My “New month, new men” strategy is going to require some new math because this is my third and final month and Match.com and now that I’m gainfully employed, I need to streamline this whole process if I’m to reach my goal (especially if I want to keep my job— and my sanity).
I’ve received several suggestions for how to get from 15 to 30 in one month’s time. My dad keeps telling me I should start making dates up (“Your blog doesn’t really have to be true does it?”). He has all sorts of ideas for a screenplay based on my experiment (“In order for it to work as a movie, of course, you’d have to get up to date #23 or #24 before you realize that you’d already met The One, and that he was one of the first guys you went out with.” He’s rather keen on the screenplay idea, probably because he’s hoping I’ll land a six-figure movie deal and will finally move out). And while we’re talking about delusions of grandeur, he keeps telling me that I have to stop going on repeat dates and start going out with new men because—and I quote—“Your public demands it.” My public? Hmm…
My mom, on the other hand, keeps telling him (and me), “She can’t start writing fiction in her blog now! She’s already been on fifteen REAL dates.”
And so I have. Round Two (which is now officially closed since September has come to an end) included both my first double header and my first first-date kiss. Its candidates included a banker, an aerospace engineer, an environmental engineer (evidently I have a thing for engineers), a fire fighter, a tugboat captain, an urban planner and a dentist.
Date #9 (formerly known as “The Frontrunner”) hasn’t been in touch since Thursday’s suburban disaster. Nor have I attempted to contact him, and my posse of international wing women has forbidden me from doing so. I like to think that it’s a total Jane Austen novel waiting to happen— Persuasion maybe, or perhaps Pride and Prejudice— but methinks a proper Austen gentleman would have given his proper Austen heroine his umbrella, even if her poor navigational skills were to blame for the fact that they found themselves caught in the rain in the first place.
Date #10 (the first half of my double header) texted me a few times after we went for lunch and got rather wasted on free margaritas but I felt that we had nothing in common. Plus I was swooning over Date #9 at that point so I texted him back with a “just friends” proposal. His reply? “Well, I already have enough friends. Good luck.”
Date #11 (the second half of my double header) hasn’t been in touch since we went to Starbucks earlier this month. I imagine he’s in London right about now, watching American football. Deplorable.
Date #12 (drinks in Old City) was rather nice and texted me afterwards to ask if his personality matched his profile. It turns out that I was his first Match.com date so I sent a rather noncommittal reply and wished him well (all the while regretting the fact that I’d never get to meet his Great Dane).
Date #13 (my old T-ball teammate) treated me to a lovely dinner on South Street, complete with copious gossip about former classmates, and even though we’re not destined to become Freehold Learning Center’s “it” couple, he’s been in touch a few times and sends me funny text messages, mainly to point out Date #9’s shortcomings.
Date #14 (drinks in Old City, once again) left me eternally grateful for the invention of sangria. I’m not sure how I would have endured our date without it, but at least our ill-fated evening gave me the opportunity to get caught up on Big Bang Theory.
Date #15 (the “consultation” date) texted me after our evening of Italian food, Turkish hot chocolate and Louisianan white Russians to say that he’d had a nice time, and I will be posting his “assessment,” (couched as general dating advice for men) as soon as possible. (On second thought, I’m not sure that a drink can be both Russian and Louisianan simultaneously, but it was created by a bar tender at Catahoula’s on Front Street here in Philadelphia, and Catahoulas happen to be the state dog of Louisiana, so you figure it out).
In response to one of my last entries, an old co-worker asked, “So, Kat, I’ve been wondering….what if you find a guy you want to get serious with in the middle of all this dating? Do you stop the experiment? Or do you make him take you on the number of dates required for you to finish out your total in you allotted time?”
I quite liked this idea—the “make him” take me out bit— until Date #9 went and pissed me off (and I fear the feeling’s mutual), plus his schedule was always a bit tricky so I’m done holding my breath. Instead, I am going to finally resort to a bit of creative mathematics, by which I mean I’m going to count up all of my second, third, fourth and even fifth dates and add them to the grand total.
According to these parameters, I’m up to 23 dates (two with #3, five with #4, two with #6 and three with #9) and I used an excel spreadsheet to verify this information so it is all properly documented, calculated and verified. Phew! This means I’ve only got seven to go. Either seven with Date #9 (doubtful, as we spent the weekend engaged in a gchat stand off without deigning to say hello) or seven with seven completely new men—hopefully my so-called public won’t mind.