The Front Runner

On Tuesdays, the traffic in Philadelphia is as such that I can either leave an hour and half early for work (thus arriving with forty minutes to spare), or I can leave forty minutes before my classes start (which is what the commute should take, plus a ten minute buffer zone).  Unfortunately, the latter option leaves me racing to the finish line week after week so I’ve been choosing the former lately, which is how I came to find myself with forty minutes in the parking lot yesterday.

I used this time as any serial dating anthropologist would: to check in with my “informants.”

The difficult part of keeping up with multiple men at once is not the emotional stress.  Oh no.  It’s the logistics (although don’t get me wrong: the emotional stress is pretty bad too).

I’m going out with Date #6 tomorrow night, Date #7 is coming to visit the weekend after next and the Wedding Date and I are still trying to coordinate our schedules for a second night out.

Do you have any idea how many text messages its take to maintain this sort of lifestyle?  All I’ve got to say is thank GOD my plan is unlimited.

Anyway, getting back to this past weekend’s wedding, I neglected to mention that the bride, the maid of honor, the mother of the bride and even the father of the bride are all avid readers of my blog.  (See yesterday’s comments.)  By the time the reception started, they all wanted to know one thing: who’s the front runner?

Good question.

Who is the front runner?

As I explained to the bride between belting out the lyrics to Love Shack and helping myself to my brother’s uneaten chocolate covered strawberry, Date #6 is out of the running, but the Wedding Date and Date #7 are still going strong.  Of course, seeing as I’ve only seen each of them twice, it’s hard to say.

Plus it’s not in my best interest to say.

I put enough of my life on the internet.  The minute I confess to preferring one man to the other, it’s going to be all jealousy and inflated egos and who wants to deal with that?  Not me.

Needless to say, the bride’s mother was adamant: I deserve better than a man who would serve me hot pockets for dinner during my first visit.  She’s prefers the wedding date by default (and judging by the “discreet” behind-my-back hand signaling that accompanied this conversation, so does my mother).

About these ads

11 thoughts on “The Front Runner

  1. I agree with my mother! (We’ve discussed the matter, at length.)

    PS random question- does anyone have a video of my crying fest also known as a toast?

    • It was beautiful, “I’m okay”…LOL, I’m sure someone at the wedding has it, I know Tech Support just taped what was on your folk’s camera and what your dad requested..not sure that was on there?

  2. I don’t doubt for a moment that Date #7 is a nice guy. But, it took how long for him to get his act together and come see you? He’s hor far away?

    Meanwhile, the Wedding Date, who is also presumably a good guy, is local, hasn’t strung you along, etc.

    If I may, since I know you’ll understand the comparison: I get the feeling Date #6 is your Cupcake Queen. Just sayin’

    • Hmmm… although I’ve been meaning to point out that the Wedding Date isn’t actually local. He lives in NJ, which is closer than Pittsburgh, but still… Evidently I have an aversion to local :(

  3. ah, now Date #7 may feel uncomfortable when he visits, so I want to assure him we are still open minded and just hoping for the best for you, whoever/whenever that occurs. Everyone deserves someone who makes them feel special, otherwise, what is the point?

  4. Pingback: The Return of the Wedding Date | After I Quit My Day Job

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s