[Dating Papers]

I got an email today from my friend, Audrey, about the blog. We had a long talk about it when I was in Seattle and she said she didn’t get blogs, but in this message she said she found it interesting, which I take a high praise. I value Audrey’s opinion–in fact, she used to be one my first readers for fiction–and I would love her to read the blog, but I certainly don’t expect it.

Audrey liked the non-love life stuff best. We probably talked about my love life enough when we were teenagers to last a lifetime. She also had this to say:

I disagree with how you characterize the way you used to dress, by the way. I remember quite a few skirts, and you make it sound like you were a frump, when you actually put quite a lot of care into projecting a particular image. Maybe you are talking later than I’m thinking though, because you sort of eased off that in graduate school and beyond.

She’s right, of course, and I’d been thinking about this the other day. I wanted to add that, historically, I haven’t dressed to emphasize or de-emphasize my chest. I just don’t think about it very much. I would also agree that I’m not frumpy, though I am a touch modest, which tends to keep cleavage to a minimum. At my worst dressed, I was sporty. That was during the early grad school years when I was rowing competitively. I gave up on trying to be stylish and started wearing work-out clothes to school and putting my hair in a ponytail all the time.

When Audrey says I, “put a lot of care into projecting a particular image” she is right. She witnessed the perfecting and dismantling of this image. When I met Audrey, I was dressing in a vaguely “new wave” style. I never had an asymmetrical haircut but I did have very short hair with bangs in my face. I wore a turquoise cardigan and turquoise over-dyed ankle-length jeans–with zippers! I can’t forget the red flats, the crazy patterned sweaters and the pleated mini skirts. I admired the kids who dressed punk but it was never for me. Too messy, too beat up and the hair–the dying, cutting, molding–I just couldn’t take that much trouble with my hair, ever.

By the time I was 14, I’d appropriated as much of my mother’s clothing as I could, which meant a few straight skirts (still my favorite style) and some hand knit (not by her) sweaters. I was trying to do something, but I had no focus. I liked everything that was vaguely ’60s or ’70s in her wardrobe but I didn’t know where to go with it.

My style goal crystallized when I met Curtis. He walked into a party wearing a black overcoat, skinny tie and a red sweater vest. He rode a Vespa. And that was that–Curtis and Quadrophenia became my guides and I began my quest to dress “mod.” My obsession with Vespas also began that night and I did, in fact, buy a Vespa several years later. At first, I didn’t know much about The Who or Vespas, but I interrogated Curtis as subtly as I could to figure out why he dressed the way he did. When I finally saw the movie a few months later, it all came together.

In my understanding of the “movement,” only boys could BE mods, so my goal was to dress as mod as possible for a girl. That meant: straight skirts, black pants, and a trench coat. It also meant cool coats. One of the highlights of my college years was when Curtis came over to me at a concert and said, “You’re looking mighty mod, J.” I can tell you exactly what I was wearing that night: yellow mohair “golf” sweater, black jodhpur style pants, man’s white dress shirt (from Dad), skinny tie and ankle boots.  I don’t remember what coat I was wearing, but it was probably the double breasted, knee-length, wide collared black “pleather” model. It seems odd to me now that I wore a tie, but I searched and searched for the perfect, iridescent, faintly patterned tie and I would break it out for special occasions.

I also had a penchant for colorful stockings and socks, which fit right in with the mod theme. How I loved the patterned tights! I have dozens of pairs of tights, most of which I never wear. I’ve kept all of my favorite colored and patterned tights, including: black and white checkerboards, red and black plaid, sparkly black, ribbed red and slate blue.

When I went to London for a class trip, over-the-knee socks were popular and I bought a couple of pairs. In fact, I’m wearing one of those pairs right now: black with a vine-like maroon design on the sides. They are wool and warm. The other pair have black and white horizontal stripes. Usually reserved for Halloween these days, they used to make up an everyday part of my wardrobe. They give a “wicked witch” effect. Both sets of socks were normally worn over tights–mostly because they stay up better that way.

Dressing that way took dedication. I made regular visits to the vintage clothing stores looking for exactly the right things. The right leather jacket, golf sweater and overcoat. I rarely stumbled across something and made an impulse buy. I had a mission.

