If you saw me Wednesday morning, you probably had no idea I’d only gotten 3.5 hours of sleep.
It’s a trick I credit to amazing under-eye concealer and being stupid enough to make my mind think I got a solid four hours. Boo-ya.
I wish I could tell you I had no sleep because something amazing happened. Like I won the lottery and immediately went to a 24-hour Target to buy seven pairs of pants that actually fit me. Or that my vegan friend from California randomly showed up at my door and we talked for hours because he’s awesome. Or that Taco Bell told me I could have free burritos for life and so I spent the whole night making sure it was applicable at every single Taco Bell in the greater Chicagoland region.
But no. The reason I had no sleep is a stupid jerkface we’ll call, Tennis Player.
(He said he’s read my blog, but I’m thinking he doesn’t really do that now, seeing as how he’s a stupid jerkface and whatnot, so I’m just going to go ahead and give him an easily identifiable nickname. I’ll give him the benefit of not using his actual name for now though).
So ya, we had dinner Tuesday night (he paid, two points). Then we went back to his place to hang out. (Watched, ‘My name is Earl,’ plus two points, also watched ‘South Park’ minus two points). And he had a drink and a cigar (Who smokes CIGARS? minus two points).
Then, somewhere along the way (10:30 p.m.), Tennis Player thought he should tell me that he’s still in love with his ex (minus a million points).
Not like, ‘Oh, I just still kinda like her’ love. No. No. This was more, ‘I love her and so I can’t even bring myself to kiss you because I just love her so freaking much. Puke.’ love.
I mean, I was totally pulling for this guy since the moment I met him. He was cute and mostly smart and he voted for the same person I did in the general election and he was able to have conversations that make you wonder where the last hour of your life went (in a good way).
Also, it was kind of endearing the way he tried to dance even though he wasn’t very good.
Alas, it was not meant to be.
After a craptastically-awkward good-bye hug, I went to my car and I cried.
I cried because dating is hard, but I thought this guy had potential. I cried because I was tried and frustrated and mad at some mysterious ex out there who’s ruining my chances with Tennis Player and mad at myself for being mad at some woman I’ve never met. I cried because I really liked him.
And I cried because I had to work at 6 a.m.
My secret plan had been to spend the night at Tennis Player’s house, but seeing as how I might interfere with his plans to woe back his stupid ex (who isn’t even in town and doesn’t even have the decency to date him anymore) (ya, I’m a little bitter), I figured I should just book-it the frick out of there.
While wallowing in my own self-pity, I checked my phone, secretly hoping Tennis Player sent some sort of text telling me he’d just realized how amazing I am and that he wanted me to come back inside. (He didn’t).
Luckily, I found something better – my friend had e-mailed me minutes earlier, all, ‘How’s the date going?’
My friend. Who is awesome, and sweet and empathetic and lives like three minutes from Tennis Player. Who somehow knew I needed her right then.
Because she is awesome, and sweet, and empathetic, she let me come over and sleep on her couch. When I got there, I was planning to cry, but instead, I went another direction – hopelessness.
Dating is HARD people.
I told her how different things are for me now that I’ve lost weight. And how people treat me different in the weirdest ways, and the weirdest way of all is the way men act.
And how I feel like I’m in a place where I’m really truly happy with myself – with my mind, body and soul – but so many of the men I meet are sitting around hoping the life-fairy will come around and fix them.
And how I just want a guy who makes me laugh, and loves my blog and the Bears and Taco Bell. A guy who’s driven, and Christian and smart. Who watches the Daily Show and Mad Men and CNN. Who can hold a conversation and then kiss me with authority. Who lends me his coat when I’m cold, and returns my phone calls.
A guy who’s a lot harder to find than I thought he would be.
That’s when my friend told me the story of her seventh-grade teacher. The story of how this woman would go on date after date after date and nothing ever came of it. So one day, Diana asked her what was wrong with all those men.
“There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re all fine,” she told her. “It’s just, when I’m 60, I don’t want ‘fine.’ I want ‘the one.’
I’m told she’s since been happily married to a man who is most definitely ‘The one.’
I guess if she can wait, I can too.
And really, I think we all know that Tennis Player was fine. But he was nowhere near, ‘The one.’