Ny post dating column

Surveys claim Americans are marrying at slower rates than in the past, but chatting to young urbanites reveals a more nuanced story: Millennial New York women very much want to wed, but there aren’t enough guys to go around.

Men, meanwhile, want to hold out for as long as they can get away with it, thanks to a supposed glut of lust-crazed young females with whom they can frolic.

Media hype for Tinder-driven hook-ups — a risky and ruinous lifestyle that most unmarried people swiftly tire of if they indulge at all — gives men the idea that every woman at the bar is fair game for a quick sex romp. When gender expectations are wildly out of sync, anxiety is soothed with alcohol’s fast-acting flood of relief.

The house is full of hot-looking prospects, but a lot of people aren’t getting what they want.

They hog the sidewalks with revelers from Iggy’s, Seamstress, Pony Bar, American Trash among other sloshing stations in the blocks near my building. I’ve loved the stuff since I was 16 and flashed a fake ID to get into Dean’s Happy Landing on Deer Park Avenue in North Babylon (the legal drinking age then was 18).

I’ve known and enjoyed every taste of the city’s drinking culture since 1972 — the “swinging singles” Upper East Side scene, Maxwell’s Plum, Studio 54, wine bars and in modern-day restaurants where I spend perhaps too much of my life.

Sandwich makers: Expects an engagement ring in exchange for making 300 good sandwiches, which is a super-weird barter-and-trade scenario. [Yelp reviews for adult life experiences] Power-forwards: Less likely you can establish your dominance in the relationship through your preferred method, which is by dunking a basketball in a gymnasium. Breakfast sandwiches: A first date is not a good time to discover the severity of your gluten intolerance.

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It stretches far beyond the Lower East Side’s infamous “Hell Zone” to Wythe Avenue in Williamsburg and Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side.

In the Meatpacking District, vomit on the pavement makes me cringe more than smelly carcasses once did.

Even hotel rooftops and high-end restaurants are affected: Top chef Michael White actually employs a bouncer to stand on Lafayette Street to protect his Italian trattoria Osteria Morini from “young, affluent, intoxicated people stumbling from one place to the next,” a manager explained to me. I was among a throng of customers who endured a stressful wait for the bathroom one recent night at Megu, a Japanese eatery where miso-glazed black cod is .

Cross Fit bros: They will keep trying to hit your spare tire with a sledgehammer while you’re trying to change a flat.

Teachers: Walking Petri dishes of elementary school diseases.

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