Dear Wannabe Cameron Diaz in The Holiday,
Is there something in the air? Have the fumes of over-priced pumpkin spice lattes and faux cashmere gone straight to your head that you’re about to set sail on a journey of desperation for extra likes attention this holiday season just so you can make your summer fuckboy jealous mom proud of you with an annoying as fuck “sitting-by-the-tree-with-bae-wearing-fugly-sweaters” boomerang? Like, I’m all for wanting to settle down (lol, who am I kidding) but whichever one of your delirious friends gave you the green light to hunt for seasonal sausage needs to be cancelled stat.
I have v strong opinions about the way you’re choosing to spend your winter, but can we first just take a second to talk about where the term “cuffing” actually stemmed from—the county jail? BDSM? Giving up my first amendment rights that have something to do with freedom? Case in point, none of those things sound pleasing in any sense, so for the sake of sacrificing what little dignity the human race has left, how about you first stop equating the act of courtship to a fucking prison sentence?
And since when was it a thing that your relationship status had to change according to the weather? Sure, there are tons of reasons why I’d want to sell my soul and commit to someone—free meals and effortless starfish sex, to name a few—but a change in climate shouldn’t be one of them, so because I’m such a good friend, I’m about to tell you why your plan on “cuffing” up a fuckboy is about as satisfying as week-old grocery store sushi.
Because I’m the prestigious journalist that I am, as a general consensus, I’m just curious to know if any of the following statements sound appealing to you:
-an extra blanket when indoor temps reach subzero
-an extra shot of Bailey’s to spike an extra glass of hot chocolate
-the freedom to ugly cry during Love Actually—and replay it a second time, judgement free
-being able to blast “All I Want For Christmas” three months early, judgement free
If you answered no to any of the above, feel free to exit the premises pretending like you’re about to enjoy sweating your balls off being little spoon from the coming months of October to February. But if you’re still not convinced, just be prepared to abide by an unspoken set of cuffing guidelines.
There’s already general “frowned upon” rules you’re supposed to follow in a normal relationship, like not drunk texting your ex or agreeing that his mom is great, but when it comes to seasonal dating, you’re treated to the shitty “almost, but too soon” rulebook. In order to abstain from developing feelings (gross), invisible boundaries have to be set. For instance, PostMates = acceptable. All you can eat breadsticks at Olive Garden = the line has been crossed into dating territory.
This in turn, causes you to continually wonder why you’re not dating considering the twice-a-week sex and weekly text convos, and I didn’t go to school for that kind of next-level therapy shit. Speaking of crazy, the gray area that is cuffing season will force you to hide your crazy because you’re technically not dating-dating, and you’re not allowed to go agro on him for forgetting about your dumb Secret Santa party. And we all damn well know that the only thing more crazy than girl who expresses her crazy is a girl who lets her crazy internally build until it explodes like North Korea’s nukes.
All in all, you’re just allowing yourself to settle for some pity right swipe, or the guy from college you put off dating for three years whose only talking point is how tight he thinks he’d probably be with Dean from The Bachelorette—like on the one hand, same, but on the other, it’s called ESPN.
I get that every girl dreams of being whisked away in a winter wonderland in a cozy cottage as a hot stranger knocks on your door. It might’ve worked for Cam, but let me tell you something: At the end of the day, you’ll come to find out that your kinda-sorta-idk-boyfriend has some secretive past with like, two kids and a neurotic sister with the hots for Jack fucking Black, and in reality, you’re so much more than that.
Oh, and might I save my best argument for last? On top of the emotional and mental roller coaster you’re about to embark on, it’s not like you’re gonna get any sort of last season Michael Kors or a wine tasting Groupon out of this. You’re not dating-dating, remember? In that case, the only “gift” you should be expecting is an added 3-4 pounds dangling from your waistline from all the stress he caused by not texting you back. Ew.
So before you resort to playing whatever the fuck psycho revenge album Taylor Swift’s about to drop on repeat once Black History Month rolls around, save yourself the Halo Top binge and just RSVP to your family Christmas bash as a party of one this year. You’ll thank me later when you and your drunk uncle are lit off your asses with no judgements, and most importantly, no strings attached.
Too selfish to share my new Costco fleece blanket this winter.