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.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Sunday, July 29, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
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.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, July 20, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Days 6 & 7: Definitely Not.
Okay, internet dating is officially THE WORST. I have gotten e-mails from people who look like they're in the Taliban, people who are definitely on Social Security, and one guy who said, "Oh, I see you work with people with autism? I actually have autism." Is this real life?! Nobody knows how to spell or capitalize, and anyone who stands in front of a mirror and takes a self-portrait of themselves with a cell phone automatically gets deleted. This narrows the selection pool down to single digits.
Real-life "mingling" (let's go, I need another word) gets an F, too. I was talking with one of my good friends about this project yesterday, and she said to me, "Alexandra, do you really think you're going to meet someone at a happy hour?" I stopped and thought about my prior bar experiences, and promptly deduced that the answer is no. Let's see: there was the night of the Pediatric Institute Heartthrob Ball charity fundraiser, when I went to the after party at Chinato. I was waiting at the bar to order a drink (and naturally I looked rather glamorous, it being a ball and all), when a handsome man, probably in his late 30s, started talking to me. Great, I thought, and just went with it. He was head of an I.T. department of something or other at the hospital, and he asked what I did. When I told him that I'm a behavior therapist at the Center for Autism and explained that one of our students was being honored with the Courage Award that evening, he seemed genuinely impressed and offered to buy me a drink and bill it to his corporate tab. Um, yes! We chatted some more, he said he'd look me up at work and e-mail me, etc. "Stop by our table in the corner later," he smiled. Perfect. After letting an obligatory period of time lapse by, where I chatted important-looking-ly with our business director and other legit-looking people, I glanced over at Bar Guy. And there he was, his arm around a woman, a wedding ring on his finger. DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
Several weeks ago, my sister was in town on a Friday night, and I'd taken her over to the Tremont Art Walk. We stopped at South Side for dinner and had to squeeze two seats together at the crowded bar since tables were an hour wait. It being a Tremont bar, there was some sophisticated European white-people sport being televised that I believe is referred to in America as soccer. (It was definitely on ESPN 9, or some channel that I didn't even know existed.) Two handsome gentlemen next to us were immersed in the game, but since I was entertaining my sister and thoroughly enjoying my melty, cheesy goodness of a sandwich, I was minding my own business. Sisters before misters. Thankfully, my athletically-minded sibling was able to contribute appropriate comments such as "Penalty!" or "Goal!" or other such astute game-related observances which are clearly outside of my realm of comprehension. This struck up conversation with both Handsome Gentlemen, and over the course of the evening, I proceeded to discover that Handsomer Gentleman and I were reading the same book, regularly peppering our banter with Arrested Development quotes, and -- ready for it? -- he was a newspaper editor. Come on. Does it get any better than this. When we'd all cashed out, he left the game at halftime to walk us to the bakery and then also to our car, and then he hugged me goodbye. Several days later, I get a text from him. He'd tracked me down through a mutual acquaintance, gotten my phone number, and contacted me. I seriously thought I'd died and this was somehow heaven, even though I'd always been pretty solidly certain there's a permanent space with my name on it in hell. I was essentially ready to create a wedding board on Pinterest. After a few days of flirty texts, he says, "This is so crazy that we have such chemistry, especially since we're both with other people." Umm, that'd just be YOU, because I am absolutely single. And you're apparently cheating on someone. DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
Fast-forward a few weekends. I was at Lolita with one of my lovely single lady friends, and we were having drinks at the bar. (I am not an alcoholic.) A beautiful man is sitting next to us, and we're talking, and he's extremely nice and friendly, and he tells us he's a furniture designer. (Hello, hot!) And more talking, and he gives us his card, and tells us to check out the website, la la la. And then he gets up and leaves. What the hell! DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
The man-watching -- not even "talking," just "watching" -- was pretty rough at the east side Melt this weekend, where all the patrons looked homeless, unemployed, and not clear on the fact that they do not nearly fit into size Small t-shirts. As Christian Lander would observe, you are trying too hard to appear hipster, and you are the wrong kind of white person. I would just like to state that I am frequenting respectable Cleveland establishments! What am I doing wrong? I don't like sports bars, and everyone knows that girly-looking girls in sports bars are trying too hard, so that definitely won't be happening. I guess I'll try again this week, perhaps downtown, which maybe attracts normal guys with normal jobs who wear something other than plaid and who don't faintly resemble tattooed bears.
So, let's bring it on back to present. Do I really think I'll find a guy in a bar? DEFINITELY NOT. But where else am I going to find him? In the Taliban on this waste-of-time dating website? (This guy actually had a turban on.) Sitting on my couch with my bunny?? (Scoops McGee doesn't like cuddling; she tries to bite me.) In the extracurricular activities that I don't have time or energy for (thank you CCCA)??? FAIL! One week down, people. Three to go. Let's pick up this pace.
