MEN USED TO BRING FLOWERS. NOW THEY SEND “HAPPY FRIDAY.”
An Investigative Report Into the Mysterious Disappearance of Male Courtship
There was once a time when men crossed oceans for women.
They fought wars.
They wrote eight-page love letters by candlelight.
They rode horses through dangerous terrain.
They stood outside bedroom windows.
They asked fathers for permission.
They composed poetry.
They brought flowers.
Romeo literally climbed a balcony.
And now, in the year 2026, a grown man with unlimited data and opposable thumbs wakes up, looks at the woman he’s supposedly interested in, and types:
“Happy Friday 😊”
And then apparently throws his phone into the ocean.
That’s it.
That’s the courtship.
That’s the effort.
That’s the contribution to the romantic economy.
Happy Friday.
Thank you, Christopher Columbus.
I was wondering where we were in the week.
THE “HAPPY FRIDAY” MAN: A FIELD STUDY
After extensive research conducted against my will, I have identified a fascinating species of modern male:
Homo Sapiens Happyfridayus.
He appears approximately once every four to seven business days.
He doesn’t ask you out.
He doesn’t call.
He doesn’t initiate a meaningful conversation.
He simply appears periodically to prove that he remains alive.
His communication pattern usually looks something like this:
Monday:
“Hope you have a great week!”
Wednesday:
Likes Instagram story.
Friday:
“Happy Friday 😊”
Saturday:
Views all 11 stories.
Sunday:
“How was your weekend?”
Sir.
Are you trying to date me or are you the activities director at a retirement community?
Because I already have a calendar.
And unlike you, it actually makes plans.
AND WHAT EXACTLY AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY?
This is the part nobody explains.
A man texts:
“Happy Friday 😊”
Okay.
Happy Friday.
Now what?
Do we congratulate each other?
WE DID IT, BABE.
WE MADE IT.
Five consecutive weekdays.
Should we get medals?
Do I send balloons?
Should we alert the media?
Because unless your next message is:
“I made reservations for us tomorrow at 7,”
I genuinely don’t understand the purpose of this transaction.
You have provided me with information already available on the lock screen of my phone.
PLEASE ASK ME A QUESTION
Modern dating conversations have become so bad that sometimes I feel like I’m trying to extract information from a hostage.
Me:
“How was your weekend?”
Him:
“Good.”
Excellent.
Let’s continue.
“Do anything fun?”
“Yeah went out.”
Wonderful.
“With friends?”
“Yeah.”
Fantastic.
I have now learned three things:
You survived the weekend.
You left your home.
Other humans were present.
At this point, I feel like I should shine a lamp in his face.
WHERE WERE YOU SATURDAY NIGHT BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 AND 11?
Because somehow I have become detective, interviewer, conversationalist AND romantic prospect.
Meanwhile he has asked me exactly zero questions.
Eventually I stop responding.
And three days later?
“You’ve been quiet.”
OH.
NOW WE’RE OBSERVANT.
“WE SHOULD HANG OUT SOMETIME”
This sentence should be removed from the English language.
“We should hang out sometime.”
Great.
Let’s.
When?
“Yeah definitely.”
No.
I understand the enthusiasm.
I’m asking for a DATE.
Tuesday?
Thursday?
March?
2029?
The second coming of Christ?
Give me something.
Then comes:
“We’ll figure it out.”
Figure WHAT out?
We’re getting tacos.
NASA successfully landed people on the moon with computers less powerful than my air fryer.
I feel confident that two adults with iPhones can coordinate margaritas.
AND THEN THERE’S “LET’S PLAY IT BY EAR”
Absolutely not.
My ear has retired from event planning.
My ear has boundaries now.
At 23, “Let’s play it by ear” sounded spontaneous.
At 40, it sounds like:
“Please keep your entire Saturday available in case I decide at 8:37 p.m. that I’m bored.”
No.
I have things to do.
I have errands.
I have dogs.
I have a life.
And most importantly:
I have hair.
Do men understand the logistical operation involved in getting a woman ready?
You cannot text at 7:12:
“What are you doing tonight?”
What am I doing?
I’m wearing pajamas.
My bra has been honorably discharged.
My face has been washed.
My hair has entered witness protection.
There is approximately a 0% chance I’m rebuilding this woman tonight.
Please submit all social requests at least 24 hours in advance.
Office hours are Monday through Thursday, 9–5.
Same-day appointments are subject to availability and a $75 inconvenience fee.
SOMEWHERE OUR GRANDMOTHERS ARE ROLLING OVER
Imagine explaining modern dating to your grandmother.
