Dec. 24, 2003: A Christmas miracle?
I expected to write a brief entry today, about how most people would probably think it sad and depressing to spend Christmas Eve alone, but I enjoy it. I rented a couple movies ("Home for the Holidays" and "Scrooge") yesterday, while the selection was still full, and plan on picking up a chicken tang pizza. But, lo and behold, I actually have a Christmas Eve lunch date, of all things.
Alan called me last night and filled me in on his shopping trip. He was quite excited about his new black shoes and camera phone, as well as a successful sales call he made Monday; he has had so much more personality and enthusiasm on the phone than in person so far. We're meeting for lunch at 12:30pm down in Lakeview. While I'm open to lunch rolling into a whole afternoon, and even to possibly inviting him to join me tonight, I'm not going to force it solely so I can say I shared Christmas Eve with a guy. If lunch goes the way dinner on Sunday did, I'd rather spend the evening alone, as planned. But, hey—maybe it'll be a Christmas miracle and a spark will fire up and tomorrow morning I'll be making him breakfast. I'm not counting on it, though.
***
No Christmas miracle. Alan isn't doing anything for me, unfortunately. By the time our sandwiches arrived at lunch, I knew I didn't want to spend the afternoon with him, although I think he was hoping I'd join him on a post-lunch trip to Linens 'n Things. Love L&T, but I didn't want to trudge through more of our conversational swamps.
I got to Pompeii at 12:30pm and sat down with a paper to wait for Alan. Three minutes later, I decided he wasn't coming. That's where I am right now—I immediately assume I'm being stood up instead of coming up more rational explanations like he got stuck in traffic. Or, as it turned out, was waiting for me in a sandwich shop across the street. He ambled in to Pompeii about 10 minutes later, or at least it seemed like ambling to me, when he walked in without apologizing for being late. Once we figured out the confusion, we moved into line to order. I made some chit chat, but he didn't really respond, I think because he was focusing on what to order. One thing at a time, I guess. Yeah—he doesn't strike me as all that bright, and his subsequent admission that that the only thing he really misses about living in Texas is stepping on hills of fire ants did nothing to change that assessment. Nor did his admission that he didn't know whether the wine I ordered Sunday night was white or red wine. I racked my brain, trying to remember if I'd ordered by brand, which would be out of character. "You mean chardonnay?" I asked. "Yeah," he replied without shame. "I'm pretty sure merlot is red, though," he added. He comes off as the frat boy that Google revealed him to be.
Just as at dinner the other night, I found conversing with Alan fraught with difficulty. We both had to repeat ourselves several times, which could really get annoying with time. He's certainly pleasant enough, and happy, but he's not particularly funny or smart or interesting. In fact, he might be kind of dorky. He was still talking about his damn new shoes, for God's sake. When we moved past that fascinating topic, we discussed even more scintillating things, like health insurance, taxes, and cell phone plans. He also mentioned that he was carrying an extra eight pounds or so, becoming distracted as he examined his torso to determine if the weight was noticeable. And he told a story about going to a Rangers game that made it clear he's a Bush fan ("President Bush," as he so formally and respectfully called him).
Other than Linens 'n Things, I can't think of any common interests we share, besides a general fondness for sports. Nothing comes to mind as far as activities we could do together, and he obviously doesn't comprehend a lot of my references. Like on Sunday night, I'm awash in ambivalence. And this time, it's dragging me down. Someone is interested in me and following up on our audition in the way I always hope for, but I have no interest in him. Ah, cruel irony. He's not unlikable or unattractive or anything, but I'm not feeling any stirring for him. If I did, I'd probably invite him over for dinner this weekend, but I can't imagine sustaining conversation with him for a whole evening. Yet, when we were parting ways, he again said he had a great time. I don't think he said anything about calling me, though, so that's good.
If he does, do I give him one more chance? I mean, after 10 minutes with him today, I knew I'd rather spend the afternoon and evening by myself, but if I truly want to find someone, should I give up so easily? Shouldn't I try harder? I wonder if I'm too comfortable hanging out by myself. If I didn't enjoy it, I'd probably give more guys more of a chance (not that they're exactly beating down my door). Of course, if I didn't enjoy it, I'd also be miserable much of the time because I do end up alone a lot. Lord knows the pleasure I derive from alone-time defies society's expectations.
How much of this whole quest is about society's expectations? Would I have begun this endeavor if I didn't feel like a freak for being alone and for being happy despite my dreaded single status? If people didn't look down on or at least pity the singleton, I don't know that I'd even be doing this. I'd be content to continue living my life as I have if it was regarded as perfectly normal. I'm not saying I'd vow to stay single forever—I'd hope (against hope) that someday I might be lucky enough to find someone, but I wouldn't feel any pressure or like I’m missing out on something so important and critical to true human fulfillment. If it happened, great; if not, so be it. I doubt I'd be taking these aggressive online measures that are so crushing my spirits.
What truly sucks is that I feel depressed right now. Having met eight guys over the past three months and finding myself no better off than when I started, this seems so hopeless. I know I'll spend next Christmas Eve alone again. I just hope I can enjoy it then because this dating thing is ruining it for me this year, making a once pleasant and happily anticipated tradition seem tragic and pitiable. I can honestly say this is the first time I remember feeling bummed out about being single at the holidays. I'm letting society's judgment usurp my own. It's like I'm surrendering—yes, I am single and alone at the holidays, so I am unhappy. Happy holidays, indeed.