Real-life "mingling" (let's go, I need another word) gets an F, too. I was talking with one of my good friends about this project yesterday, and she said to me, "Alexandra, do you really think you're going to meet someone at a happy hour?" I stopped and thought about my prior bar experiences, and promptly deduced that the answer is no. Let's see: there was the night of the Pediatric Institute Heartthrob Ball charity fundraiser, when I went to the after party at Chinato. I was waiting at the bar to order a drink (and naturally I looked rather glamorous, it being a ball and all), when a handsome man, probably in his late 30s, started talking to me. Great, I thought, and just went with it. He was head of an I.T. department of something or other at the hospital, and he asked what I did. When I told him that I'm a behavior therapist at the Center for Autism and explained that one of our students was being honored with the Courage Award that evening, he seemed genuinely impressed and offered to buy me a drink and bill it to his corporate tab. Um, yes! We chatted some more, he said he'd look me up at work and e-mail me, etc. "Stop by our table in the corner later," he smiled. Perfect. After letting an obligatory period of time lapse by, where I chatted important-looking-ly with our business director and other legit-looking people, I glanced over at Bar Guy. And there he was, his arm around a woman, a wedding ring on his finger. DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
Several weeks ago, my sister was in town on a Friday night, and I'd taken her over to the Tremont Art Walk. We stopped at South Side for dinner and had to squeeze two seats together at the crowded bar since tables were an hour wait. It being a Tremont bar, there was some sophisticated European white-people sport being televised that I believe is referred to in America as soccer. (It was definitely on ESPN 9, or some channel that I didn't even know existed.) Two handsome gentlemen next to us were immersed in the game, but since I was entertaining my sister and thoroughly enjoying my melty, cheesy goodness of a sandwich, I was minding my own business. Sisters before misters. Thankfully, my athletically-minded sibling was able to contribute appropriate comments such as "Penalty!" or "Goal!" or other such astute game-related observances which are clearly outside of my realm of comprehension. This struck up conversation with both Handsome Gentlemen, and over the course of the evening, I proceeded to discover that Handsomer Gentleman and I were reading the same book, regularly peppering our banter with Arrested Development quotes, and -- ready for it? -- he was a newspaper editor. Come on. Does it get any better than this. When we'd all cashed out, he left the game at halftime to walk us to the bakery and then also to our car, and then he hugged me goodbye. Several days later, I get a text from him. He'd tracked me down through a mutual acquaintance, gotten my phone number, and contacted me. I seriously thought I'd died and this was somehow heaven, even though I'd always been pretty solidly certain there's a permanent space with my name on it in hell. I was essentially ready to create a wedding board on Pinterest. After a few days of flirty texts, he says, "This is so crazy that we have such chemistry, especially since we're both with other people." Umm, that'd just be YOU, because I am absolutely single. And you're apparently cheating on someone. DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
Fast-forward a few weekends. I was at Lolita with one of my lovely single lady friends, and we were having drinks at the bar. (I am not an alcoholic.) A beautiful man is sitting next to us, and we're talking, and he's extremely nice and friendly, and he tells us he's a furniture designer. (Hello, hot!) And more talking, and he gives us his card, and tells us to check out the website, la la la. And then he gets up and leaves. What the hell! DEFINITELY NOT. Fail.
The man-watching -- not even "talking," just "watching" -- was pretty rough at the east side Melt this weekend, where all the patrons looked homeless, unemployed, and not clear on the fact that they do not nearly fit into size Small t-shirts. As Christian Lander would observe, you are trying too hard to appear hipster, and you are the wrong kind of white person. I would just like to state that I am frequenting respectable Cleveland establishments! What am I doing wrong? I don't like sports bars, and everyone knows that girly-looking girls in sports bars are trying too hard, so that definitely won't be happening. I guess I'll try again this week, perhaps downtown, which maybe attracts normal guys with normal jobs who wear something other than plaid and who don't faintly resemble tattooed bears.
So, let's bring it on back to present. Do I really think I'll find a guy in a bar? DEFINITELY NOT. But where else am I going to find him? In the Taliban on this waste-of-time dating website? (This guy actually had a turban on.) Sitting on my couch with my bunny?? (Scoops McGee doesn't like cuddling; she tries to bite me.) In the extracurricular activities that I don't have time or energy for (thank you CCCA)??? FAIL! One week down, people. Three to go. Let's pick up this pace.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Days 3, 4, & 5: The First Weekend
So. The first weekend. Out of a severely limited number of...4. Gotta maximize.
Friday night, tutored after work, then drove late into Pittsburgh. My sister was moving early Saturday morning to Erie for medical school, and being the indispensibly buff family member I am, she was clearly in need of my services. As we were carrying all her boxes of shit on Saturday, we ran into one of her new neighbors, a handsome lad wearing a med school t-shirt, who waved and said hi. This reminded me in a not subtle way about how she'll be drowning in ambitious, capable men in all her classes, and I'll be trying to learn the names of all the brand new CBTs this summer who will all be cute engaged women in their twenties.
