Charming, but single

Lately, it has been day after day of the mundane and the tedious. I’ve never professed to have the most exciting, interesting life in the world. I do, however, usually keep myself pretty well entertained between my family and friends, writing and assorted social exploits.

I’ve always said that one of the best things about being an adult is that no one is standing there telling you what to do, what not to do or how silly doing something you’re doing is. I talk a big talk about the fabulousness of eating a dinner of waffles from the freezer while gulping down white wine. About not having to go out when I don’t want to. About having as many friends as anyone could dream of having.

But, you know, you shouldn’t only eat waffles for dinner. And you should go places – like the grocery store and the gym – instead of loafing around. And meeting new people and cultivating new friendships isn’t bad. And you shouldn’t stay up so late.

I am in a bit of crisis of confidence. I don’t feel as in control of my body, my diet, my schedule, my chores, my finances, my free time, my laundry, my future, my present, my hair. Myself.

Just writing that out feels like a first step.

Life’s been less than interesting as of late. Lots of take out, bad TV and moisturizing my elbows.

Oh, and today I bought four shirts, three of them from the “pink” family. And a pair of earrings.

That’s the last time I shop after two pineapplish, rum-filled sort-of-light-red drinks.

I was tagged by Doctor Scientist (and probably some other people) a few days back. Her meme was “8 things about me,” but we all know that I’m a meme changer, so we’re doing “8 things about me as explained by my weekend activities.”

1. I’m clumsy. To start the weekend off right, I fell flat on my face at Happy Hour. Ok, it wasn’t flat on my face – I actually fell up a set of stairs walking into Happy Hour. I missed a step and my heel got stuck and then there I was, on the ground while people gasped and jumped up to help me. I jumped up, brushed off my knees and straightened my skirt. Then I joined my group and had a margarita.
2. I overreact. When I tried to leave Happy Hour, I could barely walk. My toes were completely swollen and I couldn’t move three of them. In my heels I wobbled to the car and headed home, where I iced my toes and convinced myself that I’d broken all of the bones in my foot and it would either have to be chopped off or set in a cast for many weeks. I even contemplated which cast color would clash the least with my outfits.
3. I’m a sucker for kids. On Saturday, I went to my parents for laundry and sympathy. My foot was still swollen, but I agreed to go to the park and McDonald’s with my mom and my young cousins. Because when I hobbled up to my mom and my youngest cousin, who is about 18 months old, she said, “It’s [Charming]!” and he got this big grin on his face and exclaimed, “[Chhhhhaaaarming]!” And he NEVER says my name. He just calls all women “Momma” or “Naaaanny.” (As an aside, “Momma” also means, “Give me that!” or “Pick me up!” or “I want something!”) How could I not go to the park with him after he SAID MY NAME.
4. No, really, kids get me every time. My ovaries jumped as I carefully loaded my cousin into a swing and sent him flying. And his eyes opened wide and his mouth agape, as if to say, “I am so excited that I cannot make a sound! Do you see me, flying here? Would you be able to talk if you were flying?” And I know that children aren’t all cute faces and adorable squealing, but those bright eyes and tiny fingers cloud my judgment.
5. My Mom not-so-secretly wants me to have a baby. She sat in a swing with my cousin on her lap and said, “We used to come out to this park all of the time.” And then she sighed, “If I had a grandchild, I’d be out here all of the time.” And I said, “Who is financing this grandchild of yours?”
6. Neither of us is ready for me to have a child. As we sat with the three boys in McDonald’s, we realized how unaccustomed we are to children. One cousin dropped his hamburger on the floor trying to show us that it was “plain” and it should have been “regular.” My littlest cousin only wanted to eat and drink things other than the chicken nuggets I’d torn apart for him. And when I wouldn’t let him have my Diet Coke, he took his apple juice box and squeezed it, sending a stream of juice into the air. When we finally left there were piles of McNuggets and puddles of juice on the floor. And I looked at Mom and said, “Still want a grandchild?” And she said, “No, I’m good for now.”
7. I secretly believe I am a pop culture aficionado. Saturday, after my park and McDonald’s outing, I iced my still swollen foot and watched several hours of “The World Series of Pop Culture” on VH1 and convinced myself that I should put together a team and sweep the tournament next year. But the questions would have to be, like, “Catch phrases from ‘How I Met Your Mother’” and “American Idol Facts.” So, I’ve got the last five years covered. I just need teammates who know the rest.
8. I wish my life were a musical. I saw “Hairspray” on Saturday night and it confirmed that the dream I’ve had since middle school of starring in “Me: The Musical” is still alive and well. I used to choreograph dances and motions to the soundtracks of “Grease” and “Cats” and “A Chorus Line” when I was growing up. Since seeing “Hairspray” the other night, I’ve been internally serenading my life. “Goooood mooorning [Town Where I Live], every day’s like a traffic jam! Every night is sit com rerun. Every sound’s like iTunes on repeat.”

No, really, I overreact. When I woke up on Sunday my foot was completely fine. It isn’t even bruised. So I guess I didn’t need to look up which orthopedists accept my health insurance. To celebrate I had a large sugar-free skim milk vanilla iced latte. (Or two.)

What did your weekend say about you?

I have previously professed an undying love for Southern Men and their gentlemanly charms and their slow accents, which make even the most basic of compliments sound ever so much sweeter.

