A day after Warren Buffett told the world that everything was going to be all right, I feel so comforted. I think that's something that I miss about having a partner--hearing someone tell me that everything will be all right. I don't know if I attribute it to loneliness or desperation--it can't be both!--but the two dates I went on last weekend weren't exactly filled with what Carrie Bradshaw once termed za za zu.
The first guy was last Friday. 5'9, 180, Asian. Face pic only. I should have known, but I dared to hope. I smiled my Botox smile--the one that freezes and doesn't know what to do with itself--when I saw: the most perfectly round, potroasted, pot belly. We had coffee, and covered our common interests over the course of twenty minutes. So... call me, he said. At the twenty-first minute.
The second guy was on Saturday. The one I went to see the movie with. In the pic he'd sent me I could tell he was about 180 as well. What I didn't realize until I met him in person was that he was only 5'5. J.T., meet Steroid Smurf. We walked into the movie theater and all the boys were staring at him. As we settled in to watch the unwatchable Watchmen, Steroid Smurf wasted no time in grabbing my hand and having hand sex with me. Painful hand sex. Steroid Smurf insisted on cracking all my knuckles. Bite down hard. But then. Squeeze my muscles. What? Squeeze. Uh, you want me to squeeze your bicep? And now my tricep. Oh. My. God. As if the movie weren't bad enough, now I was being forced to engage in this bad, bad, bad whispered-cringingly-in-the-dark dialog with a Saturday morning cartoon charater gone terribly wrong.
I want to meet someone reasonably cute/geeky. He should be height/weight proportionate. He should share my love for movies and bookstores and tennis and golf. Please Santa, I can't wait until Christmas.