Came back to Cleveland Saturday afternoon to attend a lovely engagement party / shower for two good friends in Beachwood. They are happy and are in love and have that enviously perfect balance of playful pandering and a seriously solid chemistry. It was really nice to see some college friends and play adult for awhile. Naturally, there has to be some sort of line now that goes something like: "And of course, I ran into my ex," so, of course, I ran into my ex, and we had interactions where we both pretended like it was totally fine, even though it was definitely anything but fine. Somehow, everyone who's ever ended things with a great love has gotten the elusive memo that it's imperative to always pretend like your life without them is impossibly perfect. I do not know who is perpetuating such a memo, but I would wish to inform them that this sort of shit is NOT FEASIBLE unless you are a professionally trained thespian, and even then, you need no fewer than four drinks and a pre-event wardrobe consultant. Afterwards, I was restless and my head was spinning from what I wished was enough alcohol. So I made the consistently ideal decision to drive downtown and go out! Alone! At least I looked really good, and my mascara hadn't run TOO much.
I headed down to West 6th to meet up with my good friend Katie from work. (Name changed to protect the sort-of innocent.) "Come out!" she texted, "We have a VIP room and free drinks and you can work on the project!" After driving around for 20 minutes looking for a parking spot and realizing literally no one on West 6th is over the age of 18, I just told her I'd meet her on West 25th, where they were heading next, and where I felt slightly more confident I might meet someone who knew how to spell his own name. Turns out, one should never assume. This kid (I say "kid" because he looked like a zygote) comes up to her, and says, "Hey girls, can I buy you a shot?" I roll my eyes. She gives me a look that says, "Shut up. He'll be amusing content for the blog." He still hasn't even looked at me, probably because I could be his mother and he knows it. He keeps making douchy comments like, "Come on, give me a hug" and "Trust me -- I AM really good." My friend is doing an impressive job at entertaining this idiot, and we walk up to the bar. "So I'm a junior...what year are you?" he asks her. I actually choke on my gin and tonic while this child continues to dig himself into the ground. Next he asks what kind of shot we want. He obviously has no idea what to order or how to talk to women, and I kind of want to take pity on him and help him, but then Katie takes his credit card and tells the bartender to leave it open while Zygote isn't looking, and she whispers to me she's committed his first and last name to memory so we can add to the tab throughout the night. I quickly make a mental note that she's schooled him so much better than my prospective lecture could have, and I tell myself she is not only impressively stealthy, but a grand ally in this project.
At this point, it's like 1:30 a.m., and out of the corner of my eye I see Zygote flexing his bicep for some preschool girl, and I realize this night doesn't hold my soulmate. I hand Katie the remaining half of my G&T and tell her to find someone to give it to. Hopefully she handed it to Zygote as part of his lessons on how to be a respectable human being, which shockingly doesn't include consuming Natty Light. I drove home exhausted, irritated, and kind of despondent. Even the drive-thru was closed, which made me mad and relieved at the same time. When I woke up at 1:30 p.m. this afternoon to the sound of the heavy rain, I knew I wouldn't continue with my Sunday agenda of the Cain Park Art Festival and the Taste of Tremont. And not because of the rain. I didn't have any more energy to chance running into the ex or flirt or babysit. Pull your shit together, Alexandra! You only have one life and you are worth believing in. And this wedding MIGHT be no-children, so Zygote wouldn't have even qualified to sit at the chicken fingers table and pretend to be a blow-up doll. Ladies: we're gonna need to pull together a week's lineup of happy hours. Like, we're talking 5 out of 5 days. Message me with what days you are free. Especially if you are particularly strong in thespianism or wardrobe consulting.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Day 2: "Are You For Real?"
Yes. I am for real. This is happening. Besides, I put it on Facebook, so it's definitely real.
I tested the waters today, Re: coworker reactions, and overall, received overwhelmingly positive feedback. Most people found it amusing, while a few kind of squinted at me and wished me luck, which we're going to file away in the not-negative category. But fishing for responses did generate a few follow-up queries:
-- Do I permit myself to make the first move on anyone, or do I need to wait for someone to initiate something with me? There's sometimes a fine line between intentionally flirting and making the first move.
-- Will I consent to informed setting-up, provided I still have the final say regarding who I ask, and provided said party is unaware of the ultimate finale? Because let's be honest: it's probably not TOO hard to convince someone to be part of a ridiculous spectacle of social inquiry, especially if he knows he's signing up to costar in a no holds barred research project of flirtation and inebriation, to be played out on the internet.
