The Mess: a New “Something” in the Mix (Part One)

 

[dropcap]A[/dropcap]nd then it was April.

Guy #1 emailed.  It was eloquent.  It was adorable.  He was going back to London.  Fuck.  We decided to keep in touch anyway because with his job moving him around and my academic adventures on the horizon, who’s to say we wouldn’t one day rendezvous in Paris or Boston.

Guy #2 emailed.  Weeks later.  Apparently it had been very difficult to find my email in the message that I had sent him.  This seemed a rather weak and unnecessary excuse but it was heavily offset by the fact that he seemed to think I was fantastic and definitely wanted to take me out.  Unfortunately for him I was still wrapping up exams and schoolwork so, as is often the case, this boy would have to wait.  He seemed okay with that.  We exchanged phone numbers.  But you see, in my tornado of a end-of-semester-brain, I managed to inadvertently give him the wrong number.  I gave him the 778 version of my phone number when it’s actually a 604.

Luckily or not so luckily, I decided to text him since he’d been the one putting forth all the effort up to this point.  And to be honest, the text was nice.  Not amazing.  But not bad either.  It was the exact caliber of texting you would expect from someone who was ready to take you out the moment you were in, and was thus saving up all their good convo or is just super tedious and boring.  Either way it was all looking good…until he texted:
Ok text me with a heads up when you are ready to giv’er! Lol.
Now I’m not saying this is the kiss of death or anything but do you ever have those moments where you look back and you’re like this right here, this is why I knew we wouldn’t be a good fit?  Yeah.  Well.  This.  Giv’er?!?!  Giv’er is fine…er…it’s acceptable…if you’re camping or surfing or anything involving beer and a high school reunion or a trip to Whistler.  But when you should be trying to impress a lady?  When you’re a 38 year old man?  Giv’er is not good.  Not sexy, honey, not sexy.
But I let it go.  As I’ve been known to do.  Because I have this eternal optimism that people are better than they present themselves.  Sadly, I’m wrong more than I am right, but I digress.  Soon after this, we were finally able to make plans to meet.  But not before he asked me to meet IN THE MORNING before he had to fly to Portland.  Was this guy fucking serious?!?!  A first meeting in the morning?!?!  To which I promptly responded that asking a writer/student to hang out on a Saturday morning would never fly with me, not even if you were Bon Jovi.  

We fixed a time to meet on Monday.  On Sunday he texted to remind me, it was actually rather cute.  He took the initiative and picked a place (St. Augustine’s on Commercial).  Now you may be thinking…um…a place focused 75% on beer…for a sober chick…might not be the best idea.  But see here’s the thing, I’m actually fine with bars and pubs, other people drinking and nightlife.  Just because I no longer engage doesn’t mean I want to sit home alone in silence.

And then at 7pm, I met him.

Or more, I went to meet him.  You see, just as I pulled up and parked, I got a text.  Going to be about 15 or 20 minutes late.  Followed by CUSoon.  Ugh.  To be honest I was more disturbed by the teenage texting skills than the lateness.  Shit happens.  I’ve been late for a date once before, and the fact that he let me know boded well with me.  Plus this way I could get all situated, order up a nice diet soda, watch the game on the big screens and get my relax on.

Earlier in the day we had texted a reminder pic of ourselves to the other, since it had been weeks since I’d had a dating profile up on POF (though I didn’t really need one of him, obvs I saved his profile as a favorite to keep my memory fresh).

And then 20 minutes later I felt a hand spread across my back…I turned to look…and there he was…a new “Something”…known henceforth as TheMess.

To Be Continued…Part Two

Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

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Victoria Young

Writer. Dater. Masturbator. Stop ruining my jokes by believing the self-deprecation. I am far greater than your boner will ever know.