More about her boring concussion.
My bruises ended up including a whopper of a black eye, and my concussion kept me couch-bound for a lot of the past week (as did looking like a battered housewife, a condition that not even a full face of makeup managed to completely disguise).
Yeah, no. We don’t make light of abuse like that. How do you write for a woman’s website and make such an off the cuff insensitive comment? Also, does this girl work? How does she manage to afford to live by herself but not appear to work anything resembling a full-time job? I can assure you she’s not making enough money writing shitty dating columns for the Frisky to live by herself in NYC.
I couldn’t help reflecting on The Big Easy and BB King and wondering what would come next. I nit-picked every detail of our recent interactions (more on those in a minute), and in a startling moment of what felt like clarity, I realized something: I think I look at men the way that men are supposed to look at women.
I have no idea where she’s going with this “realization” but it sounds uncomfortably like she’s once again trying to separate herself out from other women. She’s different, okay?
Here’s what I mean: perhaps because of my steadfast singledom, perhaps because I grew up without brothers, I’m oddly in thrall with men’s every move, mystified and captivated by their minutiae. I find myself amazed by how they dress, and curious about each of their smallest preferences: I love the way they pick out soap or deodorant and how they decide what drink to order at a bar. All of the little things that I do every day – clothing myself; cleaning my apartment; making breakfast; reading a book before bed – I’m captivated to find that men do these things, too, and I can’t get enough of the tiny details of how and why they do them.
First, does she mean enthralled? Is in thrall a thing? Is she just being fancy? Next, this isn’t how men look at women. I don’t believe for a second that men sit and wonder how women insert tampons and lie in bed with a heating pad when they’re cramps are really bad. Nor do I think they pick up a piece of lingerie and hold it to the light and wonder, “How do you bra?” I can say with full confidence that I have never once wondered what it was like to have an appendage between my legs or to pee standing up. For the life of me I have no idea what she’s trying to convey here. Depth? Wisdom? What?
As for what this means for my dating life, I haven’t extrapolated that far.
No surprise there, as that would require introspection, and she has none. She’s desperately trying to explain why she’s not very good at dating but she stops just at the precipice of true self-actualization.
I did emerge from my apartment twice this week: once, as promised, to visit friends and pick up my piece from The Big Easy. He texted me that morning to say that he was ill and would be home all day, so rather than waiting until after my dinner plans, I offered to stop by en route. I brought the custom softball jersey that I’d ordered for him what seems like ages ago, and I made no effort to cover up my black eye, which would have felt somehow like performing. When I got to his apartment, I rang the bell, expecting him to come down and make the hand-off and have that be that; to my surprise, he buzzed me in and invited me to stay and chat.
Calling it: she didn’t have dinner plans. She stopped by in the hopes something would happen, left when he didn’t make a move, likely hung at a bar somewhere, then, well, you’ll see. I’ll also speculate that she didn’t cover up her eye because she wanted attention from him. Period. The lengths she goes to to rationalize her behavior is truly something to behold.
After dinner, though, I did something that I debated even writing about here, since I know I’m going to hear it in the comments: I texted him and invited myself over to watch some more TV. What can I say? My head was hurting, and my friends were going to bed early (as expectant parents in the middle of packing up for a move are wont to do), and I wanted company. His just happened to be the most convenient, if only in terms of distance.
As before, we didn’t touch each other, though I suspected that I could have; instead, I laid on one side of the couch and he on the other. He made me hot tea. Sometime around midnight, he said he ought to get to bed, and we Google-ed to find me the nearest bus and the soonest arrival. Could I have stayed? Should I have? I guess I’ll never know, but he didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask.
This just sounds awkward. And for all her braying about how super awesome their sex was, I’m getting the distinct feeling they didn’t have much of it.
Two days later, The Big Easy texted me to ask how I was feeling and whether I remembered the name of a bottle of wine we’d enjoyed on one of our first dates. Still couch-bound and bored, I checked the restaurant’s website, and not finding it, dutifully paged back through all of our old text messages to see if we had mentioned it. We had, but PRO TIP: DO NOT EVER DO THIS, because in between all of the inane “meet me here at this time” and “when is our reservation again?” notes are the skirmishes you’d have otherwise forgotten; the sweet words best left unremembered;
Ugh, with these two. They’re doing a stupid dance. Though I do know what she’s saying about never going through old messages. I do that from time to time and see intense expressions of desire and for a moment wonder how things could have gone from so hot so bitter, bitter cold….
I found and passed on the name of the wine, with a half-joke that he could repay me by bringing me Concussion Ice Cream. He declined, which was probably for the best,
Of course he declined. He built her up with the text with the text about the wine they had on one of their dates, then he rejected her. I know that move well. Or he was being a real douche bag and wanted her to think he had a date. Either way, Le Douche. Don’t like him. Never liked him. Moving on.
As I said, I emerged from my apartment twice this week: my out-of-state rendezvous with The Big Easy, and a few days later to head over to BB King’s place. After a week of relative isolation, Saturday found me with a case of cabin fever to rival my convalescing concussion, and I forced myself to apply several layers of concealer and head out into the world looking almost human. I had a burger and watched the ALDS, then texted BB King to ask where he was watching the next game. He replied that he would love to see me but was out of town – and then he did something unexpected, and offered me his apartment (and his cable) to watch the game.
Wait. Did she say out of state visit? Get the fuck out of here. She commuted to pick up her bong?? And what the what about inviting her to watch a baseball game at his apartment while he wasn’t there? Who does that? There’s something missing there. Why do I get the distinct impression she made up an excuse about not being able to watch the game at home?
I didn’t snoop, exactly, though I’ll admit I checked the shower for shampoo and conditioner (present, and troubling, as he shaves his handsome head). But there were no other outward signs of “girlfriend,” or even “recurring female visitors”
This borders on creepy. You’re in someone else’s home as their guest, for whatever bizarre reason. You do not comb through their apartment looking for traces of other women.
Finally, since Mr.’s King and Easy aren’t the only baskets where I wish to place my eggs: I’m back to online dating with a vengeance, and holy hell is it a jungle out there.
Oh, Christ. More excuses. More stories about why she’s not getting any dates.
Whatever, freak show.