Part of me believes many men fear they’ll screw up a relationship, so they make an Oedipal flee in the other direction and play it off as an act of nobility, which spirals into the woman obsessing over how she can improve herself.
Maybe it shouldn't be a matter of filling the role of the "cool girl" or the "right woman," whoever she is.
We boast the number of followers we have, which would’ve been a unheard of ten years ago, swipe through apps that are supposed to simulate real life attraction like a scene from Gary Shteyngart’s "Super Sad True Love Story" and collect matches and numbers as if dating is a competition in metrics.
For all the ease with which these nifty bits of technologies are meant to assist in connection people, it’s made navigating the lust frontier that much more treacherous. And what are we supposed to do if there’s a chemical connection – or even genuine interest?
According to Wilser, both he and his buddy (and many, other men) suffer from flabby boyfriend muscles, atrophied by their own behavior.
They opt to casually date someone(s) for a short amount of time, back off once it starts getting too serious, then realize that years of this behavior hasn’t led to an envy-worthy series of hot flings -- but a state of being mostly alone and pushing 40. Sitting across a table from someone that I’m not sure I have any interest in for an hour over dinner seems totally torturous. Oftentimes I’ll see a dress I don’t think I can live without, choose what I hope is the right fit and hope for the best.
Much to her surprise, he calls her on the phone -- yep, dial tone at all; no, not a Facetime call -- while she’s chatting with her BFF.