Day Who Even Knows . . . 29?

Guys.  Shit.

So.  In just under a month, I have successfully failed (oxymoron?) at procuring a man to accompany me to this wedding tomorrow afternoon.  I get it: I am not a millionaire, I am not gorgeous, and I am not cutting edge cool.  But seriously.  You mean to tell me that in the city of Cleveland, there isn't someone relatively compatible with me who would be up for spending 6 hours with me?  (Answer: Right.)  That is a solid FAIL!

It's been a pretty rough week at work, physically, mentally, emotionally.  Everyone in my classroom got our asses handed to us this week by a group of 10-year-olds.  It gets kind of lonely sometimes coming home to no one, doing things with no one, sounding off to no one.  Don't worry, my parents are extra amenable to me calling them all the time crying about my life, but there are points where I feel like they probably just want me to get my shit together, and last weekend when I was home, my dad DID make the obvious point of stating that he'd like grandkids really soon please.  Dad.  Ask Rachel.  I'm undatable.

I guess I did it wrong over the past four weeks (and, I should add, also didn't update the blog every day, due to . . . NO material).  I went out as much as I could handle, I was nice, I flirted, I did it for the blog.  And in that time, various people contacted me regarding the project, both male and female.  What follows is a sampling of some of the feedback I received.  With this being the last day of the project and all, I figured it was no holds barred.  And if you contacted me, you kind of asked for it.  Names have been removed to preserve anonymity, but rest assured that I am not making any of this up.

(From a guy I knew at John Carroll:)

Hey Lex [I HAVE NEVER GONE BY "LEX"],
We may have hooked up in college [(A) DID YOU READ THE DISCLAIMER; (B) YOU WERE NOT A GOOD KISSER], but let me tell you i am a really great wedding date/dancer:) i read your blog and was smiling the whole time. It was great. I know you are serious in it so I wish you good luck in your search, and if you decide to break all your rules i unfortunately am not sorta single [BECAUSE YOU ARE MARRIED.] and definitely geographically unavailable [BECAUSE YOU LIVE IN NORTH CAROLINA, BUT MAINLY, BECAUSE YOU ARE MARRIED]. Hope all is well write me back and let me know what you are up to besides trying to find a guy to lose in 10 days.
Sincerely,
Blast from the past,
[X]

(From another guy I knew in college and haven't talked to since sophomore year:)

Alexandra, 

Your wedding date search post appeared up on the feed last week. After reading your blog posts (intensely interesting), I debated contacting you. So here I am.

As we were never particularly close in college [AND BY THAT, YOU MEAN, WE TALKED MAYBE ONCE] and haven’t been in touch recently, I thought it might help to go over a few points about myself: [GOOD, BY ALL MEANS, SEND ME YOUR RESUME.]

Basics: Same major as you, working on MBA, nice job, financial analyst.

The superficial: Recently got a new car and I own a small condo in [X] (it’s a great school district; why did that matter to a 20-something, childless, single male? Resale value). [WHO SAYS THIS.]

Physical: Started slimming down (no particular goal, just a happenstance of working out), get to the gym 3 times/week mostly for cardio but more recently have gotten into lifting and weights [UHHH . . . ]

Bonus: Politically liberal, quite a collection of $1 books from library book sales (mostly about investing)

Lastly, as the event in question is a wedding, you will obviously need a dance partner. I am ready, reluctantly willing, and somewhat able to fill this role. While my dance skills are questionable, I took the liberty of listing some references to attest to my dance history. Mind you these individuals have not seen me get down in years, so they’re reviews may not accurately reflect my current, dancing-like-an-idiot abilities:

[X], [X]

I am not asking to be your wedding date. However, I am hoping for the same opportunity as your internet strangers [I AM NOT TAKING INTERNET STRANGERS TO A WEDDING??]: a chance for us to “mingle,” be evaluated as to whether I am wedding date worthy, and ultimately exploited anonymously via the world wide web.

Lastly, in my personal opinion, you should not have to hide the fact that you own a bunny. That’s just plain wrong and any man should be able to accept you and your rabbit for who you two are. [I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY ABOUT THIS, EXCEPT -- COME ON.]

Regards,
[X]

PS. Sorry for this long-winded message.

