I hate dating. It’s an awful chore. To say I would prefer staying home on a Friday night to scrub my toilet is simply part of the happy reality my life has become. Grey’s Anatomy reruns on the couch with my cat… or an exciting night out with a hot guy from a dating website? You can bet I’m in my PJ’s chomping on salted caramel biscotti by 8:00 pm.
Yesterday morning, in fact, I ran four miles landing solely on my forefoot and here’s why: I was hoping the stress to my calves would prove painful enough for me to cancel the date I finally and most begrudgingly agreed to. That’s actually the thought that swam through my head the entire run. I’m so sorry but I’ll have to cancel. My calves are too sore.
What is wrong with me? Right? That’s the question because clearly my complete lack of desire to date and meet new people must mean there’s something wrong. Lately I’ve been thinking something radical. Maybe I’m just trying to protect what I have from my own bad tendency to throw it to the dogs every time an eligible bachelor strolls through. Maybe it’s a mature and successful tactic subconsciously aimed at maintaining my true hard earned happiness.
Well in this case the pain didn’t prove severe enough and the guy proved genuinely charming (is that an oxymoron?) and sufficiently insistent. Clearly the universe’s way of telling me not only to keep running but maybe squeeze in a new acquaintance every now and then. Gross.
So I went, but not without a struggle and a scowl. I’m a Pisces and I don’t wear make up so whatever is happening in my head at any given moment is happening on my face. If I’m tired, I look tired. If I don’t want to be somewhere, well…
Exhausted, wreaking of coffee grinds, my shoes covered in steamed milk, I barely managed to change into jeans and a tee shirt and brush my hair. I was late and definitely not smiling when I arrived. And even so, the dude was awesome.
Because here’s the thing about tall, passionate, Italian men: they are tall and passionate and Italian and men. Real men. Broad, strong, confident, romantic. They don’t need anybody to be anything. They just are who they are no matter what. Their faces light up and their arms flail when they talk about the things they’re passionate about. (In this case North Shore surfing, high end real estate sales and gigantic wood carvings.) They’re not afraid of children, in fact they probably already have a few. They guide you away from obstructions in your path with the gentlest touch to the middle of your back. They insist on walking on whatever side presents the most danger. And when you’re tired because you woke up at 5:00 am to take your friend to the airport then worked a long busy shift on your feet all day, they speak in thick accents and say things like, “You need to go home and get some sleep. I’ll walk you to your car but only if you promise to go out with me again. Whaaaaat?! You can’t blame me for trying! You’re really cute.”
So I’m flattered and it was actually kind of nice. And if I’m honest I can admit that I’d like it to happen again.