Last night’s dinner with Date #17 brings the grand total up to 29 dates. And seeing as the Man from Marshalls has already invited me to “hang out” after work, it looks as though I’ll be coming to the end of my official thirty-date experiment in just a few hours. That said, I feel that an experiment of this magnitude deserves to end on a higher note than whatever the Man from Marshalls manages to conjure up between now and then. (I doubt, for example, that this “hanging out” will take place anywhere fancy enough to require high heels on my part.)
In the meantime, I think it’s time for me to get back to the hard science of dating. And by “hard science” I mean numbers. Proper social scientists always manage to cram a few charts into their reports and so, in the spirit of qualitative research, I offer the following:
Number of times the Man from Marshalls has called me—actually called me, as opposed to text messaging—since the Fairmount Park Incident: 4 (Let the record show that I was in the shower when he called the first time and not, as he suspected, simply ignoring him.)
Number of text messages received from the Man from Marshalls since The Incident: 8 (Or thereabouts… I deleted most of them because I was still pissed off at him.)
Number of text messages received from the Man from Marshalls during my Steven Starr dinner with Date #17: 4
Responses sent during my Steven Starr dinner with Date #17: 0 (Come on now, even serial daters have some class.)
Alcohol units consumed with Date #17: 3 (Entirely too many for a weeknight).
Appetizers consumed with Date #17: 2 (Also entirely too many, considering I also availed myself of the bread, a bite of Date #17’s tuna and an entire entrée of my own).
Desserts consumed with Date #17: Sadly, only half of a dulce de leche crepe with roasted vanilla bean ice cream.
Minutes spent speculating about how to roast ice cream: 5 (Turns out, they roast the beans before turning them into ice cream. Who knew?)
Times Date #17 offers to pay for my cab: 2 (I know I already mentioned this but I felt it was worth emphasizing since no one since Date #4 has exhibited this much class.)
Times I graciously refuse: 2
Times I find myself thinking, “Gee, I’d like to kiss him:” Several.
Times I do in fact kiss him: 0 (The quick peck whilst haling a cab does not count.)
Minutes into my morning commute before Date #17 sends the requisite post-date text: 10
Minutes before I respond, blaming him, rather flirtatiously, for my hangover: 2 (Maybe. It might have been less, actually.)
Number of text messages received from the Man from Marshalls during my morning commute: 0 (Are we surprised? Probably not given the evening’s 4-1 ratio of texts received vs. texts sent.)
Awkward pauses during most recent phone conversation with the Man from Marshalls: Too many to count. (But to his credit, he did read the blog and did not freak out. Also to his credit, he asked, very calmly, if I was continuing to see other people. When I replied that I was, and explained why I hadn’t responded to his text messages the night before, he continued to not-freak-out and issued the invitation to “hang out” on Friday night. Although now I’m starting to think that if he really liked me, he would freak out? Or maybe he’s just trying to be supportive of my so-called research? Maybe he’s read somewhere that women need “space” and he’s trying to show off his new-man, fully evolved tendencies? Then again, maybe I’m delusional and he’s just not that into me… I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see.)
Certainty that the Man from Marshalls will not like the aforementioned “statistic:” 99%
(I’m banking on the 1% chance that if he reads this, he’ll understand that I can’t just stop writing about my personal life—not until my Match.com subscription runs out at the end of the month. Or until one of my suitors gives me some sort of ultimatum. I do hope that eventually someone will ask me to chose between serial dating and going exclusive—or more importantly between blogging about my personal life and actually living it, privately, in an “I’m so in love!” sort of way— but until then, the experiment will continue.)
And so, to conclude today’s scientific reckonings:
Number of dates who had tickets to the very same baseball game earlier this week: 2, possibly 3 (Might have been a bit awkward if they’d run into each other while in line for beers; fortunately there were over 40,000 people at the game so the likelihood of this happening was pretty slim.)
Text messages received, out of the blue, from Date #7 over the past week: 4 (Hmmm. Thoughts?)
Percentage of Match.com men I’ve now dated that have the same first name: 23% (And no, the Man from Marshalls is not one of them.)
Minutes it took me to calculate the above percentage: 7 (Clearly math is not my thing.)
Speaking of names, the Man from Marshalls has recently informed me that he resent being dubbed the Man from Marshalls, aka Date #16. He says he would like me to give him a name, but he doesn’t want me to use his real name. “What would you like me to call you?” I asked. “You decide,” he replied.
Well folks, I waste enough time coming up with names for my fictional characters; I don’t see why I should have to come up with a name for a real person when I’ve already provided two perfectly good aliases (and when He Whom— evidently— Shall Not be Named, already has a perfectly good name). If left to my own devices, however, I’ll probably go all Jane Austen on him, insisting upon Willoughby, Fitzwilliam or something equally ridiculous. So, please, for all of our sakes’, if you have a better idea, leave your comment below.