So, here I am, sitting Indian style, my feet resting warmly, beneath the cozy comforts of “what my mama gave me”, while my slightly worn golden Reef sandals lay sort of haphazardly on the wood-paneled flooring in front of me. I almost feel like I’m at home in my condo, except that this olive green vinyl arm chair I’m lounging in, doesn’t provide quite the level of comfort that my red durapella sofa at home does. It’s a lot brighter in here too…oh, and then there’s the presence of the strangers.
No, I’m definitely not at home.
I’m at The Atlanta Bread Company, partially, because I refer to the day after Saturday as my “Hipster Sunday” and well, I feel sitting around in a sandwich shop with my ears attuned to the sounds of unimportant conversations, fingertips to keyboard keys, and late 1940’s jazz piano tunes (maybe Thelonious Monk) pouring ever so fluidly from the in-ceiling surround speakers like sugar into a sugar bowl, as a perfect way to spend the afternoon. The other part of me is hoping I’ll run into this guy:
Okay, maybe not thatguy…hell, I don’t even know who that guy is—in fact, the only thing that I do know about that guy, is that you too can find him if you type “hot nerd” into your Google Image search bar.
I guess, I want what happens a million times in the movies, to happen one time in my life. It’s played out in my head twenty times alone just in the time that I’ve been sitting here typing this.
…guy walks in, and while holding one of the double paned glass doors open, he takes pause, giving himself time to readjust the strap on his messenger bag, and, to take a once over at the available seating. That’s when our eyes meet. I straighten up a bit in my seat, reminding myself of the time I was in my best friend’s wedding and one of the other bridesmaids kept telling me, “mind your posture”—I could have screamed (and choked her) every time she said it to me, but, I’ve actually been very conscious (possibly OVERLY conscious) of my posture ever since…anyways, I correct my posture and pretend to be focused on something very important on my laptop screen (probably an ex’s status going from ‘It’s Complicated’ to ‘Single’), while secretly stealing glances of Mr. Wonderful. Minutes later, tray in hand, Mr. Wonderful is heading in my direction—at the very back of the sandwich shop, near the fireplace. He draws closer, and closer and then….*THWACK* …he trips over my sandal….his Chicken Waldorf sandwich goes flying left, his loaded potato soup plops bowl-down onto my sandal, and Mr. Wonderful narrowly misses hitting his beautiful face on the table in front of him as he tumbles forward. I turn as beet-red as is possible for someone of my particular hue, meanwhile, Mr.Wonderful? Mr.Wonderful stands up, sees the look of sheer mortification on my face and says something incredibly corny like, “hey, I didn’t need all those carbs anyway.” I kneel to help him clean the mess up and we, of course, bump heads, causing us both to erupt in a bout of nervous giggles. I insist on replacing his meal, and he in turn sits with me, and hours and hours pass as we talk and laugh together like old buddies. Then we leave the sandwich shop, he proposes in the parking lot, we get married on the shores of Zanzibar (I wear my golden Reef sandals with my wedding dress for a touch of romantic irony), we serve nothing but loaded potato soup and Chicken Waldorf sandwiches at the reception (for a bit more romantic irony), we have a daughter that we name Olive because that’s the color of the chair I was sitting in when we met, and we live happily ever after.
Do you see how freaking skewed Hollywood has our (women’s) perception and expectations of romance as it pertains to the line between fantasy and reality? And I KNOW, I’m not the only one.
But you know what, this entry really isn’t about romance or even fantasy. It’s all about reality. Or, mine at least. The title is “Where Do the Lonely Hearts Go”? That’s really all I’m trying to figure out. Earlier this week I had someone say to me, “Don’t take this wrong, but, you’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re funny, AAAAAND you cook?!?! Why are you STILL alone? ….wait, that didn’t come out right, I mean, why do you CHOOSE to be alone? I mean, are you just super picky, or what?” There really was a lot of emphasis on that “still alone” when it was said, I’m surprised I heard any other part of the sentence. But ya know, he has a valid point, not to toot my own horn or anything, but by God, if I don’t toot it who will? I’m a GREAT catch. I can say that, because I believe it, and not because I’m vain…you all KNOW I’m not vain.
But…to answer the question…
Here’s my main problem. At thirty, where am I supposed to go to meet a decent guy? I really am open to suggestions.
BARS/NIGHTCLUBS—I could go to the bar, but, nine times out of ten, if you meet someone who spends all their free time in a bar, well then….you meet someone who spends all their free time in a bar. There’s also the favorable possibility that they’re drunk, obnoxious, trying to get into your pants, and won’t remember anything you talked about the next day when they sober up. When I was in my twenties, that was mainly tolerable, and at times, fun. I mean, it still IS sometimes fun, but…yeah, there’s more to do than just that, especially when you’re dating someone.
WORK--I can say with quite certain conviction: I will never [again] date someone that I work with, directly or indirectly, in any capacity. So yeah, no way.
CHURCH—I’ve heard mixed reviews on this one…from some I’ve heard “you can’t go wrong with that!” and from others I’ve heard “girl, those are some of the worst ones”….personally, something about going to church to scan the crowd for a potential mate just seems a little…um, misguided.
STARBUCKS/SANDWICH SHOPS—As ideal as this seems, so far, it’s only landed me one guy, and while he’s an adorably clumsy, ridiculously hot, tattooed nerd—-he only exists in my mind.
DATING SITES—Been there, done that. Multiple times. Still single, enough said? I mean, you’ve read about at least one of my Match.com fiasco dates, if not, click here.
So, what next? Do I join a gym? Hang out in the library? Park in front of an Express Oil Change and pretend to be a damsel in distress? Maybe go to the grocery store, stalk the meat department and ask the first guy with a pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth, and ten fingers to explain the difference between ground round chuck and hamburger?
Seriously, where the eff do the single guys my age hang out?
Until next time…
[ ♥ ] . Peace. And Bacon Grease.