Dating Tales

I do not want to be seen at the gym. I like to go in my grubby clothes and do my half-ass work out. I rarely go to the gym with intention of breaking any records or a sweat for that matter. Instead, I go to the gym to do the mandatory hour of cardio, strength training and stretching that Shape magazine says is expected of its readers expected of me.

For me, what is worse than being seen at the gym is being recognized at the gym. If it’s a friend that sees me it is certainly disruptive, but much less traumatic than having a guy I met at the bar last weekend see me in a compromising stretch.

In order to avoid seeing people I know, I avoid peak hours and eye contact, if possible. My strategy is quite effective, but not fool proof as I learned a few weeks ago.

On this particular day I was running on the treadmill. At one point I turned my head to check the clock behind me when I saw Tom. Instinctively I snapped my head back around without acknowledging him. I wanted to date Tom after meeting him at happy hour the Friday before. But had I just ruined my chances with my god-knows-what jiggling around for the last thirty minutes?

I ended my run, wiped my face as best I could, and turned to step off the treadmill. Unable to avoid him altogether, I acted surprised with my sudden smile and slow wave.

Hey, Tom said without slowing down at all. I’ll call ya.

I could tell my Tom’s nod and subtle wave that our Friday afternoon cocktails meant nothing. Slight devastated, I decided to skip the sit ups and squats and go directly to the locker room, grab my things and go home.

To speed up the process even more I kept my work-out clothes on deciding it was ok to take the train ride home in my smelly gear. I opened my locker, grabbed my bag from the hook and pulled the strap over my shoulder. I hastily pulled my nicer smelling work clothes from the locker and shoved my things in to my bag. I pulled the flap tight and snapped the button securing my belongings.

As I walked out of the locker room I saw Tom walking in my direction. There was no where for me to go. No way to escape. I made eye contact without even trying.

I waved and smiled politely for a few moments before I took a sharp right turn to leave the gym. Not a second before I took that turn I noticed how Tom burrowed his eyebrows and looked me down, up and then down again. It is not as though he was checking me out, it was as though he was trying to figure me out.

Did I really look that goofy in my sneakers and sweaty t-shirt?

I continued on my way toward the exit walking past the four rows of treadmills, past the two rows of elliptical machines, and past the row of bikes before reaching the door. As I walked down the first step leading to the door I felt something brush against the outside of right my knee. I walked down the second step and again I felt something brush my leg, except this time I felt something catch on my pants.

I looked down and there it was: my black, lacy, 36B-sized bra with extra padding hanging entirely out of my bag. One end was hooked to the inside of my bag’s flap and the other end was hooked to my cotton capri pants!

As I ran out the door I clutched my bra by its left cup and mercilessly drove it to the bottom of my bag. Everyone had seen my lacy black number.

Tom saw my bra. All the people on the treadmills saw my bra. All the people on the elliptical machines saw my bra. All the people on the bikes certainly saw my bra.

This time I might have been seen by everyone at the gym, but next time I’m sure to be recognized with or without the dangling bra.

In all of my blog research so far I’ve found a few other great sites worth checking out, including www.moveouton.blogspot.com and http://betsysunrise.blogspot.com.

Another great site is Romance Tracker, a PR 4 blog thatss giving free linkbacks to other sites if you link to them using the anchor text romantic ideas.

Till next time.

My friend Elizabeth is a little timid when meeting a new boy. Getting past the first phone number exchange, the first phone call, the first date, the first kiss, the first sleepover all of it is stressful.

I know that she is not alone. In fact, I think most of us have anxiety over dating. It’s awkward, nerve-wracking, and downright intense, but I remind myself that it’s totally worth it. If it weren’t for the potential of that amazing first kiss, I’d never have the courage to go on another first date again.

In Elizabeth’s case, though, I blame Max, a professional wedding DJ. She met Max last summer at a friend’s wedding (no surprise). With the encouragement of her friends and three glasses of wine, she graciously gave him her phone number.

One first down, only four more to go.

They played phone tag for almost two weeks. The momentum was gone. With 14 days having gone by, she couldn’t remember what he looked like and so was satisfied with being “it” indefinitely.

Another week went by and suddenly Max started calling again, except this time at 2am, 3am, and 4am for three nights in a row. His messages were always the same. “Hey Elizabeth, I thought we were going to meet up after you got off work. Call me.”

Obviously she was confused especially since she got off at 5pm. She ignored his calls altogether until the next week when her phone rang right as Grey’s Anatomy came on.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m here. Aren’t you on tonight?”

“Is this Max?” Elizabeth asked. “Do you know who this is?”

“Yeah, Elizabeth it’s Max,” he laughed. “What’s up, why aren’t you at Shotgun’s?”

Elizabeth went silent. She wasn’t offended; just clueless why he would think she’d be “on” at Denver’s biggest strip club.

“Hello, Elizabeth? Seriously what’s the deal?”

“Uhhhh. I don’t think you know who I am.” I met you at my friend Jenny’s wedding two weeks ago. Do you think I’m a stripper?”

Now it was Max’s turn to go silent.

“I have the wrong Elizabeth, sorry. But hey, I’ve been meaning to get a hold of you. Interested in a few drinks? I think I have some time tonight.”

Without a clever come back, she closed her cell phone and sat silent until I came over with the pizza and beer. I’m telling you, Elizabeth hasn’t been the same since.

My friend Violet recently met a guy on Match. The two of them had a lot in common, namely a love of camping and a fear of blue-colored foods. Combine this with the fact that she had been online for almost a year, so she was pretty comfortable doing the “almost-blind-date” thing after only few e-mails.

“I met him in the bar of the new sushi restaurant downtown, and before we’d even sat down for dinner he went in for a kiss,” Violet said. “I turned my face so he only got my cheek, but I was like “hello, can I at least have a drink first?”

