Serial dating was a lot easier when I, you know, didn’t have a real job. That’s not to say that I was unemployed last summer—I was writing and trying to get my act together and still managing to pay my rent despite all of my “I’m finding myself” shenanigans—but I had very few commitments of any sort, professionally or socially.
Now that I’m gainfully employed and finally developing something akin to an actual social life here in Philadelphia, it’s getting harder and harder to find time to date.
On the eve of my first and last date with the Bovary Reading Bachelor, for example, I snuck off to H&M during a break in the weekend’s dance competition to buy a new dress.
“You’re going out on a Monday night?” the studio director asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, “I certainly can’t go out on Tuesday!”
This is because I teach on Tuesday nights, and on Wednesday nights and on Friday nights.
More recently, my editor over at AOL’s City’s Best left me a voicemail during my date with the Norwegian. “Sorry I missed your call,” I explained upon returning her message. “I was on a date.”
“A date?” she asked. “But it’s only 1:30!”
“I know… but it was now or never.”
My date-night availability is only going to get worse when recital season kicks into high gear (I’ve got a recital, a competition or a conference almost every weekend from now until July) so upon finding myself with invitations from not one but two men for Sunday afternoon, I decided to accept them both.
I met Bachelor #1 for coffee at 1:00 and Bachelor #2 for a tour of the zoo at 3:00 (hence the monkeys) then I high tailed it over to University City for a master class with tap dancer Chloe Arnold and several of my students. I’ll be posting about the first of these dates on Tuesday and the second on Wednesday (unless of course something more exciting happens between now and then) but in the meantime, I’ve reached the saturation point.
Since the launch of my column, every man I’ve dated has requested a second date with Yours Truly. (Yes, all five of them, including the Bovary Reading Bachelor, the Norwegian, the Asian/Latin fusion date, my one o’clock any my three o’clock).
This means that A) I’m getting better at dating, B) I’m getting better at knowing what I want in terms of men or C) the gods of cyber chemistry are simply having a laugh at my expense. (And while we’re at it, don’t even get me started on “the old soup” to which I alluded last week. I’m still trying to figure out what—and when— to do about that one.)
I suppose I should consider myself lucky: I finally have a life—isn’t this what I’ve wanted all along? I just wish I could find the time to enjoy it without falling so abysmally behind on my laundry and resorting to double headers of the decidedly non-baseball variety.