I'm going to write a movie about my life this week, and it's going to be one of those that you don't even really want to watch because it's all bad things happening to good people. If, of course, you subscribe to the notion that I'm good people. Which maybe you don't. This week? You wouldn't be alone.
A tad melodramatic? Perhaps. But it seems I have made some boo-boos with this blog, and I think karma is paying me back for it by spilling entire cups of coffee all in my lap and all over the crossword puzzle at 6:45 in the morning. And also giving me a cold sore. AWESOME.
And here's the thing. I hate it when people vaguely allude to things, particularly dramatic things, by saying something like, "Some stuff happened this week with a certain person, but I really can't talk about it right now." What the EFF is that? If you're going to be all covert about an issue, just don't mention it all, because even if I've never even met you I am now assuming that it was ME who did something to offend you. And of course, you know I read your blog, so that's why you're not writing about it. Mostly I think this because I have some weird complex about always believing I'm in trouble whenever someone so much as looks at me sideways or emphasizes a syllable of my name the wrong way. I'm nervous sometimes, like a small deer. So sue me.
So since I hate that vague-ness so very, VERY much, I won't be vague. I talk about a lot of people and events on this blog, and it was brought to my attention this week that all those people (and maybe events, too, but I'm not certain they have the capacity to be concerned) aren't necessarily crazy about being blogged about. And just like Bobby Brown and Britney Spears said, it's totally their prerogative. And I'm trying to respect it.
I say trying because, to just be completely honest, I have a hard time relating to people who are more private about their personal lives. Because I'm just not. My family members have commented in the past about some of the details that I share falling into what they would consider to be the TMI category. And everyone's "TMI" is different -- figuring out how to respect that and still feel free to write about my life is a balancing act, and one I'm still learning.
cheers,
elizabeth
11.05.2009
11.04.2009
the woo factor
Internet, I owe you an apology.
Date number three was on Sunday and that was THREE WHOLE DAYS ago and I am just now getting around to telling you. I'll make it up to you by giving you intimate details about my personal life, though. Doesn't that sound more than fair? I thought so. Let's get to it.
First things first, the word "date" might be a little strong here although there were flowers involved. Always a bonus. Basically he stopped by to see my new place (and came bearing mums, what a good boy) and then took me to a soul food/sea food joint a few blocks from my apartment called Soul Fish. I had catfish and hush puppies and french fries and then almost died from childhood nostalgia for a place called Po Folks, which, up until a few years ago, had never occurred to me was named for the people who ate there. But by god, they could fry up a hush puppy. And you got Coke in mason jars! It doesn't get much better than that.
So he came by, saw the place, we had dinner, hung out at his place for a little while. Pretty casual stuff. Does that still count as date number three? I'm declaring that it does, but I'm open to your thoughts on this.
Anyway, now we face what's going to be a pretty good chunk of time between dates - the longest as of yet in this little, well, whatever this is. I've got the week from hell and house guests at the end of it, and he's going out of town this weekend, so we won't see each other until Sunday at the very earliest, perhaps not til next week entirely.
And here's where I find myself on this: it's a good thing. I'm not saying I don't like this boy (who needs some sort of fancy code name or acronym, stat), because clearly I do or I wouldn't continue to let him buy me dinner. But I have never been good at playing hard to get. In fact, I would go as far as to say that I totally and completely SUCK at playing hard to get. I'm too available. I'm too aggressive and too willing to make the first, fifth and sixteenth move, as you've surely figured out by now.
So this little hiatus is going to be a positive for me, mostly because the forced time apart is playing the game for me. I don't have to PLAY hard to get, because by nature of my hectic schedule I just really am hard to get. How convenient!
