Man, it’s dusty in here. But it’s not dusty because we’ve gone dark for almost a month, with nary a warning to telegraph the neglect. No, it’s because I willfully covered this place in the stuff–the finest figurative, whole-particulate dust, imported straight from Italy. We’re back now. For how long, who can say? We have our post tonight, though, and I’m glad for it.
Labeling myself an online dating “greenhorn,” back when I did, seems like a certifiable understatement, here at these crossroads. It would’ve been more appropriate to say I was in a larval stage in those early, heady June days, and only now I can I reasonably lay claim to the the mantle of novice. Off the mark as I may have been, I still intend to chronicle my experiences here. It’s like a record of progression, in a way. Or a black box, I suppose, if things ever go horribly awry.
Cheshire told me to follow my heart, in a sage bit of advice dispensed a few weeks ago, and it’s something I heed often. Hers wasn’t the only piece of advice, not by a longshot, with ideas and suggestions from damn near everybody. My place looks markedly different now. There is art on the walls. That’s “walls” plural, yes. And the dates? Group dates, double dates, dates that dragged, dates that were electric–it’s been a packed month. Some things I’ll tell you about! And some things I’m taking to the grave.
Back shortly. And then the page shall run red with adjectives.
It’s safe to say this erratic posting behavior will continue until, well, it doesn’t. You know where I’m spending my writing bucks these days. But it’s not just writing bucks, so much as emotional capacity tied closely to those bucks that’s in short supply, and on some days, like Tuesday, I find myself utterly spent.
A few weeks ago, when I was in a particularly dark place with my dating fortunes, I remember standing on a street corner and asking the Rawketeer, “I mean, how fat is too fat?” Horrifically shallow, I know, but it’s a very real consideration, and I make no bones about it. Since that fateful afternoon, there are now two leviathan-class matches, as you know, and you’d better believe I’ve been treating them with the utmost care. Don’t mistake this for a lack of confidence, but I know my limits! And it ain’t gonna rain leviathan for me, just for the asking.
The first date on Saturday was an epic two-hour dinner that went well enough to warrant a second date. The two-hour length qualifies as epic because, had I approached the date solely armed with question after question, the dinner would’ve lasted 30 to 45 minutes max, never mind the fact that you never want to come off as an investigative reporter. She turned out to be as shy as her texting persona, so her answers to questions tended to be brief. Situational jokes and flirty talk were the two devices that ultimately helped break through to the good stuff: her quirky personality (“I generally don’t eat things with exoskeletons.”), her sarcastic sense of humor, and a genuine smile that was, frankly, fucking dazzling to a degree her pictures didn’t even begin to capture.
Second date will be on Saturday: theatre and dinner, in a five- to six-hour affair that should furnish more than enough insight about compatibility. Sunday will be a first date with the other leviathan, and it’s going to be interesting, to say the least. Dallas native, a PA, extroverted, and she’s a conversational live wire. She dishes out as well as she takes, with gems like “It better be a photo of cobbler you’re sending” or “I was hoping you’d take me out to Popeyes for a first date. I have coupons.” She even likes my puns, going so far as to ask if there’s a per-day pun limit. And she thinks my italics are fancy. Clearly I have a type, likely rare, and the mere possibility of choice feels like a privilege in itself, with a fuse quickly burning.