The recent Vanity Fair article detailing the more lurid underbelly of online dating—the barrage of dick pics, the endless swiping, the death of romance—was grim, if not horrific. Dating, Vanity Fair would have you believe, is evolving into an elaborate charade of deception: Everybody is petrified of giving someone the “wrong idea.” Men are impolite to the point of viciousness to ensure that the women they just hooked up with understand they don’t want a relationship. Women “self-objectify” in profile pictures to get men interested, renouncing the “wrong idea” that they might want something more than a one-night stand. No matter which way you spin it, landing yourself in a committed relationship seems to be, by millennial standards, “the wrong idea.”
I want to believe that Vanity Fair selected only their most salacious interviewees to quote, but I know that’s not true. I’ve received my fair share of lewd attention during my online dating tenure to verify: It really is that bad. But I’ve noticed a new strategy among my set of female friends—lovely, intelligent, independent women—to combat the grime of the online dating world: date up.
I don’t mean status, I mean age. More and more women I know are dating men twice, yes twice, their age. In her new film, The Intern, Anne Hathaway stands with Robert DeNiro and a bunch of young male colleagues in a bar and draws a harsh comparison: “How in one generation have men gone from guys like Jack Nicholson and Harrison Ford to…?” She gestures despairingly at the four men in front of her, archetypes of my generation in their hoodies, craft beer in one hand, iPhone in the other, with their untrimmed beards and general lack of ambition. I see what Hathaway means: Why put up with Tinder when there’s a whole generation of men out there who wouldn’t dream of using it?
Poor, poor babies. They denigrate, attack, and degrade masculinity for decades. They declare us all rapists, every last one. They place a premium on weakness, indecisiveness, self-doubt, and “sensitivity.” A confident, self-assured male is a monster, one who evinces any interest in or attraction to the opposite sex a fiend in human shape. He might as well drink a quart of fresh blood in the village square in broad daylight as demonstrate the least little bit of assertiveness.
As Ed says, these shrieking harpies used their talons to carve themselves an effiminate, pussified Pajama Boy-effigy of manhood—then declared him contemptible. Now here they are agonizing over why whatever real men are left out there aren’t clamoring in droves and herds to marry them.
Sympathy: nonexistent. Interest: none whatsoever. Misery: earned. Bed: you made it, so lie in it, you stupid bints. Next time save yourselves a bunch of heartache and frustration and just buy a fucking teddy bear to bitch at, whydon’tcha.