing, which is weird to write out in a sentence because I feel like such a fraud, sitting here, at 1:13 am, having eaten my cold cuts in favor of fucking some medium attractive man. I skipped a few steps there, namely, a couple of recent rotten relationships and also a childhood filled with mixed signals that made me pretty indifferent to the idea of marriage and motherhood.
So here I am. Still dating in my 30s. I’m not mad about it. I have disposable income and get to fritter my life away drinking. I’ve been madly in love. I’ve met the love of my life. Twice. And I’ve moved on from that. And I’m dating in my 30s. Which is supposed to be something that appalls society, but fuck it. I really don’t give a shit. I plan on doing well for myself for the rest of my life, so, in the spirit of my 20-something self, I have decided to turn this into a ‘dating in your 30’s’ blog. Wish me luck because I am so fucking sick of dating, but gotta do something while I’m trying to get my novel published, right?
Love ya bunches.