Guys, the past year has been weird. The past six months, especially. Slighted by the man I thought was the man of my dreams (the cute Russian translator I pined over for YEARS), I fell into the rabbit hole of Tinder for six days at the end of June. I went on four dates in five days because why not? The fourth date brought about a whirlwind engagement that ended in an alcohol fueled nightmare seven weeks ago. I’ll start out slow with my dates:
July 1st: date #1 was a really sweet guy that I refer to as “Z number 2.” I had a nice time playing mini-golf and razzing him about his knowledge deficit in music and movies, but I just didn’t feel any attraction. We parted ways and I let him down gently five days later when he FINALLY texted. However, I had connected BIG TIME with #4 by then. I very nicely explained that if he liked me, he should have texted me the same night. Or the next day. Or even two days later. He thanked me for being honest and said he’d remember my advice in future encounters. I hope he found someone adorable.
July 2nd: date #2 was disappointing. You know the guy who only has pictures from five years and 50 pounds ago? That’s who showed up. I’m super chatty and I ask tons of questions. He was very clever and seemed pretty quick when we were messaging each other, but all I received in person were one word answers. It’s terribly rude, but I texted my friend who was down the street, and she joined us. An hour later, I told him that I thought he seemed like a nice fellow but I wasn’t feeling anything between us. Without a word, he slammed his beer glass on a nearby table and stormed away. Oops?
July 3rd: Date #3 wasn’t actually a Tinder match. Well, he wasn’t MINE anyway. My friend matched with him, but after communicating for a day or two, she decided he was better suited for me. So, with my permission, she gave him my phone number and we started chatting. He seemed great! Sarcastic and quick, which got me all excited. I love a smart-ass who can dish it out but also take it. We met for dinner the next evening. When I arrived, I spied a gentleman in his late 30s, wearing a button-down shirt that was left open to about mid-chest. “Please, by everything that is holy, do NOT let that be my date.” Chest hair doesn’t stand up, but sees me searching and waves me over. STILL not standing, he asks me if I want a drink. He’s two beers in. During dinner he displays his forest of chest hair that rivaled that of the late Robin Williams. Now, don’t get me wrong, I find chest hair super sexy. I like a man with a chest full of curly man-fuzz, but this was an excessive display. I’m pretty sure one fell in my sandwich. Chest hair talks about himself, I get bored, thank him for dinner, and head home. We both proceed to not text each other, but have since awkwardly run into each other on multiple occasions because we hang around the same places. *Sigh*
July 4th I host an annual get-together. Dates are placed on hold.
July 5th: Date #4 was M, a man unlike anyone I’d dated, or ever met before. He was covered in tattoos: arms, legs, torso, neck, and a few on his face. He was pierced in several places. He was RIDICULOUSLY nervous, and I would find out later that night he was diagnosed with anxiety so bad that he was prescribed higher doses of medication than I knew was possible. We met at his friend’s tattoo shop and walked a few store fronts down to have dinner at one of my favorite local spots. We chattered all through dinner. He barely ate. I ate almost everything. We started walking and parked our rears on the steps of a church. The talking didn’t stop for six hours. I had to work the next day, so I rushed us back to our vehicles when I finally checked the time. We hugged, I said I’d like to hang out again, and hopped in my car. I texted him when I arrived home, about 10 minutes later, telling him what a good time I had. What I received was most unexpected. He said I didn’t seem like I was feeling him, but he’d had a good time and wished me well. DAFUQ? We texted most of the night until around 3:30 am, each of us explaining that we were really into the other and how the Hell could we have misinterpreted the signals? Looking back, that was the first clue leading to my ultimate, “Sarah, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?” We made plans to hang out again that Sunday, four days later. He comes to my house because it’s the day after my birthday and I am seriously hungover and don’t feel like going outisde. We watch television and he doesn’t even try to kiss me. Wait. Did he kiss me? I think he did. We make plans to hang out Wednesday. I get Norovirus. If you’ve never had it, you’re one lucky sonofabitch. It’s like having food poisoning plus the flu; everything is coming out of both ends, you have a fever, and you want to die. I was sweaty, smelled horrible, and was highly contagious. M showed up anyway to take care of me. He picked up my favorite Vietnamese food and brough it to me because noodles were the only thing I thought wouldn’t make a violent return. Days go by, I get better, he gets sick, but I am out of town visiting a friend. He waited until I was six hours away before telling me he was puking and shitting uncontrollably.
At this point, I’m thinking things are going pretty well overall. Then, about six weeks later, I tried to introduce him to a couple of my friends. We go to one of those “First Friday” art shows close to my neighborhood. He doesn’t like my first friend solely because she is 27. You read that correctly. He has a preconceived judgement that she is immature because he is 43 and thinks that anyone younger than 40 cannot be mature. Cool. My other friend, who is 25, shows up. Let the shit show begin. We look at some art, I get hungry, he gets super anxious in the crowds, and orders a beer. I don’t think anything because this seems normal, right? Nope. He’s an alcoholic. I do not know this. He mentioned at one point that he didn’t drink, but never expressed that when he starts, he cannot stop. He has three beers before we finish dinner. He orders no food. Three days later, I’m coaxing him out of his house to go to his parents’ where he can detox. I meet his parents for the first time at 11:30 pm on a Monday night. I spend every non-working hour in their house with M for the next four days. He proceeds to drink himself silly in their basement until Saturday, when he decides he should get help. His father and I drive him to an inpatient treatment facility, where he stays for three days. Little did I know that I would be doing my nursing school clinicals in that same facility, in the same unit, in four short weeks.
More to come…