Wednesday, November 30 2022

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This coincides wonderfully with the throwaway culture that we have encouraged on dating apps. These new men are permanent works in progress, always consumed with belated self-development with no room for the secondary gaze of a woman who has explained the concept of fabric softener one too many times. If she doesn’t like it, no worries: there will always be another, cooler and less rigid option at hand. The eternal hope for betterment also teaches women to hold on for the heart of gold that hides in that father body.

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When I’m postponing a deadline, dissociating in a boring meeting, or just starving for attention, I sit down and open Tinder, Bumble, or Hinge—whichever one has the best vibe and the least irritating interface. I slide and slide and slide, left and right, left, left, left. The app’s logo flashes when it’s looking for people to match me with, and I wonder if I’m being too picky.

As the years pass, as we all become more set in our ways, as injectables become more of a requirement than an option, as people associate and the old adage that “all good ones are taken” is becoming more and more true and my outlook is starting to look like the supermarket shelves in these early days of the pandemic, I’m at a crossroads: Judd or Nora?

Is it time to kick back in the cold, nice guy punching above his weight, or is it now time to grit your teeth and hold on until a sweater-wearing dream boat glasses appear in my quirky cupcake shop?

I slip and slip, and one of my matches asks, “Are you submissive?” as a greeting, and suddenly Seth Rogen looks lovely, and I’d slip on him in a heartbeat.

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