I had a lot of conflict with my mother about what I wore. Even before the mod phase, I was wearing a lot of black. I suppose it was my way of making a teenage angsty statement without doing drugs, having sex or staying out late (except for that one time). Audrey used to tease me about it too and I’d say, “My shirt under this black sweater is white!” or, “Only my pants, shoes and coat are black–this shirt is blue!” But Mom and Grandma thought the look was funereal and they wanted me in prettier colored clothes. I wouldn’t budge. Mom would sometimes talk me into getting something that she liked, but I would never wear it–one particular red shirt comes to mind. Back then, she didn’t understand my style.

The mod thing only lasted a few years. By the time I bought my Vespa, it was pretty much over. I could still put together one or two mod outfits, but many of the treasured items were gone. The mohair sweater grew such enormous holes in the elbows that it was unwearable. The nifty overcoat never shed it’s “old clothes” smell and I grew tired of it. The double-breasted pleather jacket was good for many years of wear, but it eventually became scruffy and I got rid of it. I even gave away that lovely tie to a cute boy who needed to wear one for his job.

I don’t have a focus or goal anymore, but I still wear a lot of black. Today, I’m wearing a blue cashmere sweater with a hood and white stripes on the arms. My slacks are black and I’m wearing short boots. I dress pretty casually at work and only wear a suit for important meetings. I have two pairs of jeans, which I might wear with running shoes on the weekends, but most of my other pants are black. Most of my shoes are comfortable and black and I only wear heels for special occasions (I used to wear them for dancing, but they bother my feet too much for that now). I still don’t like to be sloppy, but I rarely tuck shirts in–so few styles require that now and it’s much more comfortable not to. Even in the mod days, I only wore comfortable clothing. I suppose that is my guiding principle–to look put together AND feel comfortable without being frumpy or square. By my standards, I just barely make it.


Grateful for: a (more) relaxed attitude about clothing.

Drop me a line.

I found out this weekend that I’m a great-aunt. My 20-year-old (or is he 21 now?) nephew, who got married in March ‘06, just had a baby. That makes my dad a great-grandfather and, more shockingly (for me and Dad), my brother a grandfather. It’s one thing to be an aunt many times over, and another when your nephew starts having kids–but to think that one of your siblings is a grandparent–that’s a mighty strange feeling.

Dad left me a message on Saturday saying there was some “family news” and that I should call. He’d also left me a message on Friday. I haven’t told him about my break up with Owen and I wasn’t looking forward to it, which is one reason I didn’t call him back on Friday. I never had to tell Mom, because she read it on the blog (hi Mom!). Not that I wish Dad were reading, oh no, but it sure made breaking this particular bit of news easier.

Based on Dad’s upbeat tone of voice in Saturday’s message, I guessed what the news was and I called Dad. He wasn’t home, so my stepmother broke the news and expressed her reluctance to claim the title “great-grandmother.” Can’t say I blame her. (Aside: why isn’t it grand-nephew and grand-aunt?)

On Monday, as is his wont, Dad called me at work. We talked about the baby (who still doesn’t have a name), other family stuff and the war (Dad is in favor of anti-war rallies). I was getting going on my political soapbox when Dad changed course on me and said, “So, what about your life? Why didn’t Owen go with you to the rally?”

Good question, Dad! “Um because we broke up.”

He said, “I was wondering when that was going to happen.”

Ouch. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

“I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Heh, nice save. I said, “Well, I don’t even know if Owen would have gone to the protest.” I gave Dad the run down on what happened and why I wasn’t traumatized. “I’m not perfect, but I wouldn’t have done anything differently, he granted that I’d been reasonable in my expectations all along and he said he couldn’t be a good boyfriend. The end.” It’s getting easier to talk about it all the time. Hooray.

Dad said, “I know you’re not interested in this, but have you tried any of that online dating? Would you consider it?”

“Um, yeah, I’ve done it all.”

“Really? You never told me! You’ve been lying to me.”

I said, “You know, I don’t tell you about every single thing I do in every aspect of my life…it’s not…”

“No, I understand.” I’m not sure he does.

“Look,” I said, “online dating works better for shy people or people who are so picky they will only date people with a specific resume.” (No, I’m not sure I actually believe that.) I didn’t elaborate further because Dad had to tell me something he’d read about people in England placing ironic ads in a literary magazine. The ad he described was a man describing himself in an unflattering fashion. I’ve read ads like that and I’ve even been tempted to answer one, but I always wonder, exactly what kind of person would describe himself as an ugly misanthrope?

