Everything must deviate...

I'm not making excuses. But forces of nature, personality and circumstance coalesced into a decisive backward dating momentum this weekend.

a) Lack of opportunity to pursue a date. Humidity. Storms. Vomiting cats. Helping friends move furniture the better part of Saturday. Wireless internet at the apartment uncooperative.

b) Lack of desire to pursue a date. The internet was down....so what, eh? I'm a modern woman who likes bars and people. But the feet haven't stopped throbbing since an ill-fated trip on the elliptical machine Friday night. All day Saturday in a crusty XXL college t-shirt, plus unwashed hair, further eighty-sixed any enthusiasm to feel, much less appear, attractive. So I stayed in with the cats.

And as if that didn't do the trick, the local Blockbuster rejected my one attempt to draw myself back into a better mood: rent Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Something about not having a membership there for the last 3 years and the store being out of applications for new membership. (Wondered if looking like I just slept in a garden all day had anything to do with lack of cooperation....) I walked empty-handed up Dorchester Street at 9:30 Saturday night feeling lame, lamer and lamest. No Elizabeth Bennet, I.

This weekend left me so damp in spirit (and hair) and sore of feet that I don't even have the energy to be depressed this morning. And as if on cue, yet another black thunderstorm is now rolling in over the Charles River to obscure all views. I guess there is one positive to this: it gives a morning spent in a theoretical mental fog appropriate visuals.

Oh well. Last evening, fueled by chilled pork and caipirinhas from an afternoon picnic, my verve briefly reignited. I folded and put away clean laundry, swept the porch free of storm detritus, and made use of the three big sticks of rhubarb going bad in my fridge. The result: kick-ass crisp topped with Cool-Whip, which came down with me to Quincy for a couple enjoyable hours of noshing and man-hating debriefing with girlfriends.

Which is exactly the note on which a post about a dateless weekend should conclude.

The intern

So last night's self-edict to a) run a road race, then b) drink beer, then c) bust a bunch of moves on desirable match.com guys was tempered by the fact that d) I drank too much beer to write or move much of anything so e) I went to bed, woke up with a mild hangover and was late to work this morning.

The night wasn't a sum loss. I ran 3 miles in butter-fat humidity with the Boston business community (the ritual that is JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge, along with 18 of my co-wokers) before enjoying an evening out on the company dime.

Over way too many Coronas, I enjoyed the company of a nice young man. At 22, he's probably too young. He's a senior in economics at Bates College, a world-ranked squash player from El Salvador, and the summer intern at my office. And friendly. We talked about whether he should pursue an MBA or a professional squash career. Our Chief Investment Officer took this picture during our extended conversation.

Nothing to see here, folks, and nothing to follow. But the conversation shored me up a bit. I went home and slept well.

Looking ahead: more practice

Am I the only person overwhelmed at both the absurdity and necessity of chemistry in a relationship? And the difficulty at finding it?

Both of my commentators to yesterday's post rightly pointed out that had the Stand-Up Comedian and I noticed the requisite mutual sparks, Saturday night's political debacle would not have mattered. He would have reached for my hand and I would have looked him in the eye and gripped. I could have taught him a lesson or two about date etiquette after we made out for several hours.

This I believe. Alas.

Chemistry aside, dating does take practice. I will review the S-UC experience for pointers on how I might conduct myself differently. Such as, perhaps, not to egg my date through volatile discussions when he's not getting the hint. Or not pretend that I enjoy kitschy outings just because he does. Or act like I'm super attracted to him, when I'm not.

S-UC is not a bad guy. (After all....he liked me!) And, he's good to his mother. For his sake, I hope he recalls his lecture and winces at its sour taste....and doesn't do it with his next date.

My macro-lesson from match.com so far: I have given chances to several guys who wrote first. I would not have approached them otherwise. And while I wasn't blown away, I also was not turned off.....hence, we went out. Mostly because I didn't want to close doors too quickly.

Hmmm. Enough warm-up.

