Writing equals a release. A creative outlet. A place to kick back and let go of the things that are keeping you awake at 2am…although I was up and at ’em last night and still have no idea why. Therefore, will not be writing about that which I can’t remember.
Instead I have decided that yes, it most certainly is ok for me to write about dating mishaps on this blog. I mean, why not? I’m done crying about it (it like there was just one) and have learned to enjoy (read: use for the good material it is) the doozies.
Here goes.
I’m kind of a conundrum when it comes to dating. You will read things like, “And then he opened the door for me and I wanted to slam his finger in it.” Sentences later, you may read, “My god is he the sweetest human being on the planet…he brought me Blue Orchids.” Note: Orchids are my favorite. I dig their meaning and exotic style. Blue Orchids and I’m a goner. Postscript Note: Yep, I am a White Stripes fan and “Blue Orchid” is the first track on their Get Behind Me Satan album. Connect the dots as you will.
When I “dated” in Elementary School, it was off to the Roller Rink we went. That un-airconditioned, sweat-filled fire trap. We’d meet there, me in my favorite hot little number jeans complete with the embroidered roller skate on the right cheek pocket, buy our $1.00 tickets, get the stub and race to the drink counter. “Two suicides, please,” my boyfriend would order, yelling over the blaring Funkytown coming through the speakers. Aww, suicides, I thought. He’s been reading Shakespeare!
Silly me.
Oh how I loved that roller skating rink; oh how I did not love KK (initials only, as if they’d ever validate these accounts anyway). He was nice and all, but no spark. Even at age 10 a girl knows a spark. So after I got done rolling around and around on a hamster-wheel-sized cement floor, racing KK as Another One Bites the Dust cranked, he too bit the dust. For anyone that tries to grab my hand and make me skate side-by-side to Total Eclipse of the Heart has another thing comin’. Judas Priest.
When I “dated” in Middle School, well, I guess I didn’t. I looked like a boy in Middle School. Complete with the Vinnie Barbarino feathered hair and Goody comb in my side pocket, that sucker was ready to be called upon and manhandled in one fell swoop at a moment’s notice.
Wah-ha-ha-ha-howwww…I was not.
High School dating sucked. Sure, at first I was “in love,” but who wasn’t? Ah, my first L-O-V-E. Check him out now and you will find that he is still in the same hometown running his Dad’s business, and is the head Shriner – riding in circles on a tricycle during parades and circuses. As my sister likes to say, “I could have been in show business.” No, I’m not knocking the guy or the memories…he was fine and We’ll Always Have Paris. Or, Minerva.
In the spirit of saving all the really good stuff for last, I will close before I even get there. College you ask? Ohio State? Oh, I got my Dad’s money’s worth alright.
My favorite “official” date from the 1991-1995 years: a blind one. The first and last one I’ve ever attended. My ex-friend set us up. She assured me he was fantastic in every way. She grew up with him. Trust her. Whatever.
TJ (no protection here, that was his real name) knocked on my apartment door one Saturday evening. Upon opening it, I immediately closed it in a total Pavlov meets self-preservation move. I quickly re-opened it after desperately trying to compose myself and subsequently invent a sickness which produced head to toe contagious spotting.
We walked down the three flights of stairs – all of TJ and his bright orange head of hair well ahead of me – as he jabbered non-stop about how much I was going to love his “ride.” All I remember is that it was shiny, black, gaudy, and loud. Maybe a Chevy Beretta. I don’t know. That’s beside the point. The point is – I could not be a decent passenger and give the “all clear on my side” indication as he drove us to the Spaghetti Warehouse (no matter) because I could not turn my head left or right due to the amount of tension in my shoulders. I now had no potential love connection, one less girlfriend, and forthcoming wasted Italian food.
I tried. The whole drive there, I really did. I mustered up an attitude adjustment and all. But when that guy dropped me off at the front door because I was “too sweet” and he was sure “I’d melt” (it was spitting trickles of warm raindrops), my patience limit was fully exhausted.
Yet in we went, his tree trunk arm around my waist (STRIKE 3 x 3 x 3) and sat down. To this day, I can still tell you how many people were in that restaurant. I counted each of them for the longest-ten-minutes-of-my-life-straight in an effort of avoiding eye contact with TJ at all costs.
Of course, when I excused myself to the restroom and upon my return was informed that my dinner had been ordered for me, the only eye contact necessary was with our waitress. She too, was a good Italian girl and knew the high sign for get me a to-go box and then the hell out of here.
Per favore!
