For the third night in a row, I awake in a tangled mess of sweat and sheets, my sea-blue bedding clutching me like Saran wrap. Flashes of the farm, which my grandparents once owned on the outskirts of San Antonio, return like lightning bolts, but I know its rolling hills are now home to mcmansions and other superfluous, man-made things
It’s not that buddymoons aren’t fun, but there’s only so much sharing you can do with a friend. That couples massage was a step too far. As soothing music tinkled and candles flickered, I tried to maintain a serene expression, but my head was filled with questions: How loud is my breathing? Whose hand is that? How do I explain to the masseuse, in Spanish, that this unclad woman beside me is just a friend?
It was spacious, comfortable and outfitted with a healthy dose of Texas accents, including decorative prints dipped in burnt orange and an unusual brown leather quilt draped over the tall wooden headboard.
My early experience on Match was such a novelty to my roommates that they routinely ordered me to connect my laptop to our big-screen TV so they could live vicariously through my dating journey. To their dismay, I was selective about the matches I chose to meet in person. But after a few weeks of running super-specific searches using keywords like “Seinfeld,” “cheetahs” and “tacos,” I got a message from an adorable Spaniard named Mario who worked in finance.