I'm ready for someone that appeals to me. Lanky. Taller than average. Democrat who likes to talk about it. Runner's legs and strong hands. Occasionally goes to church. Appreciates the Bach cello suites. And--as my FwaB Balint recently observed--the "intellectual I need."

There's gotta be a few of these in Boston. If I find one who likes short running girls with glasses and plantar fasciitis in both feet, it has to exponentially increase the chances that chemistry might exist.

Tonight I'm going to work on it. Run a road race for courage and endorphins. Drink a few beers. Start making a few first moves.

Next: Where to?

It's day 4 since what I now call The Date From Strange, and it still puzzles. There's been no communication between me and the man and I can't decide if any is warranted. Maybe a note to say "thanks, but I'm all set." Or I could just wait to see if he does as he said he would.....to at some point call me again.

The next move is definitely to move on, regardless; I like Julie's comment about "who's next in the line-up?". But I'm still working on sorting the jumble of brain activity before proceeding.


1) Match.com

Today I scrolled through the list of guys who viewed my profile. To the bottom of page one and nothing inspires, so I stop.

Somedays I want to flirt with everyone. Somedays it seems the lamest possible approach to life. No one seems viable.

Drowing in a vat of cynicism today. I'll visit again tomorrow.


2) Songs That Make You Go "Why?"

From WERS a few moments ago....The Cure "Friday, I'm in Love."

Why can't I be in love on Wednesday? Why does the day have to be grey, break my heart, give me a heart attack, and make me want to stay in bed? And why does Thursday have to be a watch-the-walls day when Wednesday was already so rotten?

Do I really have to wait until the end of a given week to move on?

Maybe that explains my cynicism.


3) W-folk and their ideas:

Shout-out, definitely, to all Republican acquaintances who held their tongues rather than use them to lash me for the Bush-bashing tirade of Monday.

After a few additional days of mulling, I wonder if I put too much energy into drawing out S-UC's political views. That I condemned him before I even knew how strongly he felt and just wanted to make him prove it. Or did I? One could argue that it is a valid topic of conversation in an election year. Or that I know political affiliation I respect is an important criteria for someone I would date.

Last night I enjoyed some tasty, expensive Harpoon UFO with my gang of church FwaBs who, incidentally, are uniformly politically conservative. (Shout-out to them, too, for being willing to dissect my dating life in a Mexican restaurant.) Discussion came around to a mutual acquaintance--well-known for a Cheney-style bombast that, at one time or another, had drowned us all. We agreed his vehemence comes into fullest flower with those whom he knows will least want to hear what he has to say.

This reminds me that I also can pour forth, often vociferously, on my own views, and already had done so by the time Date #2B rolled up with S-UC. Perhaps if I had worn my political stripes a little less boldy, perhaps he would have chilled.

Oh well. His bad.


4) Too nice? Probably not.

Some of the regret I'm feeling over Saturday has to do with the conjecture that....I might have been too nice? At 10 p.m. I thought "I'd rather be home in the bathtub than talking with this man". Then I said I'd go to another bar with this man. Mostly because he had just paid for my dinner, and it seemed mean to cop-out because of our political differences.

It is obvious now I was doing the proverbial slow-rip of bandage. Last night, I was describing to FwaB Mitch the moment S-UC made his move: we were sitting on adjoining bar stools when he reached for my hand to give it a suggestive stroke. In return I gave him the look that said "don't you dare." In fact, I winced, too.

"Ouch," Mitch said. "That sucks."

Suggesting that waiting until the brink of physical contact to pull away, when I had known for some hours I didn't want him to touch me, is mean. No matter the sex. No matter the perceived injustice he had perpetrated earlier.

I feel bad about that.

Because I have been there too... on the other side.


5) Quote of the Day:

Thanks MD, for reminding me.

"I've been dating since I was fifteen. I'm exhausted! Where IS he?"


