Charming, but single

Saturday evening I met a pal up at a bar for a drink. I’d actually been to this bar three weeks in a row and I’d noticed that there was a guy who was checking me out, including when I was having drinks with On Paper*.

Saturday was no exception – this same guy was giving me The Eye from across the bar. He’d smile and say hello, but he seemed a bit shy to come over and talk to me.

I was giving off the right signals, I thought. I wanted Shy Guy to come say hello and have a drink with me, but having a female friend there probably wasn’t helping my case. By the end of the night I was facing him completely as I’d turned my back to this other man who would NOT leave me alone. He stood obnoxiously close to our barstools and blatantly moved to come sit next to me. He introduced himself, I was polite and shook his hand, but he was awkward and dorky and unable to hold my interest.

So, my friend had a boy meet her and they decided to head home. I planned to finish my beer and do the same, but I told them not to wait for me, as I was hoping Shy Guy would come say hello since I’d be alone.

Sure enough, he did. I was immediately underwhelmed when he told me that he was 41, since that’s not my age demographic, but we talked for a little while. He gave me his number and I called his cell so that he would have mine. I was thinking coffee or dinner one night with an older man might be good for me.

The bar neared closing time and I was ready to head home when Shy Guy asked a very forward question – “Where are we continuing this conversation?”

“I don’t know about you, I’m but I’m going home to bed. Alone,” I said firmly. “It would be terribly inappropriate for you to come.”

He seemed a bit dejected, but offered to walk me to my car. I didn’t really need an escort as I was parked right up front, but I accepted.

When Shy Guy got me to my car and gave me a hug, he immediately went in for a kiss and a grab. I twisted from his grasp and got into my car as he asked for me to follow him home. And then he said, “Or I’ll just follow you home.”

Having none of it, I said, “No. Just call me at a more appropriate hour.”

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I wondered what I’d do if he followed me. So I waited until he’d turned out and I turned and went the other directions, traveling away from my apartment while I called B on the phone. I  talked to B for a few minutes while I watched for Shy Guy’s car. Not seeing it, I hit the Interstate to take the long way home.

Shy Guy called twice on my way home and then three times after I was safely in my bed, in my gated complex, behind a deadbolt, door chain and locked bedroom door – just for good measure. I never answered and don’t plan to if he ever calls again.

Overreacting on my part? Maybe. But gentlemen, you should know that crazy doesn’t get the ladies.

* FYI: “On Paper” is the new name for The Crier, because I feel like second chances deserve better nicknames.

Note: Read the first part if you haven’t already.

Two Saturdays ago, bolstered by a new little black dress and some darling animal print kitten heels, I set out into the night for some good times with my friends. Truth be told, I was still reeling from my best’s friends announcement of her impending engagement and my soon-to-be bridesmaid status. This combined with my latest failed attempt at dating had me needing some validation that I was, in fact, great.

Maybe it is unhealthy. I am enough most of the time. And I don’t need outside forces to make me feel good about myself. But there are moments when I lose sight of this and think I need to see myself reflected in someone else’s eager eyes to feel my confidence surge. It’s a nasty habit I fall back on.

And, I know I’m not alone in this insecurity and the need to be indulged when I am down. Drugs, alcohol, shoes, shopping, men, women, cars, vacations, food, jewelry – we all have our vices.

I composed the perfect sexy text message to The Nurse on my way to the bar. It was cute and flirty. I described my outfit from head to toe, undergarments and all. “You find any of this appealing?” was my closer.

I didn’t send it at first. I waited until I was with girlfriends – Southern Belle and her sister.

“I draft my texts in advance,” I bragged. “I am a professional communicator.”

“Oh honey, no,” Southern Belle’s Sister said. “You gotta be coy on the first round. Make him come to you.”

We settled on a less overt text. The Nurse replied immediately that he had to work in the morning. It was barely 10 p.m. and I was feeling mighty rejected. He could have met me for one drink if he cared. I blasted off the sexy text message, adding that I could keep him occupied until he had to be at work.

