For whatever reason it just seems the opposite sex is not ready for this jelly. Which as it happens is no jelly at all, because even though I am more of a jam girl at heart, the only sugar-based gelatinous substance we currently have in our fridge is some expired chutney. For more information on the difference between jam/jelly/preserves/chutney I refer you to this page that I penned on the subject (in my dreams).
For all my single peeps out there, please take comfort in the fact that despite whatever unfortunate dating related misfortunes you have endured, you are not only not alone, but more than likely surpassed in mortification by yours truly. This little thing I like to call “acute social anxiety” affords me the unique and entirely unhelpful ability to discern the most inappropriate action to do at a given moment, and then the compulsion to perform that action. It’s great.
For the purpose of your amusement, I have identified some of my fave dating related moments from this past year for the dual purposes of public amusement and what I am pretty certain is called coping.
In case you were wondering, right now I am nursing a pretty significant crush on our UPS guy and my days are structured around timing my presence at home to correspond with package drop-offs. On the plus side, he definitely knows where I live without me providing this information, which is basically all I look for in a romantic partner. Resourcefulness is a level 5 a turn-on.
And so, without further ado I present to you a sequence of cringe inducing dating tales. It’s cool, it’s just my life.
The Real Housewife
Have you ever been late to a date? Have you ever been two hours late? Well, please don’t. Less of that. A guy I have henceforth thought of as The Real Housewife, for reasons that will soon hopefully become clear, was MORE than two hours late for our second date. Which honestly wouldn’t have been such an issue if we hadn’t been supposed to be going to a party that was at lest 45 minutes away. His reason for being late bears mention because it was that he decided to walk so as to avoid paying for the bus or metro. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for walking as a means of transportation, but there are appropriate times for a stroll and a time sensitive date is perhaps not. Especially considering he lived two metro stops away, it somehow took him over an hour to walk this distance.
By the time he arrived at my place, the party was no longer a feasible option. So I did what any future murder victim would do: I invited him inside. Unluckily for us, my laptop had broken the week before so we couldn’t even Netflix and chill. Instead, he brought out the WHITE WINE AND SPRITE he had brought to mix into a singular beverage and we proceeded to awkwardly watch Youtube clips on my phone. The weirdest part was not even that he could only drink white wine (which I hate) when mixed with sprite (which I am ambivalent about at best) but was instead that he kept going to the bathroom for incredibly long periods of time. All I wanted was this human out of my apartment immediately, and all he wanted was to ignore all social cues indicating my preferences and to keep drinking his sprite and wine concoction despite the fact that I was not. While he was in the bathroom all I could keep thinking was what he was DOING in there?! Maybe adjusting his one contact, which he informed me he only wore one of so as to cut his optical expenses in half.
I mean, finally I had to blatantly say “get the fuck out of my apartment” in the most cordial way possible. He seemed genuinely confused, as though he thought it was going well. I wanted so desperately to ask what he was doing in the bathroom all that time, but did not and I regret it to this day. Maybe the housewife connection isn’t so clear after all, but that’s always how I think of him. I never saw him again but he did send me a really nice message when I told him we would never under any circumstances date.
The Great Ca-toe-straphe
I have come to think of my absolute favorite dating experience from this past year affectionately as The Great Ca-toe-straphe. This ultra clever title refers to a freak toe incident slash date night which in retrospect is hilarious, in my opinion anyhow. Picture this: It was a cold and rainy Wednesday evening, as most Autumn evenings tend to be in Stockholm, and I was on my way home to quickly drop off my belongings at my apartment before heading over to meet up with a date-friend-pal-acquaintance-dude with whom I had something I quite frankly don’t know how to label. But let it suffice to say I was on my way to his place, and in a bit of a rush because we both had to be up early in the morning but wanted to hang out.
In the three minutes I was inside, I somehow managed to locate the hopefully single shard of glass hidden within my rug, and lodge it directly into the top of my toe. Being human and all, blood immediately began to spill everywhere. Being irresponsible and all, I had exactly zero bandaids in my home.
