So once upon a time, there was this boy—and, at four years my junior, “boy” described him perfectly. He was many things I wanted in a potential mate and many things I didn’t. I saw those deal-breaker sticking points and refused to give him a second thought for many months of his advances. He would flirt and I would dismiss. He would pursue and I would trot off in the other direction. “He’s not The One,” I told myself.
The Empty Fantasy Keeps Me Hanging On (But Only for a Night)
After some serious over-analysis of last night’s—or last week’s (depending on when I post this or when you read this I guess, whatever catch up here)—disaster as per my relentless, neurotic M.O., I’ve realized what a disease my involuntary fantasies can be. You know the ones. You meet a guy and one thing or another leads you to think, “hm he could be kinda great.” And this naturally leads to thoughts of which matching sweater vests you should wear in your Christmas card picture. Even though logically you know it probably won’t get past the first few glasses of wine after you somehow manage to insult his mother, favorite sports team and haircut—in that order. It’s hard to keep your mind from trotting along to some blissful utopian where he is thoughtfully arty, hates watching football and loves doing dishes.
Tick Tock
This post is going to be practically live-blogging magic right here. Partially because a post idea just popped into my mildly attractive little head and partially because I need to vent. Here’s the scoop, I had a date set for approximately four this evening with a young gent I met a couple weeks ago. He’s cute and seemingly sweet…BUT he postponed the first date for what was, at first, an indefinite amount of time. Then it turned into two hours. By this point I’m a little bit seething at myself for agreeing to wait like a pathetic little fool and a little bit ready to stick my carefully selected stiletto boot heel into his eye.