After my first date with PSM#2, I found myself looking forward to our second meeting with entirely too much enthusiasm. My brief dalliance with Date #4 taught me that the more you look forward to seeing someone, the more they’re going to disappoint you. Time spent preparing for a date is inversely proportional to the enjoyment of said date and enthusiasm, therefore, ought to be avoided.
But I couldn’t help it.
Having spent the weekend witnessing the romantic interludes of my recently and not-so-recently coupled friends, I found myself thinking, “Well, Self, it would be nice to have a boyfriend again, wouldn’t it?” I’ve been single for over a year now and although I’ve been enjoying my Great Date Experiment, there’s something to be said for drowsy afternoons spent canoodling with a member of the opposite sex.
I thought I might reach this point with PSM#1, seeing as texted me on Christmas, accompanied me to Black Swan and subjected himself to an entire evening of my lackluster ice skating prowess… but he failed in a rather big way this past weekend. Ever since my ill-fated romance with Date #17, I’ve been overly sensitive about text messages. I wouldn’t say that I actually track response times, but I do start to prickle when it’s been several hours and I haven’t heard back from a Potential Soul Mate. As such, I was less than thrilled when PSM#1 took an entire afternoon to respond to my message concerning the annual Mummer’s Parade after party on Saturday night (don’t ask… some Sou’ Philly traditions, such as the city-wide, Mummerific debauchery, are best kept in Sou’ Philly).
Granted, PSM#1 may have been suffering from a hangover, or pre-gaming for the New Years Day bash, but I was forced to leave a voicemail concerning his ETA. (And subsequently forced to inform my so-called public He’s… not coming.)
This does not bode well for PSM#1. Seeing as the entire basis of my attraction stemmed from an acute appreciation of A) his promptness in returning my calls, B) his generally availability and C) his lack of resemblance to Date #17, I am rather pissed off at him right now.
Fortunately, the second half of this past weekend’s assignations went according to plan. I slipped into my purple polka dot dress, donned my coordinated but slightly-hot-chocolate-stained winter weather accessories and headed to South Street to meet PSM#2.
“I’m at Downey’s” flashed his message on my phone. “Come on in and pretend to like football with me.”
Points in his favor: He doesn’t like sports.
Points not in his favor: He didn’t bother getting up from his barstool to greet me.
Points in his favor: He agreed to go to my favorite Indian restaurant for dinner.
Points not in his favor: He would not have known to order naan bread if I hadn’t told him to.
Points in his favor: He convinced me to join him for another drink after dinner, this time at O’Neal’s, and raised his glass with a fairly genuine “Cheers, darling.”
Points not in his favor: My aspiring-philosopher “friend” (by which I mean friend-with-benefits for the better part of my undergraduate and graduate years) used to call me darling. I no longer trust men who call me darling.
Points in his favor: He pressed his lips to mine as we parted ways at the South Street Bridge. (Points in my favor: I’d had the forethought to pop a stick of spearmint gum just seconds earlier.)
Points not in his favor: He wished me a safe walk home but neither offered to accompany me nor messaged me afterwards to confirm my safe arrival. I could be lying in an alley for all he knows. But it’s 2011… I suppose I ought to get used to the idea of being an independent, self-sufficient post-millennium sort of woman.
(Or perhaps hedge my bets with PSM#3.)