Graham and I sat in Sheep Meadow at sunset, the sky a bright orange after clearing up from a late-day storm. We’d decided to run the six-mile loop of Central Park, ending at the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle where we’d bought a six-pack and charcuterie to picnic in the park until the sun went down—or until maintenance workers in golf carts started kicking everyone out, whichever came first. This was my idea of a perfect date. One that involves exercise to balance out the food.

I’d needed to start getting creative with our dates and this was my most recent attempt to do something that wasn’t just get drinks or get food and go back to his place.

It turned out the first month of our relationship was essentially a microcosm of the first year. I never would have pegged Graham for a lazy boyfriend—the guy who made no plans, just followed them; who would ask What do you want to do today? and mean Figure out what we’re doing today. I guess I should have known—as someone who has had everything done for him his entire life, why would dating be any different? Why would he treat me, his girlfriend, any different than he treated his mother or his childhood nanny? That’s the culture he grew up in—women make the plans, do the housework, take care of everything; men follow, often performatively rolling their eyes.

He wasn’t a bad boyfriend—he treated me exceptionally well, never made me pay for anything, gave me free rein of his apartment, and wanted to have sex anytime I said the word. But it was a lot of work for me.

I’d hoped that once we met I would be able to sit back and follow his lead. That he’d take the reins and I could seamlessly transition into the role of his girlfriend by doing everything he planned for us to do. But I’d been wrong. It fell to me to plan everything. And the research was unmatched. It was exhausting. I studied Lena’s Instagram photos, searching for any location tags or hints in the background that would tell me where she was—what restaurants and bars and museums had received her approval. Where do rich people go to brunch? Where do rich people take three-day weekends? Where do rich people hang out on Saturday nights?