Another void where love was, hearkening back to an old blog post about a Ghost. This time: reality check.

The post was about dealing with the ghost of a past lover. This time, it wasn’t really love…yet, but it seemed to have all the frills.

Here I went, again, letting myself get all twisted up in it with a guy who reminded me of the my old beloved, and fittingly, this time it ended badly, too. Do these two men really have to have the same voice, the same body, the same boots? Is it some kind of cosmic torture designed especially for me? It begs the question, how do you tell the difference between the Doppelganger of the beloved and the beloved himself; or is this new man, the Doppelganger, just a shadow of the ghost of the beloved? The ghost who you’ve been living with all these years, anyway. How do you describe how you feel after you’ve played with this new Shadow and gotten burned all over again?

Result: Me: a twisted up, fucking, stupid, fucked up head case. I’m always too hard on myself but why, oh why, do I have sex with the ones who I know will screw me over?

What happened to dating? Well, it was going well. Me, the star in the middle. One guy I was falling for and suddenly got intimate with, one guy who had fallen for me in the past who I could keep rejecting but still have benefits with, one guy to continue to date so casually that it just felt like a two person literary meet-up, and the guy who’s practically my best friend, who’s always been there in the background, waiting for me to come to my senses, apparently, and marry him.

Confusing? Yes, sometimes, but an immense self-esteem builder to have so many kettles on at once. (I’m putting aside any analysis for now of the effects of my actions on others; god knows I’m aware enough of that.) And no time really to keep up the dating schedule. Once again, I failed.

And then I got screwed. I liked the fucking. New fucking can be very exciting. But when it comes to my head, I’ll pass. I started to get attached, then he tells me he needs to take his “Solo Path.”

Translation: I want to have my cake and eat it too; and I want your cake as well.

Second translation: I want you to give to me as if you are my girlfriend but I don’t want to give up my freedom. I don’t want a commitment; therefore, I refuse to behave as your boyfriend.

Another skeleton to pack away into the attic. Scarlett O’Casual hurt, licking her wounds, but determined to move on. No more tangles with manipulation. And no more sex before some sort of idea that a relationship might actually work out.  Am I really going to do this? Well, maybe at least I can just be a little wiser in the future.

 

NAME OF DATE: “ASGHAR”

ACTIVITY: symphony concert

VENUE: concert hall

MY OUTFIT:  eyelet-type-flower-patterned dress; brighty and Spring-y; fitted on top with sort of flared skirt; cute but chaste enough; red platform heels

AMOUNT OF TIME BEAUTIFYING: 15 MINS (I did shave my legs because I figured I better dress up a little for the symphony and I was wearing a dress but I did not try to look too wonderful since I had hung out with the dude twice before and was not super impressed

FOLLOW-UP DONE BY: none so far

WILL I GO OUT WITH HIM AGAIN: not sure (and I say this, why? because I want more dates? because of some deeply rooted insecurity?? I don’t know–the date was not exactly a success.

NARRATIVE: I met Asghar because he’s friends with the Gymnast. ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ I say, ‘If you can’t date him, date his friend!’

I’ve known Asghar for about 3 months. First, he sloppy drunk danced on my niece and I when we went to a bar with him, the Gymnast, and another friend of theirs. I was having too much fun dancing in general to mind, and I also was concentrating on thoughts of the Gymnast, anyway. Somewhat intoxicated, I had exchanged numbers with Asghar by the end of the night.

We ran into each other again at a group outing (again with the Gymnast, et. al.), started talking about cool stuff like poetry, and he bought me gelato. So, that wasn’t too bad. Gelato is high on the list of the Food of the gods, the Food of Love.

I made excuses a couple times about going out but he had impressed me with his interest in and knowledge of high Art–poetry and music; so, we ended up going to a lovely symphony and choral performance of “Carmina Burana.”

Prior to the show and during intermission, we had a little time to kill in which he made his alcoholic interest in wine too clear, texted while not talking to me, and told me that if “anyone had a right to be racist it was the Germans,” as he was explaining that the Nazi party used “Carmina Burana” as inspiration for going into battle; and, the Germans had accomplished so many impressive feats in other areas. Who says that on a first date? Who even says that?  Was something lost in translation between first- and second-language speakers? I don’t really think so, I think he’s just really opinionated, and not in a good way. He also told me that he argued with his ex-girlfriend because he thought she should dress better and she disagreed but that he was right in the end. Really? You Little Man you, you have no idea what you’re signing up for. I’ll play the part of the demur girl in the cute red dress and nod and smile while you show what a jerk you are. Just wait ’til the Feminist, Anti-Racist come out for the fight, Buddy!