Alan called me last night and filled me in on his shopping trip. He was quite excited about his new black shoes and camera phone, as well as a successful sales call he made Monday; he has had so much more personality and enthusiasm on the phone than in person so far. We're meeting for lunch at 12:30pm down in Lakeview. While I'm open to lunch rolling into a whole afternoon, and even to possibly inviting him to join me tonight, I'm not going to force it solely so I can say I shared Christmas Eve with a guy. If lunch goes the way dinner on Sunday did, I'd rather spend the evening alone, as planned. But, hey—maybe it'll be a Christmas miracle and a spark will fire up and tomorrow morning I'll be making him breakfast. I'm not counting on it, though.
***
No Christmas miracle. Alan isn't doing anything for me, unfortunately. By the time our sandwiches arrived at lunch, I knew I didn't want to spend the afternoon with him, although I think he was hoping I'd join him on a post-lunch trip to Linens 'n Things. Love L&T, but I didn't want to trudge through more of our conversational swamps.
I got to Pompeii at 12:30pm and sat down with a paper to wait for Alan. Three minutes later, I decided he wasn't coming. That's where I am right now—I immediately assume I'm being stood up instead of coming up more rational explanations like he got stuck in traffic. Or, as it turned out, was waiting for me in a sandwich shop across the street. He ambled in to Pompeii about 10 minutes later, or at least it seemed like ambling to me, when he walked in without apologizing for being late. Once we figured out the confusion, we moved into line to order. I made some chit chat, but he didn't really respond, I think because he was focusing on what to order. One thing at a time, I guess. Yeah—he doesn't strike me as all that bright, and his subsequent admission that that the only thing he really misses about living in Texas is stepping on hills of fire ants did nothing to change that assessment. Nor did his admission that he didn't know whether the wine I ordered Sunday night was white or red wine. I racked my brain, trying to remember if I'd ordered by brand, which would be out of character. "You mean chardonnay?" I asked. "Yeah," he replied without shame. "I'm pretty sure merlot is red, though," he added. He comes off as the frat boy that Google revealed him to be.
Just as at dinner the other night, I found conversing with Alan fraught with difficulty. We both had to repeat ourselves several times, which could really get annoying with time. He's certainly pleasant enough, and happy, but he's not particularly funny or smart or interesting. In fact, he might be kind of dorky. He was still talking about his damn new shoes, for God's sake. When we moved past that fascinating topic, we discussed even more scintillating things, like health insurance, taxes, and cell phone plans. He also mentioned that he was carrying an extra eight pounds or so, becoming distracted as he examined his torso to determine if the weight was noticeable. And he told a story about going to a Rangers game that made it clear he's a Bush fan ("President Bush," as he so formally and respectfully called him).
Other than Linens 'n Things, I can't think of any common interests we share, besides a general fondness for sports. Nothing comes to mind as far as activities we could do together, and he obviously doesn't comprehend a lot of my references. Like on Sunday night, I'm awash in ambivalence. And this time, it's dragging me down. Someone is interested in me and following up on our audition in the way I always hope for, but I have no interest in him. Ah, cruel irony. He's not unlikable or unattractive or anything, but I'm not feeling any stirring for him. If I did, I'd probably invite him over for dinner this weekend, but I can't imagine sustaining conversation with him for a whole evening. Yet, when we were parting ways, he again said he had a great time. I don't think he said anything about calling me, though, so that's good.
If he does, do I give him one more chance? I mean, after 10 minutes with him today, I knew I'd rather spend the afternoon and evening by myself, but if I truly want to find someone, should I give up so easily? Shouldn't I try harder? I wonder if I'm too comfortable hanging out by myself. If I didn't enjoy it, I'd probably give more guys more of a chance (not that they're exactly beating down my door). Of course, if I didn't enjoy it, I'd also be miserable much of the time because I do end up alone a lot. Lord knows the pleasure I derive from alone-time defies society's expectations.
How much of this whole quest is about society's expectations? Would I have begun this endeavor if I didn't feel like a freak for being alone and for being happy despite my dreaded single status? If people didn't look down on or at least pity the singleton, I don't know that I'd even be doing this. I'd be content to continue living my life as I have if it was regarded as perfectly normal. I'm not saying I'd vow to stay single forever—I'd hope (against hope) that someday I might be lucky enough to find someone, but I wouldn't feel any pressure or like I’m missing out on something so important and critical to true human fulfillment. If it happened, great; if not, so be it. I doubt I'd be taking these aggressive online measures that are so crushing my spirits.
What truly sucks is that I feel depressed right now. Having met eight guys over the past three months and finding myself no better off than when I started, this seems so hopeless. I know I'll spend next Christmas Eve alone again. I just hope I can enjoy it then because this dating thing is ruining it for me this year, making a once pleasant and happily anticipated tradition seem tragic and pitiable. I can honestly say this is the first time I remember feeling bummed out about being single at the holidays. I'm letting society's judgment usurp my own. It's like I'm surrendering—yes, I am single and alone at the holidays, so I am unhappy. Happy holidays, indeed.
posted by Bemused @ 11:32 AM
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