--Charlotte, Sex And the City (Season 3, Episode 1)

Date #2B: Agreeing to not agree to disagree

Date #2B with the Stand-Up Comedian is now on the books. He tracked me down via text message Friday afternoon and we went out for BBQ and beer Saturday evening. A gorgeous summer night in the city, so we parked far away and strolled congenially to our destination.

As you may recall, all previous conversations with S-UC contained mere snippets of the issue most likely to deal-break this relationship: politics. This was to be the litmus-test outing. And I hoped to report back that a Republican and Democrat could successfully coexist, or if nothing else, agree to disagree. Yes, we're talking a Bush Republican and a W-hating Enthusiast. But if his fealty to the current president might be because W is one of those "guys he'd love to have a beer with".....

Nope. This man was so Bushy it was like being on a date with Dick Cheney. Standing on the steps of Boston City Hall, over Bud Light and styrofoam containers of ribs and beans, it took very little prompting to get him on the two-hour roll from which he couldn't extract himself. His two most-oft-uttered statements: "I don't mean to lecture you, but...." and, after I suggested we change the subject, "Well, you asked...."

I don't remember what comment started it. But I did listen to him describe, in lengthy segments, No Child Left Behind, September 11, the history of the Iraq War and the absolute lack of strategic blunders there-in. Here is a representative sample of our "discussion" on the matter:

K: "So if the military HAD focussed their manpower and resources in Afghanistan rather than invading Iraq..."

S-UC: "But they DID, and that's why that country is 100-percent secure and we could go after those Weapons of Mass Destruction....(followed by 10 minutes of exposition on Afghanistan's security)"

K: "Oh, but recall there were no Weapons of Mass Destruction...."

S-UC: "But there were those empty canisters that they were trying to destroy....(followed by 10 minutes of exposition on how evil the Iraqi terrorists were and how they would otherwise have blown us all up)"

K: "But this war is costing $183 billion dollars a year..."

S-UC: "And isn't that a small price for our freedom....I will be forever grateful to Bush for having the courage to stand up.....(followed by 20 minutes of exposition on how the entire country of Iraq is unequivocably grateful to the United States military)"

It was partly what he said, but moreso how he said it. Not inviting return argument or questioning.

Finally, I simply asked that we stop talking about Iraq. He immediately took off his mad-professor mask and said what a great time he was having and how he hoped we'd continue the evening. So we went down the street to the Tam for a couple Brubakers. But Iraq returned, and I again had to ask it to go away or otherwise I was going to leave.

He asked if we could just agree to disagree. I suggested that this was turning out to be a bigger deal than I thought.

So, even after he still told me he'd like to go out with me again. Take me to the beach or to the movies. That he was glad I had enough passion about something to argue so vociferously. That he'd probably call me this week.

Obviously, willing to bridge the W-divide for love or lust.

Sigh. I had thought maybe I could.

I'm melancholy. This is a man who likes me. But other than his paying for dinner and giving me a ride home, I struggled to find a reason to summon even an ounce of attraction to him. Not entirely based on his Iraq lectures. But they didn't help. As he started telling me what a beautiful girl I was and how much he enjoyed my company, I couldn't think of anything to say in return. I couldn't even fake it for the sake of a kiss.

He started to make his move, grabbing my hand, and all I could think about were those lectures....and pulled away.

Well, I could have been doing THIS rather than being on questionable Date #2B

Thanks, Missy, for reminding me that if you sit home alone with your roommate, you might unknowingly get spooned.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtfQg4KkR88

Inertia, choices

It's been 10 days since I heard from Stand-Up Comedian, and five since Guy from Hartford checked in. The last communiques from both were relatively positive, i.e.:

S-UC: "I had a great time Friday, hope you did too. I look forward to seeing you when you get back!"

GfH: "I am so sorry. It has been so crazy with clients this week, I thought you owed me a message, and was so disappointed when I didn't get one. Then I checked and found you emailed me last......How has your week been and what are your weekend plans?"