Lying on the floor, elevating my leg straight into the air I vividly remember reflecting upon the state of my life as I texted this un-labelable guy to ask him if he owned bandaids. (Which for the record he did, five different kinds to be more precise, one of which was liquid. Also spray antiseptic.) But he definitely thought it was a weird text to receive, since looking back I realized I offered no contextualization for this question.
I crudely wrapped the offending toe in toilet paper, and hobbled over to his place where I immediately went into the bathroom to perform Grey’s Anatomy style renegade toe surgery. As if this wasn’t sexy enough, I remained hyperaware of the blood spill potential post-surgery, and may or may not have asked if I could leave my single sock on during hanky panky. (For the same record as before, I did not.) Furthermore for this lengthy record, I am 90 percent certain that no further toe blood escaped out of it’s bandage jail. I am more than 90 percent certain that whatever semblance of swag I ever may have possessed was lost the moment I asked if I should leave my single sock on.
This one is less of an event and more of a self-imposed mind fuck which if you were my friend at the time, your ears are already bleeding from endless analysis of this goddamn toothbrush so please feel free to scroll through this next section.
The toothbrush debacle came arose when the individual mentioned in the ca-toe-straphe spent the night one evening, and I gave him my spare toothbrush to use. I had been planning on switching to this toothbrush soon, but being the generous and dentally hygenic person I am at heart, I gifted it him. This is where the trouble began, but out of it bloomed a beautiful metaphor for our relationship or lack thereof. I do love a good extended metaphor.
Following the next morning I did not hear from him for a week. And before you ask, yes, my pride prevented me from reaching out. SIDENOTE: I am very much in the camp that if someone likes you they will make it happen, and if they don’t they wont. I will in the meantime obsess secretly over why or why not someone likes me, but can never seem to take things into my own hands. If it’s meant to be, it’s easy, etc. Which brings me nicely to the obsessing portion of the story, which TBH is the central plotline of most of my life, dating or otherwise. SO the way I saw it I had a dilemma, and this dilemma was as follows:
- First, that morning I moved the toothbrush from the counter into the cabinet with mine. But somehow that seemed a bit too intimate.
- So I relegated the offending toothbrush to it’s own Ziplock, and threw it into a drawer that same evening.
- However, five days into radio silence I began to question why I was keeping this toothbrush when he wasn’t even calling me. Angrily, I threw the toothbrush into the trash but still inside of the Ziplock so technically it could still be retrieved.
- Seven days out it began to dawn on me that I could still use this toothbrush! Why should I waste a perfectly good toothbrush when he had only used it once?!
- But at the same time, what if he DID call, and stayed the night again, and I had to tell him I had begun using that toothbrush. That would be weird. So weird.
- But this was all operating on the assumption that he would call me back, which it had been 9 days so I was pretty sure that would not be the case.
The metaphorical aspect of this whole thing, which I now see is a stretch at best, was the uncertainty of our status. If I knew he wouldn’t need it then that would be fine, but at least I would know. I obsessed over this for nine days before texting him happy birthday (on his actual birthday) and finding out that he had a dental emergency the entire last week and was definitely not thinking about this toothbrush. I felt relief, embarrassment, and also hoped this emergency was not caused by the toothbrush which I had at this point used.
Call Me Maybe
One of the most perplexing dating scenarios I have experienced recently came in the form of what I thought was a really great date. He was a Health Ledger look alike and I was into it. We stayed out until four, and parted ways with the verbal agreement of a follow up date. I was pretty confident this would happen, but it never did.
I asked him out once, and he said he was otherwise engaged that night. He did call me again, but did so while thinking he was calling his mother. Which he wasn’t, and it was awkward. I wrote it off and went to Texas for Thanksgiving. I should have saved his name in my phone, or deleted it entirely because I ended up getting it mixed up with a vendor for an event I was organizing. My colleague asked for the number for this vendor, and instead I gave her my date’s digits. She texted me saying it was definitely the wrong number, at which point I looked back into my messages, realized what I had done, and then curled up and died inside.
WELP, this concludes the Alone Forever portion of this Sunday. I’ll be here petting my cat if you need me! Just kidding…he lives in Florida like the lush little princess he is.