The Gentle (?) Letdown.

My wild weekend of dating turned out to be somewhat of a bust. First the cancellation from the mistaken racist, and then a cancellation (blamed on a change of work schedule) by the second, who I would say I was most interested in meeting with (and not just because he's a bartender... only mostly because he's a bartender).

My third and only date remained steady, bless his little heart. We met for coffee today-- I arrived early and bought my own, because I am frankly feeling on the bitchy edge of anti-social off and on the past few weeks (I'm blaming a serious amount of stress all  at once, including a death in the family) and the thought of going through the "who will pay" dance made me cringe. I didn't think I could muster up enough fake gratitude for a cup of coffee to make it worthwhile.

He was nice, and he liked to talk, which worked out well for me since I've been more in the mood to glare and fester, but of course, as usual, there was no real interest on my part. The only thing I could arrange any enthusiasm for was our discussion of "Game of Thrones," which is my new obsession and a nice change from my conversations revolving around mutant sharks. I didn't even go into detail about my multitude of pets when he asked me, which is usually the topic of conversation that turns me into a warm-hearted tiny white Oprah.

And this picture is from when I gave him a bath! 

It was, as my friend termed it, the "Snore Date."

No rudeness on his part, just a general lack of compatibility. I was glad he talked, because unless my coffee magically transformed into a frosty brew, I didn't have the energy for feigning interest in the things he enjoys, and he didn't seem especially enamored of my own likes and dislikes, and was only lukewarm when I showed him a slideshow of my cats.

An hour into it, I was confident nothing was going to happen, and also hungry (bitchiness level: high), so I excused myself to go home and eat ( + sweatpants). The poor man checked his phone for the time.

"Oh, it's only been an hour? Feels like longer!"

Yes, it really did, but thanks for that flattering reminder. This earned its appropriate response from me... something between a sneer and a look of disgust, along with an acerbic concern I had bored him.

So, yeah...

I wasn't sure I'd hear from him after all of that, but I did a few hours later, thanking me for the date and asking to grab a drink another time.

I set my phone aside. I pondered. I forgot about it and watched "True Blood." I remembered. I worried. I watched more television and did laundry.

While most agree I am perfection (statistics show), one criticism I do get from those that know me and know of my dating routines is that I avoid letting men down in the worst possible way.

To me, this is utter kindness, with only a strong dash of cowardice.

"Wouldn't you want to know?" My friend says.

NO. I would not want to know. Absolutely not. I've touched on this before and I reiterate it. In casual dating situations (exceptions may exist based on how "casual" I consider the situation), I would rather assume (and hope) that the man in question died a tragic death on the way home from our date--possibly running his car into the river because he was lost in thought about how marvelous I am and didn't see that a freak storm had washed the bridge out, yonder--rather than that he found some part of me lacking.

Especially on such short acquaintance, when I work so hard for them to not notice all the Crazy I've swept under the rug. On first dates, I'm at my best. I'm charming, more or less. I'm pretending to care about your job and your interests.

I showered.

So what is the problem? Is it my crooked smile? Is it that one of my jokes came off wrong? Is it that I blurt out things before I can consider them? Do you not like an in-depth critical analysis of "Sharktopus?"

*eye twitch*

We've all got our tragic flaw, and mine is that I want that to be good enough... for everyone. I can't become prettier, or more interesting, or pretend to enjoy things I don't.

It is what it is.

But I like it, and if someone else doesn't... well, honestly, I don't want to know about it. Let's just gradually lose touch and pretend we don't know each other when we see one another on the street. That was I can go on thinking the problem is your sexual confusion, and nothing to do with me.

When I consider rejection of another, all I can think is of how I would feel in their place... how I am reducing them to a shivering glob of insecurity by my cold, heartless disinterest.

I spoke with them, I looked at them, and I found them lacking, or unappealing.

 How dare I? Who the fuck do I think I am? I DON'T GOT TO CHANGE FOR NOBODY!!

Apparently, though, this is not how the rest of the world thinks. Not everyone is on my level of defiant desperation. General consensus is: if you don't want to go out with a guy again... he should probably know that.