[YOU MEAN, YOUR RESUME. IT IS AT THIS POINT THAT I BURY MY HEAD INTO A PILLOW AND SCREAM]

Other tips from friends included:

-- "Might I suggest spending a Sunday at Lowes or Home Depot (pretend you have a project even if you just buy a pack of seeds or something, tons of single guys there and you already know they have money, are semi-responsible, and probably own a house)."

-- "Go to a gay club and scout out single straight guys.  Single straight guys looking for girls know that lots of girls go their with their gay guy friends, and they figure their odds are really good if they're the only straight guy in the entire building."

-- "Go to a sports bar and talk to guys about the game.  Ask them questions about it so they'll think you're interested in what you're interested in."

I didn't do any of those last three, nor did I take any of the above guys up on their offers, basically because . . . definitely not . . . but I feel like all in all, I gave it a valiant effort.  At the end of the day, I remain convinced that it's more fulfilling to wait for what's right than settle for what's okay.  And maybe I'll have to change the title of this blog, or start a new one, but let's be honest people, the dating adventures are just beginning.  If nothing else, I've chronicled the misadventures of dating as an adult woman, and laughed at the (real) shit that's happened.  I've learned a bit about myself, and, frankly, I've learned what I'm looking for and, at least, how I DON'T want to go about finding it.  Maybe I'm not smart enough.  (Actually, no, I am definitely smart enough.)  Maybe I'm not pretty enough.  Maybe I'm not fancy enough.  But it can't be said that I didn't give it the old honest effort.  I watched "My Best Friend's Wedding" last night for the 350th time (but not in many years), alone, on the couch, mid crying episode, thinking it'd be a fun, light, girl movie (turns out: that movie's really f-ing depressing), and Rupert Everett's line at the end, at the wedding, is what I will leave you with:

[As he moves across the dance floor towards a despondent and single Julia Roberts, sexy gay man that he is] "What the hell.  Life goes on.  Maybe there won't be marriage . . . maybe there won't be sex . . . but, by God, there'll be dancing."

Day 21: Reflecting on a CAB

In light of my recent Facebook references to "CAB," it seems timely to tell a little story that supports the reasons women give out fake phone numbers.

A few weeks ago, I decided to drive to the beach on a Sunday afternoon.  I wanted to go by myself and just relax.  And to be honest, I didn't really give a shit who thought what about it.  It's what I wanted to do.

Never one to mind doing things alone (Miss Independent! She's got her own thing!), I grabbed a pile of magazines, my iPod, a blanket, and my stainless steel, BPA-free, environmentally friendly -- duh -- water bottle and headed to spend a few hours completely checked out.  Since, as we all remember, I've never been to the ocean, a little trip to Lake Erie is going to have to do.

So I'm laying there, on my stomach, sunglasses on, headphones in, donning a not-even-close-to-slutty bathing suit, minding my own business and reading a lovely issue of Vogue.  This random guy walks up to my towel, squats down, and says, "Hi, I'm Bob, mind if I talk to you for a minute?"  Uh, okay Bob, I guess.  "What did you say your name was?"  Bob, I haven't told you my name, you can't use that line on your SECOND line.  Okay, then third line: "So, do you have a boyfriend or anything?"  BOB.  You may never have been appropriately taught that that is a completely unacceptable thing to say to someone within 30 seconds.  Caught off guard, I told him, "Uhhh, no..."  LEARN HOW TO LIE, ALEXANDRA.

Bob proceeds to invite himself to remain in his squat, like 6 inches from my face, all the while I haven't removed my sunglasses, gotten off my belly, or taken out the remaining earphone to actually fully hear him.  Bob should hang out with Parma and enroll in our Social Skills classes held weekly at our Center.  Bob goes on and on for like 10 minutes, asking me where I work, where I live, what I like to do for fun, what restaurants are my favorites, etc., and I continue to give him polite yet mildly irritated one-word answers.  Bob, I came here to relax and have time to myself.  I'd like to reiterate that a woman enjoying time alone is NOT the SD that she wants to be approached.

But wait, you ask yourself.  Aren't you doing this blog to find out if men DO approach women and initiate things?  Why yes, I respond, I am.  But, I would argue that the key difference lies in the fact that there are certain social signals which should play out in order for both parties to subtly but certainly indicate their mutual interest.  Settings, surroundings, all those intangibles that amount to a clear, invited opportunity to engage with someone.  Everything about this just read: please go away.


