What’s with all the “work” at work?!
I try to make at least 10% [and by that, I mean 30%] of the day “chat time.”
It’s good for the soul – and totally productive, in a non-productive kind of way.
Anyway, this is important.
FairyWings is about to tell me about him. Biker Dude, him.
[Ticket for one to NoseyTown. Please and thank you. My bags are packed. Let's go!]
First, a little backstory…
Now, she is a hard core biking supastar. All of her mountain bike rides are 20 to 30 miles in a day – or some unfathomable number.
Okay. Enough of that… back to him. Biker Dude.
I asked about the bike ride. It seemed the polite thing to do – and it makes her so happy.
But she knows – like everybody knows [because I tell them] – I am not an outdoors-y person. For me, outdoors-y it-shay is much like 90% of my limited sexual encounters. Yes, I was there. No, I didn’t really enjoy it.
“So we [the group] rode our bikes along the river,” she regales, “and this is the part that you won’t like – we had to pick up our bikes and carry it over a small bridge, and then across a highway…”
Say what now?!
Allow me to review the “parts I don’t like” in order:
a) The bridge. No, thank you,
b) Carrying something with wheels? It has wheels. Hello? And the word “carry” makes me uncomfortable, and
c) Across a highway? I don’t even like driving on a highway. Yes, that’s me in the slow lane going 50 MPH. If you don’t like it, get the hell out of my lane. M’kay?
Blah blah blah biking and stuff about outdoors-y shit.
“Soooooooo, tell me about him,” I said – like it was a Nosey Christmas.
“He emailed after Hurricane Sandy and asked if we could go to lunch….”
“Aaaaand,” I prodded. I know there’s an “and.” We are both incredibly private so I am helping her spill the beans. “Then what?”
“And sometimes we eat before or after the bike rides….” She continued coyly.
“Just the two of you or with other people?” I asked. [I know. Right? I am totally like girl detective, Nancy Drew.]
Look. This is so adorable – but what is going on here? She is talking about this dude like they just magically appear in the same places at the same time. Like he just falls through the roof!
Yes, this is possible…
Lots of bizarre things are possible. [Every single Kardashian. Clogs. Sporks. And yes, you need to be spoon or a fork. Decide already!]
I closed her office door, primed for an intervention – from one clueless dater to another. [This is an emergency! Stat!]
Say this like a sane, rational human being.
“You do realize you are dating this dude. Right?!” I blurt. [M'kay. Not even close to sane, but anyway...]
“Yeah, I do,” she laughed, as if she were convincing herself, “It’s just so weird to be pursued by somebody, especially someone I like.”
Ah…. Now, we are 100% in a land that I know well. This is why we can and do talk about anything. I get this.
Let me be clear.
This is not about any of the mindless blather that society and random annoying people want to heap on single women. The perception is that they – we – are somehow broken and/or incapable of happy, committed relationships because we are not in one.
But wait! There’s more…
- I must be bitter or angry or hardened.
- Let’s not forget the rampant sex with anonymous strangers that I simply have to have to appease my super slutty vagina.
- Or how about how I am so, so selfish for wanting to sleep in an entire bed and not share the blankets or the remote.
- And what an unbelievable asshole I am for wanting to spend all of my money on myself.
Is it so hard to believe that some people are not interested in getting married or dating?
And must every conversation include sad puppy dog eyes and the following condescension:
“Don’t worry. The right man will come one day.”
It would be like me responding to a married person – “Don’t worry. Statistics show that there is a 50/50 chance the right divorce lawyer will come one day as well.”
See? Not nice. Dismissing people’s life choices is not nice.
Besides, as much as I would like to fritter away my days running other people’s lives.
I am busy with my own.
You see, every night my cats consume an entire water buffalo, and then spend each day pissing in the litter box like it’s their last day on earth.
So half of my calendar is already booked with cleaning pee-clumped cat litter. Add to that – doily knitting, baking homemade bread, and frantically researching my barren uterus – by the end of the day, me and my super slutty vagina are just too plumb tired
TO GIVE AN IT-SHAY ABOUT WHO IS DATING OR MARRIED AND WHO ISN’T?!
[Sorry. About the caps. Caps are not nice as well.]
But FairyWings’ story is not really about any of those pre-/misconceptions…
[I just don't feel right deep down in my heart-place without one rant per blog. It completes me.]
She is concerned about other people’s misconceptions, and maybe her own…
“Um… I just don’t want people to see me in a different way,” FairyWings gets down to the heart of the matter. “I have lived in this town for decades. I’m in my 50’s. I am a mother. I like being independent. That is who I am to everyone. And now someone is walking down the street with me.”
I am not sure what I should say. [Giving an it-shay about how other people perceive me is no longer in my skill set. I am just happy when they don't talk to me. To me, that's a win/win.]
Say this like a sane, rational human being.
“Yes, I can see how people knowing you are attractive and eligible with a nice guy who wants to treat you like a princess – could send the wrong impression. People might think you are a desirable woman. And that would totally suck really really bad,” I said smiling.
She laughed. [Thank the goddess. Okay. I didn't screw that up.]
“I almost freaked out because he’s never been married and he’s in his 50’s too,” she said. “That is a red flag for me.”
[Oh, how I miss the double-standards of dating. Let me count the ways... Zero. Minus zero. Minus minus zero... Sigh.]
They are both single and 50-ish. Both. Not just him.
This sounds like The-Three-Date-Crazy.
Translation: You go on 3 great dates, and you are like ” Oh shit. This is fun and I like him/her, and therefore, it must end. And then you start doing lots of crazy shit to make it end.”
I totally invented this. [Stop trying to steal my zany antics - that drove me bonkers. I don't like people touching my stuff. This is what I get for not patenting my inventions!]
Look, I care very little about dating [every 3 - 4 years.] It is entirely too much work. And I hate working at home more than working at work.
I figure if you want to get to know a person – then get to know them.
You know? Magical stuff… like talking and asking questions and listening.
Getting to know a person is like enduring one of those ungodly nature trails or bike rides. Lots of dinky little paths [with potential serial killers.] And rickety bridges. And unexpected highways. And entirely too much time spent pretending to like shit that you don’t.
But maybe you will? Like it. Isn’t that the point? The maybe.
“I am pretty sure there is more than one awesome, single person in their 50’s. Do you think you are the only one?” I replied to FairyWings. [Aww... I totally wanted to hug me. I was sweet like candy.]
“Am I acting crazy?” she asked.
“Yes, a little,” I said. “Just get to know him. One date at a time, be aware and have fun. Maybe he’s a nutjob. Maybe not. Three awesome dates doesn’t seem like enough information….”
Apparently, telling people they sound crazy makes them feel all warm inside. [Who knew?]
“I feel better now. I knew you’d understand?” [Hm... I am not sure why? I am generally not fond of most people at work. But she is very approachable.]
People just want to talk to her.
Once FairyWings walked into a restaurant to meet her friend for drinks. A man sitting at table in a back corner rushed up to her.
“Are you Jen?” he implored.
She said, “I am Jan.”
He replied, “Yes, Jen.” He thought she was his blind date that was late – she found out later.
The confused pair just stood at door playing verbal ping-pong.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Finally, she said exasperated – “I am not who you think I am!”
Misconceptions are so easy to make.
It happens all the time.
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