“So, you’re dating someone?”
Well… we’re talking.
“For how long?”
Four months.
“Oh! Where does he take you?”
Well…
“What do you mean ‘well’?”
We haven’t technically gone on that many dates.
“Does he call you?”
Not really.
“Does he bring flowers?”
No.
“Does he want to marry you?”
We haven’t discussed that.
“Does he want a relationship?”
We’re seeing where things go.
Your grandmother would stare at you silently for approximately 45 seconds.
Then:
“So… you have a pen pal?”
Basically, Grandma.
Except pen pals used to write longer messages.
WE HAVE CREATED 47 STAGES OF DATING
This is another problem.
There used to be:
Single.
Dating.
Relationship.
Married.
Now?
Oh no.
We have options.
Talking.
Hanging out.
Vibing.
Seeing each other.
Casually dating.
Dating but not exclusive.
Exclusive but not official.
Official but taking things slowly.
Friends who kiss.
Friends who sleep together.
Friends who sleep together and get jealous but still insist they’re friends.
Situationship.
“It’s complicated.”
“We’re figuring it out.”
“We’re just enjoying each other’s company.”
“We don’t like labels.”
Sir.
Milk has a label.
And milk has an expiration date.
I would also appreciate knowing what I’m dealing with.
THE SITUATIONSHIP: ALL THE ANXIETY OF A RELATIONSHIP WITH NONE OF THE BENEFITS
Whoever invented the situationship deserves prison.
Not serious prison.
Maybe just six months somewhere without Wi-Fi.
Because a situationship is essentially:
Relationship responsibilities.
Relationship emotions.
Relationship intimacy.
Relationship jealousy.
Relationship arguments.
But when you ask what you are?
“I don’t really like labels.”
Interesting.
Because you certainly enjoyed all the complimentary relationship services.
That’s like eating the entire meal at a restaurant and then telling the waiter:
“I don’t really believe in checks.”
No, baby.
The bill has arrived.
“I’M JUST REALLY BUSY”
Of course you are.
We are all busy.
I have work.
Meetings.
Emails.
Errands.
Laundry.
Gym.
Life.
Approximately 47 subscriptions I forgot to cancel.
And somehow I can still type:
“How was your day?”
It takes six seconds.
Meanwhile:
“Sorry I haven’t responded. Work has been insane.”
Interesting.
Because Instagram has informed me that during this extremely demanding period you managed to:
Post your lunch.
Watch 14 stories.
Like a meme.
Comment on your friend’s golf video.
And upload a photograph of a bourbon glass with the caption:
“Needed this.”
But responding to my text required congressional approval.
Understood.
SOCIAL MEDIA HAS MADE THIS EVEN MORE INSANE
There is something uniquely 2026 about a man ignoring your text while watching your Instagram stories.
You sent him a message six hours ago.
No response.
But suddenly:
Viewed by: HIM
Oh.
Wonderful.
So you’ve lost the ability to communicate but retained vision.
Thank God.
For a moment I was concerned.
And they’ll watch EVERY story.
Breakfast.
Gym.
Dog.
Work.
Dinner.
Random quote about emotionally unavailable men.
Suddenly he stops watching.
Interesting.
THE PATIENT CAN READ.
MEN USED TO SEND LOVE LETTERS
Imagine finding an old box in your grandmother’s attic.
Inside are letters from your grandfather.
“My darling, I think of you every night beneath the stars. I count the days until I can hold you again.”
Beautiful.
Now imagine your granddaughter finding your phone 60 years from now.
“What did Grandpa write when you were dating?”
Well, sweetheart…
He sent me this.
“wyd”
“What does that mean?”
It means:
Your grandfather had unlimited texting but chose violence.
AND CAN WE TALK ABOUT “WYD?”
Nothing good has ever happened after 10 p.m. following:
“wyd?”
Nobody has received “wyd?” at 11:42 p.m. and thought:
Finally.
My husband has arrived.
No.
“wyd?” is not a question.
It’s a temperature check.
Translation:
“Are you awake, bored, attractive and currently operating with lowered standards?”
Sir.
Go to bed.
THEN THERE’S THE MAN WHO RETURNS FROM THE DEAD
My personal favorite.
You haven’t spoken in six months.
Seasons have changed.
You’ve gotten a haircut.
Changed jobs.
Possibly moved.
Had several emotional breakthroughs.
Forgotten his last name.
Then suddenly:
“Hey stranger.”
STRANGER?!
My brother in Christ.
YOU LEFT.
You cannot disappear into the Bermuda Triangle and then return accusing ME of becoming geographically unfamiliar.
