Thursday, December 22, 2011

Like, Like, no like

Yup.  I had a date.  Now I am not completely clear why I had this date but I had it.  Another Match.com failure.  I think I may have to rework my profile.  I may have to agree with the masses on the site that the best dates are long walks, holding hands, stealing kisses and giggling.  Who the hell does that?  Where are they walking to?  And why?  After this most recent date, I took a good hard look at my profile to see what was attracting these men.  Maybe it is the fact that I am straightforward, honest and unblinkingly demanding.  I am not sure.  But whatever it is, I keep finding some really special men. 

So this date started off badly before it even began.  One of the most prominent aspects of my Match profile is the word sarcasm.  I don't shy away from my rough sense of humor.  I embrace it.  This man, who we will call Mr. Like, wrote me an email explaining that he really hated sarcasm.  I was intrigued.  Why then would he contact someone who clearly states that sarcasm is a daily occurrence in her life?  Did he think he could change me?  I needed to find out.  Well Mr. Like and I couldn't pull it together.  First date had to be changed on my end because of a last minute required appearance at my kids Sunday School.  Mr. Like understood and we rescheduled for two weeks later same time, same place.  And as per usual, I did not write it down but tucked it away in my steel trap mind that clearly has a leak. 

The second date came but I did not.  I forgot.  I mean completely had no recollection that I was supposed to meet Mr. Like.  Sadly, he did not forget and showed up for our date.  He spent an hour waiting for me, asking strange women if they were me.  I, of course, was in happy oblivious brunch mode elsewhere.  It was not until I received an email from him that a faint memory of making a date surfaced in my head.  I actually felt bad, which is an odd feeling for me.  But I also felt curious.  Would this sarcasm hating, once stood up man make another date with me?  I had to know. I put it out there.  And he said yes.  What the hell is wrong with him?

So we made another plan for the same place, different time.  My level of excitement was low, so I went shopping prior to the date and of course ran late.  I pictured him sitting there, coffee in hand, wondering if he had been stood up again.  Sadly it made me laugh a little.  Ok, what is wrong with me?  But when I arrived, he was there, beaming.   And hideous. 

Men, if you are going bald on top, shave your head.  Do not, and I will repeat this, do not comb over.  Mr. Like clearly had not received this memo.  And his comb over was so thin that really what was the point?  I could see the bald spot.  People in space could see the bald spot.  Who did he think he was fooling?  And then there was the attire. He is a high school science teacher and he brought back every horrible memory of high school science I ever had.  In his shirt pocket were two pens, a cell phone and some sort of computer cable.  How did he get all that into his shirt breast pocket, and why?  Did he not have other pockets that worked?  Is there some sort of high school science teacher uniform that all science teachers must adhere to?  But I decided I will look beyond the comb over and the pocket stuffers.  But then Mr. Like spoke. 

Every other word out of his mouth was 'like'.  I felt as if I was sitting having coffee with the cast  of 'High School Musical'.  I started to count the 'likes'.  I lost count at 47 and we were only ten minutes into the date.  He told me his previous job was as an environmental consultant but he did not like office work, it did not run in his family.  He then went on to describe his entire family tree.  I felt like I might need a visual to keep up but was afraid if I asked, he may actually provide one.  He then told me he would never talk to his kids about sex, drugs or alcohol because they would just have to find out for themselves.  I think that is a great plan.  Here kids, go get high and drunk and then have unprotected sex, it is a learning experience.  But then it got better.  He started to talk about an ex-girlfriend of his that he had reconnected with and spent time with recently, having sex and traveling with her.  Wait, what?  Why would you tell me this?  He told me her name, what she looked like, about her children, her personality and even more.  It was hard to catch the entire story because the amount of 'likes' in it really distracted me, but the gist was, he was in love with this woman, so why not waste my time by meeting me for a date?


I was done.  He was not.  As I made a pathetic excuse to get the hell out of there, he suggested we 'ruminate' on the date and then connect via email to discuss what we thought of each other.  I replied 'Like, I am not much into ruminating because it like, hurts my head, so I think I will just like skip that'.  No ok, I didn't say that but I really wanted to.  Instead I smiled, said it was nice to meet him and held out my hand for the platonic, non-committal handshake.  And then I got the hell out of there.  Perhaps the dating gods were trying to tell me something when the first two tries at this date didn't come to fruition.  I  should listen more carefully for their subtle hints.  But of course, I won't.  I will go out on another date soon enough because after all I am 43 and single. 

