After spending the better part of 3 weeks drowning myself in pint after pint of Ben and Jerry’s and posting multiple ice cream shots on Instagram, something finally struck a chord with me. It was Friday.
In Los Angeles, a relationship is hard to come by, and I know this. In the past couple of years, I have trained my brain to come to terms with the fact that men generally do not want to give up their weekend nights. I know, this is utter bullshit, and I can’t believe for a minute I thought I wasn’t worth a weekend night. Yet another reason why Hollywood is jaded and why, maybe, it has “jaded” my thoughts about men.
Although it didn’t work out, the boy I was dating a couple of years ago gladly gave up his Friday and Saturday nights for me. He had his life, I had mine, but we integrated with each others friends and we compromised because the fact was (gasp!) that we actually wanted to spend time together.
This last man child I was with basically fell off the face of the planet from Thursday (weekends begin on Thursday in L.A., which may be the reason I always feel like I am still in college living here) through the better part of Sunday.
A friend told me last night that if you have gone on more than 5 dates and don’t know what the what is going on, then you should kick that guy to the curb. I wish I learned that like 15 dates and many months ago. Better late than never. This person was simply afraid to have a girlfriend, which he more or less informed me of before I entered into BevMo! (I was actually planning that trip, believe it or not) the following morning.
After three weeks of sulking and romantic comedy binges, I have come to one very important conclusion:
I want to go on a date on a Friday night. Because I deserve more than the beginning of the week.