Bob, still squatting, asked for my number, and, doing it for the blog, I figured, I suppose I'll give it to him?  In a poor tactical move, I'd left my phone laying out next to my magazine, in plain sight, so he says, "Here, give me your number, then I'll call your phone right now and you can save mine."  (In hindsight, this clearly should have been Giant Red Flag About Bob #27: he's got this number-swapping bit down to an inescapable science, because he's obviously been fooled by girls who possess social skills before!)  At any rate, I figure he'll never actually use my number and call, especially since he could (right??) see that I wasn't into this at all (i.e., one earphone STILL in).  Nope!  In 2 days, he calls and leaves a message.  Then he texts.  Regretting my decision to give a complete beach stranger/creeper my phone number, I decide that I'd rather not end up in 3000 pieces in a back alley dumpster, so I ignore it and chalk it up to bad decision-making.  A week later, I get this HORRIFYING voicemail from Bob.  "Hi Alexandra.  Just wanted to tell you that you are a cunt-ass bitch ("CAB"), and you're ugly, and you're fat, and no guys talked to you at the beach anyway (Bob, that was my hope).  And I just want to tell you that karma's a bitch, and what goes around comes around, and I'm always at that beach.  So I hope I never see you there.  And you better hope I never see you there."


Several legitimately terrifying voicemails later, and after repeated pleas from my coworkers that I please report this potentially murderous ass-clown to the police, he went away, thank God, but not without two remnants: (1) lesson learned to NEVER give your real number to someone who asks for it.  Apparently it is also encouraged to lie about being single.  Although I generally never (a) lie; or (b) fake it . . . "it" = anything; and (2) CAB is probably the best, most bad-ass acronym with which to refer to someone, mainly for its outrageously high obnoxious value.  I'm not fond at all of the first word in the acronym, and actually, the entire saying makes no literal sense, but it'll be like reclaiming derogatory slurs and empowering your respective discriminated population with them.  Consider CAB reclaimed.  And used on Bob.

Days 19 & 20: Ugh.

So yeah, here we are, three weeks in, and dateless.  Those of you are reading this and don't like me: good for you. Those of you who are reading this and possibly rooting for me: f*ck.


Although I can't say I've gone out every night, I've done a decent amount of going out, and I'm kind of over going out.  It's definitely not the best way to meet people, here, at this age, at this time, and furthermore, it's defeating and frustrating.  Like I said: I could stop eating or stop thinking, but save for wasting away or pretending to have an IQ of a brick, I am not sure that I'm going to meet someone randomly in public.  I started this blog for several reasons: to process a heartbreak, to see something through, and to make myself write.


I've always wanted to write.  I don't know.  It's always been a way for me to escape / let people in.  I've been the sort of student who was interested in everything, passionate about it all, partially perhaps for the sake of pleasing, but underneath, because I loved inquiry and discovery and revelation.  I hit a point in college where a good deal of what I believed crumbled, for various reasons, many of them having to do with the sanctity with which I upheld men.  And by that, I mean it was with a great amount of struggle and pain that I achingly waded through the piercing gulf that is finding yourself in a place where no one else can reach you, for reasons you cannot define.  It became glaringly clear to me that NO ONE will hold me up.  This life is mine, to uphold, to carry, to profligate with words, with raw emotion.  I have to be enough.  No one else will be.


So.  If this intimidates you, or irks you, or tells you to file me away in the hates-men category, I understand.  But it's not without reason or virtue that I find myself here, 27, alone, single, and honestly unable to find a random date to a wedding.  Is that pathetic?  Maybe.  Is it relatable?  Hopefully.  Is it without a story and a history?  No.  Everything has a history.  Everyone has a story.  It's our purpose in this life to uncover as many stories as we can, to link together as many histories as we can, and form a synergistic, energized, life-fueled purpose to understand who we are and where to go.  I guess I need to just keep going.

Days 17-18: 3rd Weekend (Out of . . . 4)

This "Doing it for the blog" business is getting expensive and exhausting.  Even though I like to think of myself as fancy and fabulous, at the end of the day, I'm still just a teacher (and not even a licensed one at that!), spending my days holding afloat children with autism, and sometimes not being able to find the remaining energy to take care of myself.  After a day of expending all your emotional resources to stabilize someone else's needs, it's sometimes really hard to pull together enough faith in yourself (and enough energy to change your clothes and get your ass off the couch) to go out and put yourself out there.  I know that's not a blog-worthy sentiment, but it's just the truth.  