Friday, December 16, 2011

Whip Boy

It has been a while since my last post.  My dating life has stalled.  Not that it was really moving forward with any great momentum but for a moment there, I had a few seemingly promising dates.  And then nothing.  A dry spell.  A desert of singledom.  So I went back to Match.com.  Why would I go back again you ask?  Well, it has to do with a wedding and a couple.  Not the couple getting married.  No, they re-met at a high school reunion, rediscovered each other and are now living happily ever after.  No this has to do with a couple that were guests at the wedding.

This particular couple claims they met on Match.com.  I am not completely buying this story as they are both good looking, normal people and so far my dates on Match.com are far from that.  When I pressed them to see if they were being paid by Match.com, they again claimed that really and truly they met through the dating service.  I was intrigued.  Perhaps there are normal people online.  Perhaps I just have to dig a little deeper.  The man in this couple did tell me he had been on Match.com for ten years before he found his mate.  TEN YEARS!  Who has that kind of time?  And patience?  And sense of humor?  But the woman told me she was only on for five years, so perhaps I can do it in less.  I am after all a type A, go-for-it kind of gal.  I was intrigued.  These two were inspiration.  I will go back to match.com.

And I did.  And here is how it went.  My first suitor was a winner.  This man thinks we would be perfect together.  What is it about my profile that intrigued him?

Well, I was curious.  Why did he chose me?  Did we have a lot in common?  Most of his profile seems relatively standard.  He is divorced, two kids, looking for someone to connect with.  Ok, normal stuff.  And then I get to it.  The past paragraph of his profile.  The thing that makes me ask, 'Why me?'

He writes:  'Yes, to most of you, I am a freak. I am a bottom, not submissive or slavic. I go to kink and leather lifestyle events. I enjoy being tied up just for laughs, getting my back and backside whipped, vocal control, and the full gambit. I do this for fun. I take many parts of this seriously as well, but have a blast doing this. Not something I will give up. '

I keep seeing the good looking  couple from the wedding in my head and saying to myself, 'Stick with it.  This will pay off'.  I will not have to resort to dating whip boy.  I will find someone normal.  It will happen.  In the meantime, I will throw up a little after reading this man's profile and then move on.  Because after all, I am 43 and single.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Cardboard and heavy gold chains

I like to talk about myself.  A lot.  I talk about myself all the time.  I talk to myself, about myself.  But even I get tired of hearing about me sometimes, especially when I am on a first date.  But when the conversation runs dry, where else am I to turn?  Oh sure, I know the rules.  I should ask the man about himself and then act very interested as he talks about himself.  But what happens when the man tells you about his life in five seconds flat and then has nothing else to day?  Where do you go from there?  How many times can I act excited when listening to a man tell me he works selling potato chips?

And that brings me to my most recent date. I should have known up front but beggars can't be choosers.  Right?  We emailed first and then spoke on the phone.  And I knew then I should have said 'No thanks'.  But hell, a lot of people aren't good on the phone. But this phone call had a lot of dead air time.  A lot.  So when he said we should meet, I thought, 'Really, why?'   But I am willing to give everyone a shot in person.  We couldn't find a time to meet during the evening so we settle on coffee after one of my classes.

Now perhaps I am sabotaging myself by wearing jeans, a ratty t-shirt and  sweatshirt but my cynicism seems to be taking over.  I always hold out a little hope that this guy will surprise me, but my record proves otherwise.  So we met for coffee bookended by the end of my class and my need to get home and meet the school bus.  Romantic, right?  The ambiance at the local college Starbucks also enhanced my outfit and demeanor.  And there he was waiting.  Chains and all.

Now, I am all for man who wants to wear a little jewelry but when the 1980's ended, it was time to let go of the heavy gold chains and matching bracelets.  Clearly my date did not get that message.  I looked beyond the shiny silk shirt but I couldn't take my eyes off the heavy chain around his neck and the matching heavy chains on BOTH of his wrists.  All I could think was, doesn't his back hurt, how does he write, type, eat with all that weight.  I smiled and tried to stop looking at the shiny things and concentrate on what my date was saying.  It was then I realized he wasn't saying anything.  I mean nothing.  Nada.

Once he regaled me with his exciting story of selling potato chips, he was tapped out.  There was nothing else.  He was done.  So I started talking.  And talking and talking.  Even I was getting bored of listening to me.  I asked him questions but only got one word answers in return.  There was no option of conversation unless I was into talking to myself.  There was nothing to him.  He was a cardboard cut out of a man, wearing heavy chains to make some sort of 'I am trapped in the 80's' statement.  There was no promising future here.

