“For a single guy in his twenties, dating must suck. It must really, really suck.”
I had an epiphany the other day.
When I say “epiphany”, I don’t mean of the life-enlightenment kind, though… this was more an epiphany of the “holy-shit-how-the-eff-did-I-not-realise-that” kind.
It was this:
For a single guy in his twenties, dating must suck. It must really, really suck.
Single guys have to go to a lot of freaking effort if they ever want a companion of the female-variety in their life. They have to do a tonne more than us gals do.
Before the Lady Readers start hurling cyber abuse at me, and remind me how much MAC foundation costs and how ridiculously Kookai have inflated their clothing prices (I swear the cost of a clubbing dress is now the equivalent of a house deposit), hear me out.
I KNOW, us single gals pay a lot for new outfits every time we brave the club/bar. I KNOW, we spend an exorbitant amount on makeup and fucking fake strips of hair to stick to our eyelashes, all in the hopes members of the opposite sex will think we’re appropriate lady-friend material. I KNOW, we’re constantly hit on by the creepy AMAYSIM telecommunications worker, Stephan, instead of the cute bartender named Jack, and that’s a serious social injustice. I KNOW, OK?
All of that still doesn’t compare to the bullshit guys have to go through. Just sayin’.
I don’t know how this didn’t strike me earlier, but how FREAKING TERRIFYING must it be for guys to approach random women and hit on them?
Picture it. Just go with me on this and do some visualisation for a second.
How debilitatingly intimidating must it be to roll on up to a gal at a bar and start chatting her up?
Like, ladies, I love us… but we’re pretty mean when we want to be.
Scratch that – we’re worse than “pretty mean” – we’re scary as all shit. Especially if the guy who comes up to us happens to be a Stephan instead of a Jack.
It’s even worse for the short guys. Like, what if the Stephan who comes up to you also happens to be 5ft nothing? What if he barely comes up to your nipples and looks like he’s a total of three days out of the womb? Somebody tell me, how the eff do the Stephans of the world continue to hit-on women twice their height and not accept defeat?
HOW DO U DO THIS STEPHANS?
Meanwhile, if I get rejected, I’m elbow-deep in a box of cereal for a month before I even set foot out of the house. I shun all daylight for weeks. I denounce the male species as the source of all evil. I start contemplating a future life as a Miley-esque pansexual who dyes her armpit hair and gets random stick-figure tattoos on her biceps.
In other (less lesbiany) words: The mere thought of rejection makes me feel more ill than the chicken burrito I ordered at Fonda Mexican last year.
Yet the single twenty-something men out there just keep on keepin’ on. They take our constant rejections in their stride and swiftly move to the next Kookai-clad-chick without worry.
And for that, I commend every single man in his twenties.
I commend every man who has the balls to continually put himself out there.
Because what’s even more impressive? The man’s work doesn’t stop once he’s got your number. OHHHHHH NO. Somewhere along the way, the Life Gods (the CEOs of Apple, probably… or the good people of McDonalds) decided that men must always be the first to text us, must ask us out on the first date, and must decide what that date will entail.
And texting first/asking people out/planning dates = No thank you, Sir.
Who wants to text first all the time? NOBODY. Why? Because always texting first sucks! It makes you feel equal parts needy, exhausted and annoying.
The dating rules we put onto guys are not easy, not at all. And I don’t think men get enough credit for their hard work and dedication to the cause.
Seriously fellas, you have it tough, and I’m officially on your team. Like… wherever you are in the world right now, I am cheering you on from behind my laptop.
I’m not actually going to start approaching you, or begin asking you on dates… or even plan said dates, but just know that I am praising you from afar.
Just keep on swimmin’ pal, you’re doing a stellar job and it’s not one I’m envious of.