Place #7: Merlin's Rest Part 3

Writing part three has proved to be a more difficult task than anticipated. Firstly because the date part of the night is sort of private. Secondly because I’m feeling rather lazy and don’t remember everything I was going to write about (at least, not yet). To ruin the ending for you, the date went quite wonderful and I’ve already seen him twice again since. I think that because of this I’m feeling apprehensive. He’s reading these too, and even though I extended the invitation (the more readers the better, of course) I’m now feeling slightly scrutinized and a tad self-conscious. Such is the way of it, I suppose…

But I could really blow it, Folks.

I have a reckless propensity for laying out the ugly personal side of my humanity to the public, particularly through my art, and when you’re trying to impress someone this could be a fairly dangerous thing.

However…

A mantra I’ve grown to love to live by (or at least try to), especially as a woman who desperately wants to be freed from feeling like she has to be someone else to seduce a man, is this: the only way to ensure someone is attracted to you for you, is you have to suck it up and be yourself. Seems simple, right? A wee cliché… But when you really think about it: Who, really, is brave enough to suck that up? To really suck it up and be themselves when ourselves, deep down, are so outrageously uninviting, so fucking unattractive in all of our impurities, flaws, peculiarities, defects, shortcomings and ugliness … It’s easier said than done.

Don’t get me wrong, Reader, there’s definitely value in the seduction part of dating. Proving to them that you can clean up nice is not necessarily a dishonor to who you truly are. Quite frankly, if he had come in sweats and a ratty T-shirt and smelled like he hadn’t showered in three days it wouldn’t have gone so well, no matter how witty he was. There is a sense of class required here, people. I had come to that very conclusion when I almost reached for my own sweats. Cleaning up nice is a good idea. Being someone you’re not is a bad one. I can feel pretty in my dresses and my heels, but to hell with it if I’m not going to be who I am. And I’m plenty of unattractive things, there’s no deceiving anyone there. But so is everybody else. That’s just it. I think it’s pointless to pretend that you’re particularly more perfect than others, to compete with others to gain the affection of someone you like, to obsess over being impressive because you gauge the value of your desirability by someone else’s sexual interest in you. Everyone wants to be wanted. I want to be wanted. But I want to be wanted for who I am. Back to my mantra: suck it up, and be yourself. It’s not easy. Everyone wants to hide the things that could potentially send their impending mate running for the hills, there’s no doubt about that. I’m not saying it’s wise to share all, necessarily, just don’t comprise who you are for someone who is, let’s be honest, not that important. That being said, I think I’ve now set myself up to prove that I have the gumption to put my bars down and eat my own words. (Uh oh….)

So, my hopefully-a-true-bachelor showed up and made me happy. I admit, Reader, I’m exponentially skeptic and cautious. I’ve been trained not to trust men, and even more so have had it proven to me more than once the reasons why. It’s hard to date at this age because not only are most people married by now (the one to hundred ratio drops dramatically after age twenty five – at age thirty one it’s more like one to three), but there’s plenty of those married men who are starting to get bored of their brides by this point and want something else. That phenomenon of monogamy is quickly going out of style, and there are plenty of creeps who have crafty ways of cheating on their wives. I don’t want to be stupid. I don’t want to be charmed into someone’s pants who’s pants are already spoken for thank you very much. So, as he and I sat on our barstools, my drunken radar was half alert for clues. So far, so good.

For the readers who have been following me all the way through (I think there’s maybe one of you…), you’ll remember a post titled, “Not Merlin’s Rest”. It was place number three (Mille Lacs). If you disregard the fact that it was written childishly sloppy, you’ll remember (or actually take the time to go back and read it because I’m pretty sure you won’t actually, literally remember ) that I talked a little about fate. I suppose you could say I believe in fate. I suppose… But more often than not I prefer to preach that we have far more control over our lives than we give ourselves credit for, and fate is just something we throw into the mix when we want to believe that we’re not responsible for the effects of our causes. However, while I was enjoying my pint of Stella with a very pleasant, witty, intelligent man who could make me laugh, I was thinking, “I’m glad I never went to Merlin’s way back in July…this is much, much better.”

My date and I had endured the night tolerating a talkative man to our right who was clearly going through a second (maybe third) mid-life crisis who we (more my date than I) christened “Lovely Cat Fred”. “Lovely Cat Fred” came from the combination of our receipt reading “Your lovely waiter tonight was….”, him looking like a Fred (not actually being a Fred), and him saying this: “I’m divorced now, see, because when my wife went through menopause she put me on pause… I have a cat now…” The added fact that he was now stuck with a cat instead of a menopausal wife was hilarious. However, I was sitting there on my tall barstool ready to pummel Lovely Cat Fred for this statement because in defense of his poor menopausal wife I had heard these words instead: “My wife went through menopause, lost her libido, and I’m a selfish asshole who couldn’t handle that.” My date had said to me, “I’d kind of like to hear the wife’s side to that…” I was glad he said this. That was wise of him to say.

Relaxed by this point, my body had finally signaled to me that I hadn’t eaten all day. I was famished. A waiter was taking his break and eating a delectable looking sandwich at the bar down to the right of us (Lovely Cat Fred had taken leave for a while). My mouth watered. Now, most of you who know me know that I have certain, uh, phobias and issues with eating out at restaurants I don’t know. I have an unfortunate shrimp allergy, and there have been way too many times I’ve left restaurants spending hours over a toilet. It’s traumatizing after the fifth or sixth time. You never know when they’re going to cook something in the same pan they cook the shrimp in. Either that or I have an uncanny knack for acquiring food poisoning. Either way, I have procured a pathological fear of eating out. I’ve overcome it for the most part by trying to order foods that are potentially safe. At this point, I was so hungry that I almost asked the waiter if I could eat half of his sandwich.

I mentioned to my date that I was hungry, and he got us some menus (note to self: man who gets what you ask for = scored points). I looked up and down the menu, and was delighted to see they had grilled cheese with tomato. For one, I’ve never been to a place that automatically serves grilled cheese with tomato. I always have to ask for the tomato. So this pleased me a little more than it would a normal person. It was perfect. No meat. I’ve never gotten sick off grilled cheese at restaurants; it’s usually my staple safe order (it’s also comfort food: a dish I’ve been making for myself since I was a child). I ordered it with Merlin’s very own style of potato chips, and it was heavenly. Its divinity could probably be half credited to the fact that I was near starving, but regardless, it was the best grilled cheese and tomato I’ve ever eaten. And the chips were unequivocally enchanting. Yum! My date made a reference to Benny and Joon. Yum, again.

The night ended with rain. I had taken enough pictures to satisfy for the most part. My inability to focus on the true task at hand interfered with my usual blogging responsibilities. But as every blog entry has proven over and over again, I have an uncanny ability to babble on and on and on about just about anything in the hopes of it being at least somewhat, mildly amusing to at least one random person in the universe. So I end with this: The rain was light. The air smelled like wet pavement as my date walked me to my car. I could feel my hair frizzing instantly from the dampness. I felt foolishly self-conscious about it. Such is the way of it, isn’t it?