I replied to both of them within two days. (Acceptable when on vacation and ostensibly away from computer, right?) I thanked SU-C for the beer and the bike lift, but didn't let him escape too easily.

K: "We still need to discuss this W issue, though."

Silence ever since.

So now, what should a woman do? Chill? Poll her FwaBs to ask if 10 days is an unusually long time to wait for a second hello? Decide that rather than reforming Bush Republicans, she should just leave them to their own questionable political choices?

Earlier this year, when Another Man was in the picture, I was anxious over when--as a woman pursued--it's kosher to make a move back. AM liked me (for a time, anyway) and was full of ideas for getting together; then, when we were together, he didn't let me make even a pretense of paying for coffee or picking up the Sunday Times. Man, I was all about that gallantry.... relieved to be unburdened from decision-making and budgeting duties.

The good news about such gallantry is that it became obvious when AM's attention waned.... gallantry disappeared along with him.

But then came my anxiety: do I try to find him? Dare I ask him out if he hasn't asked first.....would that insult or undermine his sense of pursuit? Is he confused and does he need my assistance to clarify, or does he want me to disappear? Does he think I've lost interest if I don't stay on his radar...and at that point, I still wanted to be on the radar....and is it empowering or pathetic to check in?

Some nights during that time, I spent hours mulling these questions. Wanting to write him so much I couldn't go to bed, talking myself out of it, finally succumbing to some casual witticism, and then instantly regretting it. Checking e-mail the next morning, mortified that he hadn't replied yet, going back every five minutes to see if he ever would reply.....and chastising myself for having not been more chill, more calm, more, I don't know.....not needing him to write me to justify self-worth.

A girlfriend and I were discussing this topic during a lengthy walk on the Esplanade last night. She is a font of good advice although I suspect, married for eight years to a man who is also my good FwaB, she was confused at my confusion over whether I should write S-UC or GfH to see what is up. I.e....if you both like each other, why it is so hard to just say so.

This I do not know, dear friends. I have yet to make up my mind.

But the truth remains: it is 10:30 on Friday of the first weekend of summer, and I do not have a date.

1:59 p.m. update: S-UC sent a text message.

4:35 p.m. update: S-UC called my number at work. I might have to later append a correction to the last unbold/unitalics sentence. Again, stay tuned.

The cat lady...

Scene, Winter 2003. I was telling then-FwaB Adam about my plans to adopt two cats from Judith Scofield's Save-A-Cat League in New York City. At the time Judith was 87, suffering from chronic heart disease and, before she died, wanted to find homes for the 40-plus rescued animals she sheltered in her Manhattan apartment. We had come to mutual attention via a string of intervening acquaintances; as a result, the brother/sister pair, two-year-olds deemed "capable of socialization," were to be transported to Boston via taxi-cab.

Perhaps it was because he is mildly allergic to dander, but Adam responded by shuddering:

"Karin, you will NOT become one of those cat ladies!"

(One of Those Cat Ladies Definition: Woman of a certain age who depends on her pets for own sense of well-being and enjoys their company alone, sometimes to social and psychological detriment.)

Last night I was one of those ladies, watching strung-out little Velvet run laps over the fireplace mantle. And the tops of the kitchen cupboards. And into the sink to lap milk-stained water out of a cereal bowl. Stopping only to make dry, hissing noises at Tusker if he walked in her path.

And this, hours after I paid $2300 ($2300!) to release her from the vet's office after 11 days of boarding, lots of intraveneous drugs and a quadruple tooth extraction. (Tusker, at least, only cost $363.)

I did not want to go to dive bar down the street to watch Celtics Lakers Game 6 in good company, as I had planned. I did not want to go for a run to release the stress. I did not want to troll match.com. I did not care if my two outlying match conversants wrote me or not. I did not want to water the impatiens.

All I wanted was to drown myself in raw spoonfuls of peanut butter and drink Fresca--which I did for four hours, even though I had already eaten supper AND dessert--and sit on the sofa, watching the kitties roam, contemplating the second job I now need to find because of the bad luck of Velvet's medical necessities coinciding with my 10-day vacation.

