Girl Meets Date

I’ve been struggling on how to start this blog all week. 

Like any other self-respecting writer I’ll do just about anything to avoid writing. And writing this blog is no exception. I waited until my back was to the wall and I was in danger of breaking my commitment to post an entry a week before I could write this. To think, its only week three!

I spent all week trying to decide how to handle The Athlete. Since technically he’s Boy #3, it didn’t seem fair to list him as Boy #2. I thought about lying and then remembered I don’t lie well. I also contemplated posting this without any explanation until I realized it would look like a typo and that my disdain for obvious typos would get the better of me.

Here’s the truth: I’m skipping over Boy #2. He’s one of those rare good guys that I should get to have in my life. But for reasons out of his and my control, he’s not right now.

I signed up for Match.com to try and distract me from Boy #2.

There should really this warning on Match.com: Proceed with caution, must weed through a sea of freaks to find the normal ones. At first blush, Match was great—I figured I would be over Boy #2 before I hit “post my profile.”

I was then contacted by The Athlete.

A former pro tennis player hailing from the land of Bond, in emails and on the phone, The Athlete seemed clever, caring and most importantly, not Boy #2. I mean, seriously, a PRO TENNIS PLAYER? With an accent? How could any girl pass this opportunity up?

I’m not sure at what point the date became a complete disaster. Was it when I met him I gave him a hug? He brought that up over and over all night long! Or was it when he asked for a pen so he could draw a tattoo on his arm? Or perhaps it was when after dinner he took me on a tour of his area, pointing out the strip malls and stopping at Tilly’s for some light shopping?

But if I were to pinpoint the moment of complete destruction, I would choose when after dinner and the Tilly’s shopping excursion, he modeled his favorite articles of clothing for me while I sat there, with a slice of cheesecake in my hands.

During his show and tell, I spent most of the time inspecting the cheesecake working off the theory that he had poisoned it and consumed some of the poisoned slices by mistake—this seemed like a logical explanation for his bizarre behavior.

After forcing a few yawns and abandoning my poison theory, I made my escape and drove as fast as I could from his place. I even changed lanes several times and glanced through the rearview mirror as if he was James Bond and could somehow be tailing me. I even went as far as to spy out the window for several minutes after arriving home until I was convinced he did not follow me. Once I was satisfied it was over, I put him behind me.

The next day proved to be a different story.

His impression of the date was very different than mine I found out the next morning. While I saw my reluctance to hold hands, hang out after dinner, and avoid the topic of a second date as a sign that we were not meant to be, he did not.

He woke up and IM’d me the next day, already planning out our future. I tried to be polite and told him that I was busy at work (I really was) but he was relentless in his pursuit.

So I did what any self-respecting person would do, I blocked him. It wasn’t meant to be permanent, just so I could get some work done. (Really, really, he was being annoying). But after a mere ten minutes of uninterrupted peace, I got an instant message from an account I didn’t recognize. “You blocked me??”

Busted.

Sometimes our best attempts to force change lead us back to the very thing that we were trying to escape. I can’t avoid my heart and my best attempts to do so result in writer’s block and catastrophe dates.

I thought about trying to explain to The Athlete why I had blocked him and why I wasn’t the girl for him. But his barrage of messages and texts made it clear that he would never understand why he was single. After it was all said and done, I had privacy settings on every one of my online communication outlets and had blocked him in every way possible from my life. Eventually The Athlete faded away.

 

While out with good friend last Friday I was summed up by him more succinctly that in any of my best self-analytical moments. As we ate Gelato in the unseasonably chilly spring air he stated, “You need a little friction in your life to be happy.”

So while sitting there, between bites of Gelato, I realized how right he was and how that need for a friction has led me to cause many of my dating disasters.

To clarify, this friction doesn’t equal drama. I try to be a drama-free zone, though at times drama inevitably finds me (look for drama’s appearance in later entries). It’s not drama I crave, but that little spark that keeps me on my toes. And this yearning for that spark is what ultimately ended my brief encounter with The Hottie.