I'm not sure why, but I sort of assumed at the start of this project that people would be lining up at the door.  False!  Even going out, with the exception of Zygote (F minus for him), nobody has offered to buy my friend(s) and me drinks.  I just think Cleveland's not that kind of city.  It's very midwestern, family values, socially unadventurous.  In New York, Chicago, Boston, it's more common and acceptable for guys to approach women in bars/restaurants/clubs, strike up conversation, and express interest.  Here, that's just not really the culture.  In fact, guys who do that are generally aware that they seem creepy and too forward.  And if they're not aware of that perception, they're definitely not the kind of guy one would want to associate with.  As such, the excursions I've gone on have resulted in me picking up my own bar tab, and while in principle, that is absolutely fine (and preferred, especially over having douchebags pick up the tab), it gets prohibitively expensive rather fast.  And is probably making me look like an alcoholic.  Which is attractive to no one!

I'm also totally disappointed in online dating.  Some of my friends who've done it have had some success.  Which is encouraging.  But I left a so-so relationship, with a good man, intentionally, with the hopes of finding something more complete, more fulfilling.  So I'm not out to find someone so-so.  (WDP excepting, of course.)  Overall, though, I made my profile pretty indicative of who I am and what I'm looking for.  It turns out, though, that smart girls are intimidating.  Either that, or I'm not pretty enough.  And I'd prefer to go with (A).  Maybe I just need to move to a bigger city, where people are more interesting and alive and less status quo.

This weekend didn't particularly bring anything new, other than reinforcing what I'd already felt about the difficulty in meeting people here.  I'm 27, which might as well be 87 in Cleveland timeline years, because everyone here is married or spoken for by about 24.  So it looks like, for the most part, the men who are left are either committed to someone else, divorced (with kids), or seriously questionable.  I say that with no disrespect to any possible single men over 24 out there, but really, I know WAY more eligible single women over the age of 24 than men.  That could either be my inherent bias, since I know more women, or it could be reality.  Either way, it feels like that, which arguably IS reality.


I'm not opposed to asking men out.  In fact, with the exception of my most recent relationship, it's been what I've done.  I was raised to believe I should wait for no one, and I should speak my mind.  I was lucky enough to attend high school at The Ellis School, an all-girls community in Pittsburgh where I learned I am good enough and strong enough and . . . enough.  And why should I wait for a man, when I am just as good, if not better, than most men I've met.  I say that without judgment or condescension, but really.  Let me repeat: I'm just as good, if not better, than most men I've met.  Ninety-five percent of the people I work with are women.  And we hold ourselves up quite nicely, thank you.  We also hold up 107 students, who most people (and society) have written off as not worth it.  Guess what.  They ARE worth it.  They are beautiful people.  More importantly, they are CAPABLE people.  And guess what.  WE are worth it, too.  As women, as people, as who we are.  Capable (first), smart (second), beautiful (a distant but noteworthy third), worth it, enough.  Socially, that isn't the sentiment.  Especially here, in Cleveland, at this age.  I'm encouraged to wait for a man to tell me I'm worth it, instead of affirming it to myself, or instead of showing him I think HE'S worth it.  So I'll play the game, I suppose, and see what happens.  So far -- not much.


I wonder if I'm playing the game the right way.  I wonder if it's worth it to play it at all.  Not playing it doesn't work, but playing it isn't working, either.  I guess I could lose 20 lbs., dye my hair blonde, pretend like I don't read literature or keep up on current events and that I liked "50 Shades of Grey."  Act like I have no opinions or political leanings or social standards.  But . . . no.


I'd rather keep a blog called "Finding A Wedding Date in 30 Days" than have one who's convenient but wrong.  I'd rather live my life with intention and hope than settle for available and easy.  I guess it comes down to the fact that I feel like I'm capable.  And enough.  And worth it.  And if that means I'll be alone for awhile, so be it.  I'd rather it be a choice than a consequence.

