I know, I know: just because The Experiment is over doesn’t mean I can spend the weekend holed up in my room attempting to complete the 10,000-word article I should have finished weeks ago. And lest you think that I did spend the weekend holed up in my room, too tired from my first late night with Date #17 on Thursday (and my second late night with Date #17 less than 24 hours later) to rouse myself for an appropriately glamorous, cocktail-infused celebration of Halloween, I offer the following explanation.
My three-month subscription to Match.com has expired—or rather, I cancelled it. (A little-known fact about Match.com is they keep your credit card details on file and automatically renew your subscription without your knowledge. I generally take a rather laissez-faire to my personal finances, lest I become fully cognoscente of their sorry state and get depressed, but I was ready for Match.com and their little “automatic” renewal policies. Savvy online shopper that I am, I cancelled my subscription an entire day ahead of schedule, but first I copied all of Date #17’s emails into a word document so that someday I’ll be able to show our grandkids what a great writer… Oops. Did I really just say that?
Anyway, getting back to this weekend and the end of my experiment: in order to celebrate the fact that I’ve renounced my serial dating tendencies, Date #17 surprised me with another bouquet of flowers on Friday night. These however, were no ordinary flowers; these contained an envelope and the envelope, a pair of plane tickets. Before I knew it, we were off to Venice.
It was nice of Date #17 to take me to Italy and all, and I’ve always wanted to know just how comfortable those little reclining seats in first class really are, but Venice? Please. Venice is so overdone.
“I thought Venice was your favorite city!” Date #17 explained as I begrudgingly handed my passport to the customs official.
“No,” I corrected. “Venice is my mother’s favorite city. My favorite city is Florence.”
“But you always wear those Venetian glass rings!” Date #17 insisted.
“They’re from a flea market in New Jersey!” I shot back. “Don’t you listen when I talk about my accessories?” What followed was our first fight, and I might have shoved Date #17 straight into the canal had not a benevolent gondolier shouted, “Signora!” and alerted me to the fact that we were standing at the foot of the Rialto Bridge.
“Hmm,” I thought, turning my gaze towards the steps and the dozens of little shops crammed between the landings. “Venetian glass. Venetian glass rings!”
In keeping my usual Fifth Date M.O., I stomped off. Fortunately, I was wearing my good stomping boots and as emotional outbursts of the public variety are rather common in the Mediterranean countries, I had no qualms about leaving my handsome but rather dumbfounded companion alone with the gondolier. I proceeded to shop my way across the Rialto, purchasing as many glass baubles as my leftover-from-spring-break-Euros would allow. I then planted myself beside an obliging fountain to wait for Date #17 to come to his senses and apologize for dragging me off to Venice in the first place.
He did. He also presented me with another envelope, which was much nicer than the previous envelope on two accounts. Firstly, it was one of those pretty marbleized envelopes that they sell in Venice (admittedly, I do have a soft spot for Venetian stationary); secondly it contained tickets to Florence.
In my actual favorite city, we gorged ourselves on gelatos the size and shape of caveman clubs and climbed to the top of Brunelleschi’s Dome, where I got yelled at by the guards for wearing a sleeveless top in a Catholic church. In rather gallant fashion, Date #17 challenged the guard to a duel to avenge my honor (“My woman shall expose her shoulders wherever she likes!”) and despite the guard’s surly disposition (and death), we decided to purchase a small villa on the hillside overlooking the Arno. We intend to turn into a youth hostel as soon as we learn to speak Italian and can therefore hire a few locals to do the heavy lifting, just like Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun. Until then, we plan to drink a lot of wine and, you know…
Date #17 and I are both very excited about being expats and I have only three regrets about our sudden move to Italy: firstly, the closest internet café isn’t close at all, which is why it’s taken me so long to write about our transatlantic adventures (and not, as you might have suspected, because I was too busy finishing up my dance and ethnicity essay to do anything fun this weekend). Secondly, the decision to move to Italy came about so suddenly that I was unable to register to vote absentee in Tuesday’s election (this means that you must do your part to make sure that the Tea Party does not gain control of Congress). Lastly, and most unfortunately, I had barely any time to pack, and the little time I did have was devoted to locating my sexy underwear (and as I don’t actually own any sexy underwear, this took the better part of the afternoon). As such, I forgot to bring my camera so I’m afraid I don’t have any photographic proof of my new status as a Florentine villa owner and the Devoted Girlfriend of Date #17. You’ll just have to take my word for it.
And now for the Disclaimer: in actuality, none of this happened. My weekend was as uneventful as the first paragraph of this post would suggest and even though I managed to write a fun little entry about The Pre-School’s Harvest Day Parade, I thought it wise not to post, lest I get into the habit of blogging about my job and accidently say something to get myself into trouble. I also composed a brief report of my fourth date with Date #17, but alas, I decided to keep this one private as well.
The truth of the matter is that I’ve reached a bit of an impasse. I like writing about my personal life, and if you’ve made it this far, you obviously enjoy reading about it, but given that my personal life now includes someone I’d hate to lose, I don’t want to screw it up. Especially because our next date will be our fifth… and my fifth dates haven’t gone so well in the past.
As such, I’d welcome any suggestions you may have concerning what I should write about now that The Experiment is over. I have a few ideas, and in order to preserve the little sanity I’ve not already lost, I’ve decided to restrict my posts to Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays henceforth (this way I can get back to working on the manuscript that’s been collecting dust since The Experiment began and you can get back to doing whatever it is that supposed to be doing). But rest assured: the blogging will not stop, especially if you leave an awesome suggestion my next subject in the “comments” section. And provided I don’t end up stomping off during my fifth date with #17 tonight, I’ll continue to post a few juicy tidbits every now and again (and of course a full report of the Hooper’s Island Black Friday Martini Bar Soiree later this month) so stay tuned.