Exhausted from Pimpin’ Myself Out

You’ve heard the expression, “searching for a job…is like a full-time job.”  Well, lately I‘ve been thinking, “searching for a man is like an overtime job with no benefits.” (free dinners don’t count)

I represent the NEW type of woman in this decade….the frazzled 30-year old single woman, able to single-handedly work full-time, drive home like a crazy woman dodging police officers, catch up on obligatory family phone calls, scarf down some food, walk the dog….then transform myself from working gal to “may get lucky” girl.

Oh, the agony.  And the exhaustion.  Truth be told, I’m tired of pimpin’ myself out in the name of dating!  It’s time for someone else to wear high heels for a change.

First — the prep work. I “ain’t” no cover girl…but come on…this “beautification process” requires time and energy!….At least 30 dedicated minutes — of me juggling a flat iron, bronzer, hairspray, my latest and greatest makeup from Sephora…and I haven’t even opened my closet door YET.  And let’s not forget about the times when I forget to re-apply deodorant…and find myself driving back home…wasting another precious seven minutes, then realizing I misplaced my earrings.  I swear, if I could take all the hours I have “prepped” for dates, I could have conquered the Boston marathon by now.

Second — the date.  For those of you NOT dating, imagine a never-ending sales call…with rotating characters.  My friend Miranda decided to take a break from dating on the grounds of…“I can’t tell my life story AGAIN to anyone else!”   I get it.  It’s exhausting rehashing my past…again and again.  I start repeating myself…as my eyes glaze over…losing track of WHAT I’ve said…and to WHO.  There’s a popular expression, “everyone has a story.”  Well, I’m pretty sick of sharing mine.  Unlike a children’s book, I can’t keep reading my story over and over.  If I have to “tell my story” one more time, I may just start making crap up and and call it a novella.

I’ve thought about making a flow chart – or a power point presentation – complete with the U.S. map and important decades.  Perhaps a whopping big timeline to pass out to my dates?  I can note “life stages” in green, “ex-boyfriends” in red, and “career highlights” in orange.  Instead of looking at the menu, my date can just read my timeline.  If he’s interested, he can stick around – if not – I won’t have to waste 1.5 hours making giddy yet intelligent small-talk.

And third — the goodbye. This is the MOST mentally exhausting part of the evening. I’m standing at a fork in the road.  I either – A. Obsess about HOW to blow the guy off quickly and painlessly while running to my car – OR – B. Anxiously wonder if he will ask me out again – because he fulfills 9 out of my 10 requirements and I secretly dig him.  Such pressure either way!

Then the cycle starts ALL OVER — as soon as the next evening.  Ouch.  It gets worse when you realize you only have 6 hours of shut-eye to prepare.

Yes, I know dating is a “numbers game.”  But eventually,  I’ll start billing my dates for overtime.  All this “pimpin myself out” is costly and timely.  And unfortunately, refunds don’t exist.

Well, gotta run and go plug in my curlers… only 45 minutes til my suitor arrives…and I still have to vacuum and floss.

After a night of "pimpin myself out"

Finding “7 Minutes of Heaven” in “8 Minutes of Speed Dating”

In an effort to sniff out Mr. Right…I decided to travel where I’d probably meet a lot of Mr. Wrongs…at least initially.  So this past week, armed with a sense of humor and a vodka-induced fearless attitude, I walked into an 8 Minute Speed Dating Event.  (By the way, they are NOT paying me to write this.  If so, they’d demand a big-honkin’ refund.)

As I signed in as a first-timer at “Sushi Hai” (posh joint in the Highlands neighborhood) I felt as if I stepped back in time – TO JUNIOR HIGH.  The ladies were clustered in a corner, talking up a storm as “chatty-cathys,” while the dudes lined up against the back wall, only saying max-three-word sentences while scoping out possible ladies-of-the-night.  (Think 16 Candles.) Both groups clutched their alcoholic beverage with purpose and charm.

To share the love, I bullied my attractive 42-year-old neighbor, Paul, into escorting me.  While he had his eyes peeled for 25 yr olds who looked hot, my eyes were open for 37 yr olds who appeared stable.

To those of you – A. living under a rock – or – B. the lucky few who have been married for DECADES – speed dating works like this:  I show up and have a random lady slap a name tag on my shirt.  I am then graced with a card containing 8 table numbers.  I find my first table and wait for one “lucky” guy to strut toward me.  Feeling like a muppet, I then make giddy-yet-highly-intelligent conversation for 8 minutes until I hear a bell.  (In most cases – should have been a gong.)  Then – this adult musical chair extravaganza recycles with another lad.  In between dates, I secretly take notes on each candidate, so I can enter my matches online later that night.

