Written by Gabby Katz, edited by Leandra Medine
The first time I learned about The Planet, it was over drinks with a group of girls last February. One girlfriend, Rebecca, was complaining about a guy that she had met at a bar a few weeks earlier. She’d done everything books like He’s Just Not That Into You and Why Men Love Bitches suggested were sure-fire, one way, express tickets to companionship. She pretended she was busy the first time he asked her to meet, she didn’t go home with him after they finally did meet, and on the date, she was, as she describes, “the perfect version” of herself. (To us, this meant the liar her therapist has been trying to treat for years.)
She suggests that they had an amazing date only made more spectacular by a perfect goodnight kiss. And just when she was beginning to explore monogram options for their bedding, the inevitable radio silence came yelling. He never wrote to her to explain how unabashedly perfect and charming she was and what’s worse? He couldn’t even muster together a response (or decency) when she finally grew a pair and texted him.
“But what is it? WHAT HAPPENED?” Rebecca pleaded to us.
“Maybe he’s out of town.” We began unraveling every excuse we could pull from our bank of I’m-sure-he-loves-you-but-insert-circumstance-here’s.
“Maybe he has a girlfriend,” one of us suggested.
“Maybe your text didn’t go through or maybe he didn’t get it, or maybe something weird happened with his phone. MAYBE HE LOST HIS PHONE! That’s it, he probably–no, definitely–lost his phone and never got your text!” A kinder voice chimed in.
And before I could explain my opinion, which is, (thank you for asking,) that he got arrested for running a sex trafficking ring, our friend Casey, with perfect blonde hair and a perennially sun-kissed glow offered her two cents.
“He went to The Planet.”
“The what?” We asked.
“Is that a bar?” Was it a bar?
“Nope. It’s where all the guys who disappear go,” she unflinchingly explained.
We grew silent.
Naturally, I was confounded and because I imagine that perhaps you, too, are confounded, let me break this down for you as simply as possible:
The Planet (noun):
1. The Planet is a place where the men who are never to be heard from again go.
2. It is loosely based on a Sex and the City episode where the girls head to Staten Island but in this instance (read: real life) The Planet is far more Oz than it is Sex and The City.
3. The physical location of The Planet remains undetermined however should you find yourself at Brinkleys, The Standard, or Cyrills in Amagansett, (for the uninitiated these are historical bro-hangout landmarks located in the tri-state area,) you’ll likely find some of its loitering inhabitants.
4. The living conditions on The Planet also remain unclear but the assumption is that they are pretty fucking fantastic seeing as men can’t get there fast enough. (Think tropical locale where Bar Refaeli pours Bud Light on her chest and into their mouths every fifteen minutes.)
Planet Dweller (noun):
1. Refers to a man who has taken up residency at the aforementioned location
2. Planet dwellers make their exit after a great date, or a few dates or a steady string of consistent gatherings that are seemingly (keyword) running on the fast track to monogamy.
3. In some instances, he is devastatingly handsome. In others, he’s the precise fellow you thought you’d give a chance because “why not, you know?”
Most Planet Dwellers do:
1. Ask for your your number after having spent the entire previous night essentially helping you map out your collective future but alas, he does not initiate contact thereafter.
2. Almost always allude to another meeting, see: “I’ll tell you about it next time we’re together,” “we should totally get drinks at that place you were telling me about,” (his friend, Urban Daddy, has several suggestions too,) “let’s move to Sri Lanka,” but never follows through.
In addition to bro bars, Planet Dwellers are commonly and frequently found at yoga studios and J. Crew. In fact, I’m pretty sure a lot of them–with their bare ankles and boat shoes–infiltrate the catalog.
But there’s an important distinction to make here. The Planet’s denizens do not include the blazon of male who does not call after a bad date. Now, what’s a bad date you ask? Say you threw up in his presence or peed in his bed, did your best Hallie Berry Monster’s Ball impression much to his bewilderment, or maybe got your period while sitting on his lap. The chances here are that he simply went home and didn’t call again. (Fucking idiot.)
True Planet Dwellers have been known to resurface post exodus. Those who do are called Orbiters and are the worst kind because they travel back and forth between your version of reality and The Planet, leaving behind a trail of scattered texts and subsequent wine bottles and tears.
I understand that The Planet may seem like a place that we as women have fabricated to make up for failed love endeavors but until there’s proof such a place does not exist in our solar system, I’m sticking to my guns and highly suggesting that you too recognize, it’s not about you. He just really wanted to see what The Planet is all about.