Dry Spell
I can’t OkCupid either, because I am totally afraid of
the brutal rejection have too much respect for my inner self to let some
guy dividing his time between absentmindedly scrolling through matches and
leaving comments on pornhub reject me after I’ve gone through 4 drafts of my
profile to make sure that it is adequately funny and mentions bacon a maximum
of two times. And eHarmony won’t let you say “fuck” on their webpage, and
anyone scrolling through the posts on this blog more than know that that is not an option for me.
It is hard out there for a pimp, assuming pimps are awkward
and mildly overweight Midwesterners who shy away from things like “SoulCycle”
and “SuperJuices.” I’ve even gone a few dates through friends, all of which were
complete fucking disasters, and I’ve realized the issue. ALL OF MY LADY FRIENDS
ARE FUCKING GORGEOUS. You can’t let someone prettier than you set you up on a
date. Those boys are going to act all cool around your hot friends and earn
themselves a nice guy reputation and once they go out with your mildly
overweight ass they are going to act a fool because men are almost
always nicer to pretty women. (I say ALMOST always because only once in my
life have I had a boy be just as nice to me as my smokin’ friend and his name
was Adam Altergott and he is now married but if he ever reads this and wanted to
come be nice to me again I would not immediately refuse).
Most recently (read: last October) I went out with a
promising guy set up by a friend of mine who I feel knows me well enough to not
set me up with a psychopath. And our first date was cute as fuck. We ate
cheeseburgers. Great first impression. And then, the denouement.
I saw him only a few times and during that brief stint was
twice quite abrasive and rude to me in response to my offers to 1. Meet him for
a drink close to his work and 2. Bring him for free to a pro basketball game.
SORRY FOR SO EGREGIOUSLY BOTHERING YOU WITH A MID-DAY TEXT TO OFFER TO DO
THINGS FOR YOU. I called him out on his
shitbag behavior and he basically was, “yeah, I was being an asshole,
sorry, I just wasn’t interested in seeing you anymore.”
My friend, however, was quite surprised to hear of his
boorish behavior. Multiple times I have talked mad shit about dudes who walk
away from me mid-sentence to talk to a hot girl who just walked in to a party
or who
stand on top of me in line at Starbucks because I am apparently invisible
and the women who know these dudes as “nice, cool guys” are taken aback. These
women are smart, nimble, non-shit taking women, the only conclusion I can draw from
this wealth of anecdotal evidence is that these “nice, cool guys” are only nice
and cool to people they want to bang. Cavemen. All of you.
Don’t get me wrong, this is not a cry for help or fishing
for compliments so that you guys will feel better for secretly agreeing with
me. I thought for a long time that I was the undateable one. The length of time
I spend outside the dating scene, though, seems inversely related to my
interest in entertaining that thought.
I am so over of feeling inadequate. As I creep toward 30 in my orthotics I much
more regularly tell myself how jamming I am. The other day I was being a hypochondriac
coming down with a plague-like flu and was bemoaning the utter lack of lemons
in my household to make my charlatan lemon-honey-water beverage that I am
developing OCD over drinking. I glanced
listlessly at the citrus bowl, energy draining rapidly and feeling the onset of
a mutated Norovirus, and low and behold, there were two plump, glistening
lemons. I took them in one hand, did a lemony fist pump of glory and shouted,
“Yeah bitch! Way to go Alicia from Thursday! You’re a fucking gem. A GEM.” Remembering that I was very near an
apocalyptic death-by-diarrhea I returned to my somber state and drank 2 mugs of
vagina-acidifying tonic in bed while watching the leaked Game of Thrones
episodes. I was cured by morning.
Even when I am not thinking ahead by buying myself
industrial quantities of lemon I like myself. I am so horrendously imperfect,
and it’s fucking great. For example, I am still in my 20’s but have the
disposition and temperament of an 80-year-old man. Nowhere is this more
apparent than when I am attempting to consume food. I had ramen with a few male
coworkers the other day, one of which is a quasi-shy intern from
Argentina. As we slurped our noodles I realized that I was flinging drops of
red broth all over my boobs, which were more stacked that usual because I was
wearing the bra with 10,000 yards of underwire because my other ones were busy
getting the boob sweat soaked out of them.
I noted this out loud stating, “Classic Alicia, getting soup on myself
like an old man.”
Quiet intern smiled shyly and said, verbatim, “Yeah, that is
pretty classic. I’ve seen you do that…”
… “a couple of times.”
Considering that I had only eaten lunch with this dude a
handful of times that calculated to me getting food bits on my jugs like, 85%
of the time that we ate together. I told him that I wanted him to remember me
that way. “If you remember nothing else about me, remember me as that girl that
was always getting food on her shirt.”
Of course, the best way to ameliorate that problem is to
just not wear a shirt (looking at you Keith). Today, while I was on the phone with my best friend
telling her about all the expired condoms I was throwing away after they had
sat unused for 3 years I found the pasties my main bitch here in NYC had made
me after our burlesque class. I taped them on during the course of the lengthy
conversation we had about the environmental repercussions of agribusiness and chilled around the house with them on for a while
thereafter, occasionally passing a mirror and giving them a twirl.
I guess if these things disqualify me from the dating pool I’d
rather keep this dried up husk out of it. Plus, there is always Oming.
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