Chapter Sixty Four; Convents and Fussy Fests

I am so going to end up a nun.

Get this. Apparently, when it comes to the dating scene. I suck. I like really really suck. Here is the deal: I am picky. As in “if my dates were food I would rather starve thank you very much” picky.

Who knew but I am apparently the bloodhound for flaws on an almost legendary level?

Oh, so you like that kind of music, huh?

Next.

No, I am not a registered Democrat.

Next.

And if the guy doesn’t have anything truly earth shattering wrong with him, I will just make something up.

Oh, you were born on a Tuesday? I hate Tuesdays.

Next.

I am the Jerry Seinfeld of unattainable standards. The epitome of particular. The queen of my own little fussy fest.

We all know I literally did no dating this summer. I holed up in my house wrapped in an afghan and went through self help books like Kleenex at the height of cold season.

And if I did happen to venture out, my “Hit on me and I kill you,” vibe was impossible to miss.

But after a summer of solitude I figured okay, I am ready. I can date.

After all, it has been over a year since my husband moved out, nine months since the divorce was delivered, and a reasonable amount of time has passed since my one detour into Dating Land ended with my bawling for like, oh, two months straight.

“I can do this.” I told myself, “I can so do this.”

So I dove in. I did the obvious: signed up for Match.com (at my age this is just standard operation) plus I let everyone and their cousin know that yes, I will finally meet their single and sexy neighbor/brother/co-worker. And on top of those bulletins, I vowed to myself that if and when a member of the opposite sex actually says, gasp, hi to me I will not glare but instead smile and actually say hi back. Maybe even . . . hold on, it’s a big one: share my first name.

I know. I am really serious about this.

Bring it on. Dating Land, here I come.

And I know, it hasn’t been all that long since my single ship has headed out to sea. Maybe, a month or so? But it’s been long enough for me to start thinking that yes there may be a lot of fish out here but none of them are really looking all too tasty so far.

So I brought the ship back into port and rethought my strategy. What I needed, was a crew. A couple of tour guides at the very least. I figured why head off into uncharted territory with no map? So I drafted a couple male friends to weigh in on my adventures and provide some guidance the next time I decided set sail. (I won’t drive to Minneapolis without a GPS system, why would I sail into potential enemy territory without deep see radar and a competent crew? Exactly.)

The guy I chose to captain my vessel I dug up on Facebook. He’s an old boyfriend of mine from college. (I use the term boyfriend loosely. We dated for all of ten minutes my freshman year (oh, two weeks or something) but remained friends throughout college.) The captain is now living the swinging single scene in the windy city that is Chi town. I figured I could use a dating pro in my back pocket and he would be great. For a first mate I drafted my friend, Kris. He really is more like a stow away/hostage in that he’s a guy and he’s my friend so obviously I just kind of force him to weigh in on my voyages.

I figure between Kris’s innocence (he’s only 23) and the captain’s lack of (cough! That’s all I will say . . .) I should be able to get pretty good advice between those two.

Anchors away!

The first two men who accidentally showed up in my fishing net I met in real life, not online life. Unfortunately, forget first base. When they expressed an interest I couldn’t even bring myself to let them buy tickets to the game. The first one is text book perfect. Smart, good looking, ambitious, but when he talks, he reminds me of my brother. And not that there is anything wrong with my brother, but I really don’t want to date my brother. Therefore, this guy just gives me the heebie jeebs and I feel like gagging if I even imagine him trying to kiss me.

So obviously he’s out. I really don’t think my saying, “Excuse me while I barf now,” would go over very well post lip lock.

The second one who showed up as a probable destination for my ship is very successful and interesting to talk to, but he’s just too clean. His shirt is always pressed, every hair on his head perfectly gelled. I imagine he tastes like Listerine. All the time. And I don’t want confirmation of that hypothesis.

Ever. Never.

Next.

The next time I cast my hook I decide to throw it into Match.com waters. My captain and first mate consult the compass and agree this looks like a better direction.

Match guy and I met at a public place and five minutes in I knew this guy had no chance. And he was actually really hot. He just wasn’t funny. He was very very smart but extremely opinionated and far too intense. Oh sure, he laughed at my jokes but he didn’t make any of his own.

When I docked the dating ship later, Kris just simply said, “Really? You’re writing him off because he wasn’t funny? What if he was just nervous? It was the first date you know. That’s lame.”

Oh, to be in my optimistic 20’s again . . .

The captain was a little more gentle and willing to accept my assessment of the situation and just prompted me to keep trying and no matter what, don’t settle. Spoken like a true single at 37 and happy about it guy.

“I obviously have the “not settling” part totally down,” I point out, “Have you checked the deck below? I have this shipped stocked for quite the journey.”

And that is probably excellent preparation on my part. Considering I can’t stand talking to any of these guys for longer than a few minutes. At this point, actually going to a full blown dinner with a member of the opposite sex is a commitment I am not sure I can handle. Wasting two hours of my life I can never get back with someone unfunny, too clean, or who unintentionally activates my gag reflex just doesn’t sound like something I am ready to jump into any time soon.

Is it really so hard to find a funny slightly messy guy who I can look at and think, yep, I can so see those lips on mine?

Apparently so.

So, there ya go. When this ship finally docks I have a feeling it is going to be at one place and one place only.

A convent.

On the up side, Jerry Seinfeld’s legendary pickiness made him a millionaire. So maybe this could work out well for me after all?

Because if this keeps up I can look forward to being a well traveled and very rich, rich . . .

. . . nun.