I did it. I resisted the urge to text PSM#2, spent Thursday night alone and headed off to my Quaker retreat with nary a word to or from my current eHarmony contender. Of course posting about my inability to play hard to get kind of defeats the purpose (especially because I have reason to suspect that PSM#2 might be reading). You’re not supposed to tell the man in the question that you’re playing hard to get. In fact, you’re not supposed play hard to get at all; you’re supposed to simply be unattainable.
And un-whatever else it is that I’ve been doing wrong.
And so, if you are reading this PSM#2, I would like to remind you that I am very busy and important—at least to the masses of preschoolers who rely on me to tie their shoes every morning. Contrary to public opinion, I do not spend the majority of my time obsessing over dating (or the men I’ve branded with various numerical identifiers). In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find a more ambivalent woman in the entire city. Possibly the state, even.
Now that we’ve gotten that cleared up, I would like to address a question posed to me by my brother over the weekend: “Whatever happened to that guy you introduced me to when we went out for margaritas?”
“You mean Date #17? As in the guy I stopped seeing over a month ago?”
“Oh, umm… yeah, I guess,” he mumbled sheepishly. “I’ve fallen behind on your blog.”
Ever since I started blogging about my personal life, this has become a common theme in my day-to-day interactions. The members of my “inner circle” know the actual names, ages and occupations of my various Dates and PSMs but evidently my own (and only) brother had no idea that I’d A) stopped seeing “that nice guy we met up with for margaritas,” B) cancelled my Match.com subscription and C) switched my allegiances to eHarmony.
“You need to post a re-cap on your blog,” he advised. “I’m too far behind to catch up.”
And so, for the sake of my brother, any new readers who may stumble upon this post and all of my devoted followers who want to know what really happened with Date #17, I offer the following summery:
Everything was going along just fine (almost) until my parents left town for a cruise and I was left with the entire house to myself but no one to keep me company. (As previously noted, one must seize every opportunity for private romantic encounters when one lives with one’s parents.) In addition to Date #17 being too “busy” to take me out (or call me, or reply to my text messages in a timely manner) we reached a bit of an impasse in terms of S-E-X.
By this, I mean that I began to question the as-of-yet undetermined status of our relationship—not because I was desperate to dub Date #17 my official boyfriend but because I was considering sleeping with him.
Unfortunately, whereas exclusivity comprises a prerequisite to sex in my book, Date #17 was of the opposing view. He couldn’t fathom entering into a serious relationship without first having sex and on this particular subject, I’m rather iron willed (just ask any of my ex-boyfriends if you don’t believe me).
Of course it was more complicated than that (even this isn’t the entire story) but in the end, I lost my respect for him, and my respect, I’ve since discovered, is way more important than the personal qualities and physical attributes upon which I usually base my opinions.
Hence the candy cane-smashing, cookie-baking Christmas goodies frenzy that erupted in my mother’s kitchen just before the holidays (and hence my six-month subscription to eHarmony). I’ve been out with several new prospects, which, for the sake clarity, I’d dubbed PSMs (Potential Soul Mates); this is to differentiate my “Dates” (the men I met during my Match.com phase) from the men I’m now meeting on eHarmony.
Good, because revisiting all of Date #17’s drama has made me depressed and one of my New Year’s Resolutions is to stop wallowing in past relationships this year (unless of course said wallowing happens to inspire something vaguely literary on my part, in which case, I think it’s perfectly acceptable).