I haven’t heard from him since, which is just fine, I guess. I was overzealous; I should have played it safe. But I’ve been playing it safe for 26 and a half years and, well; sometimes you just have to put it out there. As Best Friend Ever had told me earlier on the phone, “Babe, I know what everyone else has told you, but me, I go after what I want. And you have to make up your own mind, but if you want to see him tonight, you go after what you want.”

The flip side to this is that now I was left looking like a million bucks and feeling like two dollars. And all of the Hoegaardens in the bar weren’t going to shake me from my bad mood.

I flipped through the address book of my phone. Surely I had some sort of “In Case of Emergency” contact for these situations. I passed on many guys, B included. And then I landed on the Crier.

Now, to back up a bit, I had seen the Crier weeks before. And he was still very into me. And I was talking to my College Roommate the other day and she said, “You know, we all thought that Crying Guy was too emotional, but now that I see the Nurse, I think maybe we were wrong.” This planted the seed in my mind, and after consulting with several other friends, I’d decided that maybe I was kind of a jerk to the Crier. He’s a nice guy who made a minor tactical error on a date and I’m the jerk who blabbed about it to everyone.

So, I sent him a text message on that lonely Saturday night. And, like I knew he would, he called, ecstatic to hear from me. I felt a pang of guilt as I stood outside the bar and flirted with him on the phone, convincing him to come meet me for a late night drink.

I all but skipped back into the bar. My friends couldn’t believe he’d agreed to meet me; I’d called him because I knew he would.

My friends moved on for the night, so I parked myself up at the bar for a glass of wine while I waited for him to show up. Two men flirted with me unsuccessfully. (“That’s a nice Kenneth Cole bag” is NOT a pick-up line, FYI.) I didn’t see the Crier come in and he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders and said hello.

We left my drunken suitors at the bar and found a table. The Crier bought me another glass of wine and settled in with a beer and we caught up. He has the best smile and he spoke animatedly about how glad he was that I’d reached out to him and how I looked fantastic.

“That dress,” he said. “You look great in that dress.”

As I talked to him, I realized that he really is Perfect on Paper. He’s about to turn 30, he has a good job, he’s just purchased a townhouse, he’s polite and well-mannered, he’s tall and husky, he is crazy about me and – this is the kicker – he coaches his nephew’s kid football team because the child’s father isn’t in the picture.

He literally drives to another town for no other reason than to coach a six-year-old’s football team. (I think my ovaries just jumped a little bit.)

But … there always must be a but.

I just don’t get that punched-in-the-gut feeling when I’m around him, like I’m so nervous and so full of butterflies that I might need to run to the bathroom to throw up. I have a good time with him, but I don’t feel the urge to rip his clothes off or profess my undying affection. I’m never flustered around him. I feel as if he likes me much more than I like him. He speaks of making plans or trying a new restaurant and it doesn’t even faze me. He’s got these beefy arms that wrap around me so well – but I don’t have to have them there. My mind thinks, “Great!” but I can’t get breathless over him for some reason.

We finished our drinks and he suggested watching a movie. I thought about resisting and going home alone. It would be unfair to lead him on, I thought. But he is so kind and sweet that I gave into desire and went to watch a movie at his place. He gave me a tour of the partially empty townhouse, noting that his living room furniture comes out of storage soon. He was so proud of his home, showing off places where he picked the colors himself and where he did painting and maintenance. He walked me through the upstairs and a guest bedroom he’s been working on and showed off the small balcony outside his master suite.

“Not a bad view,” he joked, as I headed over to the railing.

“Waterfront,” he giggled, motioning to the creek below. He was leaning against the door frame leading from his bedroom to the balcony, watching with glee as I tiptoed barefoot across the wooden floor.

I turned and leaned my back against the rail, reaching out with my hands grasping the railing on each side of me.

