Fake it to Make it.

When the man opposite you presents his wayward drive and unmotivated passions you suddenly realize that you are 30 years old and asking yourself: “What the fuck are you doing?” I have no bed frame; I tend to purchase new underwear instead of fulfilling my weekly laundry list; I have a culinary degree, but I don’t cook… ever; and, I rarely put the cover sheet on my mattress, which already looks lifeless in a dusty corner of my 2ft x 2ft apartment. My shitty closet has no space for most of my clothes so these wilting items collect dust on a used wood-splintered “table.” Used pans sit, unwashed, in my little-used sink. I’m on an online dating site because I broke up with a man who loved me, but I didn’t like that he wasn’t perfect. Now, I look across my shoulder to this lost soul. A pretty face, but not the man that I can’t wait to find comfort in. He’s not the man that won’t need my emotional or financial support. He’s an adolescent that keeps passing his years with an optimism for the next.

About an hour into this “date” (Chicago’s diviest bar, which makes stiff drinks and offers no false hopes of romanticism), I realized that I’m totally a man. I’m that 30-something dude that still offers a precarious future, has a lecherous sexual appetite, but isn’t exactly exuding sustainability.

The problem is, this is me. I’m a messy, 30-something chick that wants booze, men and Netflix. I’m trying to put every single(ish) person whom I know onto these dating sites. My coworker asked me if “I’m me” on these first dates. Obviously. However, apparently there’s a true, natural inclination to fake it for the first few meet ups. What does this mean? Should I dress my nails with rouge, paint an equally Burgundy dress onto my body, giggle at banal jokes, order a caesar salad and then put out? Perhaps these are exaggerations, but what does it mean to offer a false impression on dates? Yes, maybe a second date would be captured, but for what?

The last dude was sweet, but I want more than a nice guy with zero direction. Wow, apparently I’m an “adult”, whatever that means and to whatever extent that goes. Granted I partied so hard last night that I couldn’t make it to a 1pm dance class today, but all belligerence aside, where’s my put-together counterpart so that I can find direction to pick up my own pieces?

Here's to next week. 90% arrested development, 10% optimism!