T & V. Look at these $2663 faces!

Wishes DO come true...

The age tables turning a few inches? Or are we entering the unknown realm of call-girl for hire?

You be the judge.


From: 22-year-old man, on match.com, from North Carolina
To: Karin
Date received: June 16, 2008
Subject: Hello

Hi,

You're a very sexy women. Would you be interesting in getting together in to know one another a bit better and perhaps see what kind of fun we can have?

PS - I'm actually in Newton, MA despite what my profile says.

that old late-night magic....

It's late. Kind of late in the Central time zone and somewhat ridiculous on the East Coast.

Did you know that Oprah is on at this hour? The show features a perfect topic for insomniacs: the power of positive thinking via the sensational bestseller, The Law of Attraction...which posits, in a nutshell, that you can attract good events into your life simply by thinking about them.

A skill I probably shouldn't talk about with such a degree of cynicism. Not wanting to attract cynicism at all. Should want to attract zzzzzz's. Or just relief that I'm still on vacation. Right now I'm sitting in my pregnant sister's living room, in the pitch black, steps away from her bedroom door, afraid she'll wander out for a bathroom stop and have a horrible tripping accident after she freaks out because I'm still sitting here using her laptop and exhibiting atrocious posture while doing so.

There it is....an entire thought chain I shouldn't even entertain... Sorry, Oprah.

Long ago, writing messages with a message at 2 a.m. were a weekly staple of my working life. My first job out of college was as a reporter for a fine weekly newspaper in southern Minnesota. I'll spare you the laborious details of my writing and photography prowess....which were OK. But I certainly most excelled at the ability to attend a school board meeting featuring angry citizens railing about property taxes, write a story on it, develop and make photos from four rolls of film, then lay out eight pages of that week's paper and add captions and headlines, and THEN write my personal column for the editorial page....all between the hours of 8 p.m. Tuesday and 8 a.m. Wednesday, nearly every week, for four years.

From that era, there is a book's-worth of my writing, mainly ruminations similar to what you have just read....space-filler stuff, perhaps....amazingly printed in ink and disseminated to the public.

Tonight I'm trying to see if that old magic will fly with y'all.

And wonder aloud if non-single folks, with a kind soul lying next to them snoring or otherwise more interestingly occupying one's self, ever succumb to this kind of silliness at such a bleak hour on this most suspicious of calendar days.

W, sex talk and several Hoegaardens later...

It's a comment on the excitement of my life, I suppose, when the cat toothache upstages a relatively successful date with the Stand-up Comedian.

The date gets 3 Belgian ales up....

....we both got carded at Tia's on the Waterfront. This means that we WENT to the meet-market 7-dollar beer place that is Tia's on the Waterfront.

...he was hyper-aware that I have this blog. About an hour in, he suggested that if I were to write about him, he would, conversely, put details of our date into his next stand-up routine. We then proceeded to identify the moments that might apply....although, is it a bad sign that I now can't remember any of them?

....he gave me a ride home. We put my bike in the trunk of his car, then used a rubber physical therapy strap to bungee-tie his trunk closed. Before saying goodnight, this required me to run inside and fetch a scissors to unattach it.

....of the four-hour date, only 15 minutes of it was devoted to the unavoidable fact that he is not only a Republican, but a Bush Republican. And after this 15 minutes I realized that he means it. I then tried to talk him out of it by suggesting it might be my deal-breaker. (This was a sheer leverage move....just before, we both had acknowledged that he likes me more than I like him at this juncture....) His response:

"I like to argue about this! I think it serves to increase the sexual tension..."

Between whom? I wanted to say. He has not yet realized that sex is probably the 185th thing in line that comes to mind when W's image has the unfortunate chance of crossing my brain. (I can't believe I just put W and sex in the same sentence and let it lie. In fact, the mention of the name banishes all sensual thought in its entirety.)

