Hey L:

Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. Three straight days of activities, four “events,” took two days to recover from. So sad šŸ˜‰

How was the date? Well, I had a decent time considering his profile photo was about a decade old. Why, L, especially when the difference was so blatant? The photo of a not unattractive man with black hair was a shadow of the balding, gray, wiry strands atop the head of a body covered in a shirt, jacket, and pants that looked slept in, the latter–even with a belt–frequently hiked up, but not before I got a gander of his tighty whities. Calvin Klein, no less, which seemed a mockery of him or the underwear. Remember Jack Nicholson in About Schmidt?
If he had fingernails longer than mine, he would be my date’s doppelgƤnger.

I should preface this by stating that talking and listening to him was a pleasure for the most part. He’s lead an interesting life and told great stories. I did have an “Aha!” moment later in the evening as he subtly grilled me on my employment status. That’s what’s turned them off. Of course, this is an assumption based solely on the fact that two men in their late 50’sĀ went all “Dad” on me when asking about work.

Of course, as the dating books and matchmakers taught us, TMI on the first date was a deal breaker; thus no talk of chronic illnesses and medications that exhaust and leech motivation from me, not to mention the surer I feel each day that life isn’t worth living if I can’t share it and all this love with a good man. Not being “at liberty” to divulge my RA, at least (I’d never say the last part), they probably saw a lazy, aimless woman-child with few prospects, however shapely her body and lips.

What they didn’t know was that I’ve seen myself like that, too. Not all the time, but it’s baggage I’ve carried my whole life: “You’ll never succeed. You’re inferior. Stupid. Unworthy. You’ve accomplished nothing. No talents or gifts. Your own dad didn’t want you around. You must be unlovable if your father ignored you.” I’ve worked so hard to heal that wound, but it’s a deep cut and festers at times.

You know the ending. 48 hours go by and no call. Truth be told, despite his complete lack of effort in personal grooming (I can’t judge ’cause I don’t know the reasons behind it), I would’ve seen him again. He gave good conversation and that’s something I value highly, as you know. Hear that men with the 16 (at least) negative female stereotypes and their myriad “signs?” I may be unemployed but I could admire what was beneath the surface.

Anyways, I got a little sad, not weepy, but I’m over it. Singing along to sad songs helped, then I woke up the next morning sweating and kicking from a nightmare where everyone hated me and my boyfriend tried to rape me.

I’ll sing happy songs next time.

P.S. Third time’s the charm. What coveted tome awaited me at the library tonight?



Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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