Day 44: Never say no to panda

So he sends me the link to this hilarious, but puzzling, video today.

My reply: “Hey! That’s like me after being dumped! (he he he…too soon?)”

I know it’s catty, but I just couldn’t resist. How does he expect me to respond to these bizarre little missives?

***

Totally unrelated: I had a very powerful dream last night that I’m struggling to remember. And no, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that kind of dream. All I know is that I woke up with this overwhelming feeling of being in love… that giddy, bubbly, warm, out-of-control feeling. It may or may not have involved a man with a beard.

Day 43: Plenty Offish

This is a major step backwards.

I was curious to know if he’s back on Plenty Offish again (that’s not a typo, but a nickname a very witty friend gave the site), so I searched for all 30-year-olds within a certain radius.  My profile is still hidden, so I don’t think there’s any way for him to know I’ve looked. Man, I hope he can’t see that I’ve looked!

Is this weird? It’s weird, isn’t it? 

Turns out he’s been online today. His profile is virtually the same. Doesn’t seem remotely as funny as it did when I first saw it, just under a year ago. There are also some mistruths, I realize now. He does not have an “athletic” build. Not at all. He does not run everyday. He runs every now and then, and not very far. He does not have a graduate degree, but rather two undergraduate ones, neither of which has any use in the real world. He is a good cook — I’ll give him that — but he most certainly does not cook elaborate french meals every day. He’s got the same two photos up, which only kind of look like how he actually looks. None of it actually seems like him at all, frankly.  

I bet he’s already been on some dates. And  I bet that they’ve been train wrecks. I bet he’s been on dates with bland, clueless 22-year-olds who bore him to tears, but who think he’s totally awesome. I bet he keeps going on these dates, because he figures he can’t do any better.  I bet he suggests going to the movies, since that’s all he ever seems to want to do.

That was a depressing exercise. If that won’t keep me from online dating, I don’t know what will.

***

In other news… I ended up going to my first Meet Up hike yesterday! It was raining like a muthafucka and freezing as hell. By the end my boots were going “squish squish squish” with every step.  However, it was fun. The people I went with were very cool, actually. The guy I carpooled with had an iPod full of amazing music. And another thing… I stupidly left my spare set of socks in my backpack, so they got almost as soaked as the ones I was wearing… so he lent his spare set! Chivalrous. Check. Good taste in music. Check. Attracted to him? I dunno. Attracted to me? hard to tell. Single? I think so, but I dunno. An encouraging sign that I’m not going to be Mopey McMoperson forever? Yes.

Day 41: How many spinsters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

The light in my front hallway burned out about a week ago. Over and over again, I’d flick the switch and find myself still in the dark. It was a sad state of affairs.

If he still loved me, I would have enlisted his help. Come to think of it, if I had called him today, I bet he’d  have obliged. But I’m too proud for that. So I did it myself this morning.

Now, I’m a diminutive girl, so it wasn’t easy. I was standing precariously on a chair, and still the light fixture was just barely within my reach.   

I wonder if he’d have felt guilty if I had fallen to my death.

So anyway, a five-foot-three spinster can screw in a lightbulb perfectly well on her own. Thank you very much.

Another thing I did alone last night: go to a concert. There was this great band playing called Library Voices, and I tried to coax friends into coming with me. No one wanted to. So I went on my own. It ended up being a blast! It was kind of awkward between the opening act and the main event. So I just played Brick Breaker, and ended up beating my previous high score. Awesome.

Day 40: Bad Track Record

This great piece in the Globe  got me thinking about my own relationship track record.

Unlike the author, I have never been anywhere close to marriage. I do, however,  leave a trail of several failed serious relationships in my wake — a much, much longer trail than the average person my age (I turn 28 in a few months).  

When my most recent relationship ended, one thing that really ate at me was that I can’t seem to ever make it work with anyone. Am I someone who’s inherently difficult to get along with? Am I someone who’s fun and exciting at first, but ultimately unlovable?

A brief recap of my track record:

University Guy: It all just sort of ran its course, and it ended amicably. No hard feelings there. He’s a sweetheart.

Crazy British Guy: An intense whirlwind romance while travelling abroad. He moved to Canada for me after knowing me just a few months. We lived together right away. All very poor decision-making on my part as he is mentally ill, borderline abusive and unable to financially support himself. Not my finest moment.

Long Distance Guy:  Shortly thereafter I get together with a wonderful, brilliant, handsome lad.  Just as things are getting serious, I’m offered a job across the country. I want him to move here. He hems and haws and hems and haws. Everything falls apart in painful slow-motion. I’ve gleaned from Facebook that he’s with another petite brunette now. Good for him, I suppose.

Seinfeld Shoe Guy: You all know that story by now.

In between there have been smaller-scale failures. Like the skateboard-toting glass blower who deemed himself too “complicated” to date me anymore. Or the welder by day, b-boy by night who didn’t laugh when I nicknamed him “Flashdance.” 

