So I’m sitting in the coffee shop at 2nd and Christian, not because I like the coffee shop at 2nd and Christian (too full of babbling Queen Village brats) but because it’s too hot to walk any further, when I find myself in a bit of a pickle. I’m supposed to email my schedule around to the Young Adult Friends committee I’m on so we can settle on a weekend for our planning retreat in August but I can’t.
Why? Well, I’m also supposed to go to visit Date #7 in August but I don’t know when.
I draft him a quick email explaining the situation (something along the lines “August is a rather long month… any particular weekends strike your fancy?”), but then I feel like I’m being pushy, so I delete it.
Conventional wisdom tells me he’ll issue an official invite when he’s good and ready and trying to force him to do so is only going to lead to resentment and my being cast entirely too early into the role of the nagging girlfriend.
(Shudder. It’s way, way, WAY too early for that.)
So I submit my schedule to the YAFs in the hopes that I don’t end up double booking myself and get down to work the next order of business: Fringe stuff.
We’re being granted the rights to perform an amazing a cappella routine choreographed by Parris Mann that I learned during my days with the New Jersey Tap Ensemble. This means I’ve got to schedule some additional rehearsals and seeing as about half of our dancers have regular 9-5 jobs while the rest are all over the place like me, weekends are the only option.
Weekends… as in weekends when I could be in Pittsburgh.
But I can’t afford to let this get in the way. The Fringe is my top priority right now and I hear can hear various voices belonging to various girlfriends telling me, “Too bad for him. Don’t put your life on hold for his.”
And they’re right.
(I hate when they’re right.)
Then I get some emails from the various hiking meetups I subscribe too. Then I realize, oh yeah, my birthday is in August; I probably ought to do something about that. Then my parents tell me they may be going out of town earlier than planned, which means I’ll be dog sitting and before I know it, my calendar looks like it’s got the plague: all sorts of dots in various colors, with various notes attached and very little “break” in my summer break.
So I send the text:
Sorry to rush you on this, but if a certain sexy bachelor from Pittsburgh wants a certain sexy bachelorette from Philadelphia to come visit, he needs to let her know when.
Then I don’t hear from him.
For like three hours.
And I think, “Shit, Kat, now you’ve done it.”
So I do what I always do in these sorts of situations: I infuse life with as many distractions as possible because a watched pot never boils. Since I’m no longer on Match, cruising the net for new singles is out of the question (and admittedly, probably not what I should be doing right now anyway). Instead, I sign up to be a volunteer mentor for a high school writing program, then I decide to audition for a dance company here in Philly, then I accept my first ever official PR request for a book review on my blog and finally I whip up a three course meal for dinner.
See what happens when I have too much time on my hands? Thank God I didn’t have my mother’s car at my disposal; I could have easily purchased every last ghettofabulous bathing suit in Sou’ Philly.
Of course, it is at the precise moment that I stop thinking about Date #7 (almost) he texts me back. I tell him I’ll call him after dinner and when I do he asks, “So, I’m not much of a planner, eh?”
I’ve heard these words before.
I’ve heard these words before because I wrote them.
Which can only mean one thing: he’s reading my blog again.
(Actually this means two things: I should probably stop chronicling the minutia of my daily musings on Date #7.)
In any event, the official invitation has been issued, the dye has been cast and I’m off to Pittsburgh on a particular weekend next month 🙂