A wise man might say that running with a throng of sweaty people for 13.1 miles, in the very city where Ebola first attained domestic notoriety, may not be the best idea. But the half-marathon still feels way off, tucked away in the heart of December, and I don’t even know if I’ll be doing the event proper. Distance running scientifically sucks, even before you introduce the specter of pandemic, and on top of it all, the Tsarnaev doucherockets basically did for races what Osama did for air travel, so there’s that.
Training began today, with a 2.5-mile run with the Professor, and I was in far better shape than when I slogged through a 5K back in April. For whatever reason, a lot of what Shine told me about running, way back in college, came to mind: how the ideal posture, she explained, called for a straight back, arms comfortably at my sides, and thumb and pointer lightly touching, as if I were holding a potato chip. There was still some foot pain, and I mainly jogged in silence–talking, for me at least, breaks my focus and breathing rhythm. This was day one, though, and I’m sure matters will change.
I have ample time to do such things, too, because I’ve hit a dry spell in online dating. Still doing the same routine, but there are moments when the entire apparatus feels like a Skinner box without any treats in it. I’m in the wilderness period, no doubt about it, and all I can do is take a workmanlike approach and plod forward. A few weeks ago, I told you a trickle would suffice. Now, it’s more a question of doing one rain dance after another, even when naught falls from the sky but dust.
For weeks now, on a publishing schedule that’s vacillated between deplorable and extra deplorable, we’ve been talking about maladies of the heart, particularly in the world of online dating. You may be tired of the subject. I wonder about this sometimes, until I remember our arrangement: this site will remain, as ever, free of tracking or analytics software of any stripe. In exchange, this anonymity carries into the real world, where you must never tell me if, when, or how you consume this content. It’s a simple calculus.
Before we return to our erstwhile maladies, you may have heard a far more serious malady–Ebola–has landed in Texas, with the first diagnosed case in the U.S. happening right here in Dallas. The news just broke today, and although I’m glad the virus hasn’t gone airborne, I’ve been much more cognizant about biting my nails. I also purchased a few face masks from Target, as if they’d make a shit of a difference.
I was at the airport on Friday, too, clearinghouse for international ailments of all strains, but not for a flight. I was there for a date. It was a better date, possibly in every way, than the one on Thursday, which I had anticipated so much. No single thing went awry that evening. It lasted a good four hours, between dinner and a stroll around town. But the chemistry just wasn’t there, and we said our good nights, then parted civilly.
The airport meeting was a wholly different matter. For one thing, it was never supposed to be at the airport. I was going to pick up the wine smuggler during her layover, and then go get some Mexican. Her flight ran into delays, though, and we had to scrap the plan. Instead, we sat in the terminal, a little more than an hour before her connecting flight, and we talked. There wasn’t a restaurant in sight, but we found a bank of vending machines. “Anything you want in this spread before you,” I said with a magnanimous sweep of my hand. “I bet I’m the cheapest date you’ve had,” she remarked.
We toasted with our overpriced bottles of Sobe, talked some more, and then parted ways. We’re still talking, in fact, and I’m not even going to try to predict where this is going. I’ve been feeling slightly uncalibrated, ever since that morning at the coffee shop, but this was exonerating, because it proved my radar still works. It’s a curious commodity, in-person chemistry. It’s tough to find. But rare as it is, you know within the first seven, eight seconds if it’s there.
Why was I gone on Thursday? It’s simple, really. I’ve been chatting online with babes all day, and it’s been communicatively draining. There are three leviathans: one who smuggled 26 bottles of wine overseas, via suitcase. Another who actually responded after I invoked the name of William Safire in an opener. And the third? I’ve been talking with her the most. First date is on Thursday, and I can’t wait.
There’s a breeziness to conversation, which is crucial for me, and she’s got personality. On the topic of laser tag: “Nothing. Chaos in the dark with weird music and smells.” I told her about the usefulness of firmware updates in navigating certain social situations. “You should just play dead next time,” she suggested. “Obviously.”
And on the shallower topic of looks, I’ve developed a reliable barometer. The Professor and the Rawketeer are both adept at researching my matches. This particular match possesses an online footprint, and soon enough, the question materialized–“Wait, she reached out to you?”–twice. Twice, asked not in jest, but more as a visceral fact-check. By now, I’ve divested myself of any ego in this question, looking instead to the core message that, empirically, I’m dating up.
The covenant I have with these two douchenheifers is to only tell me if some truly heinous facts avail themselves in the background check. Otherwise, I need to discover her story firsthand. Thursday! Thursday. But I don’t want to jinx it. There is a hope that I’m actively suppressing, because from a certain angle, hope is merely a variant of pining. I’m letting this relationship breathe, early as it is. I’m living in the moment, borne by gut and circumstance, taking nothing for granted.