The prompts this time were:
Never-ending bad dates
By all means: share your wisdom with me
What I wrote is below.
“You’re getting closer,” my best girlfriend says when I tell her about bad first date number 236. Great, I think. What that really means is that my list of what I won’t tolerate is getting longer. And it ain’t pretty, folks.
“No one’s perfect,” another friend reminds me, and I imagine he wants to add, “including you.” But he doesn’t. I know I’m not perfect. I have a very low tolerance for humorless men who wear flip-flops to wine bars on the first date (so much for first impressions). I mean, I think feet are sexy, but for Christ’s sake, did you just get out of bed? p.s. It’s 48 degrees tonight: put some shoes on.
“Please, God,” I posted on Facebook, “make the bad dates stop.”
“That’s why I’ve given up on dating,” my neighbor said. “Just bring yourself to orgasm, go to bed alone, and get a good night’s sleep. Everyone snores anyway.”
But my heart is a long-distance runner: one more lap, one more lap, one more lap.
Others who are happily coupled have told me, “When you stop looking for it, that’s when it comes to you.” I want to say, “Maybe you’re right, but could you please fuck off?”
Because letting go is one thing, but giving up is another. Keep your heart chakra open, and all that jazz, right? Except my heart chakra has been blown through with so many cannon balls it makes the Sacred Heart look like skinned knees. “This HURTS!” I want to scream, as our short, adorable Latin waiter delivers the merciful last call and the tab. I’ll pay whatever it takes to get away from this sad-faced, flip-flop date. And what time do you get off work, Chiquito? ‘Cause you’re much more my type.
“I wasn’t really attracted to my husband when we first met,” a woman who’s been married 30 years reminds me occasionally. “Your type isn’t always the one to be looking for.” Thanks for that GIANT kernel of wisdom, I think, but your husband is still a fox, and you love anything blonde, which he still is.
“Marriages are made on Match.com,” the ad promises, so for a while, I subscribed. But receiving thumbnails of faces connected to profiles that begin with, “I don’t know what to write here” only depressed me. You only have 300 words anyway, DUMB ASS, so why are you wasting them with those boring words of insecurity?
“I’d like to eat you from head to toe,” a man named Rogelio said to me recently. “And my husband will love you too.” A gay cliché? Perhaps. But I took the bait and let him kiss me in that crowded bar. What else am I supposed to do in this Godforsaken desert of never-ending bad dates?