Tuesday, June 10, 2008
How to Date: Moron Dating (And Laughing at One's Own Puns)
How to Date:
1. Meet someone.
2. Like him.
3. Make sure he likes you.
4. Fix your hair nicer than usual.
5. Wear a dress.
My mom and dad met because two well-meaning friends thought they should meet and introduced them. My dad thought my mom was a bitch. My mom thought my dad was a nerd. Later, they went to a Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose concert, found each other less lame and nerdy, and eventually my dad proposed in a parking lot after telling my mom to stop giggling and be serious. They've been married for billions of years since then, and on long car trips my mom will entertain me with her tales of back when she dated my dad.
"Picture it! 1972. Your father was strapping in a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, muscles rippling, chest hair glistening in the sunlight. Back then, you know, men had chest hair, and they wore it with pride! Pride! He had a motorcycle. I had tonsilitis. But I didn't care. I let him drive me all over the park that day on the back of that motorcycle. I knew then that he was the man I would marry."
So I grew up expecting that nice, genuine, chest hair sprouting boys would happen for me as well. You know, guys who show up smiling sheepishly with a handful of daisies and a crooked bowtie. The movie would be G-rated. Dinner would be between his braces. We would have an awkward peck on my front porch, and then I would run inside blushing ridiculously.
But then, I met Mr. Meaty (not his real name).
Mr. Meaty was the first boy who ever cheated on me, a real catch too. Seventeen years old, a manager at Pizza Hut. He wooed me by telling me that changing the soda machine made his hands cramp and then added, "Like other things..." He smelled like stale pizza and Aspen cologne. His face and chest were dotted with those zits that have started to seep. He had a water bed. He tried to convince me that sex was a good idea by pulling out his penis at random times. Like maybe if he did it often enough, I might accidentally sit on it and enjoy myself. It never worked. So, he went back to his ex-girlfriend.
He's dead now.
What? No. Of course I'm not a murderer. It happened several years later. He was riding on the hood of a car when he fell off and cracked his head on the concrete.
Lesson learned for him: Don't ride on the hood of a car.
Lesson learned for me: Don't date dudes with ex-girlfriends who are still lurking around.
Naturally, the next opportunity to date someone involved that very thing, and I, a total ass, went for it.
This time, I made the enormous mistake of falling ridiculously in love. The timing seemed perfect. I'd just come down from the best crash diet of all time. I was thin, and perky, and pranced around like I had fifteen pet unicorns. He appeared to be shy and funny. I fell. Two months later, I was wondering why after six trips over to the ex's apartment to retrieve his belongings, he still hadn't collected everything and needed to go again. At first, I hoped that it had all been a horrible accident. He'd slipped in a puddle of shampoo while trying to adjust her leaky shower faucet. They'd fallen nude into the bathtub together, and the penis had only entered the vagina for a second. But, no, it had happened twice. In a bed. With what I'm sure was a lot of him weeping in shame at what he was doing and blaming it on everyone but himself.
He cried when he told me. He cried when I broke up with him. He cried when I told him that I would shove him into oncoming traffic.
And yet I carried on trying to mend things and still maintain my dignity for another six months. I thought that maybe he would come to his senses and decide to sweep me off my feet and go back to being that shy, funny boy I knew from before. (I love barfy cliches.)
I'm an idiot.
I talk about it now like I didn't know the entire time that I was being a fucking moron. I called my mom probably 300 times weeping about how much I hated my life and would just die and no one would ever love me. And she would tell me I was being a fucking moron and needed to get over it. Then, she would remind me of 1972 and the well-meaning friends who set up her and Dad and how there are still guys out there with rippling muscles, and chest hair, and motorcycles...and I just need to be patient.
Lesson learned by me: Invest in sex toys. Don't tell mother about it.