(Audience “oooohs.”)

“With this simple, patented system, you can get through almost your entire day, week, or even month without breaking down in tears! All you have to do is box up everything that upsets you, shove it into a corner of your mind, then open that box right back up when you have five minutes to spare. And then . . . you let it all out, baby. Sob, scream, ugly-cry your heart out, wherever you are. Maybe you’re at home. Maybe you’re in the shower. Maybe you’re parked in front of a nicely maintained split-level near your father’s assisted living facility. Wherever you are, let yourself feel it, but here’s the catch: only for five minutes.”

(The audience murmurs their approval and begins clapping. I take a bow in front of my adoring subjects.)

It’s a good system, one that has saved me a lot of heartbreak and pain. All I do is push down my negative feelings until I’m forced to explode. Sometimes it happens while driving, which isn’t ideal, but what can you do?

My five minutes are up and I wipe the tears from my face. A light flicks on, and I look over to see a woman standing on the front steps of the split-level home, staring at me with what is either concern or horror. I wave, start the car, and drive away.

So my dad thinks I’m dating the guy I took to my senior prom. And, okay, so all he wants is to see me get married, which is literally never going to happen because (a) I don’t want to get married, (b) I’m not dating anyone, and (c) my dad would most likely not remember a wedding, even if it happened.

I may not have the power or desire to change most of those things, but there’s one bullet point I do have power over: dating someone.

In the pre-Drew days, Annie always acted like getting a date was some mystical, magical thing, but it’s really not that hard. And it’s not because I’m fantastically attractive or supremely confident; I think I have an average level of attractiveness. The truth is, people are usually taken aback (in a good way) when you simply ask them if they want to make out. Stop beating around the bush. Stop texting for days and weeks on end, vetting each prospective sexual partner to see if they have marriage potential, convincing yourself that this person has to be perfect. Stop talking yourself out of it, telling yourself they’ll reject you, convincing yourself that they’re too good for you. Pick somebody, walk up to them, look them in the eye, and say, “Hey, do you want to come back to my place?” It works. Trust me.

Annie seems to think I’m the modern-day equivalent of young Warren Beatty, sleeping my way through the town, but the truth is that I haven’t had sex with that many people. And anyway, even Warren Beatty was forced to admit that he hadn’t really had sex with the rumored twelve-thousand-plus women his biographer claimed he did. Truthfully, I’ve hooked up with a perfectly reasonable number of people, while Annie, picky as she is, could count her sexual partners on one hand, even if she had an unexpected amputation or three.