Well, last night I went on my date with L.R. I don’t think anyone has felt such disappointment since Madame Curie realized that radium wasn’t all fun and games. He was handsome, smart, funny, charming . . .
. . . and prissy.
I can’t stand prissy.
Effeminate I have no problem with—I have been called effeminate before, by persons who will sadly never be heard from again—but prissy is more of a turn-off than I can begin to describe.
And don’t ask me to explain the difference between effeminate and prissy. I can’t. I just know there is one.
Plus, I realized I’d dropped a stitch a few rounds back on the hat I’m knitting. Every attempt to pick it up only messed things up even more. In the end I had to rip out eight rounds (1,088 stitches total) of a very complicated pattern and start over. You can imagine the foul mood I was in by bedtime last night.
The one bright spot in the whole affair was that my disappointment in him relieved the pressure of the whole “Colors Of The Wind” in French thing. And he forgot to ask, anyway.
But tonight I am in a good mood, because I have another date, with a fellow named T.H., who got in touch with me after reading my blog. I have not mentioned him so far because I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with the fact that he might read whatever I said about him. We have been IMing over the last few days and I have been so incredibly charmed and delighted that I know I am in real trouble. We discussed (over IM) the fact that we were trying to manage our expectations of each other, and failing miserably. He volunteered not to bathe for two days before our first meeting, so as to put some disappointment into the mix right from the beginning; I said in turn that I would pick my nose and be rude to the wait staff. Still, even with those controls in place, I’m not sure either of us will be able to handle realizing that the other is actually mortal.
In any event, the reason I am able to blog about him now is that he said he didn’t want me to have to censor myself, and so volunteered to stop reading my blog.
Who could not love this man? I mean, to deny himself what must surely be one of the greatest joys available to humankind—reading my pathetically neurotic account of my pathetically neurotic life—so as to allow me to express myself freely—that’s true kindness.
He did misspell doppelgänger twice, but the second time was clearly a typo (perfectly acceptable when you’re IMing) and did not contain the mistake he’d made the first time, so it’s clear that he actually knows how it’s spelled.
I promise I will give more details soon about my entry into the world of pornography.
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