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and, well, maybe that's not the worst metaphor: I am alluding to some screaming arena in which I am seriously under-armed, and perhaps overdressing my underdressing.
I've got maybe a bit of a bullfighter thing going on...
Under the influence of his twinkling Gallic smile, contenders consent to expose their blushing faces, courtship strategies, unconscious class markers, table manners, and nervous tics to our gaze on a blind date on national television.
In return, they gratefully receive nothing other than the opportunity itself. How was this powerful draw constituted historically?
For Kipnis, to dream in this limited, “deadening” way can itself be seen as a form of gendered labor or housework “functional for society.”  Thinking of love as a kind of competitive date-to-marriage superhighway reconciles us to having to voluntaristically police, privatize, and take personal responsibility for large swaths of our needs within the bounds of the nuclear home (for, as we know, couplings necessarily result in new homes).
To scrutinize dating through this lens allows us to unsettle both the dyadism of the format – its presumption of two players, no more and no less – and its repro-normativity, a teleology geared towards child-having.
My girlfriend was beautiful and brilliant and sexy, but the best part was that she got my jokes. We were friends for a minute, then she broke things off with her fella, and I remember looking at her and suddenly thinking, Yeah, I could love you. Now that it's time to return to the vicious Manhattan night and... Tonight: an Opening Ceremony fête at Le Bain, André Saraiva's new nightclub on the top of the Standard Hotel.
What one can think of, then, as the of finding and cultivating sweethearts is today more private and individualized than ever. is theorizing “Love” as the only and ultimate need.
While many men know this and use it consciously to communicate this, innocence is also no defence.
One cannot escape this symbolic grammar, on a first date, simply by willing it away.
I haven't gotten dressed for anything but pragmatism in far too long. I walk away from my first night as a truly singly man, excited to know that even truly adorable women will talk to you at great length about their most personal homicidal tendencies, if only you give them the slightest excuse.
I also quickly find her to be some sort of bi-polar lunatic with a boyfriend with his own ex-wife and child who when she "looks in their faces I want to kill them." I ask her if upon being approached a guy — a man, even — whether she gives a damn what he's wearing. I slink away in my fancy white shirt and my punky black jeans and my Chelsea boots, laughing at myself without mutter so much as a bad joke.