And I guess it's not so much that I'm concerned about playing "a game," per se, in fact I'd prefer not to play games. But dammit, I want to be wooed. And is it so wrong to want that "wooing" period to last as long as possible? I don't feel like it is. It's early yet, and I'm not sold on anything. I'm still in the middle of the car lot, in my mind, I haven't even made a decision on a potential test drive. So that salesman needs to keep on a-wooing.
cheers,
elizabeth
Date number three was on Sunday and that was THREE WHOLE DAYS ago and I am just now getting around to telling you. I'll make it up to you by giving you intimate details about my personal life, though. Doesn't that sound more than fair? I thought so. Let's get to it.
First things first, the word "date" might be a little strong here although there were flowers involved. Always a bonus. Basically he stopped by to see my new place (and came bearing mums, what a good boy) and then took me to a soul food/sea food joint a few blocks from my apartment called Soul Fish. I had catfish and hush puppies and french fries and then almost died from childhood nostalgia for a place called Po Folks, which, up until a few years ago, had never occurred to me was named for the people who ate there. But by god, they could fry up a hush puppy. And you got Coke in mason jars! It doesn't get much better than that.
So he came by, saw the place, we had dinner, hung out at his place for a little while. Pretty casual stuff. Does that still count as date number three? I'm declaring that it does, but I'm open to your thoughts on this.
Anyway, now we face what's going to be a pretty good chunk of time between dates - the longest as of yet in this little, well, whatever this is. I've got the week from hell and house guests at the end of it, and he's going out of town this weekend, so we won't see each other until Sunday at the very earliest, perhaps not til next week entirely.
And here's where I find myself on this: it's a good thing. I'm not saying I don't like this boy (who needs some sort of fancy code name or acronym, stat), because clearly I do or I wouldn't continue to let him buy me dinner. But I have never been good at playing hard to get. In fact, I would go as far as to say that I totally and completely SUCK at playing hard to get. I'm too available. I'm too aggressive and too willing to make the first, fifth and sixteenth move, as you've surely figured out by now.
So this little hiatus is going to be a positive for me, mostly because the forced time apart is playing the game for me. I don't have to PLAY hard to get, because by nature of my hectic schedule I just really am hard to get. How convenient!
And I guess it's not so much that I'm concerned about playing "a game," per se, in fact I'd prefer not to play games. But dammit, I want to be wooed. And is it so wrong to want that "wooing" period to last as long as possible? I don't feel like it is. It's early yet, and I'm not sold on anything. I'm still in the middle of the car lot, in my mind, I haven't even made a decision on a potential test drive. So that salesman needs to keep on a-wooing.
cheers,
elizabeth
11.03.2009
the nesting process
Furniture assembly is an activity best done with people who will still love you afterward.
I tweeted that observation this weekend as my parents and I cursed blue streaks at a dining room table, four chairs and all of their associated dowels, bolts, washers and wood screws as they protested mightily being assembled in a manner that resembled even slightly the illustrations in the instruction manual. We eventually forced everything together and now the table is totally serviceable and I'd say it's safe to sit on at least three of the four chairs. We'll mark that one in the victory category.
I signed my lease on Sunday and we moved the first big load of my stuff into the apartment, mostly books (dear sweet DEITIES, so many, many books) and music-related items. Then yesterday my dad met the fine delivery people from Crazy Mike's Discount Mattresses so that my brand new bed could be set up in my big, empty bedroom.
I haven't spent the night there yet, mostly because I'm still waiting on my shower curtain to be delivered from Target.com and showering without a shower curtain gets a little messy. And since I'm also waiting on my bedding to hit the door step from Target.com, it'll probably be Friday night before I'm well and truly on my own in the new place. Part of me wishes that it could be sooner, so I could nest and arrange and re-arrange my books and art and stuff and just generally nest to my heart's content. But the other part of me knows I'll be sad when I'm gone from my parents' house, even more sad than I've been to leave it all the many times I've gone off before. I've left for London and for New York with my bedroom -- the shrine to me, as my parents call it -- still mostly in tact. This time, that'll be changing, and it will be very hard to see it all come down.