Soooo….how was it?  Let me introduce the contenders:

First guy was most likely a lumberjack in his previous life – based on his wardrobe that somehow traveled though time.

Second lad wore a long, black, thick Matrix-like jacket.  He told me he JUST moved to Denver from Phoenix so he was “entitled” to be cold.  I felt I was “entitled” to get my 8 minutes back.  He never asked me ONE personal question – instead he kept insisting I go “clubbing” with him.

Third dude I spotted wearing cowboy boots.  I assumed he was from Texas.  He wasn’t.  Instead – he lived in Cheyenne, Wyoming – and traveled two hours to Denver for 8 Minute Speed Dating!  When I pulled my jaw up off the floor, I noticed his name was Axle.  Sweet Child of Mine, you drove all this way?

The rest of the guys were honestly – ho-hum.  However, during intermission I spotted two men (in the other group) who appeared yum-yum.  I could have stood back and waited, but realizing I only had moments to make my move, I walked up and said “hi” in my sassy southern accent.  Conversation ensued, and I breathed a sigh of relief knowing I finally felt some sparks.

Overall – in hindsight, I made a mistake.  When I signed up, I asked the organizer what group to choose – ages 25 though 35 – OR – ages 36 through 49?  Being right on the “cusp,” she told me to go younger.  But I realized throughout the night, the men “my age” -  were in the older group.  I would rather filter through a few dud 45 yr olds – in hopes of crossing paths with available 36 yr olds.  Aahhh…lessons learned.

Would I do 8 Minute Speed Dating again?  You bet!  After all, I like roulette.  The game produced two matches, so I feel like a winner.

And for those of you who question the concept…think about it this way — We often give a “bad date” 60 painful minutes – why not play the odds and give a POSSIBLE good one 8?

FYI: My neighbor Paul did not find the 25 yr old woman of his dreams…but he did leave with the bartender’s number.  I think that counts.

In Hibernation until February 15th

Using “National Singles Awareness” weekend to catch up on my beauty sleep….(while snowshoeing, snow skiing, and generally pimpin’ myself out!)

Back to the Relationship Drawing Board Again…Where’s My Eraser?

Once again (ironically a week before Valentine’s Day), I find myself – back at the drawing board.

I recently ended something…with a certain someone.  He’s in transition – most likely moving – and we differ on religion.  The Titantic-Tanking Trifecta.  He never did anything wrong.  There’s just…not enough that’s right.  Tough call, but one I had to make.

You’ve been there…let me painfully yet humorously paint the picture.

After investing your lucrative time, wasting youth-filled energy, spending an enormous amount of money, dreaming about future children, cooking Martha Stewart homemade dinners, splurging on weekly manicures, introducing him to best friends, posing for multiple facebook photos, coming up with cheese-o-rama nicknames for each other….you decide to call your “new” relationship QUITS.

In the mere matter of a millisecond, you squander all those COVETED HOURS and literally flush them, shred them, garbage dispose them, then chunk them into oblivion.

Pause.

Then it’s time to RALLY with your “big-girl-but-still-sexy-panties-on” and start this “time sucking cycle” all over again – spending time with a NEW dude. But first, you must FIND that person.  Greeaaat….two uphill battles!  Add to that the “breakup battle” you already fought…now you’re up to THREE whopping uphill battles….all for the name of luv.

No wonder so many of us wave the white flag in defeat.

After riding a similar roller coaster that ended badly, my friend Miranda recently confessed to me in state of panic mixed with hope, “If I could just take Frank’s sweetness, Jon’s job, Brad’s body, and Todd’s sense of humor…I could create the perfect man.  He would be a masterpiece.”

Wait a minute ladies.  Uhhh…This ain’t paint-by numbers!  Men today are made of PERMANENT INK…permanent markers in fact.  Think SHARPIE!  At age 35, men are pretty much what-you-see-is-what-you-get.  Forget about “adding on” or “subtracting.”  Toss aside that “big-ass eraser” from 3rd grade, because you can’t delete his flaws…much less get rid of the deal breakers.  “White Out” won’t work either – because ultimately you can’t conceal the truth.  At this point, grab a highlighter and focus on the good stuff.  OR (do like I did)…move on and go back to the drawing board….knowing your Mr. Picasso is wandering around aimlessly waiting for his artiste to stumble upon him in a bar, on match.com, or in the grocery store (yeah right).

Which is exactly where we started this conversation….