He picked a lot at his mustache during the concert. At first I thought maybe he was picking his nose, which added a whole new element to my thoughts of the date, believe me, but as I looked closer out of the corner of my eye, I’m pretty sure I it was the mustache. (I was a tiny bit disappointed.) When the concert ended to a standing ovation, he screamed like a girl.

After the concert, we finally got out of the clusterfuck of people on the stairs and, thank God, on the road toward home. I hugged him before I got out of the car because I felt vulnerable from a sixth date I’d had the weekend before in which things happened all out of sync and toyed with my emotions, and somehow I’d begun to relate to this guy I’d just spent three hours with, who was wearing too much cologne and said stupid things, but wore nice clothes and picked me up in a nice car.  I actually do know how I began to relate to him–because we talked about love, longing, and loneliness in relation to “Carmina Burana,” All very impressive with our sophistication, and I think we were feeling both very single. Plus, the getting out of the car part is sooooo awkward.  But I sure wouldn’t hug him again.

We ran into about 10 people he knew while we were at the venue but not sitting in the concert. Well, he has friends, anyway. A couple of them asked us out for a drink but I said I was tired and had to get home. I didn’t really feel like going out and listening to him talk any longer and trying to keep my eyes open, even though there was a very nice Swiss girl who was friends with a girl who had done the Argentine tango with the Gymnast and was in the choir we had just seen. I didn’t necessarily want to hang out with her either! I probably should’ve gone on a date with the Swiss girl, instead.

Rating Him:

Face shape: 7

Body: 6

Eyes: 8

Hair or lack thereof/Facial hair or lack thereof: 9 (short beard is his best feature besides his sad Persian eyes)

Voice: 4 (when he called me on the phone to tell me he was in he parking lot at my building, I realized he sounded like a small frog; oddly, it’s not as unappealing as it sounds, just sort of ridiculous)

Sexiness: if I saw him on the street, 7; after talking to him about his opinions, 2.5 (he gets 1.5 points for being moderately physically attractive, after taking into consideration the opinions)

Overall Physical Attractiveness: 7

Fashion: 9; he wore a really awesome shirt with tiny polka dots on the cuffs folded back; he wore nice shoes and a suit

IT-ness (the IT factor, you either have IT or you don’t): 3

Deportment: 2

Charm: 2

Amiable: 2

Polite: 3

Interesting: 5

Kiss-o-meter: Uh, no

Rating Myself:

Face: 3.5 (ran out of concealer, little time on makeup, tired)

Body: 8 (had lost weight)

Smell: 8

Fashion: 8

Overall Physical Attractiveness: 7

Deportment: 9

Amiable: 9

Confidence: 7

Polite: 9

I was just happily listening along to my Prince station saved on Pandora when The Time’s “Gigolos Get Lonely Too” came on. The title of the song pretty much says it all–who knew??? Men must feel like used pieces of meat sometimes, too, and here I was thinking I was the one who got tired of men checking out my body and ignoring my mind. Nothing could describe it better than this song.

Although I could think about this from a different perspective entirely: maybe I should try going on a date with a gigolo. Yes, a young, tight-assed, lightly oiled, perfectly tanned god of a man. That would work. If only I could afford it.

 

Great, it’s time for Anxiety! So, I’ve been pretty much wrapped up in Lawrence all week but like I said on the last post, I’ve decided to go ahead with the Experiment and continue dating. A few days ago, L and I sat down for a talk and he said he had something to tell me and I said I had something to tell him as well. The timing seemed synchronous but the content was not. He asked if I would be his girlfriend and I had to tell him that I felt like I still needed to date as a Self-Improvement Project. This was not a super fun conversation, obviously. What was even less fun was the conversation I had with him today in which he was pulling away from me and unhappy because I am going on a date today and he knows it.

I am leaving for said date in 10 minutes and I am freaked out now because of the above situation. Plus, I didn’t e-mail back my date for today (from Speed Dating) in a timely manner (being anxious about L) so now I have not heard from him and may be stood up! Well, I’ll chalk it up to experience and I have a plan to go grocery shopping instead in that neighborhood if I don’t see him at the restaurant. I am not paying for a lunch for myself today!

I just feel like things are back firing on me. I want L to be more affectionate (is this a problem that he is not as much as I want him to be?) and here I am dropping a bomb in his lap which is only apt to make him less affectionate.

Augh!!!