Socializing 101:

I just finished reading Sex and the City by Candace Bushnell, and it got me thinking about how much dating has changed since the early 2000s.

At the center is Carrie Bradshaw, a semi-autobiographical version of Bushnell. She writes a weekly column that explores the kinds of taboo dating questions people are curious about but rarely say out loud: Why are more women choosing not to have children? Why do wealthy, high-status men gravitate toward much younger women? Do men really want someone like their mother? Some of these situations feel far removed from everyday life, but they are very real within Carrie's world.

She becomes involved with "Mr. Big," based on Condé Nast publishing executive Ron Galotti. He pulls her into a life of extravagance, with trips to St. Barts and Aspen, candlelit dinners, and a social scene that feels glamorous and slightly out of reach. He is drawn to her humor, her boldness, and her outspokenness. At the same time, those qualities are exactly why he cannot commit to her. She does not fit his idea of what a partner should be. In his mind, "normal" looks more like a Carolyn Bessette type: understated, polished, and classically beautiful. And just like that, the relationship ends.

The TV adaptation softens this by having Carrie and Mr. Big end up together, but if you read the book, it is clear from the beginning that they were never going to last. That inevitability makes the story more powerful. Carrie moves forward with her life, and he marries the kind of woman he always saw as "normal."

Both the book and the show remain popular because they feel so relatable, especially for women. They capture how women talk to each other about relationships in an honest, detailed way, often to the point of oversharing. Friendships become a space to process everything, from terrible dates to meaningful connections. People see their own experiences reflected in those conversations, whether they are laughing about a horrible kiss or basking in the light of a relationship.

There is one major factor that has completely changed how people interact and build relationships since then. For the first time, an entire generation can live out its dating and social life online. That shift has reshaped not only how people meet, but how they present themselves and understand connection.

I've seen this firsthand through my girlfriend. So many women say they want to meet someone naturally—but so few people seem willing to risk the vulnerability it takes to actually walk up and start a conversation. Dating apps have made connections more accessible, but they've also made it easier to avoid rejection, to keep options open, and to treat people as interchangeable.

I've heard stories of women meeting the "perfect" guy on a dating app, going on dates—He'll even bring her flowers—and of course, he’s talking to another girl at the same time. And it's not just the men, we women can be puzzles waiting to be solved.

So what happened to all the charm and romance of early dating?

I'm with someone who knows romance in a thoughtful way. More than four years ago, we had just met and barely knew each other, and he still showed up on my doorstep on Valentine's Day with chocolates and flowers. I remember running down the front steps and smiling like a kid with an ice cream cone.

The funny part was everyone looking at them like they were alien objects—like we were witnessing something unfamiliar in the wild. Eight twenty-year-old girls just collectively staring.

Apparently, normal romance now reads as extraterrestrial activity.

There should've been a high school class that taught us how to actually talk to each other in person—how to ask someone on a date, how to give a respectful compliment, how to not overthink a simple conversation. Call it "Socializing 101."

Society kind of lost the art of in-person charm and dating, and replaced it with a cave of dopamine hits from swiping based on someone’s first profile photo.

So maybe the bigger shift isn't just how people date, but how we've learned to approach each other at all. Somewhere between swiping, texting, and overanalyzing every interaction, we've made something as simple as saying hello feel like a performance with unclear rules. And yet, the moments that still stand out—the flowers at the doorstep, the awkward first conversations, the small acts of showing up—are the ones that happen offline, without an audience or a filter. Maybe "Socializing 101" wouldn't teach us anything new so much as remind us of something we already know but have forgotten how to practice: that connection still starts with actually seeing and speaking to another person, without treating it like a puzzle to solve or a profile to decode.