Somehow the shortest move I've made away from home to date has become the longest -- or at least, the one that feels the most permanent. I don't know quite why. Perhaps it's because though the physical distance from me to home is the closest it's ever been, the steadily sinking-in reality of adulthood makes the mental distance seem like thousands of miles.
It's hard to leave, that much is certain. But I think up til now I've proven that you can always go home again. And I like it that way.
cheers,
elizabeth
I tweeted that observation this weekend as my parents and I cursed blue streaks at a dining room table, four chairs and all of their associated dowels, bolts, washers and wood screws as they protested mightily being assembled in a manner that resembled even slightly the illustrations in the instruction manual. We eventually forced everything together and now the table is totally serviceable and I'd say it's safe to sit on at least three of the four chairs. We'll mark that one in the victory category.
I signed my lease on Sunday and we moved the first big load of my stuff into the apartment, mostly books (dear sweet DEITIES, so many, many books) and music-related items. Then yesterday my dad met the fine delivery people from Crazy Mike's Discount Mattresses so that my brand new bed could be set up in my big, empty bedroom.
I haven't spent the night there yet, mostly because I'm still waiting on my shower curtain to be delivered from Target.com and showering without a shower curtain gets a little messy. And since I'm also waiting on my bedding to hit the door step from Target.com, it'll probably be Friday night before I'm well and truly on my own in the new place. Part of me wishes that it could be sooner, so I could nest and arrange and re-arrange my books and art and stuff and just generally nest to my heart's content. But the other part of me knows I'll be sad when I'm gone from my parents' house, even more sad than I've been to leave it all the many times I've gone off before. I've left for London and for New York with my bedroom -- the shrine to me, as my parents call it -- still mostly in tact. This time, that'll be changing, and it will be very hard to see it all come down.
Somehow the shortest move I've made away from home to date has become the longest -- or at least, the one that feels the most permanent. I don't know quite why. Perhaps it's because though the physical distance from me to home is the closest it's ever been, the steadily sinking-in reality of adulthood makes the mental distance seem like thousands of miles.
It's hard to leave, that much is certain. But I think up til now I've proven that you can always go home again. And I like it that way.
cheers,
elizabeth
10.30.2009
friday, and how i'm thanking deities for it
On my way to work this morning, it definitely looked as though the apocalypse was nigh. The sky was green, the wind was a-whippin' and I was anticipating a spinning house in the distance at any moment. I made it to work dry, luckily, but since then it has rained non-stop. I'm considering swimming home.
But as I pulled off the exit toward our office at 7:38, when I'd left the house at 7:26, I couldn't help but wonder why the EFF the traffic is almost non-existent on Fridays. It's a quandary I've pondered on many-a-Friday, trust me, because I am beginning to believe that there's some magical four-day work week out there that 90 percent of Memphis knows about and I don't. And dammit, if it's real, I WANT TO KNOW.
And I'm sure people are also just more likely to take the day off on any given Friday. But so many people that the roads are totally clear? It just doesn't seem logical. And the worst part of the whole thing is that for the past two weeks, when I've been stuck in traffic for 30 solid minutes, I've had to spend three-fourths of it listening to the lovely people at WKNO beg for money as part of their spring pledge drive. And I say lovely in the most earnest way possible, because if I had any money to spare they would be the first to get it. And one day, when I do, I will pledge every year without fail, because I LOVE public radio. But I couldn't help but be just a teensy bit annoyed that the very first day in more than two weeks that I could listen to Morning Edition uninterrupted was also the shortest commute in the history of me commuting anywhere. Ever.
Did I just find a way to complain about a short commute? Pretty sure I did. Thank god it's Friday.
cheers,
elizabeth
But as I pulled off the exit toward our office at 7:38, when I'd left the house at 7:26, I couldn't help but wonder why the EFF the traffic is almost non-existent on Fridays. It's a quandary I've pondered on many-a-Friday, trust me, because I am beginning to believe that there's some magical four-day work week out there that 90 percent of Memphis knows about and I don't. And dammit, if it's real, I WANT TO KNOW.
