29 Problems and He’s All of Them

Beer in-hand, I wonder how and why I ended up sitting on my couch, partially drunk, talking to a guy I just met about threesomes.

This is it, this is what my life has been reduced to. I take a swig from this porter that he chose for me to drink — likely due to it’s 9.0 alcohol percentage, and likely because he wanted to hear me tipsy-talk my way through my sexcapades on a Monday night.

Funny to think about how I was overwhelmingly terrified going into this date, as I’ve yet to meet any guy I’ve talked to on Tinder — for obvious reasons. But, what the hell. I accept who I’ve become and agree to meet this guy whose only sentence on his profile is “I do a really great Linda Belcher impression”.

I assumed that when I told this 29-year-old man to pick me up at 8, it would show him that I could be dominant and sexy. And when he picked me up in his super-new, super-fly, super-clean Ford, I was impressed. Thank God, a man who has his shit together. Driving around town, we search and prematurely fail at finding an open bar on a Monday.

While the SOP for first dates is to do exactly the opposite of everything that’s now taken place, it feels quite rebellious. I’m living my life on the edge, YOLO’ing with this Tinder Toddler.

Because clearly, after the third closed bar we went to, I suggested we grab some beers and go back to my apartment — making it clear, though, that I wasn’t headed in that d”erection”. We stop by a liquor store and I, trying to have fun with the inevitably peculiar situation we now found ourselves in, offer to choose three beers for him to drink, and him to choose three for me. Again, living life on the edge. I should be on Fear Factor or something.

The fact that all I ate today was a wrap makes this all the more entertaining for him, considering each beer he chose had nothing to do with taste and more to do with its alcohol percentage. It’s fine, dude, I’ll just use the bathroom every two minutes and question if my eyes are glazing over every time I look in your general direction… don’t make eye contact or he’ll know. Oh wait, I’m talking about squirting, so I can speculate that he’s speculating my sobriety.

I’m feeling comfortable around him — or maybe it’s the lack of food and alcohol combo — until he drops a huge, morbidly obese bomb.

This 29-year-old, who is supposed to have has his shit together, doesn’t own the car he picked me up in. It was rented for this date. A fucking rental car. I was driven around under false pretenses, while I gabbed about how I used to own a BMW to ensure that he knows I have previously owned world-class cars compared to what I drive now. My 2002 Toyota Camry feels like a Lambo now.

As if the last guy I dated (who happened to be one of the four virgins left in Tallahassee) wasn’t enough, this guy doesn’t have a car. I immediately cringe as I reminisce on my recent love life endeavors and gaze into the future of me knitting sweaters while watching ball-shrinking Lifetime movies alone.

Retreating into myself, I laugh it off and assure him that it’s totally fine, and understandable. Even if it isn’t. This is the point where I realize I can treat him how I would treat any of my friends: talk about sex. It’s enjoyable, at least. He tries to act irresistible and charming, but instead I imagine him walking around, hobo-like and confused, and me picking him up in my car for a date.

I cut off the conversation when he starts asking “what are you into?” I send him on his way and anticipate no texts from him, and that’s fine.

He did do a pretty great Linda Belcher impression, though.

The Attraction Tsunami

It happens every couple of months when you least expect it. The huge, deadly wave.

The Attraction Tsunami: n. When five+ members of the opposite sex hit on you, compliment you, talk to you, or give you any romantic or sexual attention within a small amount of time.

Those who look like a wannabe Playboy model slash semi-cheap, fake-chested stripper get this attention around the clock for obvious reasons. For those of us who look apart of the Susan Boyle blood line, this tsunami is of utmost importance and must be taken advantage of while it lasts. Because when the tsunami is over, all that’s left is a significantly less amount of people (like, zero) and even less amount of self-esteem (like, less than zero).

I’m 99% sure everyone has experienced the gigantic wave of confidence and decent-looking suitors willing to bow down to us that happens once in a blue moon. The magic spell lasts about two weeks. Once the hype dies down, then life goes back to undesirably normal. Kind of like the McRib.

So why does this tsunami occur?

While I’m no biologically-specialized analyst, here’s my rationale, in kindergarten summation: The hideous creations of God and myself get so used to being distasteful to the human eye that we simply cease (for lack of a better phrase) giving a fuck. People like other people who don’t give a fuck because people who don’t give a fuck have confidence. And people love confident people. They eat it up, hoping the confidence will rub off on them. Because everyone is insecure sometimes, even the wannabe Playboy model slash semi-cheap, fake-chested strippers. While this goes on, others notice how wanted you are, and people want what other people want. It’s human nature.

Before you know it, there’s two hot guys from your Intro to Business class texting you, one not-so-attractive guy you used to know messaging you on Facebook, two gorgeous guys you’ve never met liking and commenting on everything within your social media, one guy you’ve been friends with for a while asking you out on a date, three average-looking guys asking for your number, and that one “whatever” guy constantly texting, calling, stalking, and snapchatting you who’s always been in love with you and you can’t really put your finger on why.

A couple of weeks later, you come up from under the water and all you can hear is crickets chirping–the theme song for misery and loneliness.

Moral of the story: Enjoy it while it lasts.

Featured image (c) digitalphotopix.com