Ok, disaster might be too strong a word. But at this point in the game, I don’t know what else to call it. I truly hate that I just called it a game. I used to get excited about dates. I would feel like vomiting all day, worry about my hair, and hope that I didn’t sweat off my make up. Then I would nervously giggle and twirl my hair before the disappointment set in. Now, I feel the date was a success if the conversation only halts, hiccups, and then sputters back into awkward action. Last night’s date was not a success. Here’s a sneak-peak into my evening in a coffee shop:
Me: I tease my brother that he got all of the personality and I got all of the tact
Him: I think I’m more balanced
Me: Yeah…I’m generally pretty balanced, unless it involves great injustice or cupcakes
Me: Yeah…so…how do you get along with your brothers?
Him: Oh, they both have kids. I used to live with one and his girlfriend and I didn’t know they were dating
Me: you didn’t know?
Him: I guess when she got pregnant I should have…
Me: *head on table*
Rosewater suggested that I set up my own speed dating: 3 dates in 90 minutes, each in a different location, standardized questions typed on note cards.
1.) Who is better, Batman or Superman?
2.) Milk chocolate or dark?
3.) Why did you join an online dating site?
4.) Do you want kids?
5.) What’s on your DVR?
Or maybe I should just take a judging committee. “I’m sorry, sir. But that repartee made my soul weep. Your height and charming smile are only worth a pittance. 4/10”
The good news is I wore red shoes. Who doesn’t like red shoes?