Having recently cut back on drinking because I’m vain and can’t afford empty calories, I decided to make a coffee date with a guy I met on-line. Do not adjust your screen. That’s right, the words “coffee date,” “on-line” and “guy” were all used in the same sentence. And it was in broad daylight.
He’s a costumed character at that place in Anaheim. You know, the happiest place on earth. A mouse runs it. Besides, I figured coffee boy was as close as I was going to get to fulfilling my fantasy of an orgy with seven little people.
He was cute. Small. 26, but looked barely legal. Amazing eyes.
The conversation was pleasant enough. It’s hard to really get to know someone when there are dozens of other people packed around you on laptops. Any conversation you have will be snarkily judged by the nerd next to you as, “oh look at those losers on a coffee date.”
God forbid you mention their profile or pictures. I was looking at this little get together as a “pre-date.” Besides, I needed coffee, so why not spend the hour perusing a potential Mr. Right Now?
I had already mapped out the actual date-date. It would be a surprise. I would tell him to dress comfortably. I would tell him that by the end of the afternoon, I would have his legs over his head and would spend a few hours flipping him through the air.
Duh, I was taking him to trapeze school, you perv.
After our mid-air adventures, we would grab margaritas and Mexican food at Marix. I would drive him home, where he would invite me in, but I would say, “no, not tonight.” He would insist and I would say, “wait till you see what I have planned for you tomorrow.”
After an hour of conversation (and for all intents and purposes, I was having a really great time) I freed him so he could get to the gym.
As we were standing in the crosswalk, right before I was about to check his schedule, he turned and said, “okay, well good luck with everything!”
I was too stunned to really speak. To most people, his statement would have been a loud and clear, “thanks for coffee and lose my number.”
For me, (being easily confused) I decided to take it to my phone tree.
I texted Jen and Joe. They immediately responded with “let him go.”
But what could they possibly know? Neither one of them are in a relationship. It’s like getting dating advice from Rihanna.
So I did as I always do. I turned to my church, the Arclight, for spiritual guidance. I decided to take in the romantic comedy He’s Just Not That Into You (cheaper than buying the book and more time efficient than reading).
That movie should have been classified as a horror film. I was more turned around than before I sat down. I feel like Greg Behrendt used me for research. And since when did MySpace become “the new booty call?”
I’ve never been “MySpaced” for sex, but that's another story.
Since Drew Barrymore’s ensemble cast didn’t help me, I decided to visit my psychic down the street. After spending twenty of my thirty minutes communing with my guides, she informed me that I was going to meet my soul mate soon. I would be “out of my element.”
When pressed to explain, she said, “I see you line dancing. Like you’re in a--” I cut her off, “that will NEVER happen” and she said, “well if someone invites you to go line dancing, you should go.”
I don’t dance. There isn’t enough vodka in all the land to get me take my shirt off, hop on a box and start whooping it up. And I’ve lived in
Two nights later, my friend Julie decided we should go to Oil Can Harry’s (world famous for country line dancing). Out of a sense of duty to meet my future soul mate, I agreed.
If you can picture the extras holding tent on the set of The Lair, that’s what the crowd looked like. A leather daddy here and there. A slave with his collar. Hot guys. Not hot guys. But no matter what the type in this eclectic crowd, people have fun and aren’t worried about what people think of them.
As I walked in, I realized I was husband shopping at a country western bar. Upon this revelation and not being able to rationalize having a partner who goes line dancing, I began scoping the crowd against the wall like The Terminator looking for Sarah Connor.
Oh, I scanned that crowd up one side and down the other. I mean, my soul mate was HERE. When I couldn’t find him at the bar, I finally conceded he might be on the dance floor, and began scanning the “dancers.”
I searched for an hour before giving up. As I started for the door, I thought, “what if my soul mate CALLS me while I’m here?” That would make sense. I stared at my phone, willing for it to ring and for Bob Harper to have accidentally dialed the wrong number.
I slowly walked across the room hoping Robert Gant might be at the Ralph’s on Sunset and ran into a mutual friend we might have. I would come up in conversation and our friend would say, “
No phone calls. No soul mate. My psychic was wrong. I went home. Alone.
A few days later, I agreed to meet Joe downtown for the Eve of Justice rally. I found myself at the
I realized I was almost dancing.
None of the other commuters joined me. Clearly people break into uniformed dance in
Perhaps I should just go to
No comments:
Post a Comment