-- I will need wing-women to accompany me on adventures! Nobody wants to talk to Girl Who Goes to the Bar By Herself, and, sorry gay guys, but you'll definitely squelch my A-Game. Ladies: now is your time to shine. Especially if you're already married, which by default makes me look considerably more available.
Also, I did run this entire operation by the groom-to-be, afraid he might have some choice words for me and my shenanigans, and to my relief, he was humored and, dare I say, supportive (code for "enabling")? Phew. Hopefully he'll remember that verbal permission in 50 years when he's showing his grandkids the the lunatics in his wedding video.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Day 1: The Starting Line
The mission, my friends, is simple: to find a single, heterosexual, sentient man to accompany me to a co-worker's wedding exactly one month from today. That's right. I am in the market to drum up a date in 30 days or less. He doesn't need to be long-term material but simply must be free the night of Saturday, August 11. I've gone to six (6) weddings so far this year, dateless, and in principle I am fine with it. Really. Fellow wedding-goers at tables of 7 are generally nice and friendly and receptive to adding a third wheel to their romantic evening. But this particular guest list is all couples, and in my sub-par attempts at some surface soul-searching (and in light of the apparent fact that even all the gay guys are taken), I've decided, simply, that I want a date to this one. Not because I need one, but because I want one, and doggone it, life is short and I should go out and get what I want. Right?
Initial disclaimers for said gentleman (brace yourself) include: not in the seminary, not sort-of-single-until-you-ask-his-girlfriend-if-he's-single, not under 25 or over 40, not on life support, not "probably straight," not geographically unavailable. Not the most stringent baseline criteria, Alexandra, you find yourself musing, What the hell is wrong with you that you can't scrape someone up. Wait. It gets narrower. My preference is to meet said person on my own accord (without some well-meaning reader determining to set me up with their previous neighbor's stepson), either in person, or on the decently reputable dating website I may have succumbed to joining. And, odds are, it will need to be someone not presently visible in my life, because otherwise, if we are such a good match, we'd already be dating. Right? . . . Right? (Read: if we hooked up in college, do not consider this a repeat invitation.)
The dating website has produced few desirable results, which is inherently sad, because it's a DATING WEBSITE. In other news, the next four weekends are wide open in my planner, which means I intend to go out and mingle as much as possible. Mingle is such a shitty word. It just screams over-the-hill chain-smoking divorced man with a mustache, wandering between bar stools, resting his hairy arm around the shoulders of girls his daughter's age. "Socialize" comes across as much less skeezy, but it sounds like what you do at a baptism party around a bowl of Wheat Thins while everyone competes to hold the baby. What's a comparable but superior word to "mingle"? Think about it and get back to me in < 30 days.
Anyway, ideally, said individual would share my general viewpoints on my partner non-negotiables, but we'll be making considerable accommodations in this project for anyone who may seem marginally suitable. And while many of my inflexible relationship points might seem unreasonable to others, I swear on my life that in the presence of a borderline-possible Wedding Date Prospect, I will be on my best social behavior, defined by me and the Center for Autism as polite, funny, non-combative, and engaging. I'll try to not to broach politics, religion, prevalence of preventable diseases in economically disadvantaged countries, or my obsession with book sale days at the library. I might even throw in a few stereotypical feminine moves, like batting the eyelashes, affably giggling in response to even unsuccessful attempts at humor, and not leaning on bars like a union trucker.
To Matt and Brittany, whose guest list will contain my name and an anonymous plus-one: I'll definitely get you a really nice card, maybe one of those Papyrus ones that are over $6.00 and come individually cellophaned with the little gold bird seal, to make up for the fact that you two lovebirds have to pay for (probably in more ways than one) literally a total stranger to come party with you.
To future Wedding Date Prospect: I'm going out on a limb and assuming Matt and Brittany, in anticipation of shitshow guests like us having to be in their presence, are providing a well-stocked bar to help everyone cope, so it'll at least be an evening of courtesy libations. I took the liberty of pre-ordering us one chicken and one steak, so whatever your little carnivorous heart might prefer, you may call dibs on. Additionally, at marital events, I do usually dance like a moron, for stretches of hours at a time, so you may either join me in my guaranteed idiocy, or enjoy large, welcomed chunks of peace and quiet to yourself babysitting my heels and handbag at the abandoned table. I'll wear something summery and cute; you can break out a tie, which God-willing you own, and some cologne. Fellow guests will definitely know you're a rent-a-date, though, both because it's a quietly yet universally acknowledged fact that I am single, and also because I just posted this blog on Facebook.
So, action plan: I hid all the 'N Sync CDs. I relocated Teddy from my bed to a shelf. I'll not skip any more days shaving my legs. I'll change out of my CCCA polo every day immediately upon school departure. I'll be telling no one that I have a bunny. Game on. Let's do this. Send me tips. Wish me luck. Here we go.
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