by Miss What's-Your-Name-Again?
When I asked you what you were doing on your iPad while you were supposed to be listening to my instructions, you answered earnestly and without pause, “multitasking.”
Did I look like I was about to hit you? Maybe chuck the smartboard eraser at you? I was close.
Let me tell you a little about multitasking. Because I’m a lot older than you. Okay. Multitasking: yes. Multitasking is an urban myth. Like negative calorie drinks. And other things that you think are actually a thing when you’re a grownup that aren’t really things. Do I seem a bit scattered? That’s because I’m multitasking too. Right now, I am writing this, watching Shahs of Sunset, and texting one of my numerous Tinder boyfriends.
So, Tinder. Can we talk about this? Is it embarrassing that I am openly admitting to you that I subscribe to the grossest, weirdest, most superficial hook-up social media thing out there? God it’s awful. And now I can’t fucking stop doing it. I feel horrible for you; I think dating is hard for me, being twenty-hmmph years old, previously engaged, no longer knowing what the fuck I’m doing and suddenly having everyone tell me the only way I can meet someone is by taking an ad out? This is quite literally the ONLY dating reality you will ever know! When did “putting yourself out there” literally become placing your personal information on the internet for men to peruse, instead of just trying to remember to keep your shoulders back and look strangers in the eye? I told my mom this, positive I would get sympathy. Well, true to unsympathetic form, she called me “old fashioned.” WTF.
I just needed practice flirting with men. I realized I had a problem when I was called upon to PRETEND to flirt with a pretend man, and couldn’t even do that. And it was fun at first. My collection of Tinder Boyfriends with whom I share “mutual likes” in my little chat window is like the closest I’ve ever come to understanding the joy of collecting trading cards. But it has become a little depressing. Tinder has forced me to realize that I have believed, in the very core of my soul, that someday I would meet The Perfect Guy in some charming and serendipitous way, when the time was right, and it would be inevitable and totally idiot-proof. Instead, now, I peruse a site designed for random hookups because I am too uninterested and chickenshit to go on a legit online-dating site, and spend my free time (slash writing-time) trading somewhat muddled euphemisms with “Ben Dover” while I try and advise you on… whatever the fuck it was I was advising you on.
Multitasking. So yeah, never mind. What have I done in the past two hours it took me to write this? I ineffectually flirted with my Tinder Boyfriends, half-listened to one of the Shahs of Sunset fight with someone else (someone fighting with GG? It’s always someone fighting with GG), and wrote you this charming missive on the benefits and drawbacks of multitasking. I’d actually say that’s pretty damn productive.
And I think I did a pretty great job. I’m sure you did too.