I sucked down my coffee, dramatically looked at my watch and declared 'Oh my, I need to run and catch the school bus'.  I watched him shuffle off the stool, trying not to fall over from the weight of the chains holding him down.  I smiled, shook his hand and said it was lovely to speak about myself for an hour.  And then I sprinted off to my car only looking back long enough to see him hobble toward his, having a hard time lifting his head to cross the street.  While I do love myself and find myself so interesting, I think I might need a partner to talk to sometimes.  And this guy was not that one.  But, I will keep looking and keep an open mind.  And I may even dress a little nicer next time because after all I am 42 and single.


Tuesday, September 27, 2011

The Past was a Long Time Ago.

Date three from Match.com finds me meeting a man who did not post a picture but instead sent me a video of himself. Red Flag number one.  He claimed he did not have one single picture of himself without his daughter in it.  I am pretty sure you can crop those things but what the hell, I'll look at the video.  It is a video of this man we will call Dan, in a gym, holding a giant stick and lunging back and forth.  It is hilarious.  And made even more so by the fact that I have turned the volume down and added my own dialogue.  Things like 'I will woo you with may ability to take a broom handle and jab it back and forth over and over'.  I am intrigued.  Who is this man who can parry and lunge with the best of them?  But I am also scared.  The video is slightly blurry and the man is shot from a distance, presumably so the camera man would not be stabbed.  But if I squint my eyes, he looks fit, has thick dark hair and and seems ok.  My standards are not very high.

Dan and I email back and forth a few times.  He says he owns some fitness gyms.  I see free pilates classes in my future.  He says he gained a couple of pounds since his divorce but is actively working to get back to parrying and lunging shape.  Ok, a couple pounds is fine.  Free pilates classes.  He says he used to play Lacrosse in college.  I pretend to be impressed.  I really don't care about what you did in college.  Wasn't that a long time ago?  I used to play beer pong in college.  Do you think he would be impressed by that?  He says we should meet for coffee.  I agree.  Why wouldn't I agree.  After all he played lacrosse in college, owns gyms, packed on a few pounds and can wield a large stick with grace.

So what is your definition of a couple of pounds?  Mine is somewhere between 10-20.  Especially on a tall man.  Clearly I should have had him define 'a couple of pounds' before we met.   I think Dan's definition of a couple of pounds is somewhere between 100-150 pounds.  Dan is enormous.  His arms are bigger than my thighs.  And my thighs are 42 year old, popped out two kids, can't motivate to get on the elliptical machine in the family room thighs.  And his hair is thick but graying.  And he has not brought his large stick.  I am disappointed.  But I am also open minded.  And desperate.  So I stay.

Dan tells me he is a Libertarian.  I am not sure that this is first date talk.  In fact I am not sure what a Libertarian is.  Luckily for me, Dan proceeds to tell me and try to convince me that I too should be a libertarian.  I promise him I will look into it.  He then tells me what a great boss he is and how he listens to his employees but only if they make a valid argument.  But isn't he the boss so isn't he the one who judges the validity of the argument?  Yes, he says.  Then he starts talking about Lacrosse...

I was never a team sport girl.  I played tennis, and rode horses.  Solo sports all the time.  I didn't play soccer, field hockey or lacrosse.  I don't really care all that much about them.  And I really don't care if you played it 20 years ago in college.  But Dan cares.  He cares a lot.  He played, breathed and lived lacrosse.  He made it to the final four.  He mentions this numerous times.  I don't have the heart to tell him that I don't know what the final four is.  I assume it is important but my final four reference only goes as far as the tv show 'Survivor'.  Dan can't get past lacrosse.  My coffee is cold.

But then the nail is placed in the coffin.  Dan tells me about his fabulous attorney.  The one he used for his divorce.  I ask her name.  Yup - it is my ex husband's attorney.  And yes, Dan knows my ex-husband and yes Dan introduced my ex-husband to his attorney.  I think we are done here.  I head to the  bathroom, text a friend to call my cell asap.  Once returning to the table my cell rings and I must run.  I say good bye to Dan, being careful not to get squashed by his few extra pounds.  And I am off.  I am feeling awfully cynical at this point.  Is no one what they say they are?  Or am I just too damn picky?  I am not sure but maybe it is the caffeine talking but I will date again.  I will find someone who at the very least describes themselves accurately.  I will go out again because after all I am 42 and single.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

You can't buy love...or can you?

I knew I should not have gone out on this date.  My gut kept saying, 'Don't do this.  This is not going to be fun'.  His profile on Match.com stated that he was 5'5" and athletic and toned.  I know I have mentioned this before and it probably does not come as a shock, but people tend to lie on Match.com about their physical appearance.  So if you are saying you are 5'5", I am betting good money that you are not.  And this guys profile did not include a picture.  He said he was willing to send me one.  When I asked why he didn't post it, he said it was because of his job.  Ooooohhhh...is he a secret agent, a spy CIA intelligence?  Now, that could make up for the 5'5" lie.

