Things That Kind Of Suck About Dating The Unemployed
Going dutch. On the off chance that you guys decide to do something that requires spending money, you always end up going halvsies. Sometimes your employed/guilty self ends up taking care of the ENTIRE bill. Time to start your side hustle!
His wide-open schedule. In his world, every morning is a Saturday morning. You’re the one who has to get up for work at 6 a.m. tomorrow. Hooking up at 2 a.m. seemed like a great idea at the time but it came at a price (pun intended!). Now you’re on your way to work, wearing dark circles and the same coral cardigan from yesterday, while he’s still sprawled out in bed, basking in the glory that is his REM cycle.
Nights in. These often involve you driving over to his place and sitting on his couch, littered with video game controllers and digital marijuana scales, while you two watch old episodes of Arrested Development on his laptop and make out intermittently. The charm of hangouts like these expired long ago. Like sophomore year of college.
Driving places. He calls shotgun every single time because… he can! You’re the one with a car and gas money so you’re the chauffeur by default. This could explain why you’ve been feeling like a sexually neutered soccer mom lately.
His excessive exercise habits. His unemployed-ness allows him to partake in highly active extra curriculars like ten-mile runs along the beach and three-hour mountain biking excursions. Sure sure, this is hot. But you’ve secretly begun to harbor some resentment toward him and the fact that as he continues to get more attractive and fit, you’re still stuck at your desk, watching as your body slowly morphs into something that resembles an untoned chair-shaped blob.
Red Box movie dates. Does driving to an Albertson’s parking lot on the way to his place at 9:30 p.m. on a Friday night only to stand alone in a long-ass Red Box line while a homeless man shouts at you sound like fun? (Hint: NO).
His overall frugality/laziness. He keeps asking you if you know of any good websites where he can “stream” the “game.” First of all, he is asking the wrong girl. And secondly, you’re pretty sure that if he purchases a $6 beer from the bar down the street, they’ll let him watch the game at their place, no extra cost.
Weed. He smokes a lot of weed, which is fine. But how can he possibly afford to? Maybe the next time he feels like smoking a bowl he can opt out and sell some of his stash in exchange for a meal out together, ON HIM. That would be lovely.
His leisurewear. There’s no real need for him to get dressed every day. His sweatpants are formal enough for his daily Chipotle runs. But if you see him sport that long-sleeve thermal/sweatpant/moccasin combo ONE MORE TIME, you’re going to call things off. For reals this time.
Stingy texting. He doesn’t like your staccato texting style because he’s paying 10 cents a pop to receive each one of your clever retorts. He prefers communicating in a more efficient paragraph-centric format, which is the ultimate buzzkill to your digital sarcasm and well-calculated pregnant pauses.
His manscaping. Or rather, his lack thereof. The mustache/beard growing contests need to end ASAP. He is capable of growing facial hair. YOU GET IT. It was cute for a month or so, but now he’s starting to look like a Hasidic Jew. Also, nothing says “you will probably regret hiring me” like excessive amounts of beard.
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Even as I write this now I am debating whether or not to erase it all together.
When I say I’m in love with you, I mean I love the story I can tell to my next lover, about my ex-lover, about how beautiful things were, how intense, how storybook, what a couple we were, and how you gradually, inexplicably, painfully, bit by bit, disappeared.
“I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.”
I was 24 and, while not gay, ever since college I had been getting more attention from gay men than from heterosexual women.