Dating is for Dummies

I used to be really good at dating. Like quit-your-job-write-a-book-and-hold-seminars good. Good. For one thing, I was fearless. I didn't mind asking men out, even total strangers. Once I took my cat to the vet and the technician was this beautiful Puerto Rican man with a labret piercing and the world's longest eyelashes. The minute I got home, I called the vet's office back and asked him out. That, my friends, was an excellent date.

When I was Dating Girl, I always had a few men in rotation too. Mine was an informal three date policy. No, not that one - a Three Dates and You're Out Policy. Three dates then move along, thanksforplaying, we have some great door prizes. That was about right, because inevitably one of us would lose interest or meet someone I liked better or discover some inexcusable dental habit or find Les Mis in his CD collection, and that would spell the end of it anyway. I had no problems breaking things off back then. There was none of this wishy-washy John Dynamite bullshit. It was, "You did the freaking HEAD PUSH on our SECOND DATE, you Neanderthal. Don't ever call me again." Or, "I swear to god, I can't listen to that 'I quit my glamorous job as a grocery store manager to follow my dream' speech one more time. Hit the bricks, buster." Once it was, "Honey, I think you need to face some facts about yourself. Oh, and our waiter last night asked me to give you his number. Good luck!" Quick, painless, unequivocal.

I was also much more open-minded, I think. Accountants, Actors, Bartenders, Best Friends, Boys with Lesbian Girlfriends, Bouncers, Chileans, Co-Workers, DJs, Dorks, Editors, Engineers, Former High School Crushes, Geeks, Greeks, Hipsters, Hot Asians, L Riders, Models, Mohawks, Musicians, Nineteen Year Old Brazilians, Painters, Poets, Polish Photographers, Prison Guards, Punks, Rich Boys, Someone's Older Brother, Someone's Younger Brother, Southern Gentlemen, Southside Irish Guys, Swarthy Dudes, Tall Dudes, the Unemployed - if you were hot and peripherally interesting, you got a date.

Then I met That One Guy and was sucked into his swirling vortex of self-absorption and emotional retardedness. AKA, "a taste of your own medicine." Suddenly it was no fun going out with lots of different people, mostly because I knew he was also out with lots of different people, which I pretended was hunky-dory but seethed about privately. After a year and a half of this garbage something marvelous happened: he moved far, far away and we broke up forever. Yay! Now I could finally get back to the fun part of dating, not Dating So I'm Not Sitting At Home While He's Out Banging Some Random Ho, God What A Jackass. Fun dating! Remember that?

Except so far it's kind of blown. Look at the John Dynamite fiasco. And the babbling embarrassment I made of myself in front of Train Boyfriend. The Nerve thing didn't work out so great either. I mean, the couple of dates I actually went on were good, but I had to take my profile down after like three days. I just did not have the energy to wade through the responses and sort the chimps from the champs. Plus, the thought of going on all those dates made my head hurt.

I guess I'm getting pickier. Or maybe I'm just less willing to waste my time on 20 year olds sporting homemade tattoos of pigeons. Maybe there's something to be said for being selective - it's a bit more boring, true, but it really frees up your Thursday nights for things like Lucille Ball movies, leftover wine and listening to your BF bitch about those a-holes she works for. And isn't that what really matters?