He did send me a picture.  It was of him, seated with his arm around a woman.  Why would you send a picture of yourself with a woman?  He claimed the woman was of no consequence, but really, there are no other pictures available that don't include a woman?  In the photo he is about 400 yards away from the camera, so judging him is hard.  He is also seated so height judgment is not possible.  He has a full head of dark hair though.  Now, lest you think I am shallow and judging a man by his physical appearance keep in mind that I don't care if he is 5'5" and possibly not as athletic and toned as he claims.  I just care if he is lying about those facts.

After a couple of bizarre emails in which he suggested we meet in a remote, 'Non-gossipy' location, I agree to meet in a public restaurant.  Perhaps the restaurant will put his secret spy identity at risk, but I am not meeting him anywhere covert. We settle a breakfast spot and meet for brunch.  He claims 9:30am is too early for him because his work wipes him out but he will make an exception for me.  Spying must be a very demanding job.

We meet.

I am disappointed to say he was not wearing an earpiece or rocking a concealed weapon, unless you consider a beer belly, a weapon.  And he wasn't 5'5".  I was taller than him.  I am 5'3". Athletic and toned?  See the beer belly reference.  Brown hair?  Perhaps he ran out of Just for Men.  Don't these guys get it?  If you lie on your profile, eventually we will meet and I will discover the real you.  Was I upset that I was with a short, fat, gray haired man?  No.  I was upset I was with a short, fat, gray haired man who lied to me.  But perhaps being a spy would make up for it.  Perhaps he was required to lie on his Match.com profile so his cover wouldn't be blown.  He was acting suspicious.  His eyes darted around the room looking for potential danger.  He spoke so quickly I could barely hear what he was saying.  And he was sweaty.  Were we in danger?  Nope, turns out only I was.

The waitress sat us near the window.  But my spy date told her that would not work.  Too many people could shoot at him through the glass I suppose.  He tucked us in a corner away from,  as he said,  'spying eyes'.  I felt like James Bond.  And then he leaned forward and said 'I am a radiologist'.  A WHAT?  You are a doctor?  So why the hell are we being so covert.  I was no longer intrigued and was starting to feel sick.

Dr. Shifty Eyes spent the rest of the date leaning too far forward across my food and telling me how much money he had.  He talked about his broker and how much he had made in gold.  He talked about his best friend Bruce who made $500 million. He talked about how he bought his ex-girlfriend a Mercedes and a house and took her on $30,000 vacations.  He talked about how all his money and free time without kids has made it dangerous for him.  He can't control himself if I knew what he meant, wink, wink.  I knew what he meant.  I couldn't control the vomit that was coming up.  He talked about the tech at his office who really had the hots for him but went for Bruce because Bruce had just a little more money.  He talked about how people knew he had money and he didn't know how.  Then he told me about the date he had the night before.  Yes he had a date the night before and was telling me about it.  He told me how in the middle of the date the woman stood up, told him that it wasn't a match between then and walked out.  That woman is my idol.  How I wish I had the balls to do that now.

I stopped eating hoping the waitress would notice and bring the check.  She didn't.  He told me about how he has patented a lot of his medical inventions that will bring in a lot of money that he will slide over to his broker to make more money.    Then he told me that really money doesn't mean that much to him.  Please waitress, look at my pleading eyes and bring the check.  Mercifully she finally did.

We sidled out of the restaurant and he put his hand on my back.  I jump forward involuntarily from the revulsion.  I wish I could be one of those women who could get over a lack of personality, charm, humor, wit and kindness and just be with a man for money.  Cause if I could, I would have a new car, house and lifestyle by now.  But no matter how hard I tried, when I looked at Dr. Shifty Eyes, all I saw was him naked talking about money.  It was not a pretty picture.  So I shook his hand. Told him it was nice to meet him and jumped rapidly into my car.  I will not sell myself for a new set of wheels.  I want and deserve more than that.  After all, I am 42 and single.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Paging Dr.Text...Dr. Text

And we are back.  I did take a dating hiatus.  I felt like I needed to take a break from all the fun I was having and sober up.  So I cleaned house.  Defriended some 'friends' and canceled my subscription to Match.com.  I spent the summer months looking at the left hands of handsome men and wondering if they just weren't wearing their wedding rings or were really single.  Of course they didn't notice me as I wandered by in my dirty sweatpants, my hair up in a messy bun.   Perhaps I wasn't going about this right.  Perhaps I needed to start all over.  Yes, I will have a different attitude fueled my many margaritas in the summer sun.  I will find love or at least a good date. 

I rejoined Match.com.

Pathetic.