“Waterfront, eh?” I grinned.

And he smiled and walked over from the door to his room, wrapped his hands around my waist and kissed me softly.

Note: The blog vacation was hard, because there were moments during the past two weeks where I just really wanted to write. This post is from two weeks ago, FYI.

On Monday, after working most of the weekend, I finished a big work project around 8 p.m. I told The Nurse, he seemed happy for me. I was ecstatic – I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders as I scratched something off of my “To Do” list. I wanted my bed and possibly a massage, but first I wanted a celebratory drink. I sent The Nurse a text to meet me for a beer, he sent back that he was staying in.

I, tired and emotional, quipped back, “Maybe I am just cranky and tired, but I feel like I have been trying to hang out with you for weeks and you don’t care.”

I smiled as I sent it off. This was clearly going to be the text message that ended the whole damn thing and I was just happy I’d sent it. Because you don’t go out with me several (six or seven) times and get intimate with me many times and then just stop. You don’t get to just walk away like that without giving me an explanation. Because it isn’t nothing and you don’t get to pretend that it was. And I don’t care what the books say. He doesn’t have to be into me, but he can at least have the nerve to tell me instead of dropping off into oblivion.

He texted back that we would hang out and that he’d been busy with school.

I wanted to scream – I hadn’t had a day off of work in longer than I’d care to admit and I’d worked from 5 a.m. to 8 p.m. that day. I do appreciate that school is a lot of work, but I wanted to reply, “You don’t know busy, buddy. I am the Queen of Busy and I’m still managing to try to see your Not Busy Ass.”

Cooler heads prevailed and I replied that I just needed some reassurance to make sure that I wasn’t making an ass out of myself. (Which I was, but you know, c’est la vie.)

Tuesday and Wednesday we talked and he acted like nothing happened.

Thursday I asked what he was doing and he said he had plans with his church. I didn’t even know he HAD a church. He certainly hadn’t spent his Sunday mornings in July and early August inside of a church, if you know what I’m saying …

And plans? He makes plans?

On Friday as I rushed out the door in the morning, I felt a slight stab of disappointment. I caught a glimpse of a baseball cap The Nurse left at my house one morning. It was sitting on my table staring at me, a physical reminder that a guy I had really liked was in my house a week or so before and inexplicably not again. And this little flutter in my stomach told me that I’d been had, that it was over, that he wasn’t coming back for his hat, or to return the books he’d borrowed or to hold me close to his chest and wrap his arms around me and kiss the spot at the base of my neck where my shoulders meet. And it made me sad, because it was a month or so of fun (and worry, of course) and I genuinely liked this man.

I was mad that I cared.

Friday night after dinner and two beers at a restaurant, I was to meet some girlfriends for wine at a bar. I went home to change and lounged on my bed for a few minutes, texted The Nurse because I am officially THAT girl and I felt the tight squeeze of disappointment wrap around me where his body should be. I wanted so badly for him to just reply and let me know that I hadn’t been wrong about him. I started answering work e-mails and woke up the next morning, fully clothed, with all of the lights and the TV on, Blackberry snuggled next to me. I had missed text messages galore on my personal cell – from my friends, wondering why the hell I wasn’t out on a Friday night.

The only text I really wanted never came.

Saturday after a few hours of work (are we seeing a trend here?), I joined the Banker for another Tent Sale, which was less vicious than the last. I bought a pair of really simple Steven by Steve Madden black flat sandals and some cute animal print slides.

After working more in the afternoon, I decided that I would look fabulous and sexy and go out and do it up right. Screw The Nurse and his promises to call and then not calling. Screw them all for being predictable, for running for God knows why. And screw me for falling for their song and dance and thinking that this time would be any different than the rest.

After some relaxing, I began getting ready to go out. I was Veeting my legs to smooth, hair-free perfection when Best Friend Ever called.