Days 13-16: Trust Your Gut

So, made another poor move and went out AGAIN tonight with Parma.  We had our Clinic tickets to the Indians game, and even though he WORKS for the Clinic, he didn't put it together that we were at a complimentary event with 293852035 of my co-workers.  Whatever.  He can assume I paid for these tickets.  Even after I told him my story about being athletically inept, after getting hit in the glasses with a slow-pitch ball during softball practice in fifth grade, and resigning myself to the New York Times and museums ever since.  My fault.  Fail.

You want to give people the benefit of the doubt, right?  Like, first date was a bust, but "maybe he was nervous," or "maybe the next time will be better."  Definitely not.  Trust your gut.  It's always right.  This guy gets an F.  Second date and all.

My friends diagnosed him as Asperger's, which may have been hasty work-related diagnosing, or actually may have been accurate.  Which is too bad, because now other people can attest to the fact that he looked pretty promising.  I mention potential Asperger's not as a life drawback, but mainly in a socially difficult aspect, and a Wedding Date Prospect will probably need to be able to hold his own for unknown lengths of time with various strangers.  WDP cannot require a social babysitter on the night of August 11th.  And we have no time to waste here, people.

He got us lost on the way back to the car, which is inexcusable, because he had no idea where he was going, and he grew up in Cleveland.  He was like, "This is funny, because you're from Pittsburgh, and you're showing me where to go."  Actually, it's not funny, it's kind of a shame.  And then he proceeded to hold my hand.  And what's the polite way to tell someone you're not really up for holding their hand when they've missed . . .  ALL . . . of the social signals up to this point which blatantly scream, "I'm not actually up for holding your hand."  By the time we got back to the car, you could literally cut the awkwardness with a knife.  I wished it would have gone better, but you can't fake these things -- the chemistry's either there or it's not.  

If anyone knows this guy, I kindly ask that you do not show him this blog.  That should go without saying, but seriously, it isn't my intention to hurt anybody or come across as snobby.  It's only that, as women, many of us have been through situations similar to this, and sometimes it's helpful to know you're not the only one.  And sometimes it's a little cathartic to just get it out there and kind of laugh about the total crapshoot that finding your life person can be.  And if you don't find your life person, at least maybe you can find a WDP for three Saturdays from now.

Days 11 & 12: A Real Live Date

Friends, I had a date last night.  And I'd like to begin by saying he was really, really hot.  Probably hands down the best looking guy I've ever gone out with.  No offense to the three other people reading this who've ever gone out with me.  He had amazing hair, which sounds really stupid saying, but I do love a man with good hair.  This is extremely hypocritical, because I have the worst behaved hair on the planet, that, if it ever looks acceptable, has required hours of battle and gallons of Aveda.  He was dressed nicely, in good jeans and a button-down, he smelled good, and he even had on respectable shoes.  (All in all, achieving this level of outfit success appears to be unbelievably difficult for men, so this alone was an honorable accomplishment.)

He had asked if I wanted to meet him at a wine bar in Shaker near my apartment, which of course was a win, (a) because it was a wine bar; and (b) because it meant I wouldn't have to cut my afternoon nap short to allow time for driving somewhere far.  I'd actually thought about texting him and canceling.  I'd seen his picture, because he'd asked me out after seeing my profile and e-mailing me, so I knew he was handsome, BUT...

The guy can't spell, type, or manage social graces to save his life.  I don't want to say it, but he was from Parma.  To you good people of Parma, this alone is not his downfall, but I couldn't leave it out.  He also works for the Clinic, in I.T., so we were both Caregivers.  Best common ground out there, naturally.  I knew in advance from his profile, texts, and e-mails that his communication skills left a good deal to be desired, but "Do it for the blog" is not only pervasively running my life right now, it's also running my social circle's lives, and there was no way I was going to live down declining the one date proposal I'd actually received.

So I make myself show up, and we're sitting and talking, and you can just tell these things from the word Go, but the night was going to be one big long effort of creating and maintaining conversation.  Let me go ahead and rephrase that: I could just tell from the word Go that this was the case; he could not, and since my social graces are in excellent form, I was succeeding at, slash, making the mistake of fooling him into thinking things were going great.  What does one do in this situation?  Act rudely by not laughing at his jokes, not asking him additional questions, not helping to carry the discussion?  I knew that he'd invited me here, was going to pay, and was probably going to ask me out again.  Not in a cocky way, but just in a way that I was able to read him pretty well, and I could just tell.  I was amicable and engaging the whole evening -- not overly so, but enough to make a good impression, which was apparently enough for him.  I felt really fake and kind of deceiving.  But I also would have felt incredibly uncomfortable sitting there pouty or non-responsive.  I wasn't interested, which I knew from the first five minutes, but what do you do?  Fake it, or be a bitch?

