Where Did the Rizz Go? A Post-Grad Dating Exposé

As a new Washington D.C. resident, I feel it is my civic duty to sniff out the local talent. So, I am back in the dating game. I live in a new city, with a new job, new friends, and new dates. 

I have been doing some field research for you girls, and I have A LOT to report back.

Of course, it would be just my luck that when I move to D.C., the longest government shutdown in history happens. After a month at my new job, I was furloughed. I tried to stay busy, going to the Smithsonians, but then the museums closed soon after the start of the shutdown. Going to coffee shops and going on walks just was not cutting it, and I needed a new extracurricular activity. 

So, I fell victim to the online dating plague a few weeks ago. Yep, you heard it right. I finally went through my Hinge likes, and picked some front-runners to meet in person. 

But, these so-called “front-runners” fell to the back really quickly. What is it with the men these days? Maybe, Sabrina Carpenter was onto something after all with her hit song “Slim Pickins.” 

It’s really not that hard to be a stand-up guy. We are requesting the bare minimum, really – to merely plan a date and then show up for said date. I will even offer inspo for date ideas if you just communicate even slightly. 

But, these men seem to self-sabotage at every turn.

For example, I had a drinks date scheduled at Treehouse Rooftop. It is an hour until I am supposed to meet him. I am about to hop on my bus to the metro station when I clarify the time for our date. I texted him, “Let’s meet at 8:15.” I knew he was running late, so I thought I would give him some extra time. Then, as if he was just not planning on telling me, he responds with a text that reads, “I have a fire.” Next text: “Slight change in plans.” Next text: “You should come.”

I’m sorry, WHAT?! First off, what does that even mean? Like, is your apartment on fire? Did you build a fire pit? Are you at a bonfire? I’m confused. 

In the midst of my puzzlement, I text him, “What do you mean fire?” At this point, I am agitated. Here I am on the side of the road, in my brand-new ‘MANGO’ cheetah print dress, with a tasteful level of cleavage, ready for a flirty drinks date. 

Instead, I am wondering whether I was just invited to a bonfire or a housefire? 

His response did not clarify anything for me either. All he said was, “Like a fire.” “Like a firepit.” 

I realize, in that moment, that he cancelled drinks, without telling me, and utterly changed all the plans to have me come to his apartment and sit next to a fire, when it is literally 75 degrees outside.

So, I did what any rational girl would do. I planned a different date, with a different guy. I was not going to let that outfit go to waste. While I’m waiting for Man 2 to meet me at Georgetown Piano Bar, I get flooded with paragraph-length texts from a different clingy man from Hinge – 5 texts in a row, to be exact. 

He must have addressed 12 different topics of conversation within these texts. And, what’s worse is he did this on HINGE! Texting me paragraphs is one thing (obviously still a turn off), but to do it on Hinge is crazy work. I still have not responded. I mean, what do I even respond to? He asked me nine questions. My thumbs would hurt from having to text that much back to him. 

The real kicker is, he actually is an attractive guy. But, why is he trying to learn my whole life story, including my preschool teachers’ names and shoe size? Like, leave some things to the imagination. Or, better yet, leave it for the first date, so we will have things to learn about each other, instead of looking into each other’s eyes already knowing the makes and models of our grandmas’ first cars.

This is what I mean. The rizz is gone. They either say too much or not enough. They are either annoyingly vague or massively overwhelming. I miss the guys from college who knew how to be mysterious. They knew how to make a girl swoon. Now, I can’t ignore the fact that we women were all significantly more desperate in college. But despite our admittedly low standards, the men still had to do some work to swoon us. 

They knew how to play the game. They were giving on-again, off-again energy that we girls on the chase could not get enough of. Now, they just tell it all to you up front or leave genuinely everything up to the imagination, with no in-between. Whatever happened to give a little, get a little? 

The ancient Sumerians said it best: “Lex Talionis.” An eye for an eye.

So, after all of this painstaking field research, I have come to this conclusion: 

Once post-grad hits, there is a switch in our dating biology. Women become increasingly more independent as they land full-time jobs, good salaries, and curate their perfectly chic apartments. Essentially, we don’t need a man to make our day more interesting anymore. We have demanding jobs and apartments that look like a man should never be there in the first place, with antique bed frames and locally-sourced cheetah print rugs. What else could we need? Most certainly not a man who would get dirt on our towels and break our glassware.

On the flip side, men get bored and lonely after college. They don’t have the constant revolving door of Snapchat Quick-Adds at their beck and call anymore to keep them company, so they find themselves wanting a girlfriend. They get desperate and often irrational, sending massive paragraphs explaining why their second cousin is taking a gap year, or they send the one word men know: Fire. Man make fire. Man like fire. 

So, women: How are we going to retrain these men to revert to their frat boy ways? I never thought I would say that, but desperate times. Wait, I mean, desperate boys call for desperate measures. 

I could just be in my problematic era, but I want some mystery back in my dating life. It’s getting dull. It’s getting too predictable. So, if you are ready to live for the plot, text me (not paragraphs), and maybe I’ll go out with you. TBD. (See, that is the length of a text you should send me. Extra points if it’s an acronym.)