'Margaret Qualley just shared her "dating rules," and I'm here to break every single one.'

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I love Margaret Qualley. I truly do. 

She's beautiful, talented and married to Jack Antonoff, which means she's basically living inside a catchy Taylor Swift bridge. 

But her recent Cosmopolitan interview about the "old-school" dating rules she followed to score her husband?  I read it and immediately thought, "Oh, this is why I am still single."

Qualley says she never texted twice. She never said "I love you" first. She followed "Southern girl etiquette" — which apparently means being breezy and mysterious while men court you like it's Pride and Prejudice.

Watch The Spill hosts Laura Brodnik and Emily Vernem unpack Margaret Qualley's Cosmo cover. Post continues below.

And look, it worked for her. She and Antonoff met right after COVID, went on dreamy walks through New York City, fell in love and now they're married and she can text him about anything, any time as many times in a row as she wants. It's romantic, it's sweet. It's… literally my personal dating nightmare. 

Because I am constitutionally incapable of "playing it cool". If I like you, you will know. Not in some subtle, "oh, she might be into me" way. No. You will know.

I will text you back immediately. If I have another thought, I'll text that too. If I see something in the supermarket that reminds me of you, I will send a picture. Then a meme. Then a follow-up meme about that meme. Then my best friend will receive an unhinged voice note about how you used three emojis in your last message and WHAT DO WE THINK THAT MEANS?!

Essentially, my thumb has no chill and my heart has zero patience. 

And as for "don't say I love you first"? Are you kidding? I've said "I love you" after two weeks. I've said it after one too many wines. I've said it in the middle of a conversation about vacuums.

I once blurted it out while we were still deciding on Uber Eats. I am the anti-wait-three-months person. If I feel it, I say it. I am not in the business of strategic silence. The way I express love is less "calculated game of chaos" and more "impulsive round of Hungry Hungry Hippos, where I am just grabbing marbles as fast as I can."

Now, here's where it gets interesting, because Qualley actually admits that before Antonoff, she spent years trying to be someone's "perfect girl". She kept changing who that girl was, and she felt lonely in every relationship. 

Margaret Qualley locked Jack Antonoff down with her 'Southern girl' dating rules. Good for her. Not for me. Image: Getty.

And that's exactly the problem with these so-called rules: they're just a performance. They are the Cool Girl Olympics. They teach you to be less, to reveal less, to keep your feelings locked up so you don't come off as "too much".

And maybe it works in the short term — but the second you drop the act and show the real, full-fat version of yourself? That's when the problems start. 

I've done the Cool Girl routine before. It's exhausting.

It's like holding in a sneeze for three months straight. Eventually, it explodes, and it's messy, and now you've got snot everywhere. The facade always cracks and then you're left thinking, "If I had just been myself from day one, maybe I wouldn't be sitting here eating a family-sized pizza alone and Googling 'is it a red flag if he's never had a doona cover?'".

And here's the part I hate to admit — maybe Qualley has a point. Because when I really like someone, I do get nervous to screw it up. I start overthinking every message. I type something and then delete it. I try to wait an hour to respond because I don't want to seem too keen. It's not "Southern girl etiquette", it's straight-up fear.

Listen: Laura Brodnik and Em Vernem discuss Margaret Qualley's 'dating rules' on The Spill. Post continues below.

Fear that if I show the full, ridiculous, deeply affectionate version of me too early, they'll run. And sometimes, holding back does keep the excitement alive… but it also feels like I'm holding my breath, waiting for a green light to just be myself.

So now? I'm out. I'm leading with chaos. I'm showing my cards. I am one step away from using this article to declare my feelings for someone (and if he's reading this… hi, yes, I like you, and yes, this is how I chose to tell you). Because why waste time on flirty subtext when I can just embed a confession into a widely accessible piece of internet content? It's efficient. It's terrifying. It's very me.

I am not the "hard to get" girl, I am the "hard to forget" girl. I am the "will tell you exactly how I feel about your navy bedsheets" girl. 

Maybe that's why my dating history reads like a Netflix limited series with an extremely low Rotten Tomatoes score. Maybe my friends and family have a betting pool on how long each situationship will last. But at least no one has to wait until the season finale to meet the real me. At least I'm not wasting months playing some delicate game of emotional hide-and-seek. 

Qualley found her person by never texting twice. Maybe I'll find mine by texting "thinking about you" three times in a row and then sending a TikTok of a raccoon eating grapes. She got her happy ending by following Southern girl etiquette. I'm getting mine by being Northern Suburbs unhinged. 

Because, honestly? If you can't handle me at my "googling if your star sign is compatible with mine," and my "already mentally naming our future dog" stage, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my magnificent, "how did I get so lucky" stage. And if I'm going to end up heartbroken anyway, at least I'll know I did it my way — fully, loudly, and without waiting for permission.

I will go down in flames with my group chat as witness, a bottle of shiraz in one hand, and the satisfaction of knowing I didn't waste a single second pretending to be chill when I was, in fact, spiralling in real time.

So Margaret Qualley, I love your love story. I love that you've found the person who makes you feel safe and seen. But your "old-school rules"? I'm breaking them. Gleefully. Aggressively. And possibly before I even finish typing this sentence. 

Feature image: Getty/Supplied.