148: because you can be as picky as you damn well please

Maybe it’s the remnants of my bossy childhood, or perhaps it’s because commitment scares the shit out of me, but I’m picky as fuck.

I don’t say that because I spend thirty minutes at Whole Foods reading coffee flavor profiles, only to drive somewhere else when they don’t have the right combination of honey and apricot notes.

I say that because I was a twenty-two-year-old virgin whose best friend said if I ever wanted a boyfriend, I’d have to lower my standards.*

FIRST. Oh boy, first. 

Standards are the biggest fucking joke. 

You’re not here to find someone who checks off that insane list of “must have’s” you wrote in the sixth grade when you thought playing a guitar was the sexiest thing a man could do. (You learn later on that it’s making you laugh.)

You’re here to find someone compatible, whose life and style blend with yours.

SECOND. I will only say this once: 

You determine what is compatible for you; be as picky as you fucking want.

If compatible for you means no sex, then compatible for you means no sex. If compatible for you means sex, then compatible for you means sex. You make that call—and you constantly reassess that it’s the right one.

You’re here to find someone compatible, whose life and style blend with yours.

If you only want to date a 6’1″ mahogany-brown-haired Harvard Law graduate three years your senior—schedule a campus tour.

Yes, statistically, finding someone to fit that description will take longer than “taller than me with brown hair,” so you might have to be a little patient. But tell me that Harvard Crimson isn’t going to look damn good next to your much shorter beaming smile, I dare you.

Also, just never tell your friends to change so boys like them.

How fucked is that.

* i shit you not