We all know what time it is when this compilation is sitting on my counter. It's first date time. We've got the letter to the police giving a full description of myself, my whereabouts, my "date's" information, my toothbrush and hairbrush for DNA, the impression of my teeth (just in case) and a camera with photos of me right before I walked out the door. On the back of the paper is my last will and testament outlining who gets what from my amazing collection of books, electronics, baseball card collection, shoes, handbags, mismatched dishes, unused pots/pans and ownership of my two cats. Also the statement that should I be murdered, please play "New York, New York" at the funeral and bury me in my "42" jersey. Hey, we all have last requests, right?
You're looking at this picture and you're convinced that I'm a crazy person. That all my sanity has somehow escaped my mind and I'm walking this earth absolutely senile. But, my good friend, you'd be wrong. You must be proactive in your defense against being turned into a skin suit. We all have our biggest fears and mine is that the guy will bring lotion, a basket and have a little dog named Precious. There are various traits that I don't trust about a man and they lead me to believe they have skin suit potential. We all remember "no toppings guy." I got out of that situation but for the grace of God.
I met this gentleman at a restaurant to which of course I was early (never leave home without at least one book). So I sat in my car and waited. And while I waited and tried to read some book about a man who found a missing baby in 1962 I just kept thinking to myself: "I know nothing about this guy. What am I getting myself into? This could be a complete disaster! He could be boring. He could hate baseball. He could think Obamacare is a gift from above. He could order seafood. He could murder me. And the big one: he could not like frosting." These questions filled my Ford Escape and unfortunately made me keep re-reading each sentence because ADD is a horrible thing. Trying to balance my uncontrollable train of thought was more of a chore than one could imagine.
And this date comes on the heels of receiving a message from a horrendous ex-boyfriend from years ago finding me on social media and sending me a heart-felt, violin inducing message of sorrow, guilt and pain. He confirmed everything I already knew: Yes, I look fabulous. Yes, I am extremely happy. Yes, I have found true love in baseball and frosting (monogamy has never been my strong point). And yes, my life is how I want it to be right now. No, I don't believe you have changed. No, I don't think you're sorry (sorry excuse for a man but not actually sorry). But yes, I would be willing to go back in time and take you back... once I have exhausted all the air in my lungs and rigor has set in. I don't have a "save the date" card for that but I'll make sure you'll get one in the mail from the coroner.
My luck with men has been anything but positive. Pay no attention to the Irish last name because I never inherited that luck when it comes to the male species. I have horror stories that Stephen King would pay a lot of money to get the rights to. But it's been almost 8 months since the break-up and I promised friends that I would date again in 2014. So here I was, sitting in my car holding a Kindle I wasn't really reading, and thinking of two things: 1) what am I doing here again because I'm really tired of doing this and 2) Did I remember to fully charge my stun gun?
Starting over. That's what I was doing in that car. Starting over at 29 with someone that could lead to a second date and something special. Something that could possibly go somewhere and be something amazing. Something that I would look back on and say, "Remember that night I met you and all the stars aligned and everything was perfect and little bunnies starting hopping by with rainbows above us?" Or I could be saying, "I got a good look at him officer. He was standing there with various bottles of Bath & Body Works in a basket leading me to a hole in the ground!" Nevertheless, as I sat in the car one thing came to my mind: if all else fails and nothing comes of this attempt I'm not eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich tonight for dinner again. And that my friends, was worth the insane risk I was about to take when the text came on my phone that said "I'm here."
2 comments:
Genius, pure genius.
Haha... Thanks. At least you can attest to the fact that none of this is my imagination. I truly did this and survived to tell the story!
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