In any event, I’ve changed my perspective on this whole “track record” question. I used to think it spoke ill of me, and that past failures point to future failures. Now I see that when I finally do find someone right — and I believe I will, sooner or later — I’ll be better able to discern whether or not he is the real deal. After everything I’ve been though, I know I won’t put up with another millisecond of bullshit.

Day 39: Seinfeld shoes

I caught a Seinfeld rerun on TV today (the one with the Soup Nazi) and I was reminded of something that bugged me about him.

Between the time his cheapo shoes fell apart, and when he finally broke down and spent some money on a proper pair, he was forced to wear his white running shoes EVERYWHERE, and with EVERYTHING.

I endured the “Seinfeld Era” for a couple of months with grace and compassion. I only called him “Jerry” on a few occasions, and it was clearly in jest.

I guess it’s acceptable to wear runners with jeans if the jeans aren’t too fitted, and mercifully his aren’t. But he’d pair those white sneakers with dark gray dress pants sometimes! Gasp!

Anyway, I just remembered today how annoying I used to find that. Yeah yeah… I know it’s superficial.  I’m a snobby fashionista. That’s just part of the lovely package he saw fit to throw away. I’m entitled to be a bit mean from time to time.

Day 37: New Normal?

Operation Busy and Fabulous has been such a smashing success that it’s kind of taken the oomph out of this blog. I’m writing in it a lot less, because frankly I’ve arranged my life in such a way that I have very little time to stew about things. I still haven’t unpacked from my Victoria-Toronto excursions last week. Spanish classes are well underway. There’s lots of live music and art and film I want to enjoy. I’m cooking up a storm. And I’m loving the company of my friends.

I also don’t really have that much to say. I feel like the sudden onslaught of heartbreak made me just want to write and write and write. There was an urgency to it. Now, more than a month later, I’m left with sort of a dull ache… a dull, entirely manageable, ache.

I found myself daydreaming on the plane the other day about the next man I’ll fall in love with. It was kind of a refreshing mental exercise. Like a palate cleanser.  

Anyway, I think I’m easing myself into a new normal. It’s not my ideal vision of normal, but it’ll do.

***

A funny story from my Toronto trip:  My parents are driving me to the airport, and my mom is going on and on about all of my younger brother’s friends who are engaged or married. Understandably, I don’t really feel like having this conversation. Not with my mom.

So I interrupt and say “Yeah, well guess who’s getting divorced!?” That gem managed to get through the ol’ brain filter.

My high school-era boyfriend — a sweet overachiever who used to walk me right to the door after a date — got married a few years ago. I met his wife once or twice and she seemed quite lovely.  A year ago, he told me the two of them were moving to Australia together. But a few months ago, his Facebook status suddenly changed to “single.” That’s really all I know. The rest is pure conjecture.

At this point, we’re pretty much at the airport. My mom exclaims: “You wait until NOW to tell me this?!” She really liked High School Boyfriend. He was handsome, reliable, good at everything, JEWISH. We pull up to the terminal, my dad takes my suitcase out of the trunk, and my mom spends her final moments with me imploring me to move to Australia and chase him down. She’s at least half serious.

Day 33: Contact II (and pandas!)

First of all, there’s something wonky about how I’ve been numbering my blog posts. The Dumping took place the evening of August 9th, and yet it’s somehow been 33 days since then? I’m no math whiz, but that doesn’t seem to add up.

In any event, exactly a month ago I was catatonic on my sofa, too sad to wash iced tea out of my hair and too sad to eat anything. Today, I’d say I’m considerably better off. I’m eating like a champ again and  I assure you my  hair has no beverages of any kind in it. 

Anyway, last night, he sends me a text asking me for the code to the lock to the garden. I reply with said code. Then he texts me back a photo of the dill, which he is shocked to learn is as tall as he is (forgetting I, of course, have been tending to it since The Dumping and know full well how amazingly tall it is).

I reply with something the effect of “Crazy, huh?” And then I went back to watching Project Runway on my laptop.

Then just now I get an email from him with all these pictures of adorable pandas eating a birthday cake. I know you’re all going to demand to see it, so here’s the link.

He knows I’m a sucker for adorable animals of all types. I have this tick where when I see an adorable animal, I feel the need to exclaim what it is out loud,  like a six-year-old. For instance, we’re walking down the street and I’ll yell “puppy!” when some dude walking his dog passes us or “horsey!” when we’re driving in the country or “froggy!” upon viewing a Telus ad.

He says the garden is looking really good, and he hopes I’m having fun in Toronto.

It’s nice to hear from him, and it’s nice he has resumed sending me links he knows I’ll like. Yet, I don’t have any particular desire to run back into his arms or anything. I’m not happy. I’m not sad. I’m not really much of anything.  And that’s good.