I said, “I don’t think that would work for women.”

“Oh? They interviewed women too.”

“Well, men care a lot more about how you look than women do. I mean, women care, but not as much.”

“Yes, that’s probably true.”

Finally, we moved on to other more comfortable topics and soon after that, ended the call. Telling Dad about the break up wasn’t so bad, but he sure would like to see me get married.

I know exactly how he feels.


Grateful for: telling Dad.

Drop me a line.

As it turned out, my weekend contained no yoga. It did contain babysitting, movie going and the stuff exchange part two.

The babysitting was a list minute favor for, TR, who had tickets for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf on Saturday night and didn’t realize it was THAT Saturday. I was planning to go to a play myself that night, but I moved it to Sunday afternoon. TR was taking his wife on a date, but it’s not exactly the play I would choose for that event. His wife did the choosing, though. I’ve seen the movie and it’s exhausting; high quality, but exhausting.

The original plan for Saturday was: hot yoga, a four-hour movie at the National Gallery and the theater. It was then modified to anti-war rally, four-hour movie and the theater. The final modification was anti-war rally, regular length movie and babysitting. I think the final iteration turned out to be the best. The four-hour movie plus theater never seemed like a particularly good idea. TR’s kids are very easy, they fed me and I watched their netflix movie (Mrs. Henderson Presents–so-so, but sufficiently entertaining). 

The plan on Sunday was originally: pick up order at College Park REI, meet Nancy and kids for Indian lunch nearby, grocery shop, hot yoga. Because Saturday was modified, Sunday became: REI, Indian lunch, theater matinee, grocery shopping. But it change again when I got a call from an old friend whose mother just died. I’d been meaning to call her, but I dropped the ball. She said I could come over on Sunday and I agreed. I had the car all day and she lives in Arlington. It occurred to me as I drove to her house that I could drop by Owen’s afterwards and get the rest of my stuff. I also thought that if Pele was around I would stop by her house (she also lives in Arlington). So, Sunday became: REI, Indian lunch, grocery shop, live theater, condolence call, stuff exchange part two and movie with Pele.

I called Pele while I was driving to Owen’s house and we decided to go to the movies. When I got to Owen’s, he and the roommate came out with my stuff and Pele called to tell me the movie was starting in 10 minutes at a theater a 15 minute drive a way. I said we should try and make it anyway, what with the extreme length of previews these days.

Owen stood outside in the cold while I talked to Pele. When I got off the phone, I asked him for directions and he was vaguely helpful. Then I said, “So, how are you?”

He said, “I’m ok, how are you?”

“I’m good,” said with conviction. We looked at each other. “So, is that all you have for me?”

“What? Oh, I think that’s all your stuff.” (Except it wasn’t–he still has a book I loaned him. I’m letting that one go.)

I said, “No. I mean words. Do you have anything else to say to me?”

“Uh, no, I guess not.”

“Ok.” I laughed and said, “Why would you? You don’t talk.”

He smiled and said, “I guess you’re right.”

With that, I sped off to the next location in Arlington. I felt bad. Maybe I should have been nicer. It may well be the last time I ever see or speak to Owen. I’m glad I had somewhere else to be.

Pele and I missed the first few minutes of the movie, so we stayed around for the next show to catch them. We used the extra time for some much needed chatting, so being late actually had its advantages.

One of the other amusing side-effects of my unexpectedly packed Sunday was that my dinner consisted of movie theater popcorn, 1/2 a box of Milk Duds (please admire my restraint), a can of soup and some crackers. Ah, yes, the dinner of champions.

(I have a little piece in the works about the protest. I may get it up later today. I also may eventually post reviews of the movies I saw, but who has time to write them?)


Grateful for: taking care of business.

Drop me a line.

My thoughts on Saturday’s anti-war rally….

As I approach, I twanged with the thrill of being around so many like-minded people. It’s a feeling of unity, solidarity. As I got in the crowd, I saw all the usual suspects, each group hawking their own form of opposition. Some opposing each other. I saw a probably pro-war vet try and put his book with a table of books. He yelled at the keeper of the table when they put it on the ground, under the table. “If you’re not going to show it, give it back! Fair and balanced!”

I saw grandmothers for peace. I saw another group of older women in rainbow boas.

The crowd was very diverse age-wise, but not very racially mixed. It wasn’t lily white, more like…ochre. Better than many demos I’ve been to, though.

