I am fairly sure that a total of 4 people read this blog. And 3 of them have administrative rights to its content.
So, funny story. I’ve been dating someone for 6 months. 6 months today, as a matter of fact. Well, 6 months today according to some standards. See, there’s a story that goes with that. You may remember I went on a truly horrific date in December. It included stories of strippers, pipe-fitting, and scandalous photos. It was awful.
And yet, I proceeded forward. I had a date but a week later. A date with Ryan. I would give Ryan a pseudonym, but he has already posted on this blog, and I like the name Ryan. Otherwise I might end up calling him Scott or John or Ray or something else totally unfitting. So, Ryan and I go out. And we close down a bookstore, and close down a restaurant talking and laughing and being idiots.
Then we go on a second date and similarly laugh and talk and close down another restaurant.
So I text him the next morning and tell him I don’t want to see him any more. That makes sense, right? Actually what I said was “I’m not sure I am feeling the elusive chemistry.” Always count on an English major to let you down using obscure words.* It was December, 21st, my Mom’s birthday. And, in short, I was tired. Tired of dating, tired of the holidays, tired of trying to get up my hopes about men when I was clearly going to die alone with my cat. Why get invested? It was easier to be alone. I would continue forth—stoic, undatable.
He asked for a do-over.
I looked at my phone perplexed. A do-over?
I was utterly confused. I confessed to my friends that I wasn’t worth the chase. They argued with me. I did not believe them. I noted that I wasn’t that cute. My mother scoffed at me. I declared that she was required by law to pretend that I was lovely at all times. I screamed that I was boring and he was just going to dump me anyway when he found out that I was a tightly-wound control troll with thunder thighs and kinky hair made of the souls of children.**
At this point, I was declaring reasons Ryan could not possibly want a do-over to my mother, my roommate, my mother’s lovely friend, a dozen restaurant patrons, and a bottle of wine. Really, anyone who would listen was polled. And not one of them would listen to my logic. Not one of them saw the brilliance to my desire to dodge rejection.
So, we went out again and again. And now we’ve been dating for six months and I am stupid happy and giddy about life and talking about rainbows and unicorns and sunshine and helped him buy a new couch because I both fell off and bled*** on the other one…not at the same time. I hate those gushy people who post how much they love their significant others on Facebook. It feels artificial and really like it as advertisement to everyone else about their blissful happiness when in fact she is sobbing in the corner nursing a bottle of gin. So I wrote a blog instead.
I am an idiot. An idiot for trying to dump you after the second date. And an idiot who loves you for proving it and even inspiring me to admit it semipublically. To six more months and many more. *smooches*
*I once told an employer that another employee was often a bit abrasive. His response? “That’s the nicest way anyone has ever called Kristen a bitch.”
**I went to see the movie Tangled in the movie theater. My extremely curly hair was blown straight for this viewing, which is a good thing because the little girl behind me started weeping that such hair was scary when the curly-mopped villain threatened Rapunzel. It was going to “eat her.”
***There’s a really good story there. Oh, you thought I was going to share? Yeah, not so much.