IF I’M BRAVE ENOUGH TO ASK, I DESERVE AT LEAST ONE DATE. MINIMUM.
There comes a time in every modern woman’s life when she’s collected enough rejection to officially retire from the “shoot your shot” dream. For me, that moment arrived after the second soul-crushing, “Hey, sorry, I’m not interested in you that way” conversation, delivered, of course, after I worked up the nerve to ask him out first.
Don’t get me wrong — I used to love the narrative that women should feel empowered to make the first move. It’s hot to know what you want and be bold enough to go after it. I was practically the captain of the Why wait? Just ask! club. But somewhere between me shooting my shot and him shooting me down, I realized: maybe I’m not actually enjoying this.
The first red flag was a guy who asked for my Instagram (which, as we all know, is universal for DTF). So when I messaged him and got hit with “I’m actually in a relationship, but let’s stay friends despite our feelings,” I was… stunned.
Sure, that one hurt. (Maybe more for his actual girlfriend). Rejection is part of life. It builds character, like my unpaid internships in college. But there’s a particular sting that comes when you do the asking…the initiating. It really hurts getting turned down. I’m not strong enough for that.
My second (and final) attempt was after taking a comedy class with a guy. I asked him out. He said no. I mean…isn’t the whole point of improv to “yes, and” your partner? Suddenly, I realized we had zero chemistry. And honestly, I should’ve known. It was right there when he told me his childhood crush was Elsa from Frozen. You’re in your mid-thirties. That’s not a childhood crush. That’s a red flag in 4K.
At that point, I wasn’t even embarrassed for myself—I was embarrassed for him.
So I’ve officially decided: I’m done. Let the men come to me. Let them risk the bruised ego. Let them wonder if I’ll say yes.
Because here’s the thing: if I’m brave enough to ask, I’ve earned at least one night out. Minimum. That’s not entitlement—it’s empowered. Feminism, baby. I don’t just follow the rules—I draft them.
