I just got back from a year s̶a̶m̶p̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶o̶d̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶l̶d̶ working remotely and may have packed on a few (read: 15) pounds. But whatever. I’m a strong, independent, body-positive, single female living in NYC. A few pounds aren’t going to stop a girl from hitting the town and meeting some fellas, right?
Being a single gal alone in New York can be great. I can take myself to ballgames. I can play with my friends’ babies and then come home and get a full night’s sleep. I can binge old episodes of Jane the Virgin in my underwear (with the blinds open, obviously, because who really cares about strangers seeing you naked [FORESHADOWING. I do. I care.]). I can mindlessly swipe through dating apps du jour. I can pretend to be available and interested in making long terms plans with guys while simultaneously booking plane tickets to spend a few months in Capetown. And I can zip up my own damn dresses.
Err. Maybe not on that last one. The evening of my...