Here’s a little known secret about Yours Truly: I live with my parents. I pay rent, and I have my own bathroom, but still: I live with my parents.
While my oft-stamped passport would suggest that I’m entirely too cool for the pathetic state of affairs in which I, well, conduct my affairs, I’m not. This is because I went to a private liberal arts school and although I received a rather sizable scholarship, this scholarship fell well short of the annual tuition hikes. I’ve racked up tens of thousands of dollars of student loan debt over the years and unlike sensible people who borrow tons of money in the knowledge that they’ll someday make tons of money (lawyers, or doctors, for example), I know that I’ll never make tons of money unless I write the great American novel (and I’ll have to stop blogging— and probably stop dating— in order to do that, so I don’t really see it happening any time soon).
In the meantime, because I’ve been cursed with wanderlust and a love of non-sensible things (and because my parents have a rather nice house in a rather convenient location), I live at home.
Dating, therefore, especially serial dating, requires a bit of creativity on my part (Yes, I know it’s only 34 degrees out, and I know that’s only two degrees above freezing, but the roof deck is totally empty right now! We can light the fireplace and pretend we’re camping. It’ll be fun!)
It also requires some cooperation on the part of my would-be suitors (I don’t care that you have a job/are studying for your GMATs/have an audition in New York/are currently visiting family in another state. My parents are out of town. I repeat: my parents are OUT of town! )
I realize that my “You, here, NOW!” tendencies may seem a bit over the top considering the fact that I’m now 25 and ought to, therefore, be less boy crazy than I was in high school. But when you live with your parents, you have to seize every opportunity to well, you know…
I should point out that I’m not actually having wanton sex with any of the men I’ve met on Match.com. I promised myself early on during The Experiment that I’d… well, essentially that I’d keep my pants on because dating 17 men in a span of three months one thing. Sleeping with 17 men is an entirely different matter.
Nonetheless, I’ve encountered more than my fair share of desirable men over the past three months and it’s like my dad always says: You’ve got to make your hay when the sun shines. I suspect, of course, that he was talking about my career (and not my carpe diem attitude towards periods of parental absence) but I think the same principle applies.
So, as of last week, my parents are on a cruise somewhere in the Caribbean— score! They left me several twenty dollar bills as a token of thanks for watching the dogs with specific instructions that I use the money to buy myself a drink (“or several drinks”) at Catahoula’s— double score! I have the house all to myself, the sun is shining and there is hay to be made. But Date #17 is being rather difficult.
To date, his need to succeed has caused me to:
A) Miss the half price ticket offer for the Painted Bride’s production of “The Real Americans” and subsequently the opportunity to spend a precious Thursday night attempting to get cultured. (I waited for three days for him to let me know if he wanted to join me and by the time I deduced that his silence on the matter translated to “not interested,” the half price ticket offer had expired.)
B) Also, to waste an entire week of valuable “alone time” in my parent’s house. (Obviously his father never taught him to make his hay when the sun shines.)
C) Finally, to eat an entire half pound of prosciutto myself.
I guess I can’t really blame the last one on him—I didn’t have to eat the prosciutto—but I bought it with the intent of having Date #17 over for dinner and seeing as he’s been too busy studying for his GMATs (and training for his marathon) to indulge me in my domestic goddess fantasies, I was forced to consume the entire half pound of dry-cured ham.
C’est la vie.
Here’s hoping that Date #17 gets his act together soon, or else my parents’ cruise will prove to be a completely wasted hay-making opportunity and I’ll have to go back to ferrying my would-be boyfriends up to the roof deck.