Recently, a friend introduced me to the term “diet dating”. Although an interesting idea well deserving of consideration, I must say I plan to avoid such social habits with the same unwavering adamancy as I deny both south beach and the infamous lemonade cleanse.
Diet dating, or rather, “a lighter version of a previous relationship between a couple that once was”, treads on a fine, purgatorial line between a binge and starvation; the lure of blissful success and the risk of complete failure.
This retreat compromises demands. It reconsiders absolutes and gently lowers standards. Like my sister says, if you are going to order a cocktail, make it a double, and if you are going to eat chocolate cake, it had better be worth every bite.
With these ideas in mind, I entered an exhibition of robots and found myself making an assessment far from the expected course. Forgoing ideas of man versus machine, conspiracy, existentialism, and the arrival of the future, I saw my reflection in the stainless gaze of the machine and, upon viewing my borrowed boyfriend flannel and Comme de Garcons cardigan, deciphered my outfit to represent the comfort and desire I associate with a man.
I thought back to the term “diet dating”. Could this downscaled endeavor truly be a success? Will it compromise the integrity of what once was? I found myself inquiring in the affectionately obnoxious style of Carrie Bradshaw and proceeded to ponder just as she would with her cigarette and Macbook and extreme look of contemplation.
I was surrounded by robots, but forget man vs. machine, conspiracy theories, and the technological revolution. Most importantly, forget the past. All I could see was a future of men who not only let you have your chocolate cake, but if you press the right button, will feed it to you too.
