I’m not trying to kill myself, it’s just that I’ve taught thirteen dance classes over the past 48 hours so when I finally pull my car into the garage on Tuesday night and realize that they’re playing Thelonias Monk on the public radio station, I don’t bother getting out of the driver’s seat.
Instead, I just sit there and listen.
And check my email.
And my Facebook messages.
And my text messages.
Then I re-read my Facebook messages just in case I missed one the first time around because I’m waiting for a response from The Wedding Date.
Eventually, however, it occurs to me that this how people die—sitting in cars inside of closed garages and listening to jazz (or whatever it is that suicidal folks tune their radios to as their bodies slowly succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning).
I don’t want to kill myself, and even though the thought of climbing the two and a half flights of stairs up to my bedroom is about as appealing as the thought of scaling Mr. Everest after having completing a decathlon, I realize that I need to turn the car off and get out before I too succumb to that silent garage killer.
So I do. But not before I take one final glance at my cell phone and discover that a tiny blue “F” has popped up in the corner.
It’s The Wedding Date, right on schedule (or rather, several hours ahead of schedule. I wasn’t expecting to hear from him until the following afternoon).
Before we get to the contents of his message, however (at least those which I’m willing to share) I have a confession to make. And it requires a bit of explanation.
I’m following quite a few blogs these days and even though I don’t always get the chance to comment, I do enjoy having something to do on the bus ride home from Germantown other than fearing for my life and the wellbeing of my personal belongings.
What I’m not so keen on is the fact that all of my favorite male bloggers have suddenly coupled off. Every single last one of them. It’s as though the universe issued some sort of statement: You. Yes, you. Happily Ever After. Now.
Whereas these men were once my allies in all things single, they’ve now got first class tickets on the Valentine’s Day 2012 Express (two tickets mind you) and what’s worse is they’re blogging about it.
At first I found the outpouring of unabashed male sentiment endearing. “Look at those guys,” I thought, “They’re in love and they’re not afraid to say it! Good for them.” I even found myself wishing that I would have the guts to spill my true thoughts about certain individuals who have taken center stage in my life over the past few months… the quiet moments, for example, during Date #7’s brother’s wedding, or the way I felt the first time that The Wedding Date slipped his arms around me… but who wants to spend their lunch break reading about someone else’s sweet nothings?
Which is why I-swear-to-God if I have to read ONE MORE post about someone being “thankful” for their newfound “special someone,” my bus rides home from Germantown are going to take an ugly turn. In fact, I will have no choice but to wrench myself from my seat, dash through the back door and hurl my body beneath the first oncoming vehicle that presents itself because frankly, I can’t take it anymore.
It’s one thing to be single—in fact, I have come to terms with the fact that I’ve spent the last three Thanksgivings without a Plus One and will mostly likely find myself alone on Christmas, New Year’s Valentine’s Day and all foreseeable holidays until I turn 30, get really desperate and decide to give Match.com another shot…
But it’s an entirely different matter pull out my SmartPhone and find myself assaulted, once again, by yet another ode written to some woman I don’t even know by some man I’ve never actually met.
Ostensibly, I could simply stop reading.
(Or throw my SmartPhone beneath the wheels of an oncoming vehicle).
But that wouldn’t fix the problem. And no, before you ask, the problem is the not that I’m jealous. The problem is that even I had a boyfriend to wax poetic about, I’d be afraid to do it.
I neglected to mention that I received a text from The Wedding Date on Thanksgiving. It was sweet (as texts from The Wedding Date generally are), flirtatious and—to be completely honest— just a few characters shy of complete cheesiness.
I won’t tell you exactly what it said but it was a variation upon the usual Thanksgiving theme (“What am I thankful for this year? Well…”) and because I’m a moron, I felt compelled to share it with my brother.
His reaction wasn’t quite what I’d been hoping for (no surprise there, considering my brother’s relationship advice has never comprised anything more than “Dump his sorry *ss”) but I still thought The Wedding Date’s message was sweet, even if I couldn’t bring myself to admit it.
In a recent conversation with Date #7, it was suggested to me that I don’t feel things emotionally. Instead (according to Date #7) I try to intellectualize everything and although I disagree with the Man from Pittsburgh on a lot of things, I had to admit there was some truth to his observation.
So, getting back to my near death-by-carbon-monoxide poisoning whilst listening to Thelonias Monk in the garage last night:
I get a Facebook message from The Wedding Date. He says… well, he says something nice. Something about the way my messages make him feel when he’s had a rough day and before I can help myself, I’ve messaged him back to tell him the feeling’s mutual.
Perhaps there’s hope for me yet.
PS: I’m planning to change the name of this blog from “After I Quit My Day Job” to “Fieldwork in Stilettos.” Any objections?