WWI

Love is a battlefield.

“It’s like Flanders Field,” my friend says. “If it’s really as bad as you say out there…”

“Oh, it’s exactly that bad.”

“… if it’s really as bad, he’s looking across the battlefield, and everyone’s dead. And he sees you and he’s all, hey, we’ve got a live one over here!”

“Yeah but…”

“No. Listen. He’s all, she’s actually present and living. So of course he wants to lock you down. You’re all just trying to make it off the battlefield alive. That’s your job, get off the battlefield alive.”

I have been reading a fair bit of dating advice on the internet because WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK this is what I do now. I don’t know who to ask about dating age appropriate men. Most of my friends are either extremely partnered up or extremely not.

On the internet, pop culture wisdom tells me men my age are not fucking around when it comes to finding a … a what? Girlfriend? Lover? New wife? Whatever the correct term is, they’re not fucking around. They know what they want when they see it.

“Oh, yeah,” says another friend. “He told me later that he was ready to commit on the second date. He went straight into ‘don’t fuck this up’ mode. But he was all in.”

They’re married now.


“I told my ex I met someone new. I deleted my profile. I got tested, I didn’t want you to worry about anything. Everything came back clean, I’ll show you. When does your flight land?”

We’ve got a live one here.