Meternity. Meghann Foye

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “It was fun. I don’t know if it was a date per se. Well, maybe it was—I think he was flirting with me.” I timidly tell them about the back-and-forth banter. “He wants to produce an environmental documentary and I think he’s pretty legit about it.” I look down for some reason, shy to reveal these details. “It’s actually kind of awesome.” I feel nervous all of a sudden. “Do you guys want another round?”

      “I’m technically on a cleanse,” says Brie, “I probably shouldn’t. Well, okay.”

      “So did he make a move?” demands Addison.

      “No. Right at the end he got a text, and he said he had to go suddenly.” Both girls take a second to think about it.

      “He probably just had a work thing. I’m sure it’s no big deal,” says Brie. “This is exciting.”

      I look over at Addison, whom I can typically count on to be more of a realist. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s fine,” she says with a look of reassurance. “Anyway, even if it is another girl, there’s no reason why he wouldn’t be totally into you, hot stuff.”

      I cringe a little at the compliment, which feels slightly untrue. “Well, even though it was super fun, I’m sure he’s still in Peter Pan phase. I mean, he’s thirty-seven, hot, works at a television network and lives in the East Village—that’s basically like twenty-one in Manhattan guy years,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.

      “Liz, you can’t think like that,” says Addison. Brie waits carefully.

      “Like what?” I’m a little peeved.

      “Defeated.”

      “What? I’m just realistic. There are no real men in this city—only man-children who want mother-wives to be by their side and cook dinner for them. All I’m saying is that the chances are slim someone who is such a catch would be into me.” I take a large sip of my drink.

      “Enough!” says Addison. “I am not buying in to this internalized powerlessness. We’re quality catches. Any guy would be thrilled to have us.”

      “It’s not us. It’s them.” I wave over to the “brahs” who are now flinging chicken wing bones at one another, three-point-field-goal-style. “Things have changed so much in the past four years. Texting and Tinder culture has made life too easy for them. They think they can just Amazon.com a model girlfriend.”

      “Seriously,” Brie says. “The only one with the power is the owner of those three evil black dots!”

      “Liz, it’s all about taking back the power and portraying confidence,” says Addison. “Watch me.”

      Addison squares her shoulders, runs a hand through her curls, then walks right over to the boys in the corner, who, to her credit, light up as she starts talking to them. The next thing we know she’s brought them over.

      “I just asked these nice gentlemen if they could settle an argument we were having about what guys are really looking for in a woman.” The guys look at Addison stupidly with their hands in their pockets like she’s a cut of prime rib.

      “When you’re looking at girls online, what’s the most important thing? Hotness or confidence?” The guys look at one another as if there’s a right answer and a real answer. Still, Addison pushes.

      “Confidence—she has to look like she doesn’t give a shit,” ventures one.

      Addison beams. “See!” she says. “These guys get it.”

      “Like she’s too good for you,” adds the other.

      “Exactly,” confirms Addison. “A girl who knows her value.”

      “Like she knows how to take care of herself,” interjects the first. “Hot.”

      “You guys get it,” says Addison, resolute. “A girl who puts herself first.”

      “And tits out to here,” interjects a third, now more relaxed. Addison crooks her brow.

      “Like Kate Upton,” says the second, slapping the first guy five.

      “Yeah, and Jennifer Lawrence.”

      “Mixed with Mila Kunis.”

      “Exactly—total MILF, but young!” They look like wolves, salivating at the thought of prime MILF flesh.

      “Thank you, boys, that will be enough.”

      They turn on their heels just as they start launching into another brotastic tirade. Not wanting to continue the conversation any further, I turn to the bar to gather a new round of drinks. “Two vodka sodas, splash of cran, and um, one rusty nail,” I tell the barman, not sure what makes me do it.

      As I wait for the drink order to come up, I think about my friends’ theories. I know the real reason why we each haven’t found our own PH—one who is smart, successful, kind and ready for a commitment. It’s not because we live in a city where there are too many smart, single, professional women to men. Or don’t practice enough “self-love.”

      It’s that as we’ve followed our hearts, our passions and career prospects, guys have shrunk back, intimidated, and the power balance has shifted. Ever since the economic recession hit in 2008, all my friends have gotten really serious about their careers. When I look around at all my married friends, the wives have all become the breadwinners. The husbands, many of whom were handed pink slips, are the new lost boys.

      Maybe it also has something to do with social media, I think, as Brie and Addison now stare into their phones like the great white light is calling them home. It’s like the new fertile crescent—where all powerful ideas are exchanged—the Mediterranean of the Crusade times. Every woman I know is on it every single day, exchanging information—every single moment really.

      “This is how you use apple cider vinegar nine ways.”

      “This is how you make Chia pudding in a mason jar.”

      “This is why the mommy wars are still raging.”

      “This is why we can’t put up with fat shaming any longer.”

      “This is what’s happening to young sex slaves in Mumbai.”

      “This is the real reason you can’t lose those last ten pounds.”

      Thanks to our Pinterest, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram passwords, women now hold the keys to all the information, while men play “Grand Theft Auto.” It’s changed everything, I think, and relationships haven’t caught up. No wonder Brady wanted a twenty-two-year-old—she’s probably his intellectual equal. All of a sudden thirty-six-year-old Amal Alamuddin going for fifty-two-year-old George Clooney adds up.

      “Liz, you know what the problem is. It’s you,” Brie says. “You’ve always been holding out until something perfect arrives. Waiting for a unicorn—they don’t exist.”

      “That’s not true. JR was no unicorn, trust me. But why should we be putting up with these douche bags with hoofs above their beds, or telling us to our faces that we’re not twenty-two-year-olds, СКАЧАТЬ