Steph Not Stephanie

My parents met in a bar.They also divorced less than 10 years later. How romantic. I’ve done the bar scene in Toronto, and it’s just a big fat no at this point. If the expectation going out is the optimistic girl with perfect hair and killer heels, the reality is the annihilated mess walking to the subway with her shoes off and makeup running down her face. I am just too old and too tired of dudes trying to impregnate my butt or doing the sneak attack on the dance floor. Bars are the home of terrible pickup lines; of dudes with fake Irish accents who mysteriously don’t have accents the next time you see them (true story); of drunken makeouts in dark corners; of ‘this seemed like a good idea’ decisions at last call turning into ‘please leave and never contact me’ mornings.

Ugh, dating. Currently, I’m playing mental gymnastics between ‘get back on that horse,’ and ‘it’s cold and I could stay in and learn a new recipe to share with my boyfriend Netflix without having to even put on a bra (much less heels and a full face of makeup).’ Honestly, the thought of going on a date right now makes me feel a little ill. Not so ill, however, that it’s going to stop me from cashing in my free speed dating event tomorrow night (why go on one date when you can go on 25?). It’s the best solution to my internal struggle: I am kinda putting myself out there, but it’s mostly for shits and giggles (and copious amounts of booze), so it doesn’t really count. Right?

I’ve been talking to my friends a lot about dating lately. Even though it seems like everyone is online, not everyone wants to be. I had this conversation with one friend: