In your 20s, one of the few things more elusive than your G-spot is your whereabouts on the sliding scale of human sexuality.
What tends to happen is sometime during your teenage years, God casts upon your gangly body the ability to secrete pheromones, and henceforth it was written that a fatal attraction of innocence to douchebaggery began. While the 21st century brought about a devastatingly early onset of this pivotal landmark (I believe the attraction to the opposite sex now starts somewhere around first grade) — for most humans the attraction for the opposite gender comes around Bat Mitzvah age.
What comes next, and by next I mean throughout your entire 20s, (and from what the tabloids tell me, through to your 60s) is a nauseating rollercoasting of dating ups and downs. Mostly downs. Not so many ups. Hardly any ups.
Getting dumped becomes more regular than your menstrual cycle.
And so I find it important to learn how to master figuring out whether or not you’re batting for the wrong team — as that big bastard Monogamy takes you out back for a nasty beating.
Things were going so well, you thought. He was listening to your meaningless diatribe of complaints and gossip. He was treating you to occasional dollar-taco and Netflix movie-nights. He remembered to introduce you to some friends at the club, granted not as “this is my girlfriend,” but he remembered you were there!
And out of nowhere, he stopped texting, and said he needed space — that it wasn’t you, you are great, you’re “too good for him.” Wtf?!
So you self-medicate with milk chocolate, mediocre wine, and the grass-is-greener outlook. You take your misery out on the world, posting passive-aggressive song lyrics about men on your Facebook wall, and sharing, re-posting, re-tweeting, re-gramming any and all feminist memes.
STAGE 1: Declaration.
You declare that you’re a lesbian. No man will do. Men are selfish, hollow, evil little creatures, and you have suddenly elevated in consciousness and have become self-aware enough to realize that what’s best for your soul is to date someone who can braid your hair, tickle your back the way you like it, and help you figure out how to get your hair to do that Victoria Secret relaxed-curl-thing like the entire cast of every show on ABC Family.
STAGE 2: Research.
In order to sell your product, you gotta know your audience. Stage 2 requires a little bit of homework, and a lot of The L Word and Melissa Etheridge. It’s time to learn the difference between a lug nut and a lug bolt, and to pretend that you went to Vassar, Smith, and Sarah Lawrence. This is the time to swap out your Louboutins for some Chucks.
STAGE 3: Test Run.
The most crucial part is to test drive your new lady-lovin’ ride. Take her out for a spin. And by spin, I mean make out with another girl.
Lesbians hang at sports bars. There are Lesbian nights at many of your favorite bars. Any of your friends, when given enough tequila, can also help you explore here. Go bold, you know that Trader Joe’s cashier has a thing for you, why don’t you see if she’ll bring some of those addicting Snap Pea things over. There is a girl at every bar who will help you make out for attention — and to help you figure out your sh*t!
STAGE 4: Decide.
Did you like the soft lips, pretty eyes, and fair skin? Did the fact that you can both share premenstrual symptoms turn you on? This stage is the perfect time to determine whether to linger in stage 2 a bit longer, until you decide to pack up your U-Haul and move in with your new lady lover — or whether you bolt right back to men, and give the upside-down roller coaster ride another shot.
STAGE 5: Stay Positive.
Regardless of your decisions, life is a bitch. We come into this unfair world kicking and screaming, having our comforts ripped from all around us, and being forced to breathe, and eat, and walk on our own. But, so long as we remain positive that this bitch will eventually make sense (likely once you graduate out of your god-forsaken 20s, potentially never) you will find self-love. And personally, this kind of love is available 24-7.
As is fried food. Just sayin’.