And I'm sure people are also just more likely to take the day off on any given Friday. But so many people that the roads are totally clear? It just doesn't seem logical. And the worst part of the whole thing is that for the past two weeks, when I've been stuck in traffic for 30 solid minutes, I've had to spend three-fourths of it listening to the lovely people at WKNO beg for money as part of their spring pledge drive. And I say lovely in the most earnest way possible, because if I had any money to spare they would be the first to get it. And one day, when I do, I will pledge every year without fail, because I LOVE public radio. But I couldn't help but be just a teensy bit annoyed that the very first day in more than two weeks that I could listen to Morning Edition uninterrupted was also the shortest commute in the history of me commuting anywhere. Ever.
Did I just find a way to complain about a short commute? Pretty sure I did. Thank god it's Friday.
cheers,
elizabeth
10.29.2009
bitch, all these rules!
So, tonight is date number two. I'm going over to his apartment, which feels a little bit intimate for a second date, but really? I have no idea. I feel like there are all these rules that people have about dating and what you should or shouldn't do when or where and I don't know how anyone keeps up with any of them.
Last night during my run (since the World Series is apparently more important than my new Wednesday night staple, "Glee") I watched this special on TLC called The 650-lb. Virgin. It's about this guy who weighed -- can you guess? -- 650 pounds, lost about 400 of it and is now dating for the first time in his life. And if I thought I was the Mayor of Akwardtown, than this guy must by the Viceroy of the sovereign nation of Awkwardland. Because DAMN.
But he's sweet. Because he used to be GINORMOUS and now he's not. And you just want to pull for him. And lucky for him, he's got this friend who was his personal trainer who has taught him everything he needs to know about socializing, including how to rock a spray-on tan.
So in the little bit of this special that I caught, our friend Former McFatty (I can't remember his actual name, and calling him that is way more fun than Googling the answer) is going out on a blind date with a gal who was selected for him by a local matchmaker. And before he goes out with this potential match -- which turns out to be a festival of awkward proportions, let me tell you -- they show him out at a bar with his buddy, asking his female friends for advice on his big date.
And no sooner does he ask than they start firing off rules. Bitch, all these RULES! (That is what I wanted to shout at the ladies on the TV, but I did know that they couldn't hear me, and also that it may earn me a reputation among my fellow gym-goers.) You can't do this on a first date, you have to do this on the second date and certainly no one ever does THIS until date four or five. Don't talk about this, just talk about that. Never approach this topic, this topic and that topic until date five, unless she's (fill in some qualifier here), in which case you'll want to talk about it on date two.
It just starts to feel like a mathematical word problem after a while and I hate math but I actually sort of like dating. So I'd prefer if they intersected as infrequently as possible.
It just makes me think that maybe all of these rules are the reason we're so awkward to begin with, or the reason we perceive ourselves that way. We all think there's a certain way we're supposed to behave or certain things we're not supposed to do on a date, and so when we cross those lines we feel ridiculous. When, really, the only thing ridiculous about the whole situation is that two people with flaws and quirks and messy things about their personalities are going to pains to hide ALL of it.
Why can't we just go with our guts? My guts rarely let me down. Except in cases of over-consumption of bean and queso dip, but I apologized for that, and we're moving past it. Besides, didn't those women who wrote that book of dating rules in the 80s both end up getting divorced? Now that's a ringing endorsement for throwing the rules directly out the window and never looking in the rearview.
cheers,
elizabeth
Last night during my run (since the World Series is apparently more important than my new Wednesday night staple, "Glee") I watched this special on TLC called The 650-lb. Virgin. It's about this guy who weighed -- can you guess? -- 650 pounds, lost about 400 of it and is now dating for the first time in his life. And if I thought I was the Mayor of Akwardtown, than this guy must by the Viceroy of the sovereign nation of Awkwardland. Because DAMN.
But he's sweet. Because he used to be GINORMOUS and now he's not. And you just want to pull for him. And lucky for him, he's got this friend who was his personal trainer who has taught him everything he needs to know about socializing, including how to rock a spray-on tan.
