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I’ll also admit to re-initiating contact with an ex from my third year of law school—the former Army Ranger best remembered for his unusual enthusiasm for his Breville juicer, premature ejaculation issues and borderline antisocial personality disorder.I spent my last five years in Chicago attempting to forge lasting (i.e.: ultimately marital) relationships with friends of friends, and I’m still totally alone.Reservations are always made under the first name of both parties, and I’m only expected to share my contact information if I want to see the guy again.Oh, and I can go on as many or few dates per week as I desire.The building directory ever-so-discreetly listed my destination as “IJL.” Walking into the “happy” yellow-walled lobby and blaring Frank Sinatra initially sickened me, but luckily Lizzie and her Limited Express sexy-executive pantsuit whisked me into her private office before I had time to fixate.Her walls were adorned with framed, triumphant-looking human interest articles from a variety of second-rate publications.

I’d previously ruled it out as too sad or desperate.Hilariously, even though we’re all supposed to be “professionals,” Lizzie instructed me to allow the guy to pay if they insist.Finally, notwithstanding the name, she let me in on the little secret: Most people choose to have their dates over after-work drinks. My friends have run out of single guys to introduce me to.There’s even a running joke about the fact that I’ve dated THREE childhood friends of one of my law school classmates.

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