I’m a little bit paranoid in writing this post, as I have recently taken my NCTJ Law Exam and am afraid of a defamation suit.
However, no one will reasonably be able to identify the person I’m about to describe. In fact, *I* would be pressed to come up with a description beyond some general physical attributes and a first name shared by approximately every white male in England, so I think I’m okay.
I met Prince Harry**** on Tinder, of course, because that’s where the truest love stories are written.
Harry immediately struck me as different from the usual Tinder selection, as his profile had zero images of his willy or of his washboard abs just directly above his willy to imply that, yes, below that resides a very nice willy. I’m wondering how many more times I can say “willy” in this paragraph. Willy, willy, willy.
Anyway, he seemed normal. And he messaged me soon after we matched. What he said was intelligent and witty and grammatically correct. In other words, I thought I had hit the Tinder jackpot.
So, as the week went on, I found myself falling into my usual trap of Tinder excitement: maybe this one will prove that my time spent swiping, my future carpal-tunnel surgery from this repetitive motion, ALL of it would be worth it. We might clink champagne glasses on our wedding day and laugh as I whisper in his ear, “Remember that .gif you sent me via Tinder and how I kinda thought it was sexist but just went with it because I had basically given up on men at that point? I love you so much!”
We finally made plans to meet on a Friday night at what turned out to be at a pretty atrocious bar on the Thames. I went in to meet him and couldn’t find him anywhere until I circled back to the exit, where he stood looking nervous and anxious to leave — boys, take note: nothing makes a girl feel great about herself quite like a face that says, “I do not want to be here,” as soon as she arrives.
I came to find out that he looked so uncomfortable because he had smuggled the bottle of wine he purchased along with two glasses into his backpack so that we could leave the horrible bar but still have our date. I must admit this was really pretty suave, so good on his date-planning anxiety for taking such drastic measures.
We just so happened to end up on a bench along the Thames, drinking our bottle of wine under the smog-covered stars. It was like a scene out of any generic rom-com and maybe the best date I have ever been on, a truth that pains me to my CORE to admit.
You’re probably going to be shocked as I was and still am to find out that, after our magical evening, I never saw Prince Harry again. We texted back and forth for about a week and then he disappeared. I like to think he got eaten by the deer at Richmond Park, or maybe ate so much curry that he’s in a medically induced food coma. I’M NOT SURE. But what I do know is that this is a raging problem in our society, and it must stop.
As you spry, young millennials are certainly aware, the most popular method of avoiding any sort of meaningful, understandable breaking-off-of-things is by “ghosting” a person, or disappearing from his or her inbox so he or she knows you’re no longer interested.
To me, it’s a really sad trend and shows how far gone we all are, how much we’d rather be numb to any feeling other than happiness, drunkenness, deep-in-sleep-ness, or pregnant with a post-burrito food baby. While these are all wonderful and VALID states of being — they’re in my top five as well, so I feel you — you can’t just IGNORE the fact that some shit is going to happen to you in life that you’re going to have to stand up and face like a (wo)man with words and eye contact and FEELING, FFS!!!!!!!!!!!!
I unfortunately play the role of “confused ghosted girl” regularly, and what I can tell you is that it never makes any sense to me why it’s happening. I also have unfortunately played the role of, “Girl whose co-worker just straight-up told her to her face that he’s not into it anymore, just weeks before becoming ‘official’ with another co-worker.” And that hurt, too. But the fact that I knew what was happening made it easier for me to move on (and unfollow the new couple on all forms of social media. Obviously.)
Woke. Magazine is technically a publication meant to speak on social issues that people are scared to talk about. As our lovely strapline above states, we are the voices of the silenced. But, today, I am here to address the silent: open your mouth, or even move your thumbs. Tell the person why you’re moving on so she can, too.
And, for the love of GOD, do not take your next date to a boat bar on the Thames. She’s better than that.
****name changed to protect his identity
— Andrea Marchiano