The hunt continues. Tonight I joined a couple of my friends for the evening service of Trinity Grace Church in Chelsea. The pastor was an amazing speaker, with polish and humor and a personable smile and pull, and the music was loud and proud and powerful, but the service was two hours long. Two hours. So what am I left to think about as I drift to sleep? The message? Nope, even though it was a good message. I am sitting here wondering why the service was so long, even longer for those who opted to pray some more at the very end, and then I chastise myself for complaining.
So it turns out that as we get older, and by “we” I mean “I”, the men that we attract get older, as well. Logic tells me that as I venture into an older dating pool, I will inevitably encounter men with extensive, sometimes more colorful, pasts. A rainbow of divorces and kids and ex-girlfriends that made off with all of the furniture. Joint custodies. Kids. Children. Babies? Probably less likely, but a toddler is basically a baby that can walk so maybe not that uncommon. And then maybe you say, “Nah, I can't date a guy with kids.
When a girl texts you, “Hey, buddy, take it easy on the texting. You've sent me like a dozen texts and we haven't even met yet”, do not respond with “Wow, do you have some hangups or what?” followed by three more text messages.
Speaking of hangups, I am declaring right here and now that I am unamused by your “jokey” comments about my eyes being closed in every picture.
I am especially unamused when you say you find my “chinky eyes” to be cute and funny.
Hi. You are probably not even reading this, but I will write a few words anyways. Let's get serious, you saw my five profile photos and you think my smile is cute, and you will probably make a comment about my squinty eyes (no, I am not part Asian, thanks for asking) or maybe reference to the cupcake I am biting into in photo number three. You don't care that I go to church twice a week, that I am a recycling vegetarian, or that I like Joss Whedon. Maybe you even wrote down American Beauty in your top favorite films, or Magnolia, or Moulin Rouge, like me. Did you read my stats?
Three weeks. 67 apartment inquiries sent. 5 apartments viewed in real life, hundreds viewed online. Zero apartments rented. Resume sent to 6 different salons. 3 salon interviews. 1 salon offer (1 salon turned down) and 2 salon potentials. Dates with 6 different dudes. Lots of dates. 2 batches of cookies baked. 1 partial meltdown. 1 heart to heart with my best friend that is allowing me to crash at her place. 3 encounters with friends from San Francisco in town for business. Mom's flight booked for June. 2 new friends I adore.
Dear White Knight,
You sent me an email and lambasted me with words, so very many words, that it took me a day to respond. Also, I wasn't sure what to say to your postscript. Do you even remember your ridiculous question? “If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?” I confess that I read it aloud to my flatmate and she was tickled so very rosy pink, and then she could not stop giggling, and we were both left wondering what you meant.
Washington Square Park is both a square and a park, and I have become a regular. Usually I take my dogs to the fenced off oval of dirt in the southwest corner of the square, but today I left them at home. Please do not tell Ma'amie. She has been rolling around in my unemployment with a grin on her grizzled face and has subsequently taken it for granted that all free afternoons are devoted to her tennis ball drills and social time with new dogs.
I like you better now like this, barren and skeletal
and just as imposing.
Foreigners and locals sunbathing,
tourists and the homeless.
I wonder if they continue to seek shelter here,
even during the bitter winters,
coughing up blood as they scoop snow off the benches.
I’ve read of muggings and murders
taking place on the winding paths and
I am ashamed that people would taint your splendor.
Swinging and laughing, chasing and racing,
there are children everywhere,