Laura's Completely Unqualified Dating Guide

The first clue something was deeply wrong with dating in Sofia was three toothbrushes. Maybe four. I honestly don't remember because I never counted them until Maria opened my bathroom cabinet and froze.

"What are these?"

"Toothbrushes."

"No..." she said, picking one up like it was forensic evidence. "Why are there so many?"

"For guests."

She looked at me. I looked at her.

"You mean... girlfriends?"

"No. Guys. Sometimes gals"

The silence that followed deserved its own Netflix special.

Apparently, keeping spare toothbrushes for people who occasionally spend the night is not considered basic hospitality around here. It's apparently a confession. I thought she was about to call my mother if I had one.

That conversation stayed with me.

Then came Sonya. Then another Sonya. Then another coffee with another woman asking me to decode a text message from a man who looked like he'd lose a fight with a shopping cart. Somewhere along the way I became the unofficial dating therapist for a growing circle of women in this city, which is remarkable because my own romantic life has been, in technical terms, an absolute disaster.

Busy. Let's call it busy.

I've spent the past year dating enough to notice something I never noticed living in New York. Or London. Or Madrid. Even Tokyo, which has enough dating quirks to fill a separate blog. I even remember thinking Berlin was weird, although I was twenty-one, so everyone seemed weird.

Sofia is different.

Because people are still carrying around rules that should have died sometime around the invention of Wi-Fi.

The men exhaust themselves trying to impress you. But not in bed, where the effort would actually be appreciated. Before the bed. Mention you've lived on an expensive street in London and watch him desperately search his memory for the one weekend he spent in London fifteen years ago so he can casually explain why it's overrated anyway. Mention your career and suddenly you're hearing stories about the CEO he had drinks with once. Some genuinely believe pulling up in a leased Mustang is the equivalent of a peacock opening its feathers. A Mustang. Really? Are we nineteen?

And then there are the women.

"I can't sleep with him tonight because he'll think I'm easy."

"I'm too old to date a twenty-year-old."

Why?

"Because..."

Because what? Unless he's your student and you're his teacher, explain the law of physics I'm violating.

The more I listened, the more I realized something had gone spectacularly wrong. Dating has always been chaos. Mine certainly has. The problem is that people here still seem to believe there are rules. Invisible rules. Ancient rules. Rules nobody questions because everyone assumes everyone else believes them too.

Then today Sonya cornered me.

"How do you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Be happy all the time. With guys."

I laughed.

"I'm not happy all the time."

She looked genuinely confused.

"I've just stopped believing that every date is an audition for the rest of my life."

That was probably the first useful thing I'd ever said about dating.

My romantic life has been every bit as chaotic at forty-five as it was at twenty-five. Different cities. Different men and women. Same spectacular capacity for making questionable decisions. The difference is that somewhere between New York, London, Madrid, Tokyo, Berlin and Sofia, I quietly stopped believing in most of the rules people seem to carry into dating. I didn't even realize I'd abandoned them until I moved here. In Sofia I met women terrified that sleeping with a man on the first date would make them look "easy." Women convinced they were too old to date younger men. Men exhausting themselves trying to impress me with stories, status symbols and leased Mustangs, as if dating were some strange competitive sport.

I kept thinking, who made up all these rules?

Apparently nobody.

Apparently everybody.

So if my friends insist on treating me like the group's relationship guru, I might as well earn the title. Not because I've mastered dating. God knows I haven't.

I've just made enough mistakes—and repeated enough good decisions—to notice the patterns.

So here are a few things I've learned along the way. Take whatever is useful. Ignore the rest.

The first twenty minutes tell you almost everything.

People think dates get better. They usually don't.

If conversation feels like dragging a sofa upstairs during the first drink, the second drink isn't going to magically reveal your soulmate. You're just getting drunk with someone you don't actually enjoy.

I've ignored this rule because he was handsome.
I've ignored it because he was successful.
I've ignored it because he'd driven forty minutes to see me.

Every single time I paid for those extra two hours with my sanity.

Leave earlier. You're not quitting. You're collecting data.

Stop interviewing each other.

"So... what do you do?"
"What are you looking for?"
"What's your five-year plan?"

Congratulations. You've reinvented LinkedIn with wine.

The best dates I've ever had wandered into subjects neither of us expected. Childhood lies. Worst tattoos. Parents. Death. The weird food we secretly love.

People aren't interesting because of the answers. They're interesting because of where their brain goes next.

Whoever asks, pays.

Here's my rule. If I invite you somewhere, I expect to pay. If you insist on paying, thank you. If you expect me to fight you for the bill because some invisible social script says we have to wrestle over a piece of paper for ninety seconds... I'm already tired.

