Thursday, July 3, 2014

More than a month after I began this whole online dating thing, in a turn of events that can only be described as improbable, if not downright alchemistical, I’m going on an actual date. It materialized out of little more than a series of messages and e-mails. The lack of agency in this sentence is intentional, too, rather than a poor play at veiled humility. We clicked, terrible puns and all, the stars aligned, and about the only thing I can lay claim to is the asking itself. But then again, I’m old-school in that regard, and I was always going to be the one to initiate.

I realized that for all the thought I’ve put into approaching leviathan-class matches, I’ve never really considered what I’d do, were I ever to meet one. She’s sharp. Better-educated. And pretty, because I’m shallow like that. “She’s at my level,” declared Cheshire when I showed her a pic, and I couldn’t have asked for more honest confirmation. I’m not even going to attempt to plan out the date, though, surprising as that may be.

That’s because I tried that once to ill effect. More accurately, I tried to plan out the conversation for a date, years and years ago, and I still cringe when I think about it. Went so far as to jot down a list of things to talk about, and boy did it show. Vowed right then and there to never again commit this communicative sin, in any context. Conversation just isn’t something you can orchestrate, and I’ve come to respect it as its own beast–its contours, its silences, its twists, its corners. I’m applying this same mindset to the date proper. My one goal? It’s admittedly modest: make it to date #2.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

In the normal course of a vacation, you try to minimize the shitty parts, but when there’s literally shit involved, well, you’ve got to roll with the punches. I can’t recall cleaning up so much Pomeranian diarrhea, ever, nor have I wiped so much Pomeranian asshole in so short a span of time. But for all the darker moments, there were bright spots that more than compensated and made for great memories.

There was seeing Cheshire. Mo.net’s dogs in a palatial ranch. Cards Against Humanity on the lake with booze. Happy hour. “I’m so glad to see your fucking face.” Hugs all around. Golf on an unseasonably cool Sunday morning. A match on OkCupid who not only took a B-level pun like a champ, but delivered her own. I ran the social gauntlet and discovered renewal, rather than exhaustion, and concluded that extroversion can be adopted, apparently.

And so I sat on my return flight yesterday in coach, energized. That reminds me, too: on my flight to Charlotte, I upgraded to first class. Never done so before, and it was fascinating. Jury’s still out, though, because it was equal parts sham and boon. Certainly it was nice to enjoy more leg room, hot towels, lunch, cookie, smell significantly fewer farts, and disembark faster. But the fancy curtain separating first class was like a sieve, with coach passengers constantly using the bathroom, and deep questions arose. For what good is segregation, if the prole will not honor it? And what is the dominion of class, if not the right to terrible airplane steak?

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, July 01.