The 37-minute date
If I am slow to blog these days, blame it on continued ennui. I am considering your suggestions about how to break through the boredom--I am trying, really--and will pick a winner shortly. Meanwhile, I watch marathons of Dexter and Heroes and try to amuse myself with other writers' fixations on serial killers.
Also, I promise to post the Angelina "It's Not Easy Being Beautiful" Jolie anecdote soon. I've had requests. It's a doozy, one that I shared with every class I ever taught and it never fails to amuse. Send a good thought to Brad Pitt. He probably needs it.
There are media items everywhere today about how the "Freshman 15" has dropped to only 8. Big whoop. When I went to college and stopped eating my mom's cream gravy, white rice and pork chops, I lost about 30 pounds. For the first time in my life, I had unlimited access to salad and fresh fruit. And I walked everywhere (no car allowed undergrads until sophomore year, as I recall, and I never had one anyway).
On the Trinity University campus, where I matriculated back in the pre-computer, pre-VCR, pre-iPod, prehistoric era, we were on foot a lot. We had to climb so many stairs up and down the limestone bluffs from the lower dorms to the main buildings for classes, we all had killer legs by the second month of school. It was like enforced Stairmaster five or 10 times a day. You could bounce a quarter off my butt by Christmas break.
But that was then. This is now. Now you could lose a pocketful of change in the rolls of cellulite I'm smuggling between my thighs and glutes. It's a horror show down there. Middle age is a bitch, kiddies. I last saw my navel during the Reagan administration.
Such indignities are everyday annoyances. I swim to keep things as high up as possible, but no amount of laps will lift up my lap.
Then something like the 37-minute date really gets my snark motor revved up anew.
Here's what happened. Had plans with a nice man the other evening. I thought we were attending an early evening event, then going out for dinner. So I pick him up, we drive to the event, for which I have press passes and a free parking thing--a total savings of about $34. We get good seats at said event, watch it for 30 minutes and then he's ready to leave. I say OK, somewhat reluctantly, and as we're walking out, I suggest strolling around the lovely grounds of the place where the event is. It's a nice night, just before sunset. Talk and stroll. Very relaxing.
"I'm not much for strolling," he says curtly.
OK, now what? I ask. He shrugs. To the car? He shrugs.
We get in the car. I'm starting to feel the steam rising to my temples. The evening is not going as planned. It's all zooming off the rails. Where now? I ask. Dinner somewhere?
"I had a late lunch," he says. "Not hungry."
OK, fella, this is too much. All I wanted was some time, a little tenderness and maybe some tacos. Now I can hardly see the road because my rising blood pressure is threatening to pop my eyeballs right out of my skull. I don't say another word. I just drive him home. He falls asleep in the passenger seat. Asleep!
Seven minutes later I drop him off. "We'll talk soon," he says as he bolts from the car.
If I were him, I wouldn't count on that.
Have no idea what went awry. Was he sick? Jet-lagged? Having a mild stroke? I was happy and excited to see the guy. The event was fun and fascinating--the little bit of it we saw. But somewhere during our 37-minute "date," I felt a heavy metal gate slam down between us. He was done. It was over.
On the way home from the non-date I have to stop at Central Market and buy myself some dinner because...like, I still can't believe that kuh-razy shit went down and left me without anything to do at 6:15 on a Friday night. I get some chicken soup and a bag of BBQ-flavored gluten-free organic rice chips that are so freakin' good they're almost a worthy substitute for the male companionship I crave.
Just once, I'd like a normal one.