My life often borders on the ridiculous (join the club. It's a fun club - I am the Treasurer of Inappropriate and Awkward Encounters and sometimes moonlight as the Director of Social Ineptitude). When I'm not busy fending off boy-hungry actresses who are past their prime, I'm usually busy trying to get out of dating binds.
To set the stage I had been having a tough time after my ex left me and I was trying to figure out what the next steps were going to be to start getting over the break-up. I knew that I needed to be clever and I knew that I needed an ego boost. (Or you just wanted to sprinkle your seed far and wide).
I decided to take the next logical step. Go on as many dates as possible with as many women as possible and get some well deserved attention. (Yes, well deserved break from wallowing in the basement in your Scooby Doo boxers, while simultaneously eating an entire box of Scooby Doo Fruit Snacks. I love Fruit Snacks. Especially those white ones. Like, what the hell kind of flavor is white? DELICIOUS flavor, that's what.)
Things start out ok: I contact some older flames where things were left unresolved, I meet some new women, I go on some good dates. (Scrolling through the cell is often highly recommended, unless you're like me and have a drunk-texting problem and therefore delete almost all past numbers immediately. Only then to realize that they're probably on Facebook, or that I annoyingly have a knack for memorizing seven-digit numbers belonging to the Douchebag of the Month Club May 2009, who was a particular mixture of cocky and awful.)
If I'm going to be effective, I decide, I will need to start double booking.
This usually isn't that big of an issue. To anyone who has extensively dated it is clear that there's a 30-40% chance that plans to meet fall through or never materialize.
(Also, 87% of statistics are made up on the spot. But really, people are flaky and have last minute cat emergencies and have a happy hour they forgot about that if they don't attend the entire world and universe will crumble and that thing with that guy that she liked more than you so she's just going to lie and say she has Chicken Pox. Chickens get a bad rap from that disease.)
On this evening I had originally made some very loose commitments to spend time with someone I had been tentatively pursuing, as well as blast from the past (was it really that much of a blast?)
The tentative had flaked and the blast wanted fro-yo. (Girls embarrass themselves by wanting to go on fro-yo dates. I'd rather sit alone and make lurve to my mochi in utter peace where I can inhale it and nobody will notice the sprinkles that have jumped off my yogurt and are stuck in my hair.)
I have to preface this by saying I hate fro-yo. I lived in New York for two years and refused to set foot in a Pinkberry. Anyway, I say yes because it's two blocks from my house and off I go (convenience really trumps everything else.) On my way to fro-yo with the blast from the past, the tentative sends a text asking me to get fro-yo with her in 45 minutes.
Two fro-yo "dates" (how emasculating, right?), two different women, two locations, 45 minutes. Could this be done? Obviously. (Or in this case, for some reason it warrants an OBVIIIIIII, TOTES.)
I booked it to the corner dessert parlor (is this really a dessert parlor? Are you having a hamburger social with girls in roller skates and pinning a girl to go steady with you? I didn't know parlors existed anymore. Except tattoo parlors.) and simply tasted samples. I took note that the blast from the past wasn't too enthralled with the offerings.
Since we had some recent past history it was easy for me to cut things short as I played the "tired" and "lactard" cards and got the hell out.
Saying goodnight, I strolled home, turned the corner, and sprinted to my car to make it in time for date number two.
While I'd like to say that it was all worth the effort and complication, the truth is that "the tentative" quickly turned into "the negative" and "the blast from the past" is going to remain that way. (Womp.)
Rife with choices, none of them particularly good (I'm not sure if this is a metaphor for frozen yogurt in general or his yogurt-swirled love life) I remain a slave to the possibilities that may come from keeping doors open.
(He's 0 for 2 with a tummy ache. And there's a lone sprinkle stuck on his shirt. "Please, take me home with you," it says, refusing to budge. "Too. Many. Chicks.")
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