But wait.  I am going about it with a new and improved attitude.  I will take off my snotty hat and put on my accepting hat.  I will consider men who may not be the most attractive.  I will consider men who live in towns I don't love.  I will consider men who describe themselves as athletic and toned but have profile picture revealing their beer belly.  I will think outside the box and I will find a decent man.  I will put myself out there, taking all the rejection I can stomach in order to succeed.

But I don't have to wait long.  A man has emailed me.  Not physically my type but the new me says' look past that'.  He is a doctor, he lives nearby, he has kids and he likes the outdoors.  Ok, so if you know me you know my version of the outdoors is sitting on my butt on a beach chair, but hell, for love I will climb a rock or two. 

We email and exchange phone numbers.  I tell him I cannot speak until two days later as I want to present my best self and interrupting a phone conversation to yell at my kids to 'shut the hell up' does not put me in the best light.  He tells me that is fine.  But then he starts texting me.  A lot.  Texts that read 'Just running some errands and then heading home.'  I am perplexed.   Did we go out already?  Are we a couple?  And it isn't just one text, it is a lot of texts.  And then he starts calling.  I don't answer because my kids are roaming nearby.  The messages are 'Just driving and thought I would call.'  Hold on.  This is a little intimate for never having met.  But this is the new dating me and I will go out with him.

We finally speak on the phone.  Hmmmmm.  It was fine.  Not great but fine.  He doesn't like the beach.  I love the beach.  He likes to hike and bike.  I like to ride in a car.  He is 6'2".  I am 5'3".  But opposites attract right?  We make a plan to meet but sadly the only time I can meet him is post a Selena Gomez concert with my daughter.  That puts us getting together at 11pm.  But what the hell.  It is the new me. 

The night of the concert arrives.  But wait let me go back a week.  Dr. Text has texted me about 400 times since our call.  I am a little freaked out.  I mean I am all for texting but usually with someone I know.  But I am still planning on seeing him.  Concert night comes.  Outdoor concert.  In the pouring rain.  Selena sings her little heart out.  Dr. Text texts me about 27 times during the concert.  I finally text back saying I will let him know when I am leaving.  I bolt out of the concert, go home, dry myself off and rush off to meet Dr. Text.  As I am driving to the date, he texts me to tell me where he is sitting.  Then he texts me to ask me what I want to drink.  Dude!  Enough.

We meet.  He is really tall.  He is really thin.  My ass is twice the size of his.  Three of his legs equal one of my thighs.  I am not happy.  But I am open minded.  We start to talk.  I start to drink.  I am soooooo tired.  He does not eat red meat.  I am slightly horrified.  He doesn't like pets.   Ugh.  I order another beer.  I begin to wonder what it would be like to kiss a man so tall.  How would I do it?  Stepladder?  And if I wrapped my arms around him could I touch my shoulders.  Is he really that thin?  And what is that shirt he wearing?  Stop it.  This is the new me.  I will give him a chance.  Finally 2am comes and I am delirious with sleep and beer.  I need to go home.  He leans across the table and says 'I would really like to see you again'.  Ok.  I will do this.  We hug goodbye.

And that is all.  Suddenly no more texts.  I worry that he has fallen off his bike and has been run over.  How will I know when he is running errands?  I realize I have become accustomed to his texts.  But I need to let go.  I think he may have lied to me when he said he wanted to see me again.  Maybe in my sleepy haze I mis-heard him.  Maybe he said 'I would really not like to see you again'.  Hey Dr. Text...text this!   I don't need your daily updates.  I don't need to know you are headed to your parents for dinner.  I don't need to know you are picking up your dry cleaning.  You are on your own Dr. Text.  I can live without you Dr. Text because after all, I am 42 and single.



Sunday, April 3, 2011

How much?

So the question that has perplexed me is if I am to meet someone new and not continue obsessing over boys from the past, how do I do it? All my close friends are happily married, all my students are far too young and all the bars, well they are bars aren't they. Fix ups, been there done that and not well. Online dating. Yup tried that too. Talk about some false advertising. Ninety-five percent of the men on the website describe themselves as fit and toned. And yet almost thirty percent of Americans are obese. You do the math. So what to do?

A friend of mine mentioned she tried a match making service. When I heard this, all that rumbled through my head was the Fiddler on the Roof scene with the song 'Matchmaker, Matchmaker'. Seriously, could I do something like that? It makes me feel like a failure. I have sunk so low that I have to pay someone to introduce me to a man. And what kind of man signs up for such a service? A too busy at work to focus on my dating kind of man? An I don't want to meet someone in a bar kind of man? Or an I am so hideous and deranged that this is the only way I can meet women, kind of man? I have my suspicions.

