Something Disappointing This Way Comes in Dramedy

So I put my foot back in the dating pool…and I survived. Not sure what else I accomplished besides survival….which is my usual MO…Survival and not a whole helluvalot else… but hey, not ending up in a shallow grave is a good place to start I guess.

I got ready for my date to the sweet, sweet sounds of Rage Against the Machines, the acidic churning of my stomach & the crippling Greek chorus of self-doubt that never seems to ever stfu and sounds like my mother’s critical voice broadcast through a megaphone made out of bullshit…I messaged Mister who reassured me that even though he couldn’t see me, he was sure I looked fine. As I strapped up my sparkly gold heels, it struck me that I looked entirely too dressed up for where we were going. I texted my date in a panic. “It has occurred to me that I’m overdressed for where we’re going.” “Uh, well, it’s No Shave November. And I’m wearing jeans.” “Ok well I’m the bitch that looks like she’s going to the Met gala. See you in a bit.”

I had to park a bit away from the bar and see him standing in front of the bar…Because I’m off in the distance, he appears so small. Only I keep approaching & there is no change. Oh golly, he is small. I mean…I want to call him Tamagotchi, put him in my pocket & try to keep him alive, for sport. Still, it’s fine. That isn’t that important to me. It really only matters if we’re going to a parade, because then I’d have to put him on my shoulders so he can see. Plus, his petite stature could come in handy…if my neck ever gets tired, I can just put my chin on top of his head and rest for a bit. Bloop.

We greet each other, hug and go inside. He looks like his pictures. To scale, actually. WINK. We belly up to the bar and this bartender who usually hits on me, does her thing. “Ooooh, look at you! Where are you coming from? You look greaaaaat. I love your dress. Sexy.” He grins and bumps me jovially with his elbow. He says to the bartender, “I know…she’s hot, right?” Oh god. No. I immediately cringe & disappear into my drink. Sluuuuuuuuuurp. Half the gin & tonic, gone…and totter over to a table.

Conversation started out fine. We talked about music. And more music. And more music. Till it got to the point where it almost felt like I was on a date with music…. And possibly getting ready to let music take me home and fuck me without using protection…I wasn’t even sure if I liked music by the time we were done, we dissected it so much. Still, no red flags. Plus, my fears of being murdered are dissipating by the minute. I watch him talk with his hands, there’s no way those hands are big enough to strangle me. Trust me, I unfortunately know what it takes.

We move onto the topic of family…for most people this topic is not a loaded gun in their mouth. For me, it is. He talks about his parents, who honestly sound like a Hallmark Christmas movie in human form. White, privileged, and following a vanilla script that doesn’t have characters like this screwed up bitch in them typically. He asks me how I’d describe my own parents. I struggle. I dig deep and throw all the inappropriate first-date responses to the side. I toss “soul crushing,” “abusive,” “supplier of goods to your friendly neighborhood pedophiles” all to the side. I simply choose the word, “severe.” Then laugh at the fact that that was the kindest adjective I could come up with… He “anyways” the conversation back to music. Aw, fuck. Really? I thought I had steered the ship away from that rock. (Oh, holy fuckballs, pun.) Every time he gets really excited about something, he grabs my arm for emphasis. Every time. And I flinch every time. Not because it hurts—but out of habit. He’s so jazzed up talking about music, he doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort because…FRAMPTON IS PLAYING…AND WE MUST TALK ABOUT IT.

I hate Frampton. Listen, I’d take a punch to the cooter with a Hulk fist for Queen. But fucking Frampton?! No.

I hear my phone buzzing in my purse & I’ve been ignoring it like it’s common sense. My date goes in the bathroom and I look at my phone. It’s a group text between all my co-workers, asking me how things are going. I type, “uhhhhhh” …because I don’t really know how to respond. I then try to type up a follow up text that I meant to say, “He’s definitely not a murder…and I can take him.” However, he emerged from the bathroom & I rush to put my phone away, so I don’t realize that I never hit send on the follow up text. We continue to talk for a bit more and he grabs my arm a few more times like it’s a honey-baked ham and he’s on Supermarket Sweet trying to fill a shopping cart, before eventually excusing himself to the bathroom again. Little teacup chihuahua bladder. I open my phone to see multiple calls/voicemails & about 50 texts from my friends. “Are you ok?” “You can’t just write ‘uhhhh’ and nothing else.” “Where are you? I’m coming to get you.” “I can be there in 2 minutes.” “I tried calling you. You’re not picking up. The fuck, Rox. In 2 minutes, I’m driving over there.” I realize that the follow up text didn’t send—so I rush to hit send before I have the police showing up on my first date. I rushed so quickly that I didn’t realize that I left a very important word out of the text. What I meant to send was “He’s definitely not a murderer…and I can take him.” But what I sent was, “He’s definitely a murderer…and I can take him.” I rush to correct it, “Definitely not! Definitely not!” They start texting, “Is this code? Is he making you type that???”

The steam starts to run out….We decide to call it a night. He walks me to my car. I think, “I don’t think he’s going to go in for a kiss.” And suddenly mid-hug he’s swooping in like a bird—I duck & cover like I’m Tippi Hedrin in response. The kiss lands awkwardly on my jawline. We wave goodbye & leave.

I go home and start texting Mister the updates and am mid-complaint about the minor transgressions from my date, when my date texts me telling me what a great time he had with me and how he wants to see me again. Because I am mid-litany, I am mired in that manure of what went wrong….I freeze up and act non-committal. He continues to pressure me about taking me out again …my date, J, senses my standoffishness. “Ok, I think I got my answer…maybe I’m just not the guy you’re looking for.” I tell Mister I don’t know what I’m going to do, but he already senses the direction I’m taking…warns me not to do the “It’s not me, it’s you” routine. “That never works. And you’ve watched enough Seinfeld to know it. Just tell him Frampton is a dealbreaker.” Mister knows he will be sitting pretty with his usual RIGHTNESS by the end of it….and he is smug with it.

Cut to me texting this gentleman, J., “I had a great time—but I think you need someone who has their shit together a bit more than me. You seem way more sure of your goals than I am at this point.” He, of course, starts refuting this. Panic! PANIC! Oh god, pump the fucking brakes. I respond with, “Listen, you are going to be disappointed.” He pleads his case, “You haven’t dated in a bit. Maybe we just need to get to know each other more so you can make up your mind.” “Ok. But….something disappointing this way comes, man.” It’s funny, because I was so sure he was going to see me and run the other way. I never once prepared for the situation to be that he was into me and I am not sure if I want him to be.

The next day, Mister asks, “Did numbnuts get the hint?” Sigh…Of course, he already knew.

So J & I are still talking…I’m going to give him one more chance…because we do have chemistry via text. Well, and to put it bluntly, I’m so fucked up at this point, I honestly wouldn’t know a good man at this point if he landed on me, had an 9 inch dick and was made out of hundred dollar bills & wine…So I guess we’ll see. If worse comes to worse, I’ll just be myself…definitely won’t hear from him again after that.

Do you feel like I do?

Guess we’ll see.

Written in 2018