With
the new job, I have oodles of tragicomedy to pack into this column.
Nothing else ever happened with my last prospect after our sort-of-wistful
week, because he writes ‘u’ and ‘ur’ in
emails, instead of ‘you and ‘your.’ Not quite
as bad as ‘lol’, but honestly, how much time does that
really save, and how Tiger Beat-fan-mail is that? In any
case, his sloppy correspondence was an instant and irreversible
turnoff, and whatever recollection I had of his being less than
gentlemanly faded into a ‘Did that really happen?’ memory.
The conveniently selective memory is a useful tool which
lets me move on with my life without being continually mortified
by every peculiar thing I’ve done. And thank goodness
for it, because otherwise I’d be crippled by my embarrassing
past, instead of hoping to compile this stuff and cash in on it
someday.
A few weeks ago I met a cute, smart, funny, stylish young man at
a party and went out with him a few times. He liked to dance, travel,
and spoke a couple of languages… all very good things. We
had a wonderful time together until one night when we were playing
footsie at some bar and he mentioned that he had talked to his old
college roommate for almost two hours that day. The admission was
like a cold damp cloth to my libido, and I scurried home, “exhausted.”
I have an intense dislike of telephones and only use them to exchange
information or catch up, in 15-minute increments, with far-away
friends. I already know my prejudice is totally unreasonable. After
all, it wasn’t as though he was making me talk to him on the
phone for hours.
The next date was with an ostensibly nice guy who thought it inhuman
that I don’t cry very often. I don’t remember how it
came up in conversation, but we were sitting on his lovely balcony
and I mentioned something about having cried once this year. It’s
not that I stoically hold in tears, or am a chest-pounding hardass,
but I just don’t have that physical need or desire to shed
tears very often, unless, oddly enough, I’m watching deep
pap on TV. On the Summerland season finale, for example,
when the orphans found an apron that smelled like their mother’s
perfume… I had to bite my hand. Anyway, horrified, he claimed
I was repressing all of my true feelings and was clearly a very
cold, unfeeling person. I disagreed, saying that I simply don’t
find most events all that dreadful. He wasn’t convinced, which
irritated me into telling him I thought the frequency of his tears
belied a constant desire to be the center of attention. Although
his pouty little face wanted to suggest otherwise, I was probably
right to chalk that miserable evening up to his being an actor,
and therefore able to cry on command. Perhaps not being able to
is some sign of weakness in their world.
As it turned out, the most pleasant interaction I’ve had with
the opposite sex all month was when I left a bar one evening with
a group of friends and recruited friendly strangers for an after-party.
In the crew was a young man I originally mistook for ‘Wee
Man’ from Jackass. For those who will not stoop to watching
the television show, Wee Man is, as his name would imply, a little
person. As I soon found out, what he lacked in height and
celebrity he made up for in chatty, insightful personality, and
I have to admit I found it completely charming when he climbed onto
the kitchen counter so he “could see my eyes better.”
A helpful friend told me later that he left with my phone number,
which I found sweet. I did realize this morning, however, that he
hasn’t actually tried to call, which is kind of a slap in
the face. A very small slap. A tap, really.
At least I have finally figured out the flirting boundaries at work.
After worrying that I was being either too friendly or not friendly
enough to my male co-workers, for fear of being dismissed as either
a slut or a prude, it turns out that pretty much anything goes.
I recently switched bosses, and my adorable ex-boss had a raging
birthday party last weekend. He walked up to me, undid my belt,
pulled me in to wrap his arms around my waist, and beamed “Guess
what? Now that you’re not my beeyatch I can treat you like
a beeyatch!” Setting aside the oddness of it all, it was truly
comforting knowing that I, too, might be forgiven for being entirely
inappropriate in social situations with my co-workers.
The more things change the more they stay the same. Once again,
the end of summer draws near, and the trying journey toward finding
someone I don’t mind being in the same room with continues.
At times I
still wonder if it’s completely unreasonable to expect that
a guy is going to come along who will not think I’m an icy
witch or irritate the bejeesus out of me. It can be easy to think
that a guy who calls when I want him to, or one who is expressive
of his affection when stone-cold sober, might be too much to ask
for. As my mother likes to remind me, I do tend to be picky. It
is far too much to ask that the next boy I date be ‘funny’
or ‘interesting.’ I should learn to be satisfied
with ‘well-educated,’ ‘well-paid,’ ‘not
fat,’ and ‘close to his family,’ even though that
usually means ‘weirdly obsessed with his mother.’ However
impatient I am, I have no real doubt that the right guy will float
on in at the right time. He will probably exhibit certain annoying
traits, and I absolutely will not care one whit, probably finding
said traits endearing, because I will be both ready and willing
to give him a chance. For now, I am clearly meant to be sorting
out my career, spending time with friends, and collecting silly
stories from the dating front. A2P
Email
girl@annarborpaper.com.
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