I am not dating anymore

So we’re deprioritizing love, relegating men to utilitarian side dish and investing in our friends instead.

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She got angry—and he accused her of unfairly escalating the situation.

When she told me the story, I laughed so hard I cried.

She was seeing someone who convinced her to get emotionally involved, despite her initial hesitation.

When she caught feelings in return and asked him for exclusivity after a few months, he said yes.

This guy Kristan was hooking up with, for example, told her one night he was sick and staying in.

She went out with friends, and saw him at the club. My friend Jenny, who stresses the importance of needs-based communication (which is exactly what it sounds like: clearly articulating observations, feelings and requests rather than expecting others to figure them out through behavioural cues) went on a date last week.

“Get a cat,” she said over the phone from Montreal—at home on a Friday night. I recommend the Hitachi Magic Wand.” We were both unabashedly staying in.

I was pouring a glass of wine and burning the shit out of a grilled cheese, prepping for an was a show that gave me life. All of them are about their friends, their goals and their personal priorities first.

We texted every day in a fiery and amusing fashion, and shared a similar sense of humour. Cats are assholes, but at least they’re consistent.

They don’t, for example, make New Year’s Eve plans with you and then act like you’re the thirstiest bitch alive when you text them about it later. Instagram accounts like @beigecardigan, @mytherapistsays, @betches and @bustle are full of memes about how it’s better to stay home than see anyone at all, let alone spending precious hours plucking each errant hair from one’s genitals, smearing one’s face with numerous paints, and going out of doors solely to catch some rogue male’s eye.

The ever-growing proclivity for staying housebound and heart intact even led to the launch of an entire apparel company a few years ago: Montreal’s Stay Home Club peddles sweatshirts, tees and patches extolling the simple virtues of “having no life.” Grey hair, granny dressing, Netflix, sassy cats and janky grocery carts are in. When I embraced my own untimely spinsterhood last winter, I called my friend Kristan, whom I’ve known for half my life.

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