Drinking and Dating: P.S. Social Media Is Ruining Romance by Glanville Brandi

Author:Glanville, Brandi [Glanville, Brandi]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-02-11T00:00:00+00:00

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The Friend Box

FRIEND BOX (NOUN)

1. The mental compartment where you place someone you have no interest in pursuing romantically but would like to keep in your life for friendship and other perks.

2. A place with high walls, strict rules, and a no reentry policy. #PunIntended.

Example: While the celebrity chef was mediocre in the bedroom, he was a wizard in the kitchen, and so I decided to place him in my friend box.

My journey toward “happily ever after” was not going as well as I had hoped—and there were only so many days I could casually hang around the Beverly Hills Whole Foods looking for single, attractive men. Were there options I wasn’t already exploring? Besides leaving the city entirely, I wasn’t sure what else to do to ramp up my search.

A close girlfriend pointed out the fact that I already had a wonderful group of men in my life and suggested that maybe I was overlooking some of the prospects in my own backyard.

Let’s not fool ourselves; men and women can very rarely be friends without at least one party imagining what it would be like to fuck the other—or at least have one awkward drunken moment at a pool party where there’s a bit of wishful thinking. . . . It’s completely normal. #Right? When you get along so well, you can’t help but consider the what-ifs. And like many other women before me, I too had dabbled in my friend box.

MY OTHER EX-HUSBAND

I married my best friend New Year’s Day in Las Vegas. I was proving a point, so it sounded like a really great idea at the time. Like I always say, I am known for offering the best relationship advice. #DoAsISayNotAsIDo.

Honestly, it was a joke. We didn’t get a marriage license and never planned to; we were just being single and silly. Darin had joined my three girlfriends and me in Vegas for the holiday. During a boozy dinner at Nobu inside the Hard Rock Hotel, we joked about all the different insane things we could do to ring in 2012—my first New Year’s Eve as an officially single lady (translation: divorce finalized!). Skydiving? Fuck no. I have trouble even getting on an airplane; you will never catch me jumping out of one. Tattoo? Never! This MILF doesn’t do body ink. Steal Mike Tyson’s tiger? Already been done.

“How hilarious would it be if we got married?” Darin suggested. Everyone laughed, but the conversation continued snowballing.

“You never follow through with shit, Darin,” I said. That put an end to the conversation for the night, and I rang in the new year as a single lady and kissed my girlfriends as the clock struck midnight.

The next day, we were nursing our mutual hangovers and decided to catch a showing of the newest Mission: Impossible. I was popping Junior Mints in my mouth, chilling in my comfy workout clothes, and waiting for the previews to start when Darin brought it up again.

“We should totally get married,” he said, smirking.

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