381The Urban Dictionary defines a "soft launch" as "a photo preview of a talking stage before it becomes an official relationship on social media, i.e., taking photos of their dinner plate and their hands, half their face or their shoes as to allude there's someone special in your life."
Chapter One:
One man wants you to be their mother. The other might want to make you a mother. And the third man? The third one probably still lives with their mother. He's most likely turning into man number one. He's looking for that momtential. You know, potential mommy. Ew. I just cringed.
The dating pool is fucked.
Which is why I buried my high hopes into the deepest pits of my soul. And I hopped onto this mission. Because boy, has this turned into a mission. One followed by tens, turned thousands, right here on my socials.
Fuck My Momtential. It's my handle, the title of my quest for the one decent man. The fruit of my labor. Said labor means I date and complain and people read it.
That brings me to the subject at hand. I go through the contents of tonight's purse.
Mints, rubber bands, condoms, lipgloss, makeup wipes, moisturizer.
Essentials, check.
Now we wait and see if tonight's guy will pull me out of this dating drought.
I've never even thought about doing this. I've never targeted certain guys, or demographics. No, I'm a pretty go-with-the-flow type gal. I scroll, swipe and click what sparks something in the moment. But now I've gone a different route. I up'ed the age range and didn't even care about distance. And low and behold: I found the gentleman side of dating apps. One thing's for certain. Once the fabulously lousy frat boys and momma's boys vanished off my phone screen, and got swapped for the business bro's over forty? Man… some type of calm flooded my senses.
There were no more thirsty topless pics, kidnapped family dogs that got dragged into profile pictures or kegs in the background. Abercrombie got swapped for soft-looking polo shirts and worn flannels by guys who actually wear them to work an honest job. No leeching off of daddy's money, or burrowing the family estate to drag in the damsels.
I think this is the best decision Rosalie and I have ever made over a bottle of Don Julio.
"It's good for your brand, you know, branching out." She downs another shot, her expression not even wavering because of the burn of the liquor.
I laugh.
"You act like I'm some kind of business owner."
"You are. You are the business, Belladonna."
Her nickname makes me snicker.
"It's not very feminist of you to call me a toxic plant, you know."
"Oh, please, stop that. Stop deflecting and start doing what I told you to do."
Rose starts her quest, rummaging through my bag, until she holds up my phone proudly. As if it's her Precious, caressing the case lovingly.
"I swear, the secrets will be unveiled. The veil will get lifted, and you'll see everything so clearly, my dear." Her British accent is on point.
"Not everyone wants an old guy, Rose." I scrunch up my nose, thinking of bald guys with bad weaves and horrible coffee breath.
"Emmett isn't old, Bell."
"He's got a kid in college, and you just graduated two years ago."
"Don't knock it 'till you've tried it…" she wiggles her brows suggestively. I roll my eyes. "Besides, he rarely even sees his kid. The Ex is a piece of work."
"See, dating old guys makes you have to have conversations about The Ex who'll be in the guy's life forever. Because of procreating."
"Not all men have children."
"When they don't have ex-wives or children, they have a job that is way worse."
Rosalie laughs.
"What, you've done your research?"
I nod furiously, alcohol burning my throat before I bite the lime and chew the flesh with gusto. Rose says because I love bitter, I've now become it.
"You know, us journalists have a rule, right?"
I can hear the words coming out of her mouth before she even says them.
"If you can't fact-check the research, do your own…" she rattles off.
I may have succumbed to my Rose's promise.
Older men do it better.
We'll see about that.