A Brief Review of Tenets of Casual Dating

PART ONE

Photo borrowed from an Elle article on Adèle Exarchopoulos and Léa Seydoux from Blue is the Warmest Color.

I dedicate this post to those who brave the tumultuous world of modern dating. Particularly those inhabiting a couples-centric city like Portland. I’m surrounded by happily committed duos. I get it. I mean, it’s cold outside. It’s hard to get dressed and get on your bike or flash your Car 2 Go VIP badge and travel beyond your neighborhood dive bar (“You want me to go to SE?! But I live in Woodlawn.”). All for the simple possibility of having more than 17 minutes of forced conversation with someone. As the designated single girl amidst my friend circle, and after various bouts of romantic mingling over the last two years, I present a brief collection of tenets to casual dating.

1.) On the first rendezvous, commit only to a drink, preferably starting after the hour of 7:30 PM. I’m going to be so bold as to say this rule follows for a second-and maybe even a third-hang out (providing you get even this far). In the world of dating, there are few things worse than committing to dinner or dinner and a movie or dinner and a movie and a post movie walk simply to realize mid way you wished you hadn’t. Googling "topics of conversation" won't alleviate the pain. Also: I never meet during the daytime on the first encounter. It is much harder to cut things short or flee the scene in the broad, albeit filtered, light of day.

2.) Try hard not to be more than 15 minutes late*, unless you are desperately trying to appear callous and unaware, which only has so much charm (depending on the individual, about 1-3 dates worth). Confession: I am a perpetually late person who was a miserable 45 minutes en retard to my first official date with my lovely ex-girlfriend. I’ve since tried to change my ways.

3.) Dress up: at least make an effort with one item of clothing. I know you really love your favorite flannel that is worn in just perfectly and the beanie you always wear to get coffee, but, c’mon. It is never a bad thing to look like you are elevating your game at least a little bit to meet a new person.

Image originates from Prada's Spring-Summer 2014, photographed by Steven Meisel. 

4.) I rarely demand exclusivity. On the contrary, the very whisper of the word makes me want to run for the hills, or more specifically, Forest Park followed by a Bourbon Renewal at Clyde Common. But, the one thing I do demand is exclusivity while in my physical presence. If you’re so smitten with someone else, politely excuse yourself and at least meet him or her in the fucking bathroom for a mid-concert make out session. Everyone deserves a second chance, right?! Well, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice, don’t admit this happened to anyone and don’t let it happen ever again.

Take the Aperol Spritz

Franny

Mid-day sun pierces Franny's eyes. Blithely, she positions her hand above her head, reminiscent of a Victorian lady prior to a fainting spell. What beckons her glance? A bird? No. A flock of birds? A ship? No. A Dries Van Noten-swathed lady holding two Aperol spritzes approaching Franny. The hour strikes 18 30. Aperitivo seems more than appropriate. Franny coyly takes the Aperol spritz.

Tomorrow she will be adorned in her traditional daytime armor: an ideally balanced homme-femme blouse, bright tailored high-waisted trousers, a gold pseudo-tie necklace lingering sensually at her nape. Franny's red, nearly pursed lips suggest self-imposed alienation, albeit inciting endless invitations. She will accept a few. Politely decline the masses. Friday evening arrives. Franny dons a new-age garden-inspired kimono. She glides from drinks at Rum Club to a show on the West Side as seamlessly as her kimono. White slacks command simplicity and sophistication. Will she accompany the slew of twenty somethings to the next bar du moment for Sazeracs? Franny couldn't be bothered to decide. She ponders a flight to Oslo or Vienna.

Image graciously borrowed from Daria Werbowy's campaign for the Celine collection. 

An Introduction

Josephine

Edith Piaf's "Non, Je ne Regret Rien" billows from a third floor lavender-lined window. Casually traipsed against a Provincial blue door, hair disheveled, hand lax, Ernest Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" nearly falls to the ground. Slate hued lingerie evokes a bodice in the 1930s. As she grows bored with the day, nighttime tempts.

Surrounded by provincial stones and artifacts, face framed by sleek hair and dark sunglasses, she’s keenly aware of the gaze she summons. Josephine embodies the modern woman, conscious of decades past, yet with a stare sternly fixated on the unknown. She steps in to a 1937 Aston Martin, vanishing with barely an embrace goodbye.

Photo collaged by Arielle Adkin on The False Unicorn.