But I call the matchmaking service. First I am required to fill out an inane form asking about my thoughts on a perfect first date, my ideal man etc... My perfect first date would be if the man showed up, wasn't completely mad and called me the next day. I am clearly easily pleased. My ideal man? Breathing is probably priority number one. I submit my form and then I get a phone call from Melanie, overly perky Melanie, who giggles out of control and promises me that I have made a wise decision. Perky Melanie goes on to describe how the service works.

First I have an extensive phone interview with her and tell her all about myself, my hopes and dreams. Then she drums up appropriate men to meet with me. In six months I get a minimum of eight dates with eight different men and no maximum amount of dates. That means I can go out with a man a night for six months. Oh the possibilities. And to make this so much less awkward, the service makes deals with restaurants so that when I arrive I check in with the hostess by saying 'Hi. I am the lonesome loser who had to pay a match maker to find a man and I am here for my date, could you point him out to me'. Subtle. I am told I can put my membership on hold should I meet someone and want to explore that relationship. Then I can come back to the service when that relationship invariably fails.

This all sounding too good to be true. And then perky Melanie tells me all I need to do is sign up for six months. I'm ready. Where do I sign up? How much? $2000 perky Melanie tells me with a laugh. Wait, what? I quickly do the math in my head. Minimum eight dates works out to each date costing me $250. My question is then, does the man pay as much as I do? And if so, then each date is really costing $500. For lunch or drinks, not even dinner. That better be a damn good burger for $250.

So I ponder this. Then I think back to all the dates I have had. I quickly realize how pissed I would be if any of those dates had cost me $250. But I am not ready to give up yet. So I decide to research further. I ask perky Melanie what the matchmaking service's success rate is. Perky Melanie giggles and tells me a lot of women have met men through her service. Yes, a lot of women have met men through drunken stupors at bars too but they didn't pay $250 for that privilege. I want hard facts. I want percentages. I want numbers. Suddenly Melanie isn't so perky. A hard edge creeps into her voice as she tells me a lot of couples have come together through her service. I am not backing down. Numbers lady. Give me numbers. Melanie is silent. She doesn't have the numbers. Or she won't give me the numbers. Either way she is not getting my credit card numbers.

They say you can't put a price on love or maybe it is happiness. Melanie seems to think I should. And I am not being cheap but given my track record and perky Melanie's refusal to come clean with her results, I am not willing to plunk down $250 per date to end up back where I am right now. I will find someone the old fashioned way. I will persevere. I will keep going because after all I am 42 and single.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Your hair is very long.

I am starting to think it might be me. I think I may need to take lessons in the art of dating. Maybe I need a chip implanted in my head that cuts me off when I get too sarcastic, witty, smart, outgoing, and all around intimidating. Maybe I also need to shrink my ego a bit. Maybe. But doubtful. I think I need someone to follow me on dates and tell me what I am doing wrong or, a much more likely scenario, figure out why I am picking the wrong men. I mean how much could I be doing wrong. I wash my hair, shave my legs, wear makeup, expose some cleavage and laugh at all my dates jokes. It must be them. And if it is the men, then clearly I am making some questionable choices which brings it back to being me. This is not good. I can't possibly be wrong. I will find a way to blame it on someone else.

So, I have had no new dates. Meaning I have had no new men enter my life. Sad but true. Just the same old ones that hibernate until I am just about done obsessing over them and then they rear their ugly heads (ok, their heads aren't that ugly) and suck me right back in. And what is it about these men that draws me back in. Is it their witty conversation, their shocking good looks, their rock hard abs. No. It is a pathetic lack of something else to focus on that leaves me a window of too much time to allow them in. I need to take up knitting, sewing, weaving or some sort of hobby that fills that void.

So who was back you ask? Of course you know it would be Bob. Bob. The elusive, emotionally unavailable Bob. The good looking, tempting Bob. The Bob I can't say no to. The Bob whose favorite form of communication is to send one sentence texts. And when did he text me? Oddly he texted me just as I walked into a friends house to have a beer and ran into Dave. You remember Dave. Or Mr. Four Hour Date. Dave who thanked me for my thank you email and then vanished. Now you may also recall that Dave has access to this blog and probably read what I wrote about him. So when I arrived at my friends house, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I could almost hear him screaming 'Run! I need to run!' But there was no escape for him. I was on him like white on rice. I kissed him on the cheek and said a warm hello as I passed by on my way to the very necessary beer. And then my phone vibrated in my pocket (hey a girls got to have some fun) and it was Bob, just checking in. It was as if he looked at the calendar and said to himself, 'Hey a month has passed, time to reach out and drive Stacy insane'.

