He seemed legit. Nice and well-mannered. Articulate and hard working. Cute in the way I’m cute, which basically means neither of us look our age. And I’d decided to become a serial dater after my heart took a bruising recently. I’ll get into that more in a bit.
I wore my shmexy little black dress. The one that makes me look like my legs are longer than they are and pushes my bewbs into the forefront of the conversation. I can’t really help that last part, though. They’re there, and anything short of some medieval torturous bewb-binding isn’t going to change that fact.
I put on a pair of adorable heels. I applied my eyeliner meticulously. I paid extra attention to my hair that I decided to leave long and flowing.
And he showed up in scruffy shoes, a wrinkled tee shirt with old, stained jeans and a ball cap he didn’t remove once.
Okay, I’m not exactly shallow. But, you know, first dates are for good impressions. I think. Aren’t they still? I mean, if they’re not, can you clue me in so I know what to expect?
I smiled and joked and carried the conversation. I just let my natural exuberance come pouring out. Because it’s difficult not to let that happen. I cannot be contained! The conversation…oh my. It was painful. I thought perhaps asking questions and trying to ascertain some similarities would be prudent. THERE ARE NO SIMILARITIES.
I’m not going to bore you with the evening. Let’s just say as I spied to see him tip, as a bartender/server/hospitality industry career girl extraordinaire, that was it. I was finished. Who the hell tips 9% these days? AFTER I talked about how I’ve taught my children to be good tippers, etc?
And that’s after the conversation about how he wouldn’t possibly have helped that girl who was stranded the other day because it took an hour out of my time to work on my own schoolwork. I said, what if I gave you a chocolate bar to do so? Okay, maybe for chocolate. Which means NO KINDNESS. NONE. He’d require compensation in order to do something nice. Wow, I can imagine the horror of spending more than a week involved with this guy.
And he stared at my bewbs the entire time. I can’t blame him. I mean, seriously, they’re pretty fanfuckingtastic. But am I wrong in feeling like he should at least pretend to not be sitting across from me practically salivating like Pavlov’s pup ready to devour a steak?
So I got out as quickly as I could with an awkward little hug, and immediately decided since I was all dressed up, I was damn well heading out to enjoy myself even if I needed to take a test before midnight (which I made an A on, thank you very much) like an Academic Cinderella.
Cue Chris, one of my most favorite humans. To the rescue, he came, armed with a Captain America shirt and plenty of laughter.
“I just need you to know I’m talking to your breasts more than to your face.”
“Yup. I know.”
He walked me down the stairs arm in arm, settled in beside me, and spent an hour and a half making me feel right as rain again. He just has an innate ability to get me. And he knows I’m gonna feel amazingly complimented when he says, “What turns me on about my girlfriend is what turns me on about you. You say you’re gonna do something, and you damn well do it! That’s so rare.” because it means he views me as a person of my word. A person of integrity and determination and honesty.
So we discussed quite a bit, and I thought about a lot on the drive home. And I realized what the major problem was this evening. I felt absolutely no connection. No draw. No pull. Not even for friendship. I felt nothing but this need for escapism. And I’m aware, fully aware, that I can feel that pull.
My last relationship (albeit, incredibly brief) taught me a very valuable lesson. I am one hundred percent capable of meeting someone, feeling an insane connection, and going for it. No fear. No hesitation. I can trust in my instincts and follow them. I can trust in those instincts and remove myself from a relationship when I feel certain that energy has been removed. Not on my end, I was still invested. But I knew when the change happened, and it happened as suddenly as it had originally just been there.
That relationship also taught me to maybe, perhaps, possibly keep myself from investing too much into one person until enough time has passed that they prove themselves because he just might have an ex girlfriend who sees him moving on with his life via social media and decides she wants him back, and all those pretty, pretty words will be the words he’s giving to her instead of you. And that in itself is fine, too. I’m incapable of being angry over it. One of my friends can’t figure that out. I tell her I’m not upset, and she says, “I KNOW! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE, THOUGH! THAT WAS SHITTY! YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE TREATED LIKE SOMETHING SO DISPOSABLE!”
Yeah, she really is passionate, and I like using caps to convey her frustrations with me.
Serial dating, that’s where it’s at. If I’m asked out, I’m going. And even if I dig the guy lots and lots and lots, I’m not committing anything beyond a carefully guarded little flame of hope which is hidden behind hawk eyes paying attention. I won’t be caught off guard, and he’ll have to prove I actually matter, really, truly matter. And not just for now, but a month after that, and a month after that, and then another month after that. Until I know I can trust him to give some of that deeper part of me without him tossing it away like it’s a grocery receipt in which all the groceries have already been devoured.
And in the meantime, I’ll just keep saying yes to the offers to date and let myself enjoy being out there even if the path leads nowhere. The sights along the way are sure to be worth the wrong turns and empty gas tanks.