I took photos. We all took photos. I’d brought my film camera and ran out of film. It was easier when I stopped taking photos, but I missed the chance to catch some of my favorite signs.

I saw UMD students (Spesh would be proud). I saw a lot of NC folks, but no one I knew.

The Young Democratic Socialists gave me a postcard with the time and place of their next event. It was sweet that the guy actually thought I was young enough for this honor. The YDS are a branch of the Democratic Socialists of America, whose politics are very close to mine.

I also saw one of the more entertaining activist groups around, the radical cheerleaders (not their official name–does anyone know it?). The group consisted of at least one man, wearing a short skirt over tights, and the rest of the group consisting of women wearing skirts over jeans making a delightful mockery of traditional cheers. The main theme was f*ck you, George Bush, and it was hilarious.

Some of the signs I enjoyed and did not photograph:

• War is so last century
• Eradicate mad cowboy dis-ease (with picture of GWB)
• Free Hugs (I saw a woman pose for picture with the guy carrying this sign and afterwards, he opened his arms to her and she said, “For real?” and ran back to give him a hug. For real.)
• Liar, liar, mideast on fire

I stuck around for about an hour and a half, I did not march, but I’m glad I was there.

Grateful for: the anti-war movement.

Drop me a line.

Or nightmare.

Yesterday, for the first time, I was linked by the powerful and popular Wonkette. What an honor! Except they linked to the piece of frippery I wrote about today’s anti-war protest.

I got two comments that took me to the woodshed for my supercilious ways. I am chagrined. I am on the defensive. I am a little disappointed in myself.

This is a blog about my personal journey. It’s not about my politics or my activism.

It’s tempting to list my resume of good works–volunteering, protesting, political organizing. It’s even more tempting to roll out my unpopular ultra left-wing views. But it would be defensive–even more defensive than claiming such a resume exists. It wouldn’t convince anyone and there will always be someone who could find fault. I could do more. And it’s true that I’m not willing to sacrifice my day-to-day life for any cause, unlike my friend Spesh.

I told Spesh I was on the fence about going to the protest and he said, “you must go.”

So I must. And I will.

Grateful for: my conscience.

Drop me a line.

If you don’t know what a feed is or don’t use a blog reader, just ignore the rest of this post.

Remember when I switched to “new” blogger and I didn’t have any problems? Well, I didn’t at first, but I just relized that the site feed via which you can read in Bloglines (or other aggregators) was dead. It seems that Google killed the old type of feed (atom) and replaced it with a new type (rss). That’s all well and good, but it means people who usually read the blog that way may think that it died.

In case any of you find this, you can resubscribe using either of these live feeds:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/GratefulDating
http://gratefuldating.blogspot.com/rss.xml

That is all.

Did you know that a “massive anti-war rally” is planned for Saturday? I didn’t until a couple of days ago. I had my entire weekend mapped out and now I have to go and add a protest to the mix? How wrong would it be to make yoga a higher priority than an anti-war rally?

I feel like a dope because I was fairly politically active while I was in grad school. I was totally out of the loop on this one. Since I’ve moved to DC, the degree to which I’m active is directly proportional to my contact with my friend Spesh. When he’s in town, he keeps me involved. When he’s not, I fall out of touch with the various movements. If I have friends who come to town for a protest, I join them. That’s happened three or four times, but not recently.

When I contemplate going to a rally/march/protest/demo on my own, I balk. It’s overwhelming. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever done it. I’m not sure I’ll do it this weekend. But I do want to see a movie at the National Gallery and the rally is right there on the mall so maybe I can combine efforts. Maybe I’ll stand there for a while and try to be counted.

I think rallies/protests/marches/demos are important. I hope this rally and others like it has the same effect such rallies had during Vietnam: making it clear to the pols who pay attention that the public wants the madness to end. It may turn out that I’ll want to say I was there.

I know it’s more important than yoga. I can take the early class at the “regular” studio and skip hot yoga on Saturday.


Grateful for: a sunny day.

Drop me a line.

Given the current dating moritorium, I thought I’d share a story that makes me happy not to be dating. It’s a terrible first date story! I wonder if I could make a series of these…lord knows I’ve had plenty. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this one.