Suddenly, I saw my chance to discreetly wrap things up.  We were seated out on the patio, and we'd finished our first drink, but this was over the course of about an hour, since our server was taking FOREVER to come back outside to the table.  He'd mentioned wanting to order another one, but I yawned and said I had to get up early the next morning and that I wouldn't be able to drive myself home if I'd had another one.  (Cue his expected social skills.)  This was probably so unconvincing on so many levels, because clearly every picture of me on my profile was me with a drink in my hand, probably before lunch, so pretending that one glass of wine at 8 p.m. would do me in was a cute little joke.  Cue my plan.  I excused myself and got up to go inside and find the restroom, and on my way back, I stopped our server at the bar and quietly asked her if she could bring the bill out to the table.  I hadn't wanted to ask for it in front of him, so as, once again, not to appear rude.  "Oh," she said, "he just ordered another round for the two of you."  ARE YOU KIDDING ME, I was in the bathroom for 90 seconds, and he managed to track her down and get an order in?  "Ughhh," I sighed audibly.  "Oh no," she lamented, definitely understanding the first-date conundrum I was in, without me having to outline it.  "Do you want me to cancel the order?  I can cancel it," she offered.  "No," I said, "you can't, what am I going to tell him, I ran into you by the bathroom, we discussed everything, and then we braided each other's hair and un-ordered?"  She gave me a kindly smile, and by the grace of the Lord and the nature of women's universal mutual understanding, when she arrived at the table to hand us our drinks, mine was like half full.

He kept telling me how funny I am, and how he's gone out with "a lot" of girls who were "skinny and cute and stylish" but that it was nice to go out with someone funny.  Yes, HOW NICE FOR YOU.  I just kept looking at him and thinking, maybe we can trade some of your Beautiful points for my Funny points and we could be even.  By the time we finally got the bill, and he was saying things like, "So, autism, those kids grow out of it, right?" I didn't even have the energy to tally everything he'd (unknowingly) done wrong.  He walked me to my car, kept saying how much fun he'd had (shit.), and joked that he didn't want to get robbed walking back to his own car since it was 10 p.m. at Shaker Square.  Cue my social skills of promptly ignoring his implicit wish for me to drive him to his vehicle.  "Haha!" I said instead, as I opened the door to get in.  He hugged me goodbye, then kissed me on the cheek.  Fewer than five minutes after we'd driven away, I get SEVERAL texts that say (spelling and typing authentically preserved from the original):

"So your not worried, I didn't get mugged..lol"
"I Didn't want u to lose sleep wondering if I did..lol..I should of had u give me a ride back to my car..lol"
("Maybe I should have," I said.)
"I wouldn't have mugged u..lol..I had a fun time w u tonite.."
("Thanks, it was nice.")
"Good cuz i'd like to see u again.. :)"
(no response from me)


I don't think this will be a Wedding Date Prospect, mainly because I and everyone else would not be able to stop making fun of him the whole time, primarily behind his back, but eventually it would probably also turn into doing it to him, and as bad of a human being as I am, that sounds cruel.  GOD, he does have amazing hair though . . .  I'll keep you posted.

Days 8, 9, & 10: "Do it for the blog."

Okay, morale is near abysmal right now.  Thursday night, I went out downtown with some ladyfriends.  I should also point out that these ladyfriends are, as some might call it, damn good looking, so as a group, we held our own for making good look good.  Anyway, one of them suggested a party for downtown residents being held on the rooftop bar of a West 6th club.  My prior West 6th experiences have left a good deal to be desired, but they talked me into it with things like, "Single guys don't go to East 4th, Alexandra;" and "You're not going to find someone by going somewhere quiet and ordering a glass of wine;" or "If you rule out sports bars and club-like establishments, you're ruling out huge segments of the single male population."  These all sounded very threatening and unsportswoman like of me, especially after repeatedly being told I should "Do it for the blog," which has apparently become my new life mantra and which singlehandedly upstages YOLO.


