No way did the conversation I had hours ago really mean anything. None of us learned anything. We simply spouted opinions we've heard over and over during bro-talk 'round the bar after work. It's the same ole, same ole "Dude, you can't be friends first!", "Man, you just need to be intentional!", "You know she's like 2 inches taller than you, right?". I'm not sure if it's really all that old of advice, or it just feels that way because I'm typing about it. Consider me a historian at this point, or some sort of videographer transcribed to words (maybe I would be great at writing in braille?).
But today is no usual day. Nope, I'm writing again with a perspective that feels rich in clarity. And when that happens, well, that means I'm either scared the most with what I know, or still confident enough to yell from a hill, with an audience of two - one person who's deaf, and the other, my biggest fan (No, not my mom, mind you.).
Three paragraphs deep, and you're wondering what I'm on about. Let me say it to you to with a title: I Have Reached That Kind of Single. Oooo, that's juicy, ain't it? Now wait; before you back out of this because you feel a sob story coming on, stick around, there's a story in here and I'm going somewhere with this.
So in a succession of moments, within an hour's time, I found myself in such a sitcom state of singleness I've never felt before. I was attending a wedding with family. I was feeling so fly in my new suit and tie, that I think Justin Timberlake could have introduced himself to me in the most jovial falsetto tone Alan Greene would swoon for, and all because JT just happened to notice how fresh I was that night.
I got sidetracked. Sorry, but I was looking great. This is my blog after all. Let's start a new paragraph below just for laying out what exactly happened.
I got a text message. "How do you feel about going on a blind date?", she asks. I inquire to see this girl's resume as a joke, but I'm not really fond of the idea. "WHAT IF, WHAT IF, WHAT IF, WHAT IF,..." was essentially my train of thought on the tracks of nervous apprehensiveness. Next, while sitting with my favorite human being, my mom, she has taken notice how good I've gotten at dancing from all that two-stepping where I was spinnin' and winnin' at Billy Bob's.
Now, my mom doesn't really say things that embarrass me or piss me off. She's always very thoughtful and is very clear with me how she feels about things, but this comment somehow slipped from the nether-regions of Momdom like no other. "I just don't get it. You can do all these impressive things now. I've gotta get you on ChristianMingle.com". I didn't say it. I DIDN'T. I would never, ever, EVER say it to her, but my gut feeling was "EFF YOU!!". I immediately walked away in such a spinning, internal dizzy spell of disgust as I had been referred to the possible reject-pool of online dating where people are apparently crazy, and not tall or skinny enough. So, not the most appealing avenue, either. Thanks! Anyways, I love my mom; she is my favorite human being. Don't you forget it.
Writer's note: I received a bit of backlash for the above paragraph. Let me make it clear that I was frustrated with the fact that I was referred to a place of online dating. Online dating has historically been treated as a meat market instead of a place to meet some genuinely great people that are looking to forge healthy relationships. Being a male just a quarter of an inch shorter than 5'5'', I get weeded out myself by the vast number of women looking more for a 5'10" and up male. In saying that, let's be clear that choosing to date people based off text and pictures is inherently a superficial practice to start with, so you can imagine why I don't agree with it. Also, did I mention I love my mom? Let's move on.
You see, while attending the wedding I have a bunch of mixed family members and people who related to me purely by some strange expansion of the family tree due to divorce and whatever else. I found myself eyeing this gorgeous girl all night, who is not blood-related to me at all in any way, but she's like my step-step-step-cousin or something stupid. Lame. Why, why, why, why is this person related to me purely by association? No moves to be made, she lives several states away - I can deal. And then, as if that wasn't enough, after these jabs of a pitchfork to my confidence, some egregious form of karma went in for a sizzling dive for my ego. I know this wasn't Mr. Humility giving me a lesson of sorts, because this was just a total jerk move.
She caught the bouquet, I got the elastic garter (second time, now) - WAY COOL. Way to throw me some cosmic future of unrequited feeling, Universe, Karma, Devil, or whoever you are. There's a pictures of us together somewhere with my stupid smirk and her excellent pearly gates glowing form her mouth; however so, it must be awful because you know I'm the one in it thinking, "It just had to be me!". She makes a joke that it means we must get married or something, and like an I D I O T, I ask if it's even legal for us to get married. I mean, I guess it was an okay question, but just the sheer amount of fumbling for words to actually have a legitimate conversation with the impossible was already self-humiliating, and possibly even pathetic.
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| Reads: "Remove Before the Night" |
Within an hour's time, I had essentially consolidated the plot-lines of at least 3 episodes of Friends and lived to write the story. I suppose that makes me a rerun. I suppose there's essentially this new thing unraveling in my life. I suppose I could call it The Wrath of the 20-Something Dating Scene, where after college all the sweethearts have dried up with their spouses just in time for college graduation so they can dissipate into heavy cuddling and loan-debt-induced romantic living.
A succession of moments was had, but no real success on my end. I sit here still, a beaming individual, just wondering what the possibilities out my door are, and then I get scared again that my confidence doesn't need alcohol if it's already acting drunk and afraid. However, I don't need really reason to quit, or try my hand at pursuing some girl because her spirit gives my heart some stupid grin. These situations seem to present themselves and I suppose if trying is really worth anything, it's to fail and fail again until you find someone who thinks your failure is just a cute flaw that person is willing to accept. That's got to be love. That's got to be an inkling of it, I guess. The prettier they are, the softer they fail. Wait. Did that make sense? I don't know. It's about 12AM, and I'm running purely off the aftertaste of bad farmhouse beer. I'm so very hungry, but I'm still kickin'. Life is beautiful.
P.S. No, I don't think I'm going on that blind ate.
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