Monday, November 29th, 2010

Units of alcohol over the weekend:
Friday: A lot (Hartford, CT). I don’t know how much a lot is, but enough to cause me to fall at Black Bear (yes, again). This time onto the stage. Yes, I really wish this was a joke. Anyway, I will be suing Hartford Black Bear for making their floors too slippery.
Saturday: 1 beer (Ale and Mark’s)
Sunday: None. God, I’m not an alcoholic.

Calories:
**On Thanksgiving break**

Weight:
I couldn’t say.

Food consumed today:
Carmal Brulee Latte, Non-fat, No whip (Starbucks). Unfortunately, the non-fat ones still have about 300 calories.
Turkey Sandwich

I’m hoping to loose about 20 lbs before tomorrow.

Purchases I've made since my divorce that I regret; or, Why I only have .43 cents in my savings account:
-Sparkly headband
-Sparkly belt
-Sparkly life

P.S.: I’m only buying sparkly items for the rest of my life.

"Don’t text him. AMANDA, I’m serious. Whatever you do. Wait for him to contact you," Effie says sternly.

"Okay, I won’t! God. Give me SOME credit. I have at least an ounce of self-respect."

“Good. You deserve a guy who will call and text you all the time. Not some lawyer who is perpetually busy and condescending."

"I know, I know. Okay, I have to go do laundry. Talk to you later."

Click.

You are worth more than this, I think to myself. You are a smart, pretty, intelligent young woman, who does not need to stoop to obsessing over a guy who is sub-par (albeit, with mass amounts of earning potential).

Remember what your therapist said. Distract yourself.

I paint my nails.

I eat lunch.

I contemplate shopping.

Ugh, stupid credit line. Credit really should be unlimited.

I decide to organize my closet.

Ugh, I have nothing to wear ever again. Nobody will ever date me with these clothes.

I contemplate shopping again. Maybe if I call and tell them there has been an emergency, and I have to immediately book a plane ticket and fly to Upstate NY, they will extend my credit?

I glance at my phone.

Nothing.

I pick up my phone and start texting.

"Hey! What’s up?"

Delete.

Do NOT do it Amanda. Remember, play hard to get.

God I hate playing hard to get. I pick up my phone again.

"Hi! What are you up to?"

Delete.

Stop being crazy. You can’t control everything. Just let whatever is going to happen, happen. You don’t need to talk everyday. If you don’t hear from him for 24 hours, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you.

"Hey!!! How’s it going? So anyway, are you avoiding making plans with me or are you really this busy?”

Send.

Fuck.

They really should have text messaging recall.

I wait 5 minutes.

Nothing.

10 minutes.

Nothing.

Another failed (almost) relationship.

It seemed so promising.

A lawyer, with a beach house, and an apartment in Manhattan.

(I see a Vineyard wedding in the Hamptons. Navy and white. Elegant, yet understated Vera Wang dress.)

Our first date was lunch at a tapas bar in West Hartford.

Finally a guy who doesn’t take me to play pool and sip BL’s on the first date. I, of course, order a salad, dressing on the side.

As I’m eating I’m trying to envision that it’s a Big Mac. This works until I take the first bite.

“Is your food okay?”, he asks.

“Yes, it’s great!”

And when I say great I mean that I’m going to eat as little as possible so that I can get a large extra value meal on the way home.

While he is talking about his boring job, I find my mind drifting...

I wonder...

...if salads were bad for you would I like them more? Would I be craving salad instead of french fries?

Nah.

Lunch is pleasant enough and we leave and go to an Irish pub.

We each order a beer and 4 minutes later just as I am about to polish off my first pint I realize that he has taken about 2 sips of his.

Damn Ireland.

In Ireland 90 year-old men were drinking me under the table. Consequently, in the U.S. I can shotgun a beer faster than an Ed Hardy t-shirt wearing frat boy.

Not that classiest impression to give on a first date.

I milk my last sip for another 30 minutes until finally he finishes his pint and the date comes to an end.

As I am getting on the highway I get a text asking if he can see me again.

OMG I’m getting married!

The following week he decides to take me on a picnic.

Cute, right?

When he said picnic, I thought me meant a gorgeous spread of aged wine and cheese on a Burberry blanket.

Apparently he meant a trip to Panera Bread and a fleece blanket in a soccer field.

In November.

PS- We live in New England, buddy.

As I’m sitting in pitch black, 30-degree weather and trying to eat my chicken noodle soup without spilling it all over my cashmere cardigan, I begin to sense that maybe this guy isn’t for me.

Maybe heels weren’t the right choice for this date?

My teeth chattering, I have mascara running down my face and I’m contemplating feigning a life-threatening illness (migraine, anyone?) when my date states, very matter-of-factly that he is planning on making his future wife sign a prenuptial agreement.

I choke on my soup.

Seriously?

He already doesn’t trust me with his money?

How is that even possible?

He hasn’t even seen my wardrobe and collection of Swarovski crystal jewelry.

The date ends and then...

nothing.

No texts, no calls.

3 days later...

I call Ale.

He tries to remind me that I never even really liked this guy, and that his only positive trait is that he has the ability to support my shopping habits.

In fact he is somewhat pretentious and boring.

As Ale is talking, I think about where things must have gone wrong. He was so into me. What happened? What’s wrong with me, that I couldn’t maintain his interest for more than a few dates?

"Mandy, I have to go watch Real Housewives. Bye."

"Wait Ale! What am I supposed to do now?" I shout, as I hear the dial tone answer me back.

"Ale?!?" I shout again.

I burst into tears. I recall something someone told me earlier in the week.

Buffy (my friend who clearly has no difficulty obtaining men due to her size 2 jeans, and blond hair) told me that dating is like trying on shoes. You might try on a pair, and they look AMAZING. You know exactly what dress you'll wear with them. But, after 5 minutes of dancing in them, you want to kill yourself. Others might be a little boring (e.g., flats) but you could dance for hours in them, without falling or blisters.

Then there's the pair that are boring AND hurt you so much that you want to kill yourself after 5 minutes.

You probably shouldn’t buy that pair.

But sometimes, just sometimes, you convince yourself that the boring, painful shoes are better than no shoes at all.

Except that they aren’t.

You can’t really expect everybody to like you, just like you can’t expect every pair of shoes you try on to fit. Some people just don't click. It doesn’t mean that you aren’t pretty enough, smart enough, or funny enough. It doesn't even mean that your feet are too big. It doesn’t have to mean anything other than, it wasn't meant to be.

I realize that all these shoes I’m trying on are a build up to the best pair of shoes ever. They are probably worth more than a pair of Manolo Blahnik’s.

In the meantime, Mom, can I have a pair of Manolo Blahnik’s for Christmas?