So, there we were, in summery outfits and cute sandals, and here were the other attendees: guys wearing those really squeaky white sneakers who somehow got lost from the set of Jersey Shore, a pregnant woman (really?), various women who whose entire work wardrobe was absolutely straight from the Rave clearance rack (and here's the pot calling the kettle black, but there was no way these women lived downtown), and my personal favorite, our bartender, who was wearing a bandeau bathing suit top, some kind of underwear/bathing suit bottoms, a long "shirt," a full-body tattoo, hair in a pulled-through messy bun, and, no joke, had a tooth growing out of her nose.  Others can attest to this, and at first sight of her, one of my friends turned to me and asked, "Is she wearing any clothes?"  I tried to keep my clearly bad attitude in check and just order a drink, so I asked for a mojito.  "Oh, we don't have those."  YOU ARE A BAR, what do you mean you "don't have those."  Okay, I said, I'll take a margarita.  I get it handed to me in a plastic cup, no salt.  Definitely not.


So, no Wedding Date Prospects (WDPs) at that gathering place, that's for sure.  We meandered throughout the area, judging our staying potential at each new place by entering said establishment, walking in a parade line from the door to the very back of the bar, staring intently at each group of people as we walked past, and giving a collective "stay" or "go" vote, which were usually not too hard to agree on.  We spent some time at Bar Louie, where the patrons next to me were two pretty cute guys drinking a beer and talking.  (To clarify: they were talking to each other, definitely not to me.)  I waited for a good while, doing things like stirring my drink with focused intention, crossing my legs, quietly staring at the stupid soccer game that was on (it's always soccer, I literally know nothing about soccer) and they . . . didn't talk to me.  My friends were whisper-ly urging me to say something to them.  Definitely not!  Every relationship I've had has been me making it happen, and this project is about putting myself out there but finding someone to want to step up.  Is that taking full advantage of this?  Perhaps not.  But I absolutely was not about to make the first move.  Details of why this theory is unfortunately solid continue below.


Eventually we ended up at Dive Bar, where I'd never been, and which was definitely a dive bar.  After being coaxed into doing shots (which I literally needed a TA for: "First put salt on hand.  Next lick hand.  Last drink shot, in one piece, not in your usual four."), playing skee ball, requesting songs from the DJ which may or may not have included "Call Me Maybe," I bought a round of shots and asked the cute-ish, single guy at the bar sitting next to me if he wanted one.  We talked for a minute about shots (this project really brings out the deepest in me), which was gut-wrenching for me, both to have to actually talk about shots, and to now bring myself to admit I was out in public talking to a stranger about shots.  "I was just going to ask you the same thing," he said, and I even managed to hide my eye roll.  Because dude, whatever, you definitely weren't.  But okay.  Go with it, don't be a snarky smartass, Alexandra.  So he said sure, he'd like a shot, so I bought an extra one, gave it to him, he drank it, mumbled something like, "Thanks, I guess I'll have to get the next one," promptly TURNED BACK AROUND, and did not even look at me again.  SIR, I am pretty sure I just BOUGHT YOU A DRINK, and you are at a bar ALONE, so you're not even turning back to resume talking to your friends, you are turning around to talk to NO ONE so as not to have to talk to me!  UNACCEPTABLE!  THIS is evidently why you do not initiate any interactions with guys ever!  FAIL!  "Do it for the blog" can go to hell!


So, after spending 20 minutes crying in the bathroom about just about everything, having to be talked through reasons why I'm "pretty enough, not a failure, gonna figure shit out," etc. by my friends, I was definitely not going to find WDP at this point, since I had no makeup remaining on my ridiculously blotted face and looked as though I'd been hanging out with the likes of tooth-nose bartender.  So instead, the DJ fortunately began playing some deliciously terrible 90s rap, which of course bolsters ANY life situation from flatline to fabulous.  I proceeded to dance like an idiot, my apparent M. O. in life, and help myself to other people's beer.  Which I don't even like.  Maybe we'll need to redeem "Do it for the blog" on the condition that it includes partaking in obnoxious, unreasonable, out of character experiences that, if nothing else, make for a good story.  Oh, and convince me that now is an ideal time to learn the basics about soccer.