So in the little bit of this special that I caught, our friend Former McFatty (I can't remember his actual name, and calling him that is way more fun than Googling the answer) is going out on a blind date with a gal who was selected for him by a local matchmaker. And before he goes out with this potential match -- which turns out to be a festival of awkward proportions, let me tell you -- they show him out at a bar with his buddy, asking his female friends for advice on his big date.
And no sooner does he ask than they start firing off rules. Bitch, all these RULES! (That is what I wanted to shout at the ladies on the TV, but I did know that they couldn't hear me, and also that it may earn me a reputation among my fellow gym-goers.) You can't do this on a first date, you have to do this on the second date and certainly no one ever does THIS until date four or five. Don't talk about this, just talk about that. Never approach this topic, this topic and that topic until date five, unless she's (fill in some qualifier here), in which case you'll want to talk about it on date two.
It just starts to feel like a mathematical word problem after a while and I hate math but I actually sort of like dating. So I'd prefer if they intersected as infrequently as possible.
It just makes me think that maybe all of these rules are the reason we're so awkward to begin with, or the reason we perceive ourselves that way. We all think there's a certain way we're supposed to behave or certain things we're not supposed to do on a date, and so when we cross those lines we feel ridiculous. When, really, the only thing ridiculous about the whole situation is that two people with flaws and quirks and messy things about their personalities are going to pains to hide ALL of it.
Why can't we just go with our guts? My guts rarely let me down. Except in cases of over-consumption of bean and queso dip, but I apologized for that, and we're moving past it. Besides, didn't those women who wrote that book of dating rules in the 80s both end up getting divorced? Now that's a ringing endorsement for throwing the rules directly out the window and never looking in the rearview.
cheers,
elizabeth
10.28.2009
the art of the double entendre
A while back this wholesale furniture store opened up in a little shopping center near my parents' house, called Victorian. And underneath the big sign proclaiming the store's name was the store's Web address. Good internet branding, right? Well, unless someone has already taken Victorian.com and you feel compelled to name your site VictorianUS.com.
Or, if it's printed in all caps and reads as one big long word, VICTORIANUS. Yes, anus. ANUS! Why did no one think of this in the development process? Why? It's certainly an unfortunate thing for Victorian, but for just about everyone I know it's a daily source of amusement when driving by. Even now that I'm pretty sure it's closed, and is just a big empty space in that strip mall, I still often look.
So today, when I was behind a car headed to work who felt compelled to turn into the lot in front of Victori Anus, I was so miffed I said out loud, "What'd you wanna go in Victori Anus for?" Then, I looked to my left, where much to my surprise I saw a brand new tenant located next door to the Anus store.
Ram in the Bush Christian Center.
(If you're wondering, no, I managed not to wreck the car.)
cheers,
elizabeth
Or, if it's printed in all caps and reads as one big long word, VICTORIANUS. Yes, anus. ANUS! Why did no one think of this in the development process? Why? It's certainly an unfortunate thing for Victorian, but for just about everyone I know it's a daily source of amusement when driving by. Even now that I'm pretty sure it's closed, and is just a big empty space in that strip mall, I still often look.
So today, when I was behind a car headed to work who felt compelled to turn into the lot in front of Victori Anus, I was so miffed I said out loud, "What'd you wanna go in Victori Anus for?" Then, I looked to my left, where much to my surprise I saw a brand new tenant located next door to the Anus store.
Ram in the Bush Christian Center.
(If you're wondering, no, I managed not to wreck the car.)
cheers,
elizabeth
10.27.2009
dating: the beginners' corner
I've talked a little bit here before about what the word "dating" has meant for me in the past. Excessive Facebook stalking, occasional name-Googling, maybe a few creeper night-time drive-bys of the house or apartment.
If you're now wondering if I've ever been on Dateline, the answer is no. At least not yet.
