I Like Kale, Dammit!

Every once in a while I will receive a "check-in" text from guys relegated, by my choice or theirs, to the dating dustbin of my past. The check-in text seems to occur when the guy is single and not having any luck with the ladies, so he texts me -- and no doubt all his other former dates -- to try to figure out the extent of his current amorous options. It's essentially the "Hail Mary" pass of dating, a last-ditch desperate effort to score.

After I know it's not going to work out with a guy, I usually delete him from my phone, unless of course we're friends. Months later when I receive one of these check-in texts, I am usually confronted with an unfamiliar phone number and a vague message that offers no clue to the texter's identity. My most recent check-in text began with this nugget:

"Happened to see your number in my contacts list but couldn't match the name to a face..."

Flattering. I matched the level of charm put into this text with one that contained my first name and a "Who's this?"

Him: "Neil."

As luck would have it, I don't know any Neils, except for a guy I met online 18 months(!) ago. I remembered this Neil right away. He was the inappropriately young surgical resident who emailed and texted me for a month, then set up a tentative date, but flaked on me. Since I have zero interest in dating him, I decided to have some fun with him instead.

Me: "NEIL DIAMOND?!!! I've been waiting decades for your text. YES! YES! I would LOVE to sing You Don't Bring Me Flowers with you!!!!!!!!!"

Him: "Lol no. We might have met thru ok Cupid a while back."

Me: "Oh yeah. I was the HOT one on okc. Does that jog your memory?"

Him: "Lol. For some reason a couple of random associations such as glasses and writing come to mind. We must have met or I'm having deja vu."

Me: "Yes, I do wear glasses when I write."

Him: "Lol. K. So I'm not (completely) crazy."

Me: "If you say so. (I don't like to argue with crazies!) Are you still on okc?"

Him: "Yeah...Sporadically. You?"

Me: "Not for the past 13 months."

Him: "Where in LA are you?"

Me: "You mean RIGHT NOW? As I'm doing errands?!"

Him: "Lol. Yes. How else can we get a drink together?"

At this point, I'm driving between errands and not reading his texts. He must have second-guessed his get-a-drink suggestion to me and decided to back peddle when he didn't get an immediate response.

Him: "jk"

Me: "Don't worry about my location, Neil. If you want me to do a duet with you, I can be *anywhere* -- the Bowl, the Greek, the Palladium -- in less than an hour. I've only been waiting since 1980 to do this with you!!!!!!!!!!!"

Him: "Ha. You're funny. Are you free to meet up?"

Me: "Not tonight."

Him: "Will do a duet another evening then."

Me: "How old are you, Neil? I'm having age-related concerns."

Him: "I'm 30. How about you?"

Me: "I was afraid of that. You're just not young enough for me. Sorry. I'm looking for more of a Harold and Maude relationship."

Him: "Will be honest -- had to google that movie!"

Me: "I'm 50. I can't believe you've never seen Harold and Maude! It's a classic."

Then he sends me one of those bathroom selfies. He's in his surgical scrubs. And he's very cute. Damn it. He's as tempting as a cronut, but I've taken a vow against junk food like deep-fried pastry and too-young-for-me guys.

Him: "This is me. Was on call at hospital earlier today."

At this point, I'm thinking he sent me the selfie I didn't ask for because he was worried I didn't remember that he's a surgeon. And cute. Then I wonder why he took the selfie *earlier* in the day and decide he must have been sending it all afternoon to EVERYONE he's ever dated or even contemplated dating. Maybe he felt that things were now desperate for him. He was facing a weekend alone. He must have struck out with all of the women in his datable sphere, and now he was reaching back to a sarcastic old broad he met online 18 months ago and didn't even bother to meet.

Me: "I can't take a selfie right now because I have mustache cream on."

Him: "Lol, mustache cream from coffee? Even better!"

Me: "No. To get rid of the hair on my upper lip."

Him: "Gotcha."

I really *did* have mustache cream on my upper lip. I even took some selfies wearing the mustache cream, but I couldn't take a decent selfie that made me look cute enough. Even though I'm never going to meet this guy, I am so vain, I vetoed the idea of sending him a less-than-flattering photo of me in all my mustachio-creamed glory.

Me: "I can't believe you don't have a date on a Saturday night!"

Truly. Let's think about the implications of that. A young, attractive surgeon can't find a date on the biggest date night of the week in a town OVERFLOWING with beautiful, interesting, awesome women. WTF's up with that?!

Him: "I'm actually meeting a good friend from college who's in town for the night."

Me: "Have fun. Don't booze it up too much. You might be called in to do emergency lipo."

Him: "Haha. I don't do plastics, plus not on call overnight! (Thankfully) BTW, how about you? No hot Harold for a Saturday night?!"

Me: "I'm going to a party. I wouldn't be defoliating my upper lip if I were just staying in to watch Friends reruns tonight."

What I'm really saying is: Dude, read between the lines. That's pretty obvious subtext you didn't pick up.

Him: "Quite sassy. Good thing I'm not there."

I agree. That *is* a good thing. It's pretty easy to say no to junk food when it isn't right in front of you looking so irresistible. Until the temptation fades, I will keep repeating my mantra: I like kale. I like kale. I like kale, dammit! I just hope he doesn't ask me to a Neil Diamond concert, because I'm not sure Sassy McSassmouth could actually say no to that.

Dogged by a Special Type of Social Cluelessness

I must have looked pretty good yesterday, because I noticed guys checking me out at work. It wasn’t so obvious – not like the cartoonish head-turning double takes littered throughout a movie starring Pamela Anderson’s breasts. It was more subtle -- just a split-second up-and-down body scan that some men seem to do unconsciously. Under many circumstances, I wouldn’t mind being noticed by men in that way, but at work it feels inappropriate and prompts me to second guess what I’m wearing. (What possessed me to wear a push-up bra to work?) Besides, I can’t imagine going out with a coworker. Interoffice dating seems as well thought out as pogo-sticking on a trampoline while juggling live grenades. What could possibly go wrong with that?!