That’s like abandoning your house for six months, coming back and saying:
“Wow, nobody’s been watering the plants.”
Correct.
Because you live elsewhere now.
AND APPARENTLY EXPECTING EFFORT IS “PRESSURE”
This is where modern dating becomes performance art.
You say:
“I like communication.”
Pressure.
“I prefer consistency.”
Pressure.
“I’d like to know when we’re seeing each other again.”
Whoa.
Slow down.
Slow down WHAT?
We’re scheduling dinner.
I’m not asking you to fertilize my eggs.
Relax.
I asked whether Thursday works.
Some men hear:
“Would you like to grab sushi?”
and somehow translate it to:
“Would you like to merge our retirement accounts and name our first child?”
No.
I just want spicy tuna.
WOMEN HAVE ALSO BEEN GIVEN TERRIBLE ADVICE
“Don’t text first.”
“Don’t respond too quickly.”
“Don’t seem too interested.”
“Let him chase.”
“Be mysterious.”
“Don’t ask where things are going.”
“Go with the flow.”
Essentially:
Find someone you genuinely like and immediately begin behaving like an escaped CIA operative.
Disappear periodically.
Reveal nothing.
Never express emotion.
Maintain several aliases.
Apparently healthy communication is now considered desperate.
Meanwhile I’m over here thinking:
Could we just… like each other?
Would that be completely insane?
I DON’T NEED YOU TO CROSS AN OCEAN
To be clear, I don’t want 1800s romance.
I don’t need you traveling by horse for three months.
Take Southwest.
I don’t need handwritten letters delivered by carrier pigeon.
Texting is fine.
I don’t need you outside my window playing a boom box.
Actually, please don’t.
I have neighbors and one of them already hates me.
And I don’t need roses every week.
I can buy flowers.
That’s not the point.
What I want is intention.
“I’d like to see you.”
“I made reservations.”
“I remembered you mentioned this.”
“This made me think of you.”
“Text me when you’re home.”
“Are you free Saturday?”
That’s it.
Nobody needs to storm a castle.
Just open Google Calendar.
YES, I CAN BUY MY OWN FLOWERS
Whenever women talk about romance, somebody inevitably says:
“You can buy yourself flowers.”
Yes.
Miley Cyrus already covered this.
I can also open my own door.
Pay for my dinner.
Carry my groceries.
Book my vacations.
Assemble IKEA furniture.
Move heavy objects using physics, anger and profanity.
I don’t need a man to do those things.
But that’s not why gestures matter.
The point isn’t:
“I am incapable of purchasing tulips.”
The point is:
“Another human walked past tulips and thought of me.”
That’s beautiful.
And unfortunately Amazon Prime cannot replicate that.
Yet.
MAYBE COURTSHIP ISN’T DEAD
Maybe it’s just hiding.
Because every once in a while, someone still does it.
They ask questions.
They make plans.
They call.
They remember something you said three weeks ago.
They actually choose a restaurant.
They tell you what time.
They show up.
And suddenly you’re like:
Wait.
What is happening?
Is this…
competence?
And because the bar has been placed somewhere near the Earth’s core, basic adult behavior feels incredibly seductive.
“He made reservations.”
OH MY GOD.
“What time?”
7:30.
STOP.
“He picked the restaurant.”
MARRY HIM.
“He confirmed the day before.”
IS HE SINGLE?
SO GENTLEMEN, HERE IS THE SECRET
I am about to reveal classified information.
Women do not require a yacht.
We don’t require a private jet.
We don’t require 700 roses spelling our names across a football field.
Most of us want something much simpler.
Effort.
Curiosity.
Consistency.
Communication.
And occasionally…
a reservation.
Ask the question.
Plan the date.
Call sometimes.
Remember things.
Be where you said you’d be.
And if you’re going to text:
“Happy Friday 😊”
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD…
add:
“Are you free tomorrow? I’d love to take you to dinner.”
Look at that.
Eight additional words.
Civilization restored.
My faith in humanity renewed.
Grandma can finally rest.
Because men used to cross oceans.
Men used to write love letters.
Men used to bring flowers.
And now we’ve somehow reached the point where a man selecting a restaurant without saying:
“I don’t care, where do you wanna go?”
feels like foreplay.
The bar isn’t high.
The bar isn’t even medium.
The bar is in hell, and some of you are showing up with a shovel.
So Happy Friday, gentlemen.
Happy Friday indeed.
But unless there is a plan attached…
my calendar already told me.
— Sneakers & Stilettos
Where the heels are high, the standards are apparently controversial, and “wyd?” will never qualify as courtship.
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