Cuffing season approaches and what better to write about in a column about dating, right? I have spent almost three weeks procrastinating on writing this post. So many that I finally went on a long rant to a friend and decided it fit perfectly. Here’s how I feel about cuffing season: 

Every time I think it I find myself annoyed to the very marrow of my bones at the thought of it all.

Dating.
Cuffing.
The game. 

I HATE DATING. 

I remember after getting married one day heaving a big sigh and saying “dear God, thank you that I never have to date again.” Then I did a praise dance around the room. I hate it. Now I’m divorced and that means I’ll once again have to date! 

It’s confusing, and emotional and it hits you in all your insecurities. I’m a ruminator so I have a zillion worst case scenarios and escape plans and what ifs to calculate (when I’m not trying to figure out if the eye blink over dinner was a sign that I missed and if I should have been paying closer attention). I’m too neurotic for this shit. I’m TIDE 

This is why I’m going to die alone. Unless of course somebody sees me, knocks me over the head Neanderthal  style and drags me off to  his cave — JOKING. Maybe. 

In closing, you won’t see me during cuffing season. I’ll be hugged up with my new boo. . . the electric blanket. Stay warm out there this season, folks.

 
Awkward as Always,

René

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