Mark kicked off a sequence of ho-hum dates that don’t necessitate further individual blog posts. The single unique aspect of coffee dates with Carl, James and Harold was that I can’t remember anything significant, interesting or even unpleasant about any of them. The dates weren’t ghastly, the conversation flowed just fine and each seemed like a genuine, polite, well-read gent. Nevertheless after each date, I told mom, “He’s okay but I don’t care if I never see him again.” That’s not really the sort of reaction one would have to someone with relationship potential… and I guess that brings me to the core of this whole social experiment - which I’ll address in greater detail at the conclusion.
I’m obliged to point out that Carl, James and Harold were not in any way Orlando, Jude or Heath, so it’s not like I’m passing up truckloads of muscled foreign stud-muffins because of my recently developed apathy toward dating. They were ordinary guys that just didn’t have “it.” Whatever “it” is.
What “it” isn’t, is lackluster. Is it so much to ask that a guy have a little more WA-WA-WE-WA and a little less WOMP-WOMP? I don’t think I’m being exceptionally persnickety, I just know precisely what I want and don’t see the use of suffering through the three Cs (cleaning, cooking, compromising) with someone who isn’t that guy. In fact, I told several wannabe suitors, (who wouldn’t stop emailing me for Pete’s sake) “I know exactly what I want, so stop trying to convince me that you’re it when you’re unmistakably not.” More on that in a few days…
I feel like I’m a semi-interesting gal with adequate karaoke skills and a penchant for spontaneous dance parties. No, I shan’t cook and no, I shan’t ever do someone else’s laundry. However, I’m superfun, tri-lingual and grossly over-edorphinated, dangit, and that ought to count for something! As evidenced by date No. 1 with the Vanilla Milkman, I’ve ascertained that I’m looking for someone with chutzpah, zing, hoo-RAH… even a modest trace of wit would suffice. Oh well, perhaps the next date will be different? Stay tuned!
One more thing! One unforeseen consequence of my NYC dating research: the baristas at my designated social experiment Starbucks totally think I’m a Venti Skank. Considering I’ve been in there at least once a week for two months with a different gentleman each time, I don’t blame them. You should see the shifty sideways glances I get. Pfffft! Don’t judge me, I just want my Caramel Frapp with extra chutzpah!
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