I often joke about things that go wrong in my personal life—dating mainly—as anyone who has listened to or read my dating antics can attest to. It’s just far simpler to joke about it than to take the disappointment too seriously. There have been those rare occasions that I simply cannot joke about how I feel and make it go away, save face or feel better with a good laugh. Generally, when things go wrong, I make jokes with my dry sarcastic sense of humor. In my work, with my kids, anything that requires me to be organized and responsible, I rarely joke. I have a back-up plan and back-up plans to the back-up plan for any foreseeable potential or possible scenarios. The jokes only come out when I’ve exhausted all the back-up plans. However, there is no such thing with dating. There can be no back-up plan, no foreseeable actions and reactions that we can “control” and be prepared for. We can only deal with it as it comes.
Often my dating life reflects the worst the dating experience has to offer, and perhaps that’s why most of my friends find my dating life hilarious. It’s fairly rare for me not to turn some of the more nightmare-ish experiences into a slew of funny stories. Afterall, how else would I cope with some of the ridiculous things that have plagued my navigation of the world of dating:
· The guy who thought he needed an extremely educated housewife—that under no circumstances could work. Hello!?!? Have we met?
· The guy who probably made less than half what I do telling my friends and, better yet, co-workers, that a woman’s place was in the home—while in my home. Pretty bad when your co-workers’ wives are calling you concerned that he’s not good for you…personal note: do not have a guy you’ve only dated very briefly meet co-workers.
· The guy who wanted a woman that would “do” him with a strap-on…(this one still makes me shake my head in disbelief…on the bright side, I've gotten passed cringing...)
· The guy who poked and prodded me to date exclusively and two days after I acquiesced made dates with not one, but two other women.
· The guy who was so absorbed in money that he spent the whole night (first, and only date) bragging how much money he made and asked me how much I made—umm, can you say none of your f*n business?
· The guy who looked like he had stepped off the cover of GQ—I mean, he was beautiful if that’s even possible for a man—who I was pretty sure couldn’t spell his own name without double-checking his driver’s license.
· The guy who immediately, on the first date, starting talking about sex…fairly graphically…umm….what kinda women is this clown dating????
Suffice to say that my past dating experiences have lots of laughs. Just makes you wonder why I haven't completely given up, doesn't it? It’s pretty rare for anyone that asks me out to be even slightly normal—let alone have the potential for me to go out with more than a date or two—as these brief examples above illustrate.
On top of it, I’ve heard every pick up line known to man. I was a sailor, and sailors, well, there’s a sailor stereotype for a reason. Plus, I’ve had a tendency to attract player’s players since I was 16. You know, the guys that just oooooooze smooth—good-looking, got the lines down pat, the types that even other guys hate after a few years of being around them. Only after having more than 25 years of experience of dealing with those types, I can spot those used car salesmen from a mile away without a sight scope. Hell, one of my best friends went out with one that I never met, just read his myspace description of himself, looked at his pictures and told her: “player’s player.” It wasn’t a week and she discovered he was definitely a player above and beyond player. How did I know, she inquired. They ooze it. Most women love the attention, but the attention they are giving is the equivalent of a female stripper in a club. You’ve got the “cash”—you’ve got their attention. The “cash” in this case being “strange”—something new. Once you’re not something “new”, you are throw away. The best way to deal with these creeps—“tease”. Of course, the downside to that game is that it gets old—fast—for both them and you, unless you have the confidence of a wallflower with a wart on her nose. Worse yet, every so often, that “dance” turns into them becoming completely smitten. The downside to the smiting is that if you don’t recognize it for what it is—you end up married to him. At which point, he’s looking for something new…painful experience to walk away from—assuming that you have any confidence and aren’t just thankful that he “settled” for you. (Don’t get me started on those women…it’s not even worth a blog.)
I also tend to attract the clowns with nothing to lose. You know the guys that talk to every woman that they come across who’ve turned dating into a numbers game. They start with the prettiest girl they see and work their way down the pipeline until they find someone desperate enough to have a conversation with them or they decide that what’s left is below their standards—as if they should have the audacity to have standards. :D
I also attract women to the men I'm with. Two of my best friends (male) swear this is the best thing about having me as a friend. We, women, can be very vicious creatures—well some of us, anyway. Women have on more than one occasion come up to these guys when I go to the bathroom “hitting on” them. There are men like this—that flirt with a woman with a man, but honestly, it’s about twice as likely to be women doing this crap than men. Player’s players might, but the rest of men are rarely going to risk an argument over a woman they don’t even know. Since I know this happens for my friends, I can only assume it happens for some of the men I’ve dated. Oh joy.
But this isn’t actually about all that. No. It’s actually about what’s going on with the latest dating experience that I’ve been in. I’m trying to find something hysterical about this latest dating experience—something to lighten the load on my mind. I've been dating this guy for months--I know months right? But, stay on point. Obviously, he's reached a point where he's cut away a little of the protective walls that have kept me from getting too attached to anything. He's not odd, ridiculous, strange or overtly nuts. He's smart and I find him interesting and attractive. I'm definately side tracked by the possibility that I actually like this guy. So of course, the only hysterical things that I can think of are where I’m the punchline.
Picture a spontaneous plan to surprise the guy you’re dating—including a corset, an invitation for a weekend away, and complete spontaneity. So barely able to breathe in a corset, throw on something to disguise just in case you get pulled over for speeding, and hope the blood will continue to circulate before your head turns blue because, well, it’s a true corset. The problem, of course, with spur of the moment sh*t is that spontaneity does pose some amount of risk. The risk here was that he and his best friend were sitting there BS’ing when I got there. Now to be clear on the levity of the situation, having to concentrate on breathing is very similar to trying to say the alphabet backwards, while twenty people are singing it the right way through a bullhorn two inches from your ear. The mind is ready to revolt. The only part of the body that actually loves a tight old-style corset is the spine—who has no say when the brain is lacking blood flow, the lungs are pissed because they can only suck in half of their normal capacity, and you realize your belly fat is considering an escape plan of somehow wriggling south of the corset. So yes, after 2 hours, ah, yes, two hours, the only thing that sounds good is making the stupid plan come to fruition. Of course, you have to have a man that can actually appreciate the effort that this has taken. Perhaps, the spontaneous plan needed slightly more planning, but it's hard to actually imagine a man that would not leap all over this like a kid being offered his favorite ice cream. Ok, but this is, of course, me we are talking about! This kid looked at it like I was offering up fried worms. In fact, the argument that he kept trying to start seemed…well, the brain went into complete revolt at the “plan” at that point, so I can’t even tell you what it seemed like. That’s when you wish the Wizard actually does have little ruby slippers that will whisk you away from the laughter of flying monkeys. Of course, the flying monkeys are only in your head from the lack of oxygen and blood flow, and the wicked witch is the guy standing in front of you or maybe even your own imagination for coming up with this idiotic spontaneous plan in the first place. Probably suffice to say, spontaneity will not be on the top of any potential plan list again for a while.
The punchline, as if the fact I've managed to throw flying monkeys and a Wizard of Oz reference in there isn't funny as hell since it is Kansas afterall, is looking in the mirror and saying “why in the hell did I bother?” I used to joke that I always ended up with “psychos” (just like another friend of mine always ended up with “broke and no job”, but that’s another blog). I spent a lot of time out of the dating scene—and maybe partially to prevent being involved with nutjobs. But apparently, I’ve only traded up to “indifferent”. Damn, I’m not sure if I should be proud or crawl back into hiding for another 5 to 7 years.
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