Cookie! Get your mind out of the gutter.
I have had too much wine on this Tuesday night.
Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, I’ll haul my body out of bed and to my boot camp again. The preternaturally youthful looking silver-haired personal trainer will flounce around on his toes and correct my form and I will sweat all the sweaty bullets and feel really accomplished by 9am.
Tonight, I will stay my fingers and text no one, though truthfully, I want to text no one, so that’s good news. I want to do what comes naturally to me, but I’m sick of being rejected and rebuffed.
The mathematics involved in dating today exhaust me and infuriate me. I thought if you dug someone you made sure they knew it. I was wrong. You actually do your own thing and think about them whenever. That’s when you let them know you think of them. If then. Maybe not. Probably not.
I’m so over it.
I don’t like it when men are up in my grill. I like the chase. Everyone does. So do they. Me throwing myself at them eliminates the challenge. My openness, my clarity, my transparency. It’s a turn-off. That’s what I’m surmising.
And it’s all I can do, surmise.
I’m not privy to the Man’s Brain Handbook. I’m getting hit on from all sides and I’m bouncing around the room, not sure where I’m supposed to look. I just know I’m not biting. I’m not interested.
I’m going analog, though. No more online dating. It’s going to be old school for me.
I’ve asked a man out on my softball team, but he appears to have ignored my invitation. I only have his email, so I had to use what I had. Cheesy and less than ideal, yes, but whatever. I’m just not going to be anything but me. Awkward, vulnerable, awful me.
I want something, I can feel it. Can you feel it? It’s real, it’s wonderful, it’s solid. It’s also embarrassingly humiliating being this exposed.
I hate it.
“C” is for completely confoundingly crushingly clueless.