So as I sat in the kitchen of this friends home, drinking my beer and contemplating this odd situation, Dave wandered in. I waited for him to join our conversation, but no, that was not to be. He just stared at all of us and then wandered out. Hmmmmm. Am I really that scary? That intimidating? That hideous? I mean, here was the chance for us to talk and he ran. But then there was another chance. He wandered in again about 20 minutes later only to wander back out. Was he drunk? Did he not see me? My friend worried that she had not warned me that Dave would be there. But honestly, I am not the one who fell off the face of the earth after a four hour dinner. And yet, even with all the wandering and ignoring, my interest was piqued again. What the hell is wrong with me? Let bygones be bygones. Nope. Clearly not my motto.

So Dave left. I left. I texted Bob back. No reply. No surprise. He can commit to one text and not much more. I was hopelessly in limbo again. Waiting. Hoping. Delusional. And then came a sign. A sign from who? God perhaps? More likely the Devil having some fun at my expense. Bob texted me. Did I have plans that evening? Why no Bob, I don't. I have now broken every rule of dating there is. You can never reply too quickly or be too available. As my mother says 'Why would he buy the barn if he can get the milk for free'. This of course implies that I am not much unlike a cow in my mother's eyes. But this was Bob, asking me out at least four hours in advance. That is like a week in Bob time. I prepped, I preened. I was ready. And there he was at my doorstep looking so very Bobbish. That half devilish smile. His 'I just threw these clothes on because I am too cool to care' look. His 'I kiteboard and surf a lot ripped abs'. Ok, so no I could not see those but I imagined.

So how was the date you ask. And why am I incapable of just saying no? Teenage crushes die hard. Just like Ms. Perry says 'Feels like I'm living a teenage dream'. So a bottle of wine later, a little making out and Bob started to put on his best moves which sadly were not all that great. Most women like to be complimented, told that they look pretty, are smart etc... The best Bob could do was to look at me and say 'Your hair is really long'. That astute observation was all I got. Wow. I could feel my heart go pitter patter. This guy knows how to woo a woman. It is remarkable that he has stayed single for so long. And yet, when he departed my company I found myself wanting him to text me again. Which brings me back to asking myself, what is wrong with me?

And what happened to Mr. Four Hour Dinner you ask? Well, his email told me it was nice to see me at the party. Which part was nice? The part where he stared vacantly through me or the part where he never spoke to me? Now it may sound to you like I have a huge ego and expect all men to throw themselves at my feet. No. That is not true. Ok, maybe a little true. But honestly, if you go to dinner with someone and spend four hours talking, you would
think you could manage a little minor chit chat at a party. This isn't high school after all.

So now what? Do I actually move on? Do I let go of Bob because really he is not adding anything to my life. I could delude myself and say I am going to walk away. But really who am I lying to. Do I accept Bob for who is and expect nothing more from him? Not possible. For I am a woman and all women know we can change men to make them better versions of themselves. I will sit back. I will wait. Thumbs at the ready to text back should the occassion call. I will hope that next time his wooing skills have improved and perhaps he will say 'Your hair is not only long, it is shiny'. A girl can dream. In the meantime, I wait by my cell phone. I wait for the texts that don't come. I wait becasue afterall I am 42 and single.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Whatever

So remember all the energy I had around January 1st? Remember how excited I was for 2011? Well, that's over. Maybe it is the frozen tundra that has enveloped my house. Maybe it is the realization that although it is 2011, the men from 2010 are still hanging around. Maybe it is the two dates I have had in 2011 that have set the miserable tone for the new year. Maybe I have not been drinking quite enough. Whatever has changed my view, I need it to stop. I would like to regain the youthful exuberance I had mere weeks ago. And I will, I am sure. But these two dates have set me back. I was trying to stay to a strict diet of good men and therefore good dates. And I thought I was on the right path but I think these dates did not accurately list their ingredients on the packaging. False advertising has led me astray.

I was hesitant to write about the first date, as said date has access to this blog. But since he never called me again for a second date and I waited an appropriate amount of time, I feel he is fair game. So here it is. I met someone. Not online, not on a blind date, not through my mother. I met someone when I was out with a friend. I met a man who was going through the same divorce situation as me, seemed to have the same family values (no not the George Bush family values) as me and was attractive and most important...funny. We met while I was out with my friend at a bar. My friend knew this man whom we will call Dave. She introduced us. This was not a setup, it was a random meeting. Now to be fair, which is usually not my style, Dave did mention he was dating someone. But dating someone and engaged/married to someone are completely different entities, right? To make a long story short, I actually liked Dave's company. I enjoyed talking to him. And I hope he enjoyed talking to me.

