The plan was to wake up early, go to the gym so I'd look extra slender, spend a leisurely amount of time polishing and buffing and shaving and plucking and applying and fluffing until it looked like Lindsay Lohan's downfall in reverse.
Seriously the scariest movie I've ever seen.
However, because I am MeMe, instead I slept late, lay in bed working a few hours, enjoyed walking the dog too long, ran out of time and had to throw on make-up before booking it to the theater, where I arrived as the movie was starting.
Unfortunately, I don't wear much make-up these days, and with the combination of yellow lights in the bathroom, it wasn't until I was on the highway that I realized somewhere along the line my skin had gone from Incredibly White to Kristen Stewart without informing my make-up supply, and it was more than evident that I was wearing foundation caked on like I was entering Witness Protection. I spent my drive trying to wipe off everything I'd just layered on, but by the time I arrived, frantic and missing a great deal of my Hot Girl Swagger, I'd managed to downgrade from "Tan Mom" to "Hopefully The Lighting Will Be Low."
I've been really looking forward to our date and eventual marriage.
Luckily, FH was totally calm about me arriving late, which is an important trait in a man interested in dating me, because I firmly believe being on time is for chumps or people with real jobs.
We went in to see "The Hobbit," miraculously arriving mid-previews. And yes, he snuck in a flask.
I had a feeling he might since we had both made that awesome joke about a "Hobbit" drinking game, but the presentation was less OMG that's hilarious! You actually did it! and more, Oh. Mmk. Perhaps it would have been a more enjoyable game if I hadn't destroyed a bag of Sour Patch Kids in a horrific incident of gummie genocide and suffered the inevitable loss of all skin on my tongue. Do NOT, I repeat, do NOT pour straight vodka over that.
Unfortunately, it didn't take too long to determine that Future Husband would need to be renamed, and the coveted (YES COVETED) title to go back on the shelf for later times.
There was nothing wrong with him, although he wins the Expert award for picking flattering dating site photographs and I would have towered over him in heels.
I just didn't feel that hoped-for connection, and it was obvious I was reading his hilarious and clever texts in my own imaginary fake Future Husband voice, thus improving them, because while we had a nice conversation, nothing about it make me go all squee inside.
After the movie, where I tried not to openly display how turned on I am by Aidan Turner..
Sorry about the squirming... it's just so... itchy... in here...
... we went and got dinner, at a really good Italian place, and had a nice conversation. He did everything well, too. We got drinks, I got whatever I wanted, and he asked if I wanted dessert after.
We shared food and he told me he was impressed that I didn't mind him eating off my plate, but since I grew up with brothers and our dining episodes were mostly who can eat enough out of the trough to survive, my only goal is to eat more than my counterpart and to kill them and wear their skin as a trophy if they touch the last bite. Aren't most girls like that?
But, no click. No butterflies. No itchy seat.
Honestly, I just don't see the point in dating someone if I don't spend the whole time they're talking picturing them naked on a beach pouring me a cocktail while we laugh about some mutual inside joke and share taste in music and personal values.
You know. Standards.
Which is to just say, if there's no spark with someone, then I will get bored with them. Quickly. And that spark is a sadly elusive creature.
So back to the drawing board.