But to temper the psycho factor in all that just a little bit, this is how college-aged people interact romantically here in the great bright future, year of our lord 2009. Well, maybe everyone doesn't do the drive-by thing, but I was taught that by a very seasoned professional and sometimes the temptation to just swing through a guy's neighborhood and see if you can catch him taking his trash to the street in his underwear is just TOO great. But let's be honest, if you actually DID catch him, you'd hit the deck like you were in Kabul and that Hefty bag was an IED, and probably wreck your car into a ravine trying to make sure he didn't pick up on the fact that you were cruising his block for cheap thrills.
So we'll table that for now. But the Facebooking and the Googling? Very real. Very, very real. If you meet someone at a party and he even looks at you sideways, you're home that night, still half-drunk reading every insignificant WORD on his Facebook profile and dissecting his lists of favorite music and movies as if you were making a life commitment to one another tomorrow and you needed to choose the perfect wedding song. From the moment you meet, you're doing your research. So by the time the first date rolls around, you already know this guy up, down, backward and forward. You know his favorite TV shows, his likes and dislikes, his religious and political views and you've probably even examined all of his tagged photos (and tentatively pre-selected the one most appropriate to copy, save and e-mail to your parents should this thing get off the ground).
I guess what I'm getting at is that as a college student -- which I've been for most of my adult life, and with access to Facebook for most of those years -- you typically don't have the standard first date interactions. You don't have to play "getting to know you." You've got the vitals and you're ready to move into the next phase of testing: actual compatibility.
So, here I am on this crazy little blog making a whole lot of big bold statements here recently about grandiose sounding things like "diving into the dating pool" and then, even more recently, "not having the mental energy" to go quest out a mate. Let it be known that I have made these statements many-a-time in my life and nothing, NOTHING has ever happened. But this time? Something actually did.
I went to sleep one night and The Date Fairy left a Facebook message underneath my pillow! Or something like that. And next thing you know, it's last Friday night and I'm out on a date with a guy I don't really know from a ham sandwich, but I've asked around enough to be sure he's not an axe murderer.
We had sushi, we saw a play, we had wine and cheese afterward -- I had what I consider to be my very first "first" date. Through five relationships and a few little stops along the way I've never been privy to the traditional guy sees girl, guy asks girl out, guy and girl get cream sodas and talk about Ed Sullivan kind of dating routine. But I made it through the first date without doing anything too ridiculous, so maybe the second date (Eep!) will be just as easy.
Okay, I'm gonna need to back the train up for just a minute, because you know me well enough to guess that the last little bit about not doing anything too ridiculous was only partially true. See, when I say I didn't really know this guy, I mean it. I did this thing a while back called PowerPoint Karaoke (long story, Google it like you would a future boyfriend) and he was there, too. I saw him do his PowerPoint and he saw me do mine, he Facebooked me the next day and that pretty much brings you up to speed. We'd never even had a conversation before Friday night. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN TERRIFIED. But for whatever reason, I wasn't.
And maybe it was that oddly comfortable feeling, maybe it was NOT being completely nervous about the whole thing that did it. I got too relaxed. I didn't over-analyze my own potential to be awkward enough to circumvent any situations. And so, there was one. When I walked in the restaurant, he was sitting down and, like a good Southern gentleman, stood when I came in. That's when the terror struck.
I'm walking toward him, slow motion in my own mind, thinking, what do I do? Do I hand shake? Do we hug? Do I do a light arm touch? Do I just stand there smiling and fidget awkwardly because I AM PRETTY DAMN GOOD AT THAT. No. No, instead, I decide to go for the side hug. The weird, we're-not-hugging-but-we're-touching hug that really requires both people to be aware of the side hugging, only he wasn't really aware so basically I side-hug-attacked him and our arms just sort of touched and it was Welcome to Awkward Town, Population Two, I'M THE MAYOR.
Our next date is Thursday. Brace yourself.
cheers,
elizabeth
If you're now wondering if I've ever been on Dateline, the answer is no. At least not yet.
