This all pretty much goes without saying
Remember when I said that I’m ready to start dating again? Neither do I. That doesn’t sound like something I would say.
“Yes, I do have very bushy arm hair. Thank you for noticing, kind sir.”
“I tried that brand of tampon once, but my cats didn’t like it.”
“Does this cellulite make me look fat?”
“I’m not sad. This is just my face.”
“My misanthropy is often mistaken for racism. But I promote equality by hating everyone.”
“Don’t throw away that cellophane. I’m saving it to wrap my cats.”
Those? Sound like me.
And yet, here we are. I recently went on three dates with a 29-year-old photographer named Kim. It was pretty clear from the get-go that we were looking for different things. She’d make remarks such as: “Relationships are too much work,” “I sleep on a mattress on the floor,” “I’m an alcoholic” and “We’re looking for different things.” I may have naively overlooked those subtle and nuanced warning signs in years past, but now you have to be pretty quick to pull a fast one on ol’ Jess.
Despite the umpteen turn-offs, I continued to spend time with her. I suppose that I was trying to keep an open mind. Or that I really wanted to make out with her. Or that I was hoping she’d take some professional-grade portraits of Isabel and Teva. Mostly just that last one.
During our third date, we went to a matinee and ate an early dinner. Not yet ready to call it a night, we ventured back to my apartment for a drink. Kim made herself comfortable on my couch, her lacy black bra accidentally on purpose peeking out of her low-cut tank. Teva, in what now can be described only as an act of defiance, twice licked her arm before curling up in her lap.
It was one of those awkward date moments. I felt as though I should probably kiss her, but as a rule I don’t make first moves. Because I’m spineless. At least that’s the excuse I formerly used before I found out my backbone is super long and apparently ends in a tail. Now I have to re-evaluate.
So we continued chatting. Before long, she asked, “Hey, remember that story you told me about how that one girl waited four dates to tell you that she was seeing someone else? I should probably tell you I’m seeing someone else.”
I felt like snapping, Get your hands off my cats. Spit my cab franc back into the bottle so I can drink it later. Get out.
What I actually said was, “More wine?”
(I may not be jaundice or Asian or a rabid dog shot dead in a Disney film, but I am most definitely yellow-bellied.)
Then Kim confided, “I really hope the other girl doesn’t fall in love with me.”
She stayed a little while longer, ruminating on her long-running devotion to gin and very brief dalliances with dating, before I walked her to the Red Line. We hugged goodbye.
Only my cat licked my date that night.
There you go. Now that totally sounds like something I would say.
P.S. Like Blogger, WordPress was wonky last week and did not send out email notifications about my last post. If you feel so inclined, scroll down and check it out. It features a photo of a very adorable baby. And also a human child.