Single. And I Think It’s My Fault

bored-date

Something weird is happening. After a month of bitching that I don’t get asked out on dates enough, I canceled a third date. With a cute law student. If she were dead, my grandmother would be rolling in her grave right now…but instead she’s screaming at me that she’s never going to have great grandchildren.

To be honest, the boy is absolutely perfect on paper: attractive, on a similar career path as me, personable, polite… did I already say attractive? That counts as two.

But I have found a number of little, tiny reasons to be not-so-attracted to him. I don’t like the guy because he has this rare disease that causes him to spell absolutely everything wrong in his text messages. We’re not talking a mere omission of commas, I mean “Z’s” where “S’s” should be. It is a nuclear war on grammar.

And I hate how he dances. I’m very, very awkward about private displays of affection, much less public ones. I don’t want to feel like I’ve been dry humped by a horny 13-year-old every time we hit the dance floor!

Are these legitimate reasons? Maybe, and maybe not. I sure wouldn’t want someone to cancel a date on me because I wore yellow, or because I have split ends. But in all actuality, I don’t even need a reason; the chemistry just isn’t there. Dating can sometimes become very, very mechanical. You look for people with similar surface qualities…hobbies, politics, musical tastes. It’s like running a checklist, but we forget one minor detail; the elusive, almost mythical “spark” has to be there too. He has all the makings of my hot, liberal dream boy, but deep in my gut I know he’s Mr. Right Now, and that nasty latter word will always be there.

I definitely feel like one of those hot and cold people Katy Perry and the rest of female society bitch about. But I think this might (brace yourselves!) be a sign of maturation. If I’m zoning out during all of his stories and feel nothing when we kiss, it doesn’t matter that he likes The Wallflowers and studied political science. Yes, I can mark that all off on the checklist, but I’d like to believe that isn’t what human relationships have been reduced to. I’m old enough to realize I’m looking for more than just something to talk about in that awkward 30 minutes between going home with the guy and making out with him.

He may be perfect on paper, but he’s not perfect for me.
Regardless of what my grandmother screams at me through the phone.

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