Lately it seems as if I’ve fallen in the trap of mistaking polite Southern Man Gestures for actual interest. Which is just awkward and mildly annoying. You would think my 27 and a half years in this region would make me less likely to falsely fall for these friendly gestures. Because I could not tell you have many drinks these Gentlemen have purchased for me out of politeness. How many darling conversations I’ve had with them. Friendly dances, doors opened. And so many times I’ve sat across from a kind, flirtatious man I’ve just met, usually through a friend, and known, “He has no interest in dating me. He is merely being polite because that is his nature.”

But I am not always so discriminating. A few weeks back I met a guy through friends. I ran into my friends at dinner at a place next to the bar where I was seeing an evening show. At dinner, they had seen this group of guys they knew and soon we were all going to the show together.

One of the guys chatted with me most of the evening and donated two beers to the “[Charming] Needs a Drink” fund – without me asking. He was single and seemed to be having a nice time talking to me in between songs. To the point that a friend looked over and gave me a “He seems nice! Reel him in!” thumbs up. He spoke to my other friends, but spent the most time with me. And he hung around with me after his buddies had left our group. He gave me a polite hug when he left and said he’d be seeing me around. The next day he e-mailed my friend and said he’d had a nice time hanging out with our group and listed all of us by name.

I saw him once again a few weeks later and, to be honest, I was expecting another round of flirtation. But it was not to be – if he was flirting, it was all of the women I was with. He was polite to a fault and friendly with all of us. And he e-mailed us the next day to tell us he’d enjoyed seeing us and his brother shared an iPhone picture he’d taken of us. But that was it. Polite and well mannered? Of course. Interested in dating one of us? I don’t think so. A few beers bought and conversation shared is just that.

Because, you see, he isn’t flirting. It’s just his nature.

The companion piece to the other day’s “The Five Things I Should Know by the End of Our First Date.”

How many beers you can drink in two hours. No one, especially me, wants to babysit a drunken date. A drunken first date? I’m likely to leave. Slurring makes conversation awkward at best and downright impossible at worse. If you can’t dial your drinking down to get to know me, chances are that you’re someone I don’t really want to know. Trust me, I enjoy a drink as much as the next social butterfly, but too much alcohol on a first date is a sign of either extreme nerves, a dependency on alcohol or a lacking sense of appropriateness. And none of these things are qualities that make my heart flutter or my cheeks flushed. (Or it could be that you don’t like me and need to drink to put up with me. And who wants that! Save us both some time and cut the date short – politely, of course.)

Anything (and/or everything) about your failed relationships. Why your Ex would be a topic of conversation you’d choose for a First Date is beyond me. Do you not have other things to talk about? Are you so hung up on her that you should even be out with me? Are you a semi-professional heartbreaker or chronically dumped? Should I worry that you have nail clippings, strands of hair or old socks from your ex-girlfriends arranged in a shrine at your place? (‘Cause seriously, I am always losing socks. MAYBE IT IS THE DRYER THAT EATS THEM. Maybe men all over town have stolen them for nefarious purposes!) Save the Ex Chat for later meetings. Chances are if you, like me, have some dating deficiencies in your past, those will come out later. And by then I’m more likely to be somewhat enamored with you and better suited to offer an understanding ear to your dating woes. (Lord knows I have my own, neatly organized and cataloged and everything!) We all have baggage, but unloading yours on the first date makes me worry that it might come unloose and smack me right in the head.

That you’ll do anything to get laid. Not to sound like a prude, but I’d rather not have to fight off your strong sexual advances on our first date. Some light flirting, maybe a kiss I’m feeling the chemistry. But insinuating that we should take the date to the next level, head to my place, go upstairs or anything else physical should be reserved for future dates. I’m trying to get to know you and that’s kind of difficult if you’re shoving a tongue into my ear. Can’t hear your witty banter then, mmmkay? And while you might mean to just show that you are interested, it isn’t flattering when a man wants to hop into bed so quickly. It simply confirms any suspicion I have that you’re not interested in more than a fling. Or worse, it makes me question your view of me. Or even worse than that, it makes me think that you are really hard up and will sleep with anyone one you meet. None of these are things I should be worrying about during Date One. Leave something to the imagination – trust me, if the date went well, my mind will be racing, full of scenarios for the future.

How seriously cynical you truly are about life. Adulthood is tough, I know. We all have to work and pay bills and we can’t just roll around in the grass and eat ice cream and play Twister and sleep until noon. And yeah, sucks. First dates are not about this. In fact, good first dates should be a break from the monotony. A chance to learn about someone new, not another time to complain about life. Smile. Chin up. If you can’t lose the bad attitude for a date, you’re certainly not going to be able to shake it a few months down the line. And, frankly, I don’t need more downers in my life.

Your bank balance, take-home pay or the worth of your stock portfolio. You work hard. You take care of yourself. And that, my friend, is good to hear. But rattling off information about how much you make in a year or bragging about your assets is just too boastful for me. Money isn’t why we’re on this date and it certainly isn’t going give me a hug after a long day. You should have enough confidence in yourself that you shouldn’t feel the need to impress me with financial chatter. And you shouldn’t think that I care about the bottom line so much. Also, it only bores me. I’ve found that the people who brag constantly about their wealth are only concerned about showing off for others, and that’s a character trait I’m just not that into.

So that’s that. And I probably should be glad to find out these things about men early on, so that I don’t end up wasting time dating someone who isn’t right for me.