So the new me emailed Dave and offered up my blog which had been a topic of conversation. And then I offered up a dinner date with me. Who could pass on this? He didn't. We set a date. I was actually excited. I even wore mascara. We met for dinner. We talked and talked and talked. Which is really not that hard for me because I always have a lot to say and an opinion on everything, even if I know nothing about it. But I am pretty sure I allowed him to get a word or two in. I was having a good time. I was laughing. I was leaning forward just enough to show off my assets, I was asking questions about his life. We talked and talked some more until finally I said, I had to relieve my babysitter who I told I would be home by 10pm at the latest. When I got to my car, after hugging Dave goodbye, the dash clock read 11:30pm. Four hours. We had dinner for four hours. That's a long time. And it didn't feel like a long time. I was excited. This was a good date. Over two years of dating and finally a good date. And a guy I would like to see again. All positive in my book. And then....

So I emailed Dave a thank you. One day passed. No response. Two days passed. No response. Eventually late on day three I received a 'thank you for my thank you email' response. It was a very underwhelming response from someone who had spent four hours with me. But I am not one to give up that easily. No sirree. I am a glutton for punishment. If at first they can't impress upon you that they aren't interested, by all means make sure you force them to rub it in. So I emailed him back a couple of days later (take that!) and told him if he wanted to get together again, I was game. Well, needless to say, I am still waiting for a response.

But I am baffled. Do you spend four hours talking to someone and then nothing? Was I talking so much that he could find no escape? Am I truly that hideous? So the one good date I have in years and it ends with the traditional blow off. Of course my girlfriends and mother all told me he probably liked me so much he was scared. Now I would have bought into that when I was 16 and possibly when I was 22 but not now. Sadly I have just got to face the truth. He is clearly mentally deranged and cannot see that I am so wonderful. Good, now I feel better.

And feeling better leads me to my second date for the month of January. And for this one we must step backward. Back to Bob. Yes, I know you are all groaning and saying, 'For the love of God, please do not go out with him again'. But I can't help it. I am Brenda and he is Dylan. I know he is emotionally unavailable. I know he is too cool for school. And I know he has a permanent shit eating grin. And I know he will always choose Kelly over me, but like Brenda, I am drawn to his devilish ways and I can't let go. Until now.

So Bob was back in touch with me. And like a moth to the flame, there I was hovering, waiting. And he suggested dinner. He actually agreed to an actual calendar date. Ok, he agreed in his Bob way which was to say that date 'could be ok...' I took that as a definitive maybe. The date approached. I played it cool. He called to confirm. He called. The significance was not lost on me. He didn't text or email, he called. It must be love, right? So the plan was to meet at my place. Would we eat in or go out? The stress was too much. If we ate in, what would I make/buy? Would I make a fire in the fireplace or was that overkill and what would I wear to look casual but elegant? If we went out, what would we do at my place first? Would we have a drink, something to eat? It was all too much. Eventually we decided to go out. He was to arrive at 7pm. I busied myself doing work so as not to appear nervous, desperate or slightly crazed. He arrived at 7:30. My nervousness had turned to hunger and I was already eating. I was sort of starting to lose interest.

He came in. And boy did he look good. Really good. Slight tan from his time in the islands. Cool, I am not trying too hard, sweater. Sexy glasses perched on his head. He proceeded to wander aimlessly through my house. What was he looking for? My bedroom? I would be happy to show him. But no, that was not to be. A glass of water and a stiff conversation about movies later, and we were off to dinner. I was really losing interest now. Dinner. I discovered that he loves Thai food, a food I loathe. I discovered that he loves ice hockey. No shock here, a sport I loathe. I discovered something I probably already knew but ignored, Bob is sort of boring. I wanted to scream at him 'I don't care about kite boarding and wind, I don't care about paddle boarding, I just want to use you for your body'. But I felt like that might be a bit rude and shock the other dining guests. I was still hopeful that after this action packed dinner, I might be rewarded. How wrong I was.

When we returned to my place, he hugged me and called it a night. HUGGED ME. What the hell is that? This was not a first date. This was not even a third date. Seriously, I think he might be gay. It can't possibly be me, right? Right??? I am not even going to entertain the thoughts from well wishers that he likes and respects me too much. I was not asking for respect at that exact moment.

So closing my door and locking it, I came to the conclusion that I will have to let Bob go. Like my shoulder pads and torn sweatshirts from the 80's, Bob needs to remain part of my past. I will lock him away in my heart as the one who refused to have sex with me. He will always hold that special place. But now I must move on. Greener pastures, right? There is someone out there who will understand and get me. There is a man out there who at this moment is looking for me. I just know it and I will forced myself to believe it because after all, I am 42 and single.