Money isn't the issue. Performing generosity is.

Don't go to either person's apartment unless you genuinely want sex.

Not "maybe."
Not "we'll see."
Not "just one drink."

Adults know exactly what "one drink" means.

If you want sex... Go.

If you don't... Don't negotiate with yourself halfway there.

You'll save yourself a spectacular amount of confusion.

Never confuse attention with compatibility.

Some people are amazing at making you feel seen.

Waiters do that too. Some people flirt professionally. Some people seduce because they need to be desired by someone. Anyone. You. The woman at the pharmacy. The barista.

Being chosen isn't the same thing as being understood.

Don't manufacture potential.

Women deserve prison sentences for this one.

"He could become..."

No. He could become exactly what he is. The version you're dating is the finished product.

Stop dating version 4.7 that's scheduled for release sometime after therapy.

Watch how they treat boredom.

Anybody can be charming while they're performing. The interesting part comes fifteen minutes after the conversation runs out.

Do they panic?
Reach for the phone?
Start interviewing you?
Become mean?
Sit comfortably in silence?

That's who you're actually dating.

Don't mistake anxiety for excitement.

I used to. The men who made my stomach flip usually ended up teaching me expensive life lessons. The men who made me feel oddly calm?Those were the dangerous ones.

Because peace is unfamiliar when you've spent enough time confusing emotional instability with passion.

Sex doesn't answer relationship questions.

It answers sex questions.

I've slept with men I couldn't have a second drink with. I've spent wonderful weekends with men I had absolutely no business sleeping with. The body can vote yes while the rest of your life is screaming no. Listen to all departments before making a decision.

If you're still wondering whether they like you...

They probably don't.

People who genuinely want to see you again possess a miraculous ability. They ask.
It's astonishing.

There isn't a correct number.

Three dates.
Five dates.
Wait until marriage.
Sleep together before dessert.

People defend these rules like they're constitutional amendments. I've ignored every single one of them.

Sometimes sleeping together on the first date led to months of happiness. Sometimes waiting six dates led to discovering he kissed like he was apologizing to my face.

Time isn't a quality filter. It's just a calendar.

Don't sleep with him because you're afraid he'll disappear.

He might disappear anyway. At least make him disappear after a really enjoyable evening.

Using sex as customer retention has terrible success rates.

Don't refuse sex because you're afraid he'll disappear.

See? Exact same ending.

If a man only wanted sex, postponing it usually doesn't transform him into someone who suddenly wants Sunday mornings at IKEA.

It just postpones Tuesday.

If you're negotiating with yourself in the taxi...

...the answer is probably no. The enthusiastic yes usually arrives before you've reached his street.

The internal committee meeting that starts somewhere around the third traffic light rarely ends with good decisions.

Your friends are spectacularly useless.

"You HAVE to make him wait."
"No, sleep with him immediately."
"Men respect women who..."

Nobody knows.
If people actually understood dating, podcasts wouldn't exist.

Bad sex isn't a tragedy.

It's a story.

Some of my funniest memories involve men who entered the evening carrying themselves like Nobel Prize winners and left having lost a wrestling match with a bra clasp.

You'll survive. Probably laughing.

Good sex proves almost nothing.

This one hurts.

Your body is perfectly capable of giving five stars to someone your future self would block three weeks later.

Physical compatibility is wonderful. It's just terrible at paying emotional bills.

Don't start planning the relationship during the cuddling.

Oxytocin is a liar. It's out there whispering things like,

"He looked at you while ordering wine."
"He asked about your childhood."
"You should definitely picture your future kitchen together."

Your brain on post-sex hormones is essentially drunk with excellent marketing. Sleep on it. Literally.

Morning is where the date actually ends.

Everybody wants to talk about the night. I'm interested in breakfast.

How does he behave when there's no flirting left to perform?
Does he make coffee?
Disappear into the shower without a word?
Rush you out because he has "a busy day"?

The version of someone at 9 a.m. is often more informative than the version at 11 p.m.

Never confuse intimacy with familiarity.

Someone can know exactly how you like your coffee after six months and still have no idea what frightens you. Someone can sleep next to you all night and still be a stranger.

Bodies introduce themselves much faster than people do.

My only actual rule.

Wake up the next morning and ask yourself one question.
Not, "Will he text?"
Not, "What does this mean?"

Just this.

Would I make the same decision again if I already knew today's outcome?

If the answer is yes, congratulations. You didn't make a mistake. You had a good night with someone you wanted to have a good night with.

I honestly wish more people would allow themselves that without immediately asking what it means.

-Laura