So after great delay #3, Sunday Night Man and I have Date #4.
As in a real, live date on a Saturday night.
In light of our respective economies, we'll stay in. I'll cook a chicken dinner to which he will contribute a vegetable. We'll assemble at my place, after 2 dates at his.
Can I mention again that I'm cooking? Can I also mention that he graduated from culinary school this summer and now works as a cook for a living? And that he's the 28th boy I've dated who is allergic to cats, requiring an Allegra intervention?
So. Last night while making my own dinner and otherwise puttering about, with this knowledge in hand, I had a dual revelation similar to when Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Life and their eyes were opened to their nakedness:
1) The kitchen I'm inviting an opinionated culinary guru into is a grimy, crumby, greasy, disorganized clutterfest with dull knives and an empty salad spinner in the fridge only because I can't find the cupboard space for it.
2) Cat hair and tracked-out litter is on the couch, the windowsills, the rug, the floor and the tops of picture frames. It's (bleeping) everywhere.
And I was not necessarily ashamed. But I was spurred to stay up until 2:45 a.m. in a first swipe at restoring order.
Which reminded me of one of life's greatest unassailable truths: the desire to not gross out a date has and probably always will be my most powerful incentive to clean.
(Whatever it takes, eh?)