Yes, I would love to “etch a sketch” my perfect man…shake it up….and add more tantalizing characteristics.  But let’s face it, this isn’t elementary school art class…this is LIFE…or rather what I make of it.

So, back to my easel one again.   Pictionary anyone?

courtesy of this talented cartoonist

Ski First, Date Later?

This weekend, I am faced with a potentially catastrophic dating decision:

A.  Ski two days in the beautiful Rocky Mountains with separate groups of friends

- OR -

B.  Go out with a hot guy on Saturday night

To you “non-snow skiers” out there….go ahead and QUIT reading this post.  You won’t get it.  You’ll probably think I’m TOO fickle, finicky, or fanatical.  I’m over it, OK?

That's moi!

“Why can’t you do both?” you may ask…  Well, the answer – it’s simple.  This particular hot date DOESN’T ski or snowboard.  (I desperately wish he did.)  So, I am left leaving to choose….Powder-time – OR – Play-time?  Hmmm….which one will make me happier?

Some backstory here before you start judging:  During the week, I work in a “bomb shelter” – filled to the brim with video editing equipment, exciting gray cubes, flattering florescent lights, and glossy computer monitors.  I love my job, but let’s BE REAL people!  I’m aching for sunlight, gusty winds, the smell of sunblock on my face, and the taste of an “apres ski” beer on my lips.  I need a revival.  Especially after the last three weeks of never-getting-a-lunch-break-because-I’ve-been-so-damn-busy-trying-to-prove-myself.  Phew…

My nail-biting dilemma may sound trite….but it begs the bigger question — As we get older, WHAT are we willing to give up?  What are we willing to COMPROMISE?  I’m realizing as we hit our mid-30s – NOT MUCH.  Is this good or bad?  I don’t know.

What I DO know…the thought of forking over my coveted powder-filled Saturday and Sunday for a man-date – leaves me deflated and dull.  I’d rather choose the sure bet to happiness.  I moved to Colorado to ski – it’s one of my passions.  And I refuse to toss it aside for a make-out session and dinner (although that’s enticing.)

With snow skiing – I feel fulfilled, on top of the world – escapism at its best.

Going on a date – I could end up unfulfilled, at the bottom of the barrel, secretly wanting to escape.  Argh…

In the meantime…I’m counting down the hours til I load my gear, head west, and anticipate that first jaunt off the lift.

Yes, I know Valentine’s Day is two weeks away… I know 40 is roughly five years away… But for now, I’m choosing the mini-vacation over THE GUY.

My hopes – someday I won’t have to compromise.  Someday I can choose “C” and get “All of the above.”

It’s a Small Match.com World After All

Watch out where you meet your Match.com dates in Denver! Recently, I found myself in quite a pickle at the Wash Park Tavern. Thursday nights, this place is crawling with match.com-ers. Heck, next time this girl’s gonna demand an online daters’ drink special…
***********************************
Girl rushes into a crowded bar…running seven minutes late. Looks for 6’5” match.com “never-met-this-dude” date of the night.

Randomly spots attractive guy who looks vaguely familiar sitting at bar, alone, as if expecting someone. He makes eye contact, smiles, stands, and starts strutting toward her.

Girl suffers mini heart attack as she racks her blonde brain – questioning WHO she is supposed to meet this current evening. Guy A, Guy B…or Z?? Her high-heeled feet freeze.

In about a millisecond, she recognizes “random man approaching her” based on a computer screen photo. She struggles…

Starts hyperventilating as she realizes she has communicated with this guy virtually, but never in person, nor over the phone. Scans around..searching for her “real date of the night” because this guy is clearly SOMEONE ELSE’S first date of the night. Takes a deep breath.

Guy walks up and suavely says….”Hi Christy!” Girl smiles, in shock, then replies…”Noooooooo, I’m Leaza.” Dude’s face flip-flops, sensing his faux-pas. She then gives him a cat-like “knowing” look and murmurs, “But you DO know me.”

Guy quickly realizes this “damsel in distress” is one of his OTHER online blondies from his giant match.com virtual dating posse. But NOT his soiree for tonight. He flashes back to her profile pics, as they stare into each other’s eyes, knowing this could turn awkward QUICKLY for all four parties involved.

The duo does not speak, but somehow telepathically communicates the plan: Exit the scene graceful before anyone gets hurt – or humiliation takes over. More importantly – BEFORE THE “REAL DATES” CATCH ON.

Girl turns 90 degrees and spots her 6’5” “present date” approaching…looks back at “future date”…then laughs as if catching up with an old friend, “It was great seeing you. Let’s talk soon.”

