I’m Typing in My Socks

And boxers, and a heavy flannel shirt. It’s amazing I’m still single.

Let’s get to it. One of the hazards of wanting to show your blog off to people you know in the real world is that now you have to pull your punches when you write. You don’t feel like you can talk about every little thing. Not that I ever did, but there you go.

So, I’m going to not pull punches and just blab away, which is how I’m comfortable anyway. And yes, I’m aware that I have the writing voice of a 24-year-old chick. I can’t help that either. (But I do feel the need to remind everyone that I’m All Man. Just keep reading.)

So, I feel like I’m in a last mad dash to get some online dating in before my account expires at some indeterminate date. I think February something. It’s one thing to realize, once and for all, that online is hopeless, that everyone involved in it is looking for The Perfect Person, and you probably aren’t it. In fact, you’re also looking for The Perfect Person, who doesn’t which means you’re going to either get your heart broken or break someone else’s. But, see, when it’s Been Awhile, you pays your money and you takes your chance. And by “Been Awhile,” I don’t mean getting nekkid, I mean, you know, the other good stuff. Going out. Having a nice conversation with someone. With, you know… maybe the potential for that other stuff down the road. Because you reach a certain age, and all you really care about is the potential.

So, last night had potential written all over it in fourteen-foot neon-filled glass tubes, spelling out the word “HEY IDIOT: POTENTIAL.”

Now, a quick message to Mrs. T, one of my friends who not only occasionally reads what I write, but also would like to introduce me to her very interesting and very beautiful friend: I still would like to meet her, because all I’m writing about here is a very nice but probably meaningless online date.

With a very beautiful, funny doctor.

Anyway, this date came out of nowhere. We’d been scheduled to meet before Christmas, but she met someone else and politely canceled. I politely wished her well and forgot all about her. Until she wrote back a couple of nights ago and said the other situation hadn’t gone anywhere. So, we met for drinks last night at this place on Division. Going in, I had no expectations whatsoever. Not only have I moved past that stage, but everything on this date indicated a one-and-done. We would meet for 45 minutes, she wouldn’t be interested (maybe I wouldn’t be interested, either), and the world would turn as it always does. Here were my clues:

* beautiful photos, and lots of them—can get any guy she wants
* great profile—smart, but really putting in a lot of effort, which means she’s looking for The Guy
* quick, brief emails leading up to the date—”Let’s cut to the chase and meet so I can give you the once over and see that you’re not as handsome as I thought you were.” It happens.
* “Hey… what happened to that other guy?” She’s cycling through half the population of Portland in quick succession looking for The Guy… and you aren’t it. No one’s it, something she may realize someday and may not.

But what the hell. A drink’s a drink. And in the words of levelheaded Teacher B, “Yeah, you gotta go to that and meet her, anyway.” He knows. He’s a guy.

Imagine my surprise when The Doctor shows up, and not only is she every bit as appealing as her photos indicated, but she’s dorky and hilarious. We had a lot to talk about, I got to let my odd sense of humor out of the box (I don’t ever get to do that on third dates, let alone first dates), and I actually had a good time. The best part was, she kept giving me this look. Eye contact is good. Even women who are interested in you and are having a good time don’t always look you in the eye.

So, anyway, when it was over, I walked her to her car. There was some out-of-nowhere goodnight kissing. We made plans to catch a movie Saturday night.

Agan, Mrs. T, I’m not engaged. I’m also not some kiss-people-all-the-time guy. Really. I’m not.

And there we go.

Oh, and I got home and there was another email from some Match person, but this one was strange and useful only to remind me that my life is not always about drinks with cute female doctors (I feel the need to remind everyone that my date was female, for deeply ingrained sexist reasons). Anyway, I got in, and there was this email from someone who used to live in Portland and now lives in Alaska. She saw my profile and had written on the tagline “Dom?” No, she didn’t think I was Joe DiMaggio’s younger brother. She was asking if I was one of those “Dominant” types that… well, I don’t know exactly what it is, but I think I do and I think you do, too. “It kind of looks like you’re a dom in your photo,” she asked. “Are you?”

Yeah, see, honey, guys who describe themselves as “Dom” don’t write long, rambling blog posts about getting a goodnight kiss. But you don’t read my blog (I hope) so there’s no way you could have known that.

Actually, I should have written back, “That’s ‘Dom, SIR!!!!!’” But I didn’t.

Now I need to put something on besides socks and get to work.