I write a blog about dating. Supposedly, I know exactly what I’m supposed to do and when to do it. Potential has a way of essentially staring me in the god damn face while I shit the bed. Figuratively, I’m not that disgusting.
Why am I so overwhelmed by the idea that something might actually work? Am I exactly what these men are afraid of; a perpetual vicious cycle of ruins? Often I’m asked if I think discussing commitment troubles in an open forum is the very cause of my troubles all together. And every time I answer no…like I know there’s no way on God’s green earth that my openness is closing me off to people who can’t communicate the same way I do. That’s ridiculous, being too open? Don’t be silly.
What I should say is, maybe. Maybe it is possible that this is all just a little too much. That blogging is just the safety net I’ve always wanted to be able to fall back on when nothing else seems to make sense. That for every awful, painful, ridiculous moment I’m appalled by, comes a story. Maybe failure is consistent with my need for more? Maybe needing more is why I’m turning up less? Maybe the more I blog, the less chances I’ll have?
Last weekend I was left at the bar. (There’s a first time for everything right?) Initially I thought he was going to the bathroom, but he never returned. I should have guessed. I could feel myself pushing him away as he critiqued my hobbies as a blogger. Asking me question after question about my article’s intentions, like he would ever even be the star of one. Well, he got what he wanted, spotlight on mr-walk-away. Cameron the social studies teacher, who I found awkward and unattractive, walked out on our date because I’m not “private enough”.
I get it. It’s not for everybody. But this guy had an irrational fear of public announcements about fights we might have as a non existent couple. Give me a break. He stood there with his Judge Judy eyes glaring directly into my dreams and aspirations without a hint of responsibility for himself. I think Cameron was the last to find out not everything is about Cameron. Ugh. Maybe, when all is said and done I’ll write a book about how good it feels to fall in love with one of you some day. Because, after all, I’m not a total monster. But thanks for letting your fear of striking out keep you from even playing the game.
Side note: Totally ran into said guy who went to the bathroom and never returned at the next bar I stopped at that evening. He was chatting up what looked to be an old male trivia night pal while I went home with a way more attractive, attentive and personable man. Karma is a real bitch. A bigger one than I’ll ever be. Chalking this one up as a win.