Sunday, May 10, 2009
Saturday night was uneventful. I dressed up, as every man should do for a Saturday. It doesn't take long, just a few minutes of thought, an ironing board, some shoe shine (even on new shoes, yes), and a shower, floss and nail clip.
I love Chicago. I'm pretty sick of Chicago guys and the women that love them. Don't get me wrong, at least once a week I run into a woman who actually makes me look twice. But the ratty, haggard, age-d looking folk I've been seeing is just hard to navigate for me. Either they're faking it up on the outside, or their ruined inside is showing through completely. Where are the ladies and the gentlemen? Where are the smiles and the laughter, other than those who are completely drunk on the whitey-boy equivalent to Mad Dog (PBR)?
So I ended the night early, glad to be home. I had fun, don't get me wrong. I laughed and smiled and made people laugh and smile, but I'm hungry for a Saturday where I can actually blink my eyes in surprise. I want to be speechless.
My friend Rachel called me this morning to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. I guess I'm a mom: I clean my house, I cook, I kiss my daughter (the cat) goodbye every morning and hello every evening before feeding her, I walk my neighbor's dog and I do my own basic laundry (plus drop off dry-cleaning). Rachel is the one person in the world who knows how to pull my heart strings about life. And no, I never slept with her.
She asked me how dating is going, and I told her that there are many interesting girls in Chicago, sexy ones, fun ones, hot ones and cute ones. There are a few pretty ones (which is a hard bar to cross in my mind because it has nothing to do with outside appearance. Where are the stunners, inside and out? Where are the most lovely of lovelies?
Don't get me wrong: I'm not looking for one. You can't if you're a man. The minute a woman smells desperation, she'll hit the road because desperate men are scary. I was only desperate twice in my life for companionship and both led to codependent and hurtful relationships. I don't do that again. I told Rachel that I'd honestly be just fine with a sugar-baby: when she's with me, she'll be a woman in nice clothes, her hair done, her nails clean and painted, her belly full with good food, her head only slightly buzzed with good wine in small amounts.
There's something fun about that relationship: holding hands and laughing at the world, casting hilarious glances at the rest of the world, wandering through life for a short while together only when we want to be together rather than being forced together because of a lease or a debt or a loneliness. She asked if I had any prospects. Not really. She asked if I pitched it lately. I didn't. She's right: I need to pitch it to those who aren't perfect to see their reaction.
When I date, actively date, it's a numbers game only. I will ask for the phone number of every cute, pretty, sexy, hot, beautiful, lovely or amazing woman I meet. I once had a day where I was so busy I ran into 10 women who fit in one of those categories and ended up with zero numbers. 2 days later, I ran into 5 women of the same types and got all 5. 5 out of 15 is a pretty good percentage for me, usually hovering in the 10% mark.
I really love dating. Not the conquest, not fucking, not making huge plans for the future, but just dating. There's something great about taking a cute gal or a beautiful woman out for dinner and getting her home by 11 and waiting a week to call again. Yes, a week. I'm busy, and if she's not busy, it won't work out. I don't mean CRAZY busy even: just have friends or other guys they're dating or a book they're reading or a quilt they're quilting. Something.
This isn't a rant or a complaint. I was flustered last night because I wanted to see one woman I found attractive, and I don't mean on the outside. A woman for me is a woman who beams beauty from the inside. She smiles. She blushes. Her baggage of her past is neatly opened and organized and stored away rather than worn on her sleeve. I didn't see this woman last night, and it was a Saturday: the night of nights to present yourself to society.
Even those I have casual sex with have this quality. It's not just a girlfriend thing, or a sugar-baby thing, or a casual fuck buddy thing. It's a woman thing, and I fear greatly for the field of possibilities. I live in a city where us guys are outnumbered by women, so the odds should be pretty good. The odds yesterday were terrible, and that's not a night worth discussing much.