“You’ve got 10 minutes before I have to jump in the shower,” I said. And I continued with the Veeting of the legs and washing my face and and plucking my eyebrows while she gushed about her fabulous boyfriend.

I told her about The Nurse and the text message about making an ass out of myself. She listened and dutifully commented on how he was missing out on something great and how I was lovely and smart. Trite things always sound so sincere and special when Best Friend Ever says them – I believe her more than anyone else.

“So, ok, not to make an ass out of myself,” she said. “But … I have some news.”

“News?” My ears perked up, thinking it was gossip about someone from high school or an ex or something.

“Well, you see, [Boyfriend] is going to ask me to marry him before the end of the year …”

I felt my stomach drop to the floor and tears prickle my eyes. Like she had killed a man or something. She was leaving me. She was really going to leave me alone and become one of Them.

I swallowed.

“Really? You’re going to say …” I trailed off.

“Yes.”

I squealed and leaned against the bathroom counter. I really was happy for her. And I gushed, “He really is the nicest most wonderful man you’ve ever dated. And he treats you so well. And you are so happy.”

“I know!”

“Seriously, this is awesome,” I said. “This is so great.”

I repeated it again, convincing myself.

“So, hold [Date] of next year, because that’s my goal. We’re getting married here, so you’ll have to travel, so that’s why I’m telling you now even though he hasn’t asked me officially yet.”

“Thank you.” I began mentally budgeting plane tickets and a bridesmaid dress and wedding presents and a hotel and time off of work.

She gushed some more about the church where they were to get married, the discussions of the ring and other preparations, like the insane size of her wedding party, since he has a huge family and many friends.

“You’re telling me I have just over a year to get a date suitable for the weekend wedding of my best friend.”

“Yes.”

“And to the gym.”

We said our goodbyes and I leaned over the sink to regain the composure I’d lost in the last 15 minutes of the call. I was ecstatic for her, but I still felt like vomiting up my guts because I just wasn’t sure I was quite ready to see her walk down the aisle. I’d known her boyfriend was right for her, but there is a big difference between knowing your Best Friend is happy with a man and shopping for a bridesmaid dress.

I looked up in the mirror and rubbed my eyes. And then I turned on the shower really hot and let it steam up the bathroom. By the time my shower was over, I’d washed the fear and sadness away.

Twenty minutes later I finished lining my eyes and slid into a little black dress. I spun in front of the mirror, tucked my lip gloss into my purse and hurried out into the night to make some mischief.

I am blatantly stealing this format from excellent blogger Mr. Pinkerton, who does this every week. I will blog actual thoughts later, as it has been a busy break. (Also, to my newsletter posse, I sent a message a few days ago. Don’t know if you got it.)

Pairs of shoes purchased at another tent sale: 2

Cost of said shoes: $21

Cost of said shoes if purchased at full price: $170

Boys kissed: 1

Times I saw The Nurse: 0

Times I tried to see The Nurse: At least 5

Times The Nurse promised to make plans: 3

Plans made with The Nurse: 0

Text massages received from The Nurse: 1

Times spoken to The Nurse: 0

Second chances given to another man (details to come): 1

Times listened to “Over My Head” by The Fray: at least 10 (a day)

Hours worked: Too many to count

Unread Blackberry emails: 400 (I obviously don’t know all of the tricks to working my Blackberry just yet, since I can’t get the e-mails to show up as “read.”)

Time spent watching Pam and Jim fanvids on YouTube: 45 minutes

Black dresses purchased from Target for less than $25: 1

Times cried on August 29: At least three (that I can remember)

Hoegardens: Six(ish) pints

Harmless Blog Crushes formed: 1

Tonsils that must come out: 2

Eyebrows waxed: 2

Sick Days: 1

Tailgates: 1

New tank tops in school-appropriate colors: 1

Numbers given out: 1

Psycho men: 1

Posts written: 3

Good stuff to come, I promise. Missed ya.