Admission: obviously I've lost momentum on this whole dating experiment.
It just so much effort. Unless I'm really hungry, I don't much look forward to it. And if I'm hungry I'm probably whining and pissed off anyway, so I get even more annoyed about it.
First I have to shower. Like, real showering. I can't just rinse off and call it good because I'm putting my hair up anyway. A human beyond a member of my family is going to be within smelling distance of me and the water seems to be hitting some sort of force field of odor. I haven't shaved my legs since summer. You know what's dangerous? Balancing in the shower with a sharp object. I really don't feel like endangering my life on a regular basis when my normal routine has become working diligently on deepening the ass print in my armchair. I need a thick covering of leg hair so the cats will accept me as one of their own.
Then there is makeup. I don't even want to talk about it, I'm tired already. It's two words made into one to trick you.
And now, while I may smell ridiculous awesome and my skin is flawless (oh, just good genes and living well), there's the overwhelming task of doing my hair. A task complicated by the situation of being half-way through a transition from using shampoo to using "no-poo" which is pretty much how the cavemen washed their hair (with organic apple cider vinegar).
Allegedly cave ladies had supple, shiny hair full of volume and pizzazz, but I'm still in the stage where the roots look like I've been wearing a heavy knit hat for months and the bottom seems to be emulating Alice from Dilbert.
Needless to say, I've been rocking the sassy pony (future band name?).
Wednesday I finally met up with Zoolander. I was originally supposed to get martinis with him last week, but I caught a bout of agoraphobia and instead ordered pizza and caught up on "Downton Abbey" while wearing men's sweatpants.
The cats need company.
I don't have much to say about Zoolander. As I am coming to expect at this point, he was not as attractive as he was in his pictures. He did have beautiful cheekbones--I wanted to use them to hide my house key when I went away for the weekend--but other than that I wasn't much impressed.
His major first date flaw: Zoolander talks over me. Actually, lots of people talk over me; I'm kind of used to it, although it's not a trait I'd really appreciate in a long-term potential mate. When I was telling my mom about how my date talked over me, my brother was talking over me. The story took hours.
The good news is he took me out for sushi, so while he was making sure I didn't get a word in, I was eating more than my fair portion of the plate. Win. You keep talking, pal. This tempura tuna ain't gonna eat itself.
Maybe his cheeks wouldn't be so hollow if he stopped yapping during meals.
Can you pass the soy sauce?
Tonight I met up with News Guy. I knew this was going nowhere, but Zoolander, frankly, gave me no fodder whatsoever for a good blog post. I threw myself on the blade for you, readers.
News Guy is thus termed because he works for the news. Yes, I really stretched for that one.
Yet again, News Guy did not look like his pictures. What is this magical angle these men are finding? Will they share their secrets? Granted I chose my pictures as representative of what I look like under ideal circumstances, but they still look like me.
I passed News Guy's table uncertainly, circled back around, and hid in the corner to text him. I didn't go over until the man who kind of looked like News Guy checked his phone.
He was exactly what I had anticipated after texting him for a few days... only in person one can't pretend the battery on one's phone has died. I was stuck. At a tiny, tiny table. Forcing myself to smile until my eye twitched.
I knew about fourteen seconds after sitting down with him this wasn't going to work. And worse, I wasn't going to enjoy it. When he waved dismissively at the waitress my stomach shrank. When he smugly told me he was paying for dinner and I could get whatever I wanted, my conscious threw up its hands and told me, fuck it, girl. Get the big shrimp.
News Guy was definitely the worst of the dates so far. Everything was confrontational, aggressive and judgmental. Everything I said was incorrect. My opinions were wrong, and any time I tried to argue them, he just shook his head snarkily, and said "Oh, you really are opinionated." At one point, before I had finished my first and only beer, he even called me a drunk.
And yet, I was the one trying to carry this thing. He didn't contribute, he just shot down my every comment.
Here's an example of how the conversation went:
(Finding myself lacking in conversation and staring at my beautiful, delicious shrimp)
MeMe: Have you ever been to Melting Pot? The fondue place?
NG: No, I don't like fondue.
MeMe: Oh. Well, I love it, but every time I've tried to make it myself it hasn't turned out right.
NG: I can see that.
MeMe: See... what? You don't... think I could be a good cook?
NG: Not really. I can't see you being good at cooking.
MeMe: I'm a good cook. I love to cook. It's one of my favorite things to do.
... FUCK. YOU.
Dating is stupid.