Apparently I have no game.
This comes as a shock to me for a few reasons:
1) I was voted biggest flirt in my high school.
2) In college if I ever wanted a boyfriend I went and got one, no problem.
3) I have great hair.
4) I am outgoing.
5) I have been told by the opposite sex that I am attractive.
6) I have a cute, friendly dog, which automatically ups my game.
7) My teeth are straight.
8) I am fashionable and know how to show off my assets.
9) I've been proposed to two and half times.
10) I have boobs -- do I really need more?
After my post about my run-in with Hot Redheaded Neighbor (HRN), I received multiple comments (on Facebook -- Facebook peeps, please consider leaving comments here so everyone can join the discussion, since my life is sooooo talk-worthy!). Here's a sampling:
"Damn." "'I'm asking for my friend'?! Caramba Mary El!!!" "I always thought that MEP was a bit more smooth than that..."
And then there were all the verbal comments: "You're so funny!" "What's wrong with you?" "Just talk to him! have some confidence! You've got the boobs and the junk in the trunk - you're a hot woman!"
(I should mention, that last comment was from my sister, who later admitted she wouldn't have a clue what to do if she were back on the dating scene, even with boobs and junk in her trunk.)
A couple of days after the HRN event, I had lunch with my [married] friend Mike. The cafeteria was crowded, so we sat at the corner of a big table occupied by some others. Near the end of lunch -- which mainly consisted of me complaining about my weight and lack of nerve to go talk to HRN -- a really, really cute cop came and sat down. Suddenly I couldn't form sentences. I started flailing around at the table -- I actually flipped my water bottle into the air and then threw myself across the table to retrieve it as it tumbled toward Hot Cop. When we left Hot Cop was still sitting there, and as soon as we turned a corner Mike started laughing.
"You are so obvious!"
"I know. I know I know I know I know," I fanned myself.
"I'm going to go tell him you thought he was cute," he smirked, a devious look in his eye. I fanned myself faster and felt the hyperventilation coming on.
"OMG OMG OMG OMG please don't!" But it was too late. Suddenly I realized I was standing in the middle of a cafeteria full of men in fatigues, and I looked like an idiot. I tried to pull it together, but it was just too much. What would I even say to Hot Cop if he thought I was cute, too? A moment later I found out it didn't matter. Mike reappeared.
Of course he is, I thought.
I spent the rest of the week wondering why I was so retarded in the Acting-Normal-Around-A-Member-Of-The-Opposite-Sex department. In typical girl fashion, I went around and around in my head analyzing my behavior, my past, my childhood...and I came up with lots of intriguing and valid theories of why I am such a dork: I try too hard to find Mr. Right, when I should be looking for Mr. Maybe (gleaned that jewel from "The Between Boyfriends Book" by Cindy Chupak -- read it!); The No-Dating drought lasted too long, and I lost my sparkle; My mother made me wear corduroys when they weren't cool; I got fat and therefore have low self-esteem. Blah blah blah blah blah. After a while I was getting on my own nerves, but I couldn't help myself. I would have never guessed the next HRN encounter would jolt me out of my ridiculous introspection.
I had just gotten back from visiting some family in New York for the July 4th weekend, and I was walking Noli after the 8-hour car trip. My face was greasy, my hair was frizzy, I was wearing minimal makeup, and I had mustard on my shirt from lunch. I began regretting taking her out right away because the nice weather had drawn a lot of people outside. Hmm. Including HRN. And his friend. And two girls who were laughing, apparently at something HRN had just said that was hilarious. In tune with my panic, Noli pulled me to the right to sniff some poo. I figured I was safe.
"Mary El!" Crap. I slowly turned toward the voice. Our eyes met and I managed to weakly wave at him. His eyes widened and he grinned at me. He said something to his friends and then jogged across the street to where I was standing. One of the girls looked annoyed, but they all kept walking without him.
"How's it goin'?" he asked, standing an inch outside of my comfort zone.
"Oh, fine, just getting back from New York. How was your fourth?" I replied. He began telling me about his weekend, and I realized my mind wasn't racing, I wasn't sweating, and I didn't have the urge to verbally vomit all over him. Hmm, this is different, I thought. He left another girl to come talk to me. Could it be possible he thinks I am hot? As he kept talking, I almost burst out laughing. I didn't feel nervous around him anymore because he was showing interest in me. Wow, I am such a girl.
My reaction to our next encounter proved to be the same. I had just come home from work and was taking Noli downstairs via the elevator, and he managed to compliment me three times within the few seconds it took for doors to close. Why had I worried so much before?
Drunk with my newly found hotness power, I expected to have a date this weekend. But I don't. Huh. So I talked Sabrina into going speed dating with me tomorrow night. If nothing else, it'll be great blog material!