Successful singles and admirers dating largest

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Meanwhile, the streets are plentiful with ever more attractive women. As one man admitted, “Guys in New York have unrealistic standards for what their lives should be.” But it’s hardly fair to say that New York City women haven’t come here for much the same reasons that men have, or that they don’t have similarly unrealistic expectations.

Amid all that, there is a sense of perpetual youth, a staving off of the trappings of adulthood—like “settling down and getting married”—far into our 30s and even 40s because, frankly, we can get away with it. “I think there are a couple of different problems in New York,” says Fadal.

My years of New York City dating—if you’re counting, there have been 12—have involved a lot of guys, short- and long- and mid-term. My shortest—minus the one-off hookups that we all know aren’t “dates” at all—was somewhere in the range of two weeks.

There have been certifiable crazies, like the Eastern European fellow who broke my bedroom window in a fit of rage and told me not to complain that he’d broken my “fucking window.” There was the Jersey boy who worked in women’s handbags; fond memories involve him drunk-puking at the Hilton, then giggling hysterically, running, and “hiding” our soiled comforter in front of someone else’s door down the hall. There was the dashing Argentinean only in town for a week; the Ronkonkoma deli worker barely old enough to drink; the beleaguered i-banker who came over regularly just to pass out on my couch.

It’s more you-centered soul-searching than about the guy, necessarily.

That’s why when a girl says, ‘Oh, sure, we can hook up and I won’t be weird about it,’ they end up yelling at you a week later.” For every loser I’ve screamed at, there have been nice, normal single guys with perfectly acceptable ZIP codes and ages and jobs and habits who never did a thing wrong but for some reason were chucked after the first or second, or maybe even third, date for being boring, predictable, too nice, too normal, not successful enough, or . We want the tippy-top of what we can get—why shouldn’t we? It’s not because we wanted our lives charted out before we lived them.

My high school boyfriend was probably the best man I’ve ever dated.

Which is part of the problem, if you’re going to call it that.

When asked what he thought about the “plight of the single lady”—and women who blame men for the state of dating in the city, a single New Yorker in his twenties admitted, “I see where they’re coming from, but, in a lot of ways, they bring it upon themselves.

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