Date #9, quite clearly, has no idea who he’s dealing with. Doesn’t he realize that if he cancels our Monday evening date night that I’ll just call one of the other 13 eligible bachelors I have on speed dial? Doesn’t he know that I’ve got men lined up around the block, just dying to take me out? Doesn’t he realize that all I need to do is snap my fingers and—
If only it were that easy.
I’m going to let you in on a little secret (but you have to promise not to tell anyone, unless of course you think your co-workers might be in the need of a pick-me-up, say something along the lines of “Look [insert your disgruntled co-worker’s name here], her love life is even more of a MESS than yours!” In that case I invite you to avail yourself of the “share” buttons at the bottom of this page because it took me nearly half an hour to figure out how to get my widgets in order and I’m rather proud of them.)
(Note: this is probably because I’m a technophobe and I didn’t even know what a widget was until a few weeks ago, but I should probably stop dithering and just tell you already.)
My secret is this: I’m having a rather difficult time finding someone to be my Date #15.
Now I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking, “Well now, Kat, maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you that you don’t actually need a Date #15?” You’re thinking, “Really? No kidding! Maybe because it’s not exactly normal to go on fifteen first dates in less than two months.” Quite possibly you’re even thinking that the existence of Date #9 should negate the need for a Date #15 altogether, but just in case you’ve forgotten, he cancelled on me.
Granted, he cancelled for a good reason (his career, actually) and he apologized (twice, actually) but he didn’t bother to say, “Sorry Kat, can’t do Monday. How does Tuesday strike your fancy?”
I’ve learned a thing or two over the past 24 hours, however, so when Date #9 cancelled without the offer of an alternative date, I didn’t respond. I waited a full eleven minutes before bothering to say anything (fortunately, for the sake of my phone bill, we were chatting online rather than the phone). I used the time to respond to my Facebook messages (which included something of a dating-consultation request from a man who may or may not become Date #15) and tried to figure out what to say in response to Date #9’s apology.
Obviously a passive, “Don’t worry, its okay,” was not an option; it was not okay.
Nor did, “Fine, be that way!” seem the way to go.
So I said nothing, except a rather curt “goodnight” a few minutes later and have since resisted the urge to email, call, message, text or otherwise contact Date #9 (so many opportunities to screw up in this age of instant communication!).
This is because I’m wiser now that I was a few days ago. I now know, for example, courtesy of last night’s brilliant idea, that if you’re going to try a baking soda exfoliating scrub, it’s best to remove your mascara in separate transaction. Rubbing baking soda into your eyeballs, as it turns out, is not such a good idea.
I also know, courtesy of today’s lunch, that you can’t just toss skim milk and grated parmesan into a pot of pasta and expect them to spontaneously combust, thereby creating Alfredo sauce. Nor do chunks of butter improve the situation. I could go and find an actual Alfredo recipe but I think I’ll just go back to doing what I usually do.
(What I usually do is buy the just-add-milk Alfredo sauce packets from the grocery store. And because it’s actually cheaper to buy the entire meal—pasta plus sauce packet—I buy the box, decant the offending non-whole wheat, non-organic pasta into a Ziploc bag for my brother and use the sauce packet for my awesome, super healthy broccoli and garlic creations. I keep forgetting to tell my brother about the growing the collection of mismatched pasta in the pantry so Dude, when you read this, remind me the next time you come to visit.)
This weekend’s most important lessons took place yesterday. I learned two things. First off, you can’t make yourself get laryngitis, no matter how hard you try (unless of course you’re willing to devote an entire afternoon to screaming yourself hoarse, which I wasn’t, so I had no choice but to go to the magazine launch, essay in hand). Secondly, public readings don’t actually kill people. In fact, they can actually be quite fun provided you have a glass of wine beforehand and your perennial wing woman comes along for moral support.
Given Saturday’s comments, I deduced that the color green is de rigueur for literary salons, magazine launches and other sophisticated affairs of the book-reading variety so I stole my mom’s green scarf especially for the occasion. (When in doubt, accessorize.)
I wouldn’t say that I exactly brought the house down with my essay, and I’m incredibly glad that I was scheduled to read before the slam poet, as opposed to after, because his rendition of a north Philly homicide really did bring the house down, but I survived. And it will be easier next time.
So like I was saying, I’m wiser now. No more baking soda in my eyes, no more hair brained attempts to create Alfredo sauce, no more panicking about reading my work in public, and no more overreacting to canceled dates. I’m going to be calm and collected from here on out. I’m going to concentrate on all of the things I’m supposed to be doing with my life, and I’m going to focus on my girlfriends for a while…
…which is exactly what I’m doing (writing and chatting with a friend in France) when a message from Date #9 pops up on my screen:
What are you up to tomorrow night?
And so it continues.