He was the boy that all the girls wanted. A GQ-reading, slick-dressing, confidence-dripping, ah-ha of a man that knew it. And somehow despite the chaos that is me, for at least a few weeks, I was the girl that caught his eye.

I had known him for a while before the idea of a date had ever crossed either of our minds. So when we finally met up for dinner, it was so natural and easy-going that by the end of the night I just had stir things up a bit.

So I insulted his TV.

Its been pointed out to me that, in general, it’s not a good idea to challenge a man’s electronic devices, especially when that someone has taken such great lengths in choosing his furniture, arranging his magazines perfectly on the coffee table, and remembering details like putting my leftovers in the fridge. But there his TV was, sitting in his pristine apartment and out came the statement: I proudly declared mine superior.

Gotta work on that internal censor.

He laughed it off with such ease that when he invited me over to watch a movie, I wore pants that shouldn’t see the light of day and didn’t even bother to brush my hair. I talked throughout the movie, and purposely set my glass directly on the coffee table as a test to see if he would place a coaster under it. He did, by the way.

And I just couldn’t stop there. I raided his video game collection and proceeded to explain why I needed at least one of his games to the point where he would’ve probably given me half of his games if I had pushed him. And I even left my favorite movie in his care even though I knew I wasn’t getting it back.

When he didn’t call the following week I didn’t mind. When he didn’t respond to my text, I didn’t care. I knew that we didn’t have any staying power. He didn’t call me not because he didn’t find me interesting, but because he’s not the type to hang out with someone consistently.

And I was fine with that. But then I went and told my girlfriends about him.

Sometimes good intentions can develop into our worst enemies. I heard every reason why he was a jerk, why I should care and by the end of the week I did care. Not because I was losing him, but because I thought I should care. I picked apart every moment I had spent with him until everything was raw and I had the friction I was looking for.

In reality he’s a great guy, funny, intelligent and independent. While I wished I understood this need for friction before I leapt headfirst with him, I still would’ve reacted the same way and said that same things. But I might have a friend right now instead of just a story and a memory. In the long run though, being true to yourself is more important than attempting to salvage something that doesn’t exist.

Oh, and for the record, my TV is better.

A few months ago, I woke up and realized that the person I had spent my entire dating life with and I no longer worked as a couple. After this sad realization we broke up, ending a decade-long relationship and plunging me, at 28-years old, into the dating scene for the first time. 

It didn’t take long to realize that I’m bad at dating.

In the way of advice, I’ve heard it all. Let him chase you, guys like a girl who’s hard to get. Laugh at all his jokes even if he’s not funny. Don’t answer the phone when he calls, wait and call him back. Don’t sleep with him on the first date. Don’t kiss him on the first date. Don’t share too much information, you’ll scare him away. Don’t let him have a second chance if he cancels or screws up. If you hear from him immediately after the date he’s desperate, too long after the date and he’s not interested.

It’s enough to make a girl crazy.

I’ve had some doozies in my short time as a dater. From the guy who suggested that he model his wardrobe for me as our post-dinner entertainment to the social networking king that unexpectedly met my ex to the guy who I insulted the size of TV before he kidnapped my favorite movie, I’ve already chalked up a whole slew of great dating stories in my short clueless dating experience.

But until I meet the boy that brings me soup when I’m sick and doesn’t mind my affection for comfy fat pants and is ok with me not returning his winter socks I’ve stolen because my feet are cold, I’m just going to have to date.

But that doesn’t mean I have to play “the game.” I decided to toss out the rule book and do it my way. The guy for me won’t pay the head games and won’t care that I don’t follow the rules. He’ll like me for who I am right off the bat. Right?

So as I falter in my quest to find that special boy, I’ve decided to start up this blog to chronicle my missteps. As I dust off the dirt from each fall, I learn a little more about me, about them and about what I want out of life.

Look for my first dating misadventure next week with weekly entries following until I either meet my match or stop getting asked out (both perfectly logical outcomes, though the latter seems more likely). But this blog isn’t just about me, well not all the time at least. Share with me your dating disasters! But please, no advice. I will virtually insult you and delete your comment and you off my friends list if you violate this request.

Happy reading!