Back in Seattle, about a year before I moved to Chapel Hill for grad school, I read about a band, IMIJ, that sounded interesting. They were playing at the Off-Ramp and I thought, “Hey, I have a car, it’s easy to park around there. I’m going to the show.” And I went, solo. As it turned out, I didn’t love the band. I watched the show for a while and then moved to the bar.

A scrawny guy who reminded me of a miniature Pete Townshend, big nose and all, sat at the end of the bar, ordering Greyhounds. We made eye contact and he came and sat next to me. He asked where my boyfriend was, where my friends were. I said I was alone. He introduced himself as Otto. We had a long talk about my car. I was a little bit in love with my car, a 1970 Chevy Chevelle Malibu. We made a bet about how many seat belts the car had. He guessed there were a total of six male and six female components. I told him he was wrong, that there were eight of each. He bet me a drink that I was wrong. Of course, he was silly to make that bet since I only bet on a sure thing. We made our way out to the car and I showed him what he hadn’t counted on–shoulder belts for the driver and one front-seat passenger (the shoulder belts were not connected to the lap belts). Otto was surprised and possibly irked that I won the bet. We sat in the front seat of the car and I showed him the seat belts. We kissed and then went back to the bar. I didn’t let him buy me the drink since I had to drive home. But we made a date.

When Otto picked me up for our date, he was wearing a sports jacket over a sweater vest, but no shirt. No shirt, just a sweater vest. We drove to a Thai restaurant downtown and he proceeded to talk, uninterrupted, for almost the entire night. I’m a big talker and I’ve been known to dominate more than one conversation. In fact, I talk even more when I’m nervous, which happens on dates, so I could almost understand Otto’s monologue. Almost. While we were at the restaurant the only time I spoke was too order my meal. I was fascinated. I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. We went to a bar afterwards, he ordered a beer and I spoke again, ordering the same. He paused briefly and I said, “Isn’t there anything you want to ask me?”

He looked at me blankly and said, “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you want to know where I went to high school?” He’d been talking about his high school.

“Um, ok. Where did you go to high school?”

“I didn’t go to high school. I went to college early.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” And then he continued talking. That’s my best stuff. I’ve never known someone who didn’t have a follow up question to the “I didn’t go to high school” line. (Except the one guy who thought I was joking. Even he repeatedly said, “That can’t be true.”) I smiled and listened. I thought, “I might as well learn my lesson. It had to happen sometime.”

After the bar, we went to his house, which was an abandoned property just south of the Aurora bridge. I’m sure he was squatting. I sat on his lap and we kissed a little. The he drove me home.

I would have gone out with him again, but he didn’t call. Maybe he preferred someone more assertive.

Grateful for: first date stories.

Drop me a line.

I’m not much of one to talk about my looks, body type, or clothing choices. But, while I was dating Owen, he encouraged me to wear more revealing tops. Whenever he did this, it had the perverse effect of reminding me of my mother. Mom always encouraged me to wear more flattering clothing. She seemed to see me differently than I saw myself. Over the years, I have worn consistently more revealing outfits–which should not be confused with actually revealing outfits. I’ve been told many times that my idea of a tight, low-cut shirt is rather less tight and low-cut than most people’s definition.

From about age 5 to 14, the only time I wore a skirt or a dress was for a special occasion–a wedding, 6th grade graduation, or my Bat Mitzvah. I didn’t like to do anything that girls were expected to do just because they were girls. Wearing skirts and dresses fell into this category, as did thinking boys were gross, and wearing make up. Apparently, wearing barrettes, keeping long hair and playing jacks were exempted. Exclusively wearing pants also annoyed my mother, but that certainly didn’t have anything to do with my decision.

I remember the day in the 7th grade I wore a skirt to school for the first time. It was a discard of my mother’s, neither short nor tight, rather mid-calf and flowy. The boy I had a crush on said, “You’re wearing a skirt! Why?” He was astonished. It was one of the only times he ever paid attention to me. I said, “I just felt like it.” He said, “Is that the real reason?” I had no answer to that.

I started to wear skirts more often, and by the next year, I even had a couple that landed above the knee. By the time I was in college (only a year later), I’d added a knee-length, straight black skirt to my wardrobe, which I usually coupled with black tights. It was a signature piece, one that my friends associated with me. I also had a kilt and a long wool skirt. But it was the black skirt I usually wore.

