Charming, but single

Note: Ok, so my life hasn’t been totally devoid of fun, promise.

I, like a lot of people I know, am on a co-ed sports team. It’s pretty low maintenance and I must admit that I missed a lot of the games. But the ones I did go to were terribly fun, as my team is very much about the socializing and the smack talking and the beer drinking and less about the winning and the competing and the having of actual athletic skill.

The first awkwardness was that one of my teammates happens to be a guy I talked to during my disastrous stint online dating. He definitely stopped e-mailing me and I know this can’t be attributed to his subscription being up, because we actually had started e-mailing off of the site. I’m not sure he knows who I am, but I think it is somewhat likely. That said, my observations of him in person are that we’d probably not be compatible and he doesn’t seem to be my type. This didn’t make any easier showing up at the first game, getting sweaty and wondering if he was thinking, “Thank God I never e-mailed her back.” No one, especially me, wants to face rejection, especially by someone who never even met me. I’d rather believe I was simply too wonderful for all of my past dates to handle.

So, that’s The First One.

As we’re “warming up” for our game, I checked out the other team – I’ll admit that I was looking for potential guys for future flirting. The teams are co-ed for a reason. My eyes fell on a nice-looking guy on the other team who stood chatting in the opposing dugout. And, of course, I was horrified to see that it was The Engineer, him of the flirting and the public kissing and the not calling, which was followed by the outright denial that I existed another night.

So, there was The Engineer, looking cute over in his dugout, which made me want to smack him or send an errant ball his way – not that I have that kind of ball control, mind you. I was unsure as it if he saw me until he came over to be the third base coach while I was rotated out for an inning and drinking beer in my dugout. He definitely saw me and the flicker in his eye let me know that, oh yeah, he remembered me. And, not having a close girlfriend there to save me, I simply smiled and talked to a teammate and prayed that he took a foul ball to the groin in a painful, yet not harmful, manner.

So that’s The Second One.

By the time the game ended, I was excited to move from the hot, muddy field to a more civilized location – a dark bar with a jukebox and drinks in plastic cups. Problem was that all of the teams normally go to this bar, and that night was no exception. Both The First One and The Second One were there, and I was less than thrilled that two walking, talking reminders of my dating deficiencies were to be drinking beer nearby.

I put on my best game face and strode in to find my teammates, only to pass Little Mister Small Town, who was sitting at the bar with a woman. I’ve seen him less and less around town since I e-mailed him to no response last summer.  Seeing him was weird – for some reason I’d been 100 percent sure he was going to e-mail me back and express interest, which made him ignoring my e-mail even more annoying.

So that’s The Third One.

Fed up and frustrated, I retreated to the ladies restroom. I grumbled as I looked into the mirror. I was sweaty and muddy in Capri-length sweats and a neon shirt. My hair was pinned awkwardly against my head, as I’d forgotten a rubber band but remembered bobby pins. What little make-up remained on my face was smudged beneath my eyes.

And there it was, the ridiculousness that is my dating life – failed by online dating, failed by drunken flirting, failed by meeting men through friends. I had a talk with the Gods of Dating and well, let’s just say I let them know that I was pretty pissed by the parade of past rejection. But I sucked it up, wiped the mascara off of my sweaty face and had a few beers. Little Mister Small Town mouthed “Hi” as I walked by. I smiled and hovered around my teammates, expecting for the first guy to ever kiss me to walk in, hand-in-hand with every guy I’d ever kissed in college.

Not that the bar was that big, mind you.

Ok, I so am trying to write. And I’m just asking, when did it become this hard? Also, bridesmaid diet starts in seven-ish days, so I’m eating pizza for dinner.

Also, How I Met Your Mother? I missed you so.

I would write a witty blog post about being a bridesmaid or being single or being a bad dater … but I have five or six episodes left in my Grey’s Anatomy Season Three Marathon in preparation for the season premiere on Thursday. But I promise, promise, promise that I will write soon … and I know I say that but this time I really mean it.

This season really disappointed me. I was looking for one particular moment when the show jumped the shark and right now I’m saying that it was when Dylan, Denny, pole girl and Dr. Grey’s scrub nurse came to see Meredith in purgatory. But that’s just me.

Have a super Monday!

Not dead or missing or married or pregnant.

Promise.

Will get back to being single-gal-about-town just as soon as I have a moment or two to spare.

Did some great shopping this weekend. J. Vincent black platforms with an ankle strap, regularly $160, I paid $40. Gianni Bini red kittenish-heel shoes, regularly $70, I paid $17. Faux-wrap black dress with a cute pattern, regularly $90, I paid $45.

I have high, high hopes for this dress, though. I don’t know why, but I feel insanely sexy in it and have tried it on twice since I brought it home, spinning around and debating if it showed too much cleavage. (And I was only tipsy one of those times!)

Saturday night over a glass of wine, Southern Belle and I discussed our shopping successes of the weekend, as one of the department stores here is having not only a great sale, but also a Clinique Bonus. (As a side note, apparently every blue-eyed girl in my town rushed out and bought up all of the BadGal Blue, which just broke my little blue-eyed girl heart.)

“So, we have to do a fun night out soon. We should go out downtown to [The Wine Bar]. It’s been awhile,” I said. “I bought a dress that I’m saving for a night like that and it is either really cute or really slutty.”

“Well,” Southern Belle said, with a sly grin on her face. “Either way works.”

“I mean, it is no sluttier than anything else I own, I guess,” I said.

“Well then! It’s perfect.”