But to temper the psycho factor in all that just a little bit, this is how college-aged people interact romantically here in the great bright future, year of our lord 2009. Well, maybe everyone doesn't do the drive-by thing, but I was taught that by a very seasoned professional and sometimes the temptation to just swing through a guy's neighborhood and see if you can catch him taking his trash to the street in his underwear is just TOO great. But let's be honest, if you actually DID catch him, you'd hit the deck like you were in Kabul and that Hefty bag was an IED, and probably wreck your car into a ravine trying to make sure he didn't pick up on the fact that you were cruising his block for cheap thrills.
So we'll table that for now. But the Facebooking and the Googling? Very real. Very, very real. If you meet someone at a party and he even looks at you sideways, you're home that night, still half-drunk reading every insignificant WORD on his Facebook profile and dissecting his lists of favorite music and movies as if you were making a life commitment to one another tomorrow and you needed to choose the perfect wedding song. From the moment you meet, you're doing your research. So by the time the first date rolls around, you already know this guy up, down, backward and forward. You know his favorite TV shows, his likes and dislikes, his religious and political views and you've probably even examined all of his tagged photos (and tentatively pre-selected the one most appropriate to copy, save and e-mail to your parents should this thing get off the ground).
I guess what I'm getting at is that as a college student -- which I've been for most of my adult life, and with access to Facebook for most of those years -- you typically don't have the standard first date interactions. You don't have to play "getting to know you." You've got the vitals and you're ready to move into the next phase of testing: actual compatibility.
So, here I am on this crazy little blog making a whole lot of big bold statements here recently about grandiose sounding things like "diving into the dating pool" and then, even more recently, "not having the mental energy" to go quest out a mate. Let it be known that I have made these statements many-a-time in my life and nothing, NOTHING has ever happened. But this time? Something actually did.
I went to sleep one night and The Date Fairy left a Facebook message underneath my pillow! Or something like that. And next thing you know, it's last Friday night and I'm out on a date with a guy I don't really know from a ham sandwich, but I've asked around enough to be sure he's not an axe murderer.
We had sushi, we saw a play, we had wine and cheese afterward -- I had what I consider to be my very first "first" date. Through five relationships and a few little stops along the way I've never been privy to the traditional guy sees girl, guy asks girl out, guy and girl get cream sodas and talk about Ed Sullivan kind of dating routine. But I made it through the first date without doing anything too ridiculous, so maybe the second date (Eep!) will be just as easy.
Okay, I'm gonna need to back the train up for just a minute, because you know me well enough to guess that the last little bit about not doing anything too ridiculous was only partially true. See, when I say I didn't really know this guy, I mean it. I did this thing a while back called PowerPoint Karaoke (long story, Google it like you would a future boyfriend) and he was there, too. I saw him do his PowerPoint and he saw me do mine, he Facebooked me the next day and that pretty much brings you up to speed. We'd never even had a conversation before Friday night. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN TERRIFIED. But for whatever reason, I wasn't.
And maybe it was that oddly comfortable feeling, maybe it was NOT being completely nervous about the whole thing that did it. I got too relaxed. I didn't over-analyze my own potential to be awkward enough to circumvent any situations. And so, there was one. When I walked in the restaurant, he was sitting down and, like a good Southern gentleman, stood when I came in. That's when the terror struck.
I'm walking toward him, slow motion in my own mind, thinking, what do I do? Do I hand shake? Do we hug? Do I do a light arm touch? Do I just stand there smiling and fidget awkwardly because I AM PRETTY DAMN GOOD AT THAT. No. No, instead, I decide to go for the side hug. The weird, we're-not-hugging-but-we're-touching hug that really requires both people to be aware of the side hugging, only he wasn't really aware so basically I side-hug-attacked him and our arms just sort of touched and it was Welcome to Awkward Town, Population Two, I'M THE MAYOR.
Our next date is Thursday. Brace yourself.
cheers,
elizabeth
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
