Friday, November 19, 2010

Look Out Dating World...

I don't date a lot.  Right?  We've established this?  My X left in June 2004 and since then I've had a couple of boyfriends for maybe a month or two at a time but the last one was summer 2007 and my last actual pick-you-up-for-dinner date?  three years ago.  ugh. 

I used to surf around personals sites occasionally and talked with men through those but for the most part I think online personals sites are utter crap.  If you've found the love of your life through internet dating then CONGRATULATIONS.  I'm sure you're incredibly blissed out.  kudos.  good work on snatching up the last non-serial-rapist type out there.  you kind of suck for that by the way.  but whatever.  My position is firm, no internet dating for me.

I've had plenty of reasons for not putting myself out there more socially in the three dimensional realm also.  Two small children.  Dead mother.  Complicated situation with the outlaws.  Jail.  you know, the usual.

But now, now I've reached a point in life where I feel totally ready for human consumption.  And not just in a booty text kind of way.  Because seriously, if you want to booty text me?  don't.  It won't end well for you is all I'm saying.  Make sure your insurance covers therapy.  I refuse to succumb to the stupid ass booty text.  again.  I am ready for dating.  Actual dating.

And what I want to know now is: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!

Because most women would take this opportunity to ask, "What's wrong with me?  Why doesn't he like me?!" because women blame themselves for everything.  It's in our DNA.  Men never do that.  Or they do it very rarely.  Men ask, "What's her problem?!" and blame other people when stuff goes wrong.

I'm taking the male stance for a minute because here's why...

Let's say, hypothetically, there was an attractive, single, straight, employed man in my age range.  Hard to imagine, I know, but go with me for a second here.  I don't know this guy all that well but let's imagine we have some friends in common and I might be interested in learning more about him.  In theory, I open the door for a man like this to make a move in the dating arena in the form of witty email banter.  I would feel pretty confident about this if I were to do it because I've been told I banter quite wittily via emails and he was the one who sent the first should see if this has potential.  hypothetically.  Right?

Uh huh.  Over the past couple of weeks every attempt I've made has glanced off this guy like Joe Dirt sprayed him down with PAM at the county fair.  Seriously.  At a point where most men would have pulled a Brett Favre, in theory...I can't get this guy past one line, cloddish messages. 

My friend Audrey, ever the optimist, recommended I "re-bait the hook."  Maybe he doesn't know I'm interested?  Maybe...just re-bait the damn hook is what she said.  In ALL CAPS if I remember correctly.  *sigh.  fine.  I did.  I gave him my number.  I told Audrey, "okay.  but just watch.  it won't work."  She said, "you never knoooow..."  We bet a lemontini on whether or not he'd call and by when.  Lemontini is our standard bet about stuff like this.

Audrey owes me so many goddamn lemontinis by now we're going to need an ambulance on standby the next time we go out.

Anyway, I need to talk to this guy for other reasons and the cavalry I enlisted during the reunion stepped in and tried to help me out.  Which is awesome.  I love my cavalry.  My minions.  But I should not need a fucking cavalry to help me get a date, okay?  I am smart, funny, accomplished...sort of...and fairly cute.  Some even say hot.  but not if their wives are within in earshot or have access to their email accounts.  ANYWAY...I should not need minions to help attract a man. 

Because when that much effort is required?  It's too much fucking effort.  I end up looking like the chick at the bar who flips her hair like there might be a spider crawling in it.  Or yanks her blouse down off the shoulder in a way that inspires observers to sport the you-do-realize-people-can-see-you? look.  And then tries to position herself so seductively in her chair that she falls out of it in the process.  All the while the guy is watching the game on TV and has no clue this is going on in his periphery.

And I don't even CARE about this guy.  It's not even fun anymore.  It doesn't feel like flirting.  It feels like clubbing baby seals.  and it's not even working.  I quit.

So like I said, I'm adopting the male stance here.  He's either brain damaged or gay.  not that there's anything wrong with that, but I'm not in the mood to try to flip anyone and brain damaged I simply can't work with.  Or he's after some super-modelly type with fake boobs and a spray tan, and I can't work with that either.

There has GOT to be some single, straight, self-sufficient man in my area code with whom I share an attraction.  There has to be

I understand I could be way more strategic about this.  "Leaving the house more" is on my list of things to do.  definitely.  Because everybody knows all the craiglist missed connections happen in Walmart. 

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