At 31 years old, I’ve been dating for quite some time now—my twenties were a storied history of unsuccessful relationships and sexual encounters that have often left me feeling, as my Jewish mother would say, “meh.”
Nonetheless, I’ve held out hope that my dream man is out there somewhere, waiting patiently. I have no idea who the hell he is, but I do know he makes a mean brisket, loves getting weird on the dance floor, and thinks a solid Saturday morning is rubbing my feet while watching hours of Rick and Morty. He’s also a heavyweight champion at head.
Still, i’ve been single for over a year and it’s as dry as the goddamn Sahara. I’ve swiped through all of NYC so thoroughly I think I’ve actually reached the end of Tinder. My friends are tired of me complaining, my mom’s pawned me off to the sons of everyone at temple, and I’m this close to buying a cat, rubbing it all over my face (even though I’m allergic), and just calling it a day.
The only place I haven’t turned... is to the kids. Like, actual kids. Perhaps their non-jaded, pure-hearted spirits know something I don’t about why my dating life is literal garbage.
Do I just need to send more pictures of my boobs? Should I be communicating in nothing but emojis? What’s Jaden Smith’s advice? How can I slay? Are we still saying fleek?
I told them to be ruthless. I told them to spare nothing. I told them I was their humble student, laid bare at the hands of their expert guidance.
And they straight up blew my mind.