My shirt choices ran to sweaters and button-downs, though. I still wear sweaters almost every day in the winter. (I’m wearing one right now.) If I’m wearing a regular shirt, I’ll cover it with a sweater if possible. I’m always afraid of getting cold. Even the summer I was 17 and I wore the same tank top almost every day, I covered it with a loose white button up shirt. Always.

Right before I moved away for grad school, I was having a beer with my two best male friends, Shawn and Mike. I was wearing a ratty old sweatshirt over a navy t-shirt. The t-shirt had been my dad’s, but it was shrunken and faded. I took off my sweatshirt, and right after I got it over my head, I caught the guys exchanging a glance. It wasn’t the kind of glance I expected from them. I said, “What? What are you looking at?”

Shawn said, “Um, nothing.”

“I was just taking off my sweatshirt…wait…were you…were you looking at me?”

The guys exchanged a sheepish glance and Mike said, “Um, well, um. Yeah. Just, you know, you, um, look nice.”

“Huh. Ok.” I was surprised to be regarded this way by a couple of guys who’d known me since I was 15. It was very flattering, a little shocking and definitely confidence-boosting.

So, it didn’t really surprise me that Owen wanted me to show off my boobs more. The acceptable amount of cleavage has grown considerably since I was younger and I’ve not kept up with the times. Of course, contemporary cleavage is usually displayed on very thin women. Most of those tight, tight styles won’t work for me. Anything where you can’t wear a bra is out. But I have been thinking, for a while, that having one or two shirts that actually showed a little cleavage might not be a bad thing. In fact, the night I met Owen (for the second time), I was going for this effect. I didn’t achieve it–not even close–because the most revealing top I own doesn’t show any boob, even though it has a scoop neck.

There’s only ever going to be just so much I’m willing to reveal. I don’t want men staring at my chest when they talk to me (it still happens sometimes). Most boyfriends are usually pleasantly surprised when they finally notice that I have (large) breasts. When I was 19, I asked my boyfriend, “When did you notice?” He said, “I think it’s when you wore that vest…the velvet one.” I still have that vest.

But, last night, I finally found the right shirt. It was on sale (bonus) and has a deep scoop neck. It will only work with certain bras. It definitely shows a touch of cleavage, but it’s not outrageous. At least I hope it’s not. I’m not sure if I’ll ever actually wear it in public, but there is a first time for everything. Maybe I’ll pair it with the current iteration of my straight black skirt….

Grateful for: comfortable clothing.

Drop me a line.

I’ve become one of “them.” One of those online “daters” who is not actually available for dating. But there is one important difference–I know I’m not available. Not only do I know it, but I will tell. I can’t pat myself on the back for this, though, because it’s still misleading. Having an active profile and engaging in any type of conversation is bound to give the impression that you are available even if you frankly state the opposite.

I know I’ve dealt with my fair share of these folks and I’ve chronicled some of the encounters here. Remember the fellow who answered an email after a two month delay? What about the guy who exchanged daily emails with me, drunk emailed me and drunk dialed me, but would never agree to meet. I didn’t bother to share the stories of the more mundane encounters.

These are the folks who feel the need to try but, for whatever reason, are not actually available to date. I could be due to impossible schedules, emotional scarring, recovery time from a break up–but these folks are not ready for a relationship. They will chat and email with you indefinitely, they might even call you, but when it comes down to it, you are never meeting one of them for a drink.

How do I know I’ve become one of them? Beyond my self-aware disinclination towards romance at the moment? The other day, I was contacted via the free site by a very appropriate man. My age (shocking), good looking, not creepy. I mentioned that I was planning to watch football and he asked if I wanted to watch a game with him. I did have other game watching plans, but it was a good idea for a first date. But I balked. I had no desire to meet him. I hemmed and hawed and he finally said, “Why don’t you give me your number and I can call you this week and make a date for next weekend? Or you can get my number…” I immediately took him up on his offer and gave him my number. He gave me his, but with no expectation that I would call him. He said, “This is my number so you can recognize it when I call.” How modern-proper.

You know how I feel about this? I seriously hope he doesn’t call. I don’t want to go out on a date with a stranger. I don’t want to make an impression. I don’t want to deal with it. I have no idea how I’ll handle it if he does call. Will I get over myself and agree to meet? Will I screen his calls and never answer?  It’s such an odd feeling to be one of “them.” I hope it doesn’t last too long.



Grateful for: offers.

Drop me a line.