holywood model: Finding Love After Losing My Mom

My mom, eternally optimistic about my love life, despite ever-increasing evidence to the contrary, would routinely check in after a first date. <br><br>

The reason, of course, was simple and complicated all at once.

For most of my twenties and thirties in New York, I dated fast and furiously. While other singles approached the dating pool tepidly, I took off my clothes and cannonballed in, creating a small tsunami of share-worthy tales—farcical, fascinating, and frustrating all at once, among many other F-words.

I was on dating apps for so long, I'd joke my profile didn't feature a "New Here!" badge but instead: "Founding Father." The apps made it easy to ditch vulnerability and sincerity in the name of entertainment—impressing right-swipes with my wit, charm, and alcohol tolerance, while collecting stories and anecdotes like bargain antiques. It's probably why, well into my late-thirties, I was still receiving invitations for milestone celebrations addressed to: "Sara and Whatever Guy You're Dating From Tinder at the Moment."

Instead of letting anyone in, I kept them at a subconscious distance by turning dates into martini-fueled one-woman shows, hoping, in a best-case scenario, they'd want tickets for the second act. I truly thought I was gunning for real, life-changing love, but more often than not, I was simply putting on a front, determined to break my own heart before anyone else had the chance.

I told my mom everything—but I couldn't tell her that." title="My mom, eternally optimistic about my love life, despite ever-increasing evidence to the contrary, would routinely check in after a first date.

"Nothing to write home about!" I'd usually say, on the defense, already scrubbing whatever-his-name from memory. She'd sigh lovingly, wondering why her catch of a daughter wasn't having more luck finding the kind of love that merited sappy prose, but instead, my signature viral one-liners mocking the state of modern dating.

The reason, of course, was simple and complicated all at once.

For most of my twenties and thirties in New York, I dated fast and furiously. While other singles approached the dating pool tepidly, I took off my clothes and cannonballed in, creating a small tsunami of share-worthy tales—farcical, fascinating, and frustrating all at once, among many other F-words.

I was on dating apps for so long, I'd joke my profile didn't feature a "New Here!" badge but instead: "Founding Father." The apps made it easy to ditch vulnerability and sincerity in the name of entertainment—impressing right-swipes with my wit, charm, and alcohol tolerance, while collecting stories and anecdotes like bargain antiques. It's probably why, well into my late-thirties, I was still receiving invitations for milestone celebrations addressed to: "Sara and Whatever Guy You're Dating From Tinder at the Moment."

Instead of letting anyone in, I kept them at a subconscious distance by turning dates into martini-fueled one-woman shows, hoping, in a best-case scenario, they'd want tickets for the second act. I truly thought I was gunning for real, life-changing love, but more often than not, I was simply putting on a front, determined to break my own heart before anyone else had the chance.

I told my mom everything—but I couldn't tell her that.">

Finding Love After Losing My Mom

My mom, eternally optimistic about my love life, despite ever-increasing evidence to the contrary, would routinely check in after a first date.

"Nothing to write home about!" I'd usually say, on the defense, already scrubbing whatever-his-name from memory. She'd sigh lovingly, wondering why her catch of a daughter wasn't having more luck finding the kind of love that merited sappy prose, but instead, my signature viral one-liners mocking the state of modern dating.

The reason, of course, was simple and complicated all at once.

For most of my twenties and thirties in New York, I dated fast and furiously. While other singles approached the dating pool tepidly, I took off my clothes and cannonballed in, creating a small tsunami of share-worthy tales—farcical, fascinating, and frustrating all at once, among many other F-words.

I was on dating apps for so long, I'd joke my profile didn't feature a "New Here!" badge but instead: "Founding Father." The apps made it easy to ditch vulnerability and sincerity in the name of entertainment—impressing right-swipes with my wit, charm, and alcohol tolerance, while collecting stories and anecdotes like bargain antiques. It's probably why, well into my late-thirties, I was still receiving invitations for milestone celebrations addressed to: "Sara and Whatever Guy You're Dating From Tinder at the Moment."

Instead of letting anyone in, I kept them at a subconscious distance by turning dates into martini-fueled one-woman shows, hoping, in a best-case scenario, they'd want tickets for the second act. I truly thought I was gunning for real, life-changing love, but more often than not, I was simply putting on a front, determined to break my own heart before anyone else had the chance.

I told my mom everything—but I couldn't tell her that.

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