I've learned...

….that declarations of love and adoration are only good when you WANT to hear them.

In matters of dating I’m a cynic. I’ll openly admit that. What I won’t openly admit is that I’m also a closet romantic. My favorite movie of all time is “When Harry Met Sally”. I love the witty banter. I love that the two main characters start their relationship completely annoyed with each other. I love that Sally’s friends are constantly pining for love…and that secretly she is too. I love the cinematography of NYC in the fall. But most of all, I love that they actually get together in the end. I doubt that movie would have been nearly as good if they had both gone their separate ways but still been “friendly”.  If she had gone back to President Ford’s son or if Harry had continued to sleep his way through all the single women on the Upper East Side it would not have made it on my “Best” list.

Secretly pining for love is clearly NOT the subject of Disney/Pixar’s new movie “Brave”. I saw it recently because I’d been told it was the best one yet. I loved the premise of the story…”young princess is faced with finding her true self when her parents try to marry her off for the good of the kingdom.”

I like stories about self-reflection. I also like stories about princesses. But I really like movies with British/Scottish/Irish accents. So I was excited about seeing this movie. I’m not gonna lie. I left the movie feeling a little gypped. Why? The story was good. The animation was state of the art. The music was catchy. I left that movie unsatisfied because there wasn’t a “prince”. She didn’t wind up in the end with anyone. Sadly, the closet romantic in me craves the girl-gets-boy happy ending and this film just didn’t deliver.

***Snip**Snip**Snip** - that my friends is the sound of Susan B. Anthony, Margaret Sanger, and Gloria Steinem furiously cutting up my Feminist Club Card.

Where I’m going with this long movie intro is here:  I’ve had raunchy luck with men and yet I still hold on to that faint (and somewhat tarnished) hope that true love is out there and all good people are entitled to finding it at least once.

Don’t get me wrong…I love men. I have two younger brothers that crack me up, drive me crazy, and inspire me all at the same time. They “get” me. I also have a wonderful father who I’m sure keeps thinking…”someday Sissy-pie will find a nice guy who will spray her house for bugs and trim all her trees so I can stop doing it.” I appreciate men.

So why it is so challenging for me to find a sane one to date is beyond me, but I keep trying. The hopeless romantic in me keeps plugging away at it. I go on blind dates. I go on double dates. I try online dating. I’ve even let my mother set me up for crying out loud. But to no avail.

The latest debacle was promising at first. We were mutually paired on an online dating service. We exchanged emails and texts then a few phone calls. We moved on to meeting for drinks. I feel like meeting for drinks is pretty non-committal and nearly fool proof. I mean, if things aren’t going well at least you didn’t waste much time and you got a drink or two out of the deal.

We decided to meet in Stillwater because I was there on a Saturday for sorority business and he was going to be there for a friend’s engagement party. My first red flag should have been when he told me who the friend was and I immediately thought to myself…”Ew! That guy’s a douchebag!”  The second, and more glaring, red flag should have been when he unjokingly asked me to come with him to the party because he didn’t want to go by himself without a date.

We met for drinks at this cute little wine bar. By the time I got there at 8pm he was already (clearly) several Jack & Cokes into his evening. The guy, who we’ll refer to from this point forward as Short Stop because he played HS baseball, was not unattractive. He was a nice size for a man his age (43) and seemed to keep in good shape without looking like one of those gym-rat-idiots who compulsively flex their biceps. I sat down and ordered a glass of wine. He ordered another J&C (I’m guessing #4). We do the preliminary chit chat. I asked about his family, school, etc. He nervously played with his swizzle sticks. I continued to ask questions. He never once asked about me. His collection of swizzle sticks continued to amass so I ordered another glass of wine.

We are now a little over an hour into drinks. And let me clarify that I don’t consider that a “date” because there was no food and he didn’t officially “ask” me out. I have literally only known of this man for a couple of weeks. I’ve actually known him less than it takes my dishwasher to do a load of dishes. So you can imagine my surprise when he clumsily grabbed my hand and said enthusiastically…”I have a really good feeling about you. I really hope you’re my last first date.”

Now the sound he would have heard, had he been remotely sober and not 4 sheets to the wind, would have been the same sound anyone in earshot of our conversation heard….that of screaming tires plus the rancid smell of burnt rubber as I metaphorically sped away.

About that time I started plotting my exit strategy. I hit the ladies room for a breather and an emergency gal-to-gal talk with myself in the mirror. I needed to work out whether Short Stop was just being very sweet and open and I was being a cynical bitch OR (and this was far more likely) he was sugarplum-fairy-CRAZY and I was simply reacting like any sane woman would. I deduced that I was indeed NOT the crazy one and strolled out to announce that it was time for me to leave.

As I approached the bar I noticed that he was building something, Lincoln Log style, out of his swizzle sticks. The fact that he had enough swizzle sticks (and thus enough J&C in him) to actually construct a structure was beyond unattractive.

“Wha-cha building there?” I asked like an idiot.

“Oh…just our house,” he awkwardly laughed. “So where do you see yourself living in 5 years?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said I. “Probably in the same house I’m in now." My subtle attempt at informing him that we would most certainly NOT be setting up house together in the next five years seemed to fall on deaf/drunken ears so I plodded on.  "So! Are you ready to go? I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to teach Sunday School,” I lied. Side note – I vow to start teaching Sunday school soon so the Lord doesn’t strike me down for using that as my get-out-of-a-date-early card.

Short Stop stumbled me to my car. I asked him if he was okay to drive home. He assured me he was as I leaned in for the sideways “nice-to-meet-you” hug. He clearly misinterpreted my side hug as a sign of affection and decided to plant a big kiss on me. And here’s where this became a debacle.

Short Stop wasn’t a half bad kisser. In fact, he was pretty good. Good enough to elicit a skeptical 2^nd date.

More on the 2^nd date later, but for now I’ll leave you with the wisdom gained from this encounter: Had we been dating for several weeks and I’d had the opportunity to get to know him when he wasn’t drunkenly building houses with his swizzle sticks his “I hope you’re my last first date” declaration might have seemed sweet and maybe even endearing. However, on a first meeting it just seemed creepy and not just a little desperate.