In my months as a single gal, there have been a string of out-of-staters with whom I’ve made company. Men who don’t live in the same town, let alone state, but whom I’ve fraternized with anyway. (I realize “string” makes me sound like a real tramp, but just roll with it. It’s not like they got into my Kansas or felt my Manhattans.)
And I’ve made a real routine out of it. Just as soon as I know they live in a different state – apparently – I start a whole bit. First I find out their job, then how old they are, how many tattoos they have, and whether or not they are full of crap. The latter may be a silent question, but it’s one I’m asking all-the-same.
Just how many across-the-country Joes have they been? Three. In four months, there have been three.* And I’m not doing it on purpose, I swear. I would love nothing more than finding a nice local, but instead, the ones I like are border(s) away.
In this blog, I could write about which one is the best kisser (Southwest), or which one put in the most wool-pulling effort (East), or which tried to secure a way too personal souvenir (West Coast). But it’s not going to be that type of blog.** (My interest level in becoming the Taylor Swift of bloggers is 0% — but that doesn’t mean I still don’t appreciate the threat.)
Instead it’s going to be the kind that talks about how awkward dating is.
A Few Circumstances/Confusion Central
First off, I’m old. Like, too old to be dating for fun. Not that this has been fun … maybe at first, or rather, at the time. But by now, the “fun” ratio has passed.
Deciding someone is nice (or believing their ample references) and then deciphering texts is actually the worst time in the world. Which is why I’m taking the honesty approach. Either I like you or I don’t. The problem, however, is that no one else is on this theory. What men say and what they do are foreign languages – and I have yet to find an accurate translator.
In other news, my BS meter is pretty high – I outed that one guy at not being the mayor that one time. And when someone tries to tell me which grocery store is the best and they’re wrong, I promptly tell them what they can do with that information. Yet these randies keep falling through the cracks – or weaseling their way in. Not sure which. But after chatting with friends (even the married ones call BS on their legal boyfriends), and watching all the romcoms, turns out it’s just men.
Ahh gun rack
Dudes are mean. Or allergic to telling the truth. All girls really want is a solid, “I lost you two months ago. We broke up. Are you mental? Get the net!” (Bless you, Wayne Campbell.) Even if your reasoning is ridiculous it lets us know where you stand … far away from us, thankyouverymuch.
But they just can’t even, and end up in a vortex of non-closure instead. Where women don’t actually want men to go, but they place themselves – on purpose – to rot for all of eternity. It’s also the same place where unmatched socks end up … so at least they’re warm in their giant wind tunnel. Wearing all those socks while being blown about.
Either way, no complaining, we tried to let you live a normal, less breezy life. We swear.
p.s. – stay tuned for part two.
*And also the one I met but later ignored, like a true hypocrite.
** By now I just need someone from the Southern Gulf and Pacific Northwest, maybe even the Appalachian Highlands, to even things out.