So to not breeze past that salient detail: He clearly likes me more than I like him at this juncture. I'm not convinced that he isn't just in awe of my shapely running legs.

But I would be remiss to ignore a rapport worth exploring again when I return from Minnesota.....which means you might someday see Date #2b in this space. And that I should probably be nice.

Independent: to be or not (want, sometimes) to be

If you ask Michael about my most recent Saturday, he'll tell you it was historically aggravating.

We hung out that night, during which he was a very good FwaB. As we drove Memorial Drive in Cambridge and pulled up to a stoplight, he listened to my griping about the aggravating things that had gone on earlier in the day: My cat's infected tooth, fever, and the $2000 veternarian bill that ensued. My wrecked apartment, in chaos due to the effort required to put said cat in a carrier for the trip that would result in the $2000 vet bill. The handle on the driver's side door of my Mazda 626 that, inexplicably, stopped working while I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts to drown sorrows in an iced coffee after learning of $2000 vet bill.

Then, back at the stoplight, when someone knocked on the passenger door, saying the front right tire of the 626 was flat, Michael didn't flinch when my response was "f***, f***, f***, f***, f***, f***!" (And he didn't argue when I insisted we drive on to Arlington, as planned.) Later, after attending the show we had been driving to, we did stop to change the tire. The car rolled back on the jack, damaging it, rendering it inoperable; Michael calmly pulled out his cellphone and we together looked for a towing company phone number.

All this is to say: a) thanks, Michael, for calm, for company; and b) Michael's presence made me appreciate the ease with which decisions are made when 2 rational people combine wits to solve a problem.

If there were ever a better incentive to continue on my dating quest with high vigor, I haven't found it. Sometimes being independent and alone sucks. It certainly did as I stood Saturday in an examining room at Neponset Animal Hospital, listening to my expensive, more expensive and most expensive options for treating the ill-timed illness of my cat. At one point--as the vet and tech stood waiting for my answer--I covered my eyes with my hand, just wanting someone else to make the decision. Someone else to give their opinion on whether I should euthanize the cat before agreeing to fund eight days of IV medication and a tooth extraction. Someone else to also put their name on the new line of credit I was opening to pay for it.

I was tired of it just being me.

More promising, perhaps....

Ah, Friday.

Last day in the office before a long stretch in Minnesota visiting the family. Skin still grimy from yesterday's Google search on foot fetishes. Two-day fog and chill outside doesn't want to lift.

But more promising, as you know, is that tonight is Date #2: Stand-Up Comedian (S-UC) and me, a bunch of beer, Red Sky in Faneuil Hall, and a Friday in desperate need of happy hour in a town that technically forbids them.

True, the temperature is predicted to skyrocket (90s?) in time for the road race and beer-drinking fest I'm undertaking tomorrow at 10 a.m. with a group of friends. S-UC is aware of this event, but if his profile photos are accurate he does have BMI advantage.....so the challenge will be to resist the temptation to go drink-for-drink.

Looking forward to tonight with triple the anticipation of Date #1. Probably because S-UC and I have spoken on the phone and I can tell you this man has no issues with gregariousness. If nothing else sparks, we will at least verbally entertain each other for a couple hours.

Another upbeat bit of news: conversation with some spark has begun with a someone I'll simply call Long-Distance Man. Which is because he lives 100 miles out of Boston. Last week he twice gave me the dreaded match.com wink (so lame to not at least put two words together); the combination of Hartford, CT and the method didn't impress. However, he then returned via e-mail to ask me if I really was from North Dakota. And said some other nice things. That combination, plus the persistance, precipitated my reply.

Three days later and he's still saying nice things in a relatively interesting way. I'm trying to keep up.

And not worry, yet, about Hartford.

Are exclamation points also part of the cure...?

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Ageism, typos in the profile, and other non-issues

Two weeks ago I had match.com Date #1 with the gentleman from New Hampshire. In preparation for the upcoming excitement, I was e-mailing with friend Bill, 34.