Guy smiles and says, “Definitely. How about next week?” Girl spins on her heel, relishing in their Academy Award winning performances. She slyly greets 6’5’ Guy, but can’t keep her mind off Future Guy.  She knows he will email her later that night.

Seven minutes later a gal named Christy rushes in…

TO BE CONTINUED….

On Match.com...it's a SMALL world!!! (especially at the bars)

To Nose or Not to Nose? That is the Question

Burning the midnight match.com oil late one evening (while perusing through emails)…I found myself corresponding with a single, tall, active fellow. The Denverite’s profile sounded promising – but his pictures – a bit blurry and distorted. Hmmm. Trying not to be TOO alarmed (or critical), my eyes strained as I noticed his hot, attractive body coupled with what appeared to be – OH NO – a disproportionate nose. Staring at my computer monitor a full 5 minutes, I had a decision to make – “chance it,” – or “pass” – and leave the possibility of meeting the big-nosed “man of my dreams” to the next blonde. I chose the former.

During the obligatory “weed-out” phone call, Mr. Nose divulged to me he was an FBI agent. Impressed, I hoped his big nose did not equate to a big ego. I remained open minded and we agreed to meet at a bar in Commons Park. Giving myself a pep talk I reasoned, “A nose is just a nose, right? It doesn’t make us or break us. And maybe those pictures were taken at a weird angle by a REALLY BAD photographer?!”

Date night arrived. I sauntered into the bar, and scanned the crowd, figuring he would be easy to spot. And as I turned my head, checking out the other “first daters,” I found myself eye to eye AND nose to nose with “FBI Guy.”

For the next two hours, he entertained me with details of bank robberies, drug busts, and search warrants. I, however, couldn’t focus on anything BUT his nose – aching to hear stories about how many times he broke his snozzle. I started an internal dialogue with myself, “To Nose or Not to Nose?” – followed by – “Is THAT thing genetic?” – and rounding it out – “It’s worse than Owen Wilson’s nose!”

As the night progressed – and I emptied my wine glass a few times over, FBI Guy’s nose appeared to be….shrinking. A reverse Pinocchio effect – induced by the alcohol. Maybe there was a way to cope! We agreed to meet again…and I secretly challenged myself to GET PAST THE NOSE.

The next day at work, I spent 3 hours obsessively googling pictures of Owen Wilson’s nose, convincing myself I could overcome this obstacle. After all, Owen Wilson was a mega superstar who dated Jennifer Aniston. If she could get over the “nose,” why couldn’t I? What were her tricks of the trade? I secretly wished I could call her.

As our next date approached, I prayed….”Maybe the nose won’t seem so bad the second time…”

I, my friends, was wrong. As FBI Guy and I sat in the “nosebleed” section of the Pepsi Center, I realized THIS match was not going anywhere. If I heard one more first-hand account of handcuffing a criminal, I would go postal myself on this guy – including his nose.  Plus, I certainly didn’t appreciate him interrogating me over past relationships.

While his nose was not growing, his FBI attitude WAS. And I felt perfectly fine to let this future relationship fizzle.

Advice to ManLand: Chivalry Will Get You LUCKY

Dudes, listen up…not sure where you mind is at the present moment (besides counting down the days til March Madness)…but I need you to pay attention.  Five Rockin Rules…that prove…Chivalry will get you LUCKY (aka laid)…

1.  When the check comes — dive for it like a Mexican seagull attacking leftover tortilla chips and salsa on a Cancun beach.  Unlike your loaded “Monday Night Football w/ the boys” nachos…, there is NO five second rule!  Let there be NO moment of hesitation as soon as you even SEE the waiter coming toward the table with the check.  Your hand needs to flutter like “wind beneath my wings”. Bonus points for actually quoting something clever from that cheesy movie.

If you need a visual (which I’m sure you do since you’re a guy)….Imagine Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid…wax on…wax off….  Grab the check before your date notices.  Make it seamless….like one of those iron-on patches your mom put on your jeans as a kid.  Your damsel will realize quickly you can do wonder with your hands.    Imagine your reflexes are one step ahead of your mind and more importantly — your common sense.  Even better…excuse yourself an go to the bathroom…then slip your credit card to the waiter.   Get used to the idea that it’s your job to primarily pay the dinner check — at least in the beginning.

If you’re already angry reading my words of wisdom – think about it this way….Women are stuck with childbirth, PMS, and painful periods!  Be happy you’re only stuck with the check.  Get over it.  Move on.  Yes, I know women want it all…equality and all that crap.  But just suck it up….because you’ll never have to birth a child or wear a maxipad.

Rules 2 through 5 coming soon…