Being checked out at work now in 2014 isn’t nearly as bad as it was 25 years ago. Back then it was much more blatant, particularly with one type of workplace menace: the office Boob-Gazer. Back in the dark ages of the 80s and 90s, women at work were often subjected to the long “boob gaze” by a special type of socially clueless coworker. Yes, *that* guy. Remember him, ladies? There was usually one Boob-Gazer in every department, at least in my unlucky experience working in offices back then. The worst offender would actually gaze at my chest with an unblinking laser-like stare that defied human biology (we’re programmed to regularly blink, right?!). Sometimes Boob-Gazer would even talk to my boobs, with my mouth the uncomfortable third participant in an always awkward conversation that usually took place in the most public of hallways. It always annoyed and astounded me that Boob-Gazer was either oblivious to how icky he made all the women feel, or that he just didn’t give a shit.

The Boob-Gazer wasn’t confined to one narrow demographic though. In my experience, he could be old, young, married, single, or even female. Whenever I complained about Boob-Gazer to my friends or female coworkers, I would often be advised to aggressively stare at his crotch. But that required the type of public boldness that I -- the shy, demure, delicate flower that I am -- did not possess. (Hahahaha. That made me laugh too.) Actually, a retaliatory social faux pas delivered to eliminate future social faux pas made as much logical sense to me as using the death penalty to affirm the value of human life.

I often resorted to the “file folder” strategy to deflect Boob-Gazer’s unsettling gaze. Whenever I had to interact with Boob-Gazer, I would grab a file folder and hold it in front of my chest like a shield. This sort of worked, except, out of pervy habit, Boob-Gazer would often just stare at the file folder, *imagining* what my boobs were wearing that day.

My personal fantasy was to have human resources get involved by officially making Boob-Gazer wear a large white cone of shame around his neck – like the large white rigid cones that dogs have to wear after being neutered or spayed to keep them from licking their stitches. Not only would the white cone serve the practical purpose of keeping Boob-Gazer’s eyes up off my chest and on my face, it would also serve as a social-shaming device, a dunce cap for social dunces. I loved that my idea combined useful functionality and public shaming in one fitting solution. Perhaps I missed my calling as a cranky sass-mouthy tv show judge.

Frosty Pink Me, Now with New Flavor Crystals!

A Starbucks I used to frequent with occasional regularity has posted a big banner announcing its "Grand Re-Opening." I don't get the whole "Grand Re-Opening" thing, except when a place has made a dramatic night-and-day change, which this place hasn't. I always think "Grand Re-Opening" is just an artificial marketing ploy to get new people to check out the not-new. Those words -- Grand Re-Opening -- seem like a marketing euphemism for "Yoohoo! We're still here selling coffee like we do every day. Oh, and we have some new chairs that are just as uncomfortable as the old ones." When I saw the banner, I snorted at how maddeningly difficult it must be for the marketer tasked with making a Starbucks seem new and interesting when they're on every corner and across the street and down the road and at the airport and in the grocery store -- as ubiquitous as fake boobs and yoga studios in LA.

Going back to online dating feels like it would be my own personal (not very) Grand Re-Opening. Reactivating my old profile at the dating website would be the equivalent of posting a banner that reads "Yoohoo single men! I'm back. Same old me. Just single again. And a year older!" When I had an online dating account, I noticed that a guy would sometimes go offline and then reappear with the same exact profile a few months later. Presumably, the promising relationship that had prompted him to deactivate his online dating profile lasted a while, but ultimately didn't work out. Those guys who later resurfaced always seemed a little stale to me, as if their failed budding relationships implied that they were not guys worth keeping, and therefore they were guys not even worth trying.

If I were to go back to online dating, would I have to resort to phony-baloney marketing tricks -- me, now with new flavor crystals! -- to make me seem new and exciting and worth trying? My goal is not to sell me to the masses. I'm just trying to find that one guy for whom I'm the perfect local coffee shop in a vast wasteland of Starbucks.

Glaring at the Hamster Wheel

I do not relish the idea of getting back on the hamster wheel that is online dating. After a year of being one-half of a couple, I am single again. Standup comedian Julie Marmelstein describes it best when she says online dating is really just "shopping for people." No wonder I so often find it tediously sucktastic. I don't really enjoy shopping.

I like having beautiful clothes that look nice on me, so out of necessity, I go shopping. While I do like finding something that suits me, I think it's the inefficiency of shopping that I detest most. It always seems to take so much time and diligence to find something "perfect." Until you get lucky, shopping is a New Year's Day parade of big- and near-misses. 'That dress would look fantastic on me -- *if* I were 25 years old again.' Or 'That sweater would be so cute, if only the buttons weren't so big.' Or 'That skirt is so sexy, but I'm still not comfortable dressing like a skank.' Shopping is a test of patience and endurance, which are not two of my greatest strengths.

And so it is with online dating. As I page through profile after online profile, the refrain is similar. 'That guy would be *perfect* for me -- if I had met him in 1992.' Or 'I have so many things in common with him, but he's a smoker.' Or 'I like that he's outdoorsy, adores David Sedaris, and loves animals, but I just can't get past that giant face tattoo.'

A common solution for a person who doesn't have time to shop for clothes, is to use a personal shopper or hire a stylist. Maybe at some point I will need to hire a matchmaker. For now, I'm ok being single and letting dating serendipity work its magic. By which I mean, I'll be spending my nights watching a lot of tv at home alone. I'm just not ready to jump back on the hamster wheel yet, so I will just sit and glare at it instead.