K: My first date with a 40-something. Woo-hoo!
(disclaimer: I since remember this is not the case....The Editor also tips that scale.)

B: WOW…..the big 4-0, eh? Going older, any particular reason why?

K: Um. Availability?

Note the all-caps WOW....?

Bill needn't have worried. It has taken this latest go-round on match for me to realize and not be afraid......40 does not feel too old. It's not terrifically older than me. And as a girl with somewhat dubious financial security.....40 implies a stability I often feel I lack.

Yet I omit (purposefully?) a general truth: the majority of my FwaBs are 30 or under. I hang out with them for many reasons. But one trait they all share is some variation of impulsivity and freedom I associate with men that age, and do find attractive.

So yes. It's true. I can tell you I really want a man who is so stable that he makes it possible for me to live in a beautiful house, take cello lessons and not have to work because he's got it all under control.

Yet, at this moment in my life, I must be looking for a younger man.

I recently began obsessing over Nico Muhly....composer, philosopher, cook, general genius and aesthete.....and 27. Skinny, skater-hair, profiled in The New Yorker (look at that face!), hangs out regularly in Iceland, premiering and conducting a ballet with the Paris National Opera in September. And 27.

In my perfect world, this man would look me up. And not just because he is both 27 and financially secure (assuming he's smart enough to have hired an investment advisor). Who would not love this face? And that brain. And that creative insight. And that way with fresh pesto.... (Alright, enough. The man is in Iceland. Or Italy. Or in Manhattan writing a choral symphony.)

After a month on match.com, despite the opportunities and the increased hits on profile (thanks, perhaps to the flattering collarbone shot), I must admit some disappointment that more interest isn't flowing from the younger crowd. Is this simply denial as to the fact of my own age?

I'm self-analyzing on this issue and promise to keep you posted.

So yesterday I logged-on to view my own profile and discovered more typos than any writer should accept and put a face on. Thus chastised, I cleaned loose sentences and corrected nonsense words, then reset the "profile views" counter. Since that moment it has received 36 views, two "winks," and two e-mail messages....

All but 2 of those 36 hits are from 40-somethings.

Before the next profile update, I might ask for suggestions on what updates-to-profile I might implement to make 35 look enticing to a Nico contemporary....or dare I hope, Nico himself.

Updates....and Date #2....

Ah. If The Editor was reading this blog he would undoubtedly be flattered at the percentage of readers who think he is worth my attention. It would be even cooler if he had his own blog and was asking his own readers the same question.....(there was this girl and she ditched me and ha! now she's single again and I wonder if she'll write me.....)

As of yet he has not made a move, and may not. I'm still on the fence deciding if I should instigate contact. (To clarify: axing the situation in January did then, and still does, feel like the right move. No regrets there. He was too nice to lead on and, at the time, Another Man was viable and required focus.)

Perhaps I will have more clarity on how to proceed after my date with Stand-Up Comedian on Friday night. We spoke last night. Having just come from yoga, I lamented my various bodily aches and pains, explaining that my carpal-tunnel wrist and plantar-fasciitis foot have of late removed my sense of humor.

He understands, having broke his ankle in January and now participating in boot camp workouts to get some level of fitness back. And he suggested that crankiness can always be solved with a beer. So we are meeting for one....or many more, based on his stated love of the beverage.

Meanwhile, I did choose to prostrate myself at the profile of MM. He is either not impressed or thoughtfully considering.

Persistence

The subject line on my correspondence with MRothko35 now appears as such:

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: hi

We have exchanged 3 additional e-mails since he proclaimed me not having Instant Messenger as the "deal-breaker." Last night I pointed this out, asking what I had done to earn a "deal-breaker reprieve." Rather than answer the question, he replied with a link to Yahoo! messenger.

Go ahead. It’s easy breezy japanesey. ;)

Dear readers, it may be all of those things, but don't you agree it is more entertaining to see how long he will continue to reply to messages telling him I'm not going to add it?