And so the post-date wait begins. As it turns out, I could have had a real triple header date if I had stayed in Philadelphia this weekend—actually, make that a quadruple. In addition to the man from Marshalls (who originally asked me out for Saturday night), I received an invitation to birthday drinks from one would-be Match.com suitor, to dinner from another and finally a text message from Date #6, asking if I’d like to meet up. Too bad I was shivering beneath my Snuggie at a campground in upstate New York at the time.
(Yes I own a Snuggie, and yes I brought my Snuggie camping with me. My companions were not particularly enamored of my two-armed fleece blanket but I was not particularly enamored of them, save the 25 year old Jersey boy with whom I spent the majority of the afternoon speed walking, so I didn’t mind spending the evening swaddled in my less-than-fashionable-attire.)
As such, although I could have had myself four dates for Saturday night (I figure that if I started around 5pm and gave each man 2 hours a piece, I could have made it home just after midnight) I spent the evening roasting marshmallows. Never one to pass up on a research opportunity, I invited the group of Irishmen at the campsite down the road to join us (there were seven of them, each better looking and more entertaining than the next) but despite my scintillating, “Will you join us for s’mores?” they remained unmoved.
Nonetheless, I did manage to observe the following:
Men are willing to do just about anything for beer. My hiking companion, for example, joined my brother for a forty-minute excursion into town just to acquire an extra propane tank and a six-pack.
Men love gadgets (everything from telescoping hiking poles and expensive camera equipment to headlamps and GPS apps on their iPhones. And don’t even get me started on the cooking equipment—or how stupid headlamps look— we had nearly as many camping stoves as we did people.)
Finally, men don’t like to finish last. And no—har, har—I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about hiking. If you’re a girl and you’re Snuggie has already earned you the scorn of your companions, you should not proceed to beat them all to the summit. Nor should you beat them all back to the campsite and then pitch your tent unassisted. I really need to work on that whole helpless female thing…
(In face, based on my observations, I suspect that I would have had better luck befriending the Irishmen from the next campsite if I had offered them beer instead of marshmallows and if I hadn’t zipped past them on the trail. Perhaps I should have feigned a sprained ankle so they could have taken turns assisting me down the mountain. Why do I never think of these things until after the fact?)
But I have bigger fish to fry—specifically, after my Hollywood afternoon with Date #16 on Sunday, I am left wondering: Is he going to call?
It’s the question every single female must eventually face—a sort of precursor to “He loves me, he loves me not,” except instead of flower petals it’s all cell phones and text messaging these days. I am determined not to obsess (hence my ruminations on the weekend’s camping trip) and I’m certainly not going to sit around all day waiting for my phone to ring.
But if it were to ring, and if I were to find, for example, a text message inviting me out again next weekend, I’d be inclined to say yes. So if you happen to find yourself in the Marshalls parking lot in South Philadelphia, and if you happen to run into a tall, nice looking man in a Phillies cap, please advise him to ask me out again. Because chances are, I’ll say yes, and I might even leave my Snuggie in my closet where it belongs.