I can only change my phone number so many times. The kind thing to do is to cut ties, move on, and get a new phone in case they drunk text and make me feel bad.

So tonight I made the effort to man up. After a few hours of putting it off (fantasies of "how could you, you bitch? I loved you!" popping up on my screen), I had my first experience with gently rejecting someone I had gone on a date with.

I'm gonna need a bigger mug.

I did the best I could, using honesty and smiley faces and every other method of kindness I can portray via text. I told him I had a good time. I told him I just didn't feel the specific (nearly unobtainable) connection I was looking for... which was totally my fault, fer shor I'm practically dead inside. I told him I'd love to hang out as friends, which is true (he has all the DVD seasons of "Game of Thrones"). I threw in some more emoticons.

I have not heard back yet, so I assume he has killed himself.

Dipping My Toe Back In...

Damn. I need a Pedi.

I'll try to keep this short and sweet, since I'm low on topic, but fact of it is, I miss you, and I want to reach out and bad-touch you via Internet blogging. Shh... just let it happen.

Fortunately or unfortunately (seeming dependent on the day), my dating life has fallen to the wayside in favor of trying to get my shit together in other aspects of my existence. Like:

#1 Navigating being a good or at least tolerable employee, even though 75% of the time I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing and 5% of the time I'm crying in the car while I contemplate just driving to Mexico and becoming a drug lord.

#2 Taking care of my babies and cleaning puke out of my hair. God, they puke a lot. Why? Why, on the bed while I'm sleeping? Why on my pillow?

#3 Getting my health in order by eating crazy good organic food. See #1.

#4 Renewing my pursuit of the elusive Literary Agent.

And this is all good. This is what grown ups do, or so I've been told. I even bought myself a coffee maker with a timer, so I can get out of bed at a "reasonable hour," sit on the front porch and glare at the neighborhood children over a nice cup of java with almond milk.

But it doesn't leave a lot of time for dating. How can I tell those damn kids to keep off my lawn when I'm on a date?

When free time rolls around, it seems a more comfortable and logical choice to spend it with friends-- people I already know and don't have to feign interest in, or do my hair for, who will not be offended when I suddenly blurt out that I want to go home NOW get the tab, they just know that sometimes I just suddenly hate everything without reason and that's just who I am.

No fuss. No drama. No push-up bra.

The smoking hottie, I may have mentioned, was onto my blog, but what I did not realize was that he was onto it from the start, and I played into it rather like a mice in a maze hornily running after some hot cheese. Alas.

He did bring up something that made me think (yuck). He admitted he was nervous that I was analyzing him the entire date.

It's a fair assumption that I'm going on these dates ready to eviscerate the hapless men whenever they misstep, but it's not quite true. I'm still on these dates as dates, and I'm still vaguely hoping that something will click. I break them apart the same way I break apart everything I experience-- I write, and by nature I can't avoid that internal narrator that turns everything into an experience. If I got your love and approval for a detailed narration of my excursion to purchase Tampax, things may be different here.

Of course, then I post it all online, which is admittedly pretty weird but it works for me because I'm admittedly pretty weird.

Regardless, it was all a little confusing.

I got the dating itch again the other day, when a cutie was chatting me up at the car wash. I felt all giggly and gleeful, like I was in high school again getting attention from the sexy guy in my Biology class. How often do cuties chat me up, after all? I laughed, I tossed my hair, and I felt like a kid again.

When he found out we had gone to the same school, it was even better. And then when he asked what year I graduated, I figured out why it was giving me such a throwback to high school. He was practically still in high school.

I sobered up from my little high, put on my bifocals, and cut that shit out.

I've got two dates (with legal, consenting adults) this weekend in an effort to strike that memory from my mind. I had three, but the third cancelled because he was not comfortable dating "multiethnic" girls at one time.

Luckily, that was an autocorrect from "multiple" because I thought he was pretty racist for a few minutes.

Both are nice guys. Not my usual type (unshaven hippie pirates), but polite, and kind and complimentary. I feel this ensures me at least some good conversation... and who knows what else?