Violet said he laughed it off and then reached for her hand. When she pulled her hand away he put his arm around her shoulders. Violet and I agree that men like this could be desperate, misunderstood, or maybe just unable to decipher social cues, but creepy nonetheless.

Once they finally did sit down for dinner he promptly took off his right shoe and did the footsy thing by the way, do other people really do this? I’ve never played footsy and as far as I know it’s just a tool screenwriters use to create sexual tension among their characters in the movie. (Please respond by answering this week’s poll, I’m truly curious to know).

Anyhow, Violet’s response was to scowl. She has what should be a patented scowl, one that I’ve never been able to duplicate. It’s a mixture of shock, disgust, frustration, and disapproval. I wish I could describe it better, but I’m unable to find words for the way she contorts and scrunches her facial muscles along with the way she drops her head to look at you from the corner of her eyes. It’s a talent only she possesses and a message her date should have received immediately.

“There were so many problems with him at this point,” Violet explained. “For starters he’s flirting the way men do in soft-porn, and he wasn’t smart enough to translate my scowl to really mean, back the f&#$ off! So I just asked him, flat out. “What is your problem? Don’t you know how to behave on a date?”

Again the guy just laughed and responded by grabbing her hands across the table saying, “don’t you know what its like to have someone come on to you?”

“Yah, I do, and I don’t really like it,” she responded as he ran all ten of his fingers across hers. “Do you have itchy finger tips or something, why are you still touching me?”

She decided to stay and struggle through the dinner, but only because she felt it was an opportunity to help all woman-kind everywhere, or at the minimum at least help the next Match.com victim. Sadly all her efforts were lost on him. The next day, in the customary follow-up Match e-mail, he wrote that he enjoyed their date and looked forward to kissing her voluptuous lips and holding hands for real, like grown ups do.

Now, neither Violet nor I know what this means exactly, but it sounds dirty and so she wrote back saying, “I will absolutely not be seeing you again. And hey, do me a favor; please always keep your shoes on when in public.”

Well done Violet. Couldn’t have said it better myself. So for the rest of you out there that struggle with an itchy-fingered date, here is a recap:

* Make a joke about him being too affectionate
* Give a dirty look
* Ask him what his problem is
* Advise him of his dating practice faux pas
* Advise him of his dating practice faux pas in a follow up e-mail

Happy dating.

The first time I tried online dating a 70-year-old man offered to move me to Florida.

I logged on to my e-mail account 24 hours after setting up my personal profile on Match.com. There were six new messages in my inbox one from mom, another from a company selling penis enlargers, and four other e-mails from Match. I moved my cursor over the first message from Match and my stomach did a flip.

Two months earlier I moved to Boston and was feeling the loneliness that inevitably creeps in while living in an east coast city. At this point I was spending most of my evenings alone with a glass of wine enjoying my free mobile-to-mobile minutes with my friend Kim, a San Francisco internet-dating legend.

As I prepared to open the first e-mail I repeated the mantra Kim taught me: I’m not looking for my husband; I’m looking for a distraction. Then I read the message.

Joe –  All Expenses Paid
Joe was a seventy-year-old man from Miami who says I seem nice. “You look like someone I would like to get to know,” Joe writes. “Oh, and by the way you should check out my profile too. I think you might find it interesting.”

I logged on to Match and checked Joe’s profile. Now don’t think for a second that I considered dating a man that did not live in a surrounding zip code or that I considered dating a man three times my age, but I needed a laugh.

It turns out Joe is interested in relocating a young lady to the Miami area. “A lifetime of all expenses paid as long as its fun, fun, fun.”

I navigated back to my Hotmail account and braced myself for e-mail number two.

Mark — No Escorts Please
Mark is a 32-year-old salesman who apparently doesn’t own a shirt. I don’t know this for sure, but his e-mail says “hi” and one of the attached pictures shows him leaning against a Honda Civic with no smile and a greased up chest. In the second picture he is leaning against a chest of drawers with his own chest bare for the world to see.

As a standard rule I don’t date men who pose for the camera shirtless, but again, for laughs, I looked up Mark’s profile. Here is what I found:

Handsome bachelor who earns $100K a year is seeking loyal girlfriend. Do not contact me if you are an escort.

Escort?

After a quick second of nervous laughter I read e-mail number three.

Craig — Who is Your Daddy?
“As your Daddy I will use the power vested in my role to mold and shape you; assisting you to grow in strength, character, confidence and being. I will continue to help you develop your abilities as a submissive little girl. You will be rewarded when you are good and punished when you are bad.”

I don’t know anything more about Craig than his e-mails are scary. I didn’t bother to look at the rest.

I called Kim to accuse her of false advertising. “What did you talk me in to? Is this the dating pool? Or worse, is this what I attract?”

Kim talked me down from my ledge of desperation and reassured me that for every three bad matches there is bound to be one good match. I took her advice and opened up the fourth e-mail.

Bob — Sensitive Boob Seeks Sensitive Breast
Bob is a 29-year-old student from Boston looking for a wife just like him. “I’m looking for a woman with, let’s say, less than average self-esteem.  I’m the type of person with a poor self-image and for good reason. I’m not that attractive. I’m not outgoing. I’m uneducated. I’m not driven toward anything. I have no interesting hobbies, and well, I meet no real requirements that most women are looking for. That’s not to say I have no good qualities. I’m honest, caring and loyal. I consider myself a nice person. I’m just looking for someone I can feel comfortable with. Together we can make each other feel all right.”

At this point, Bob was my most promising date.

After my 30-day-membership ended, I agreed with Kim that my online dating experience wasn’t so bad. I talked to several interesting men, I discovered three new restaurants, and found one guy to play to keep around for six months.