Charming, but single

A journal in dates and drinks


Another notch in my lipstick case, part 2

Note: Read the first part if you haven’t already. Two Saturdays ago, bolstered by a new little black dress and some darling animal print kitten heels, I set out into the night for some good times with my friends. Truth be told, I was still reeling from my best’s friends announcement of her impending engagement and my soon-to-be bridesmaid status. This combined with my latest failed attempt at dating had me needing some validation that I was, in fact, great. Maybe it is unhealthy. I am enough most of the time. And I don’t need outside forces to make me feel good about myself. But there are moments when I lose sight of this and think I need to see myself reflected in someone else’s eager eyes to feel my confidence surge. It’s a nasty habit I fall back on. And, I know I’m not alone in this insecurity and the need to be indulged when I am down. Drugs, alcohol, shoes, shopping, men, women, cars, vacations, food, jewelry – we all have our vices. I composed the perfect sexy text message to The Nurse on my way to the bar. It was cute and flirty. I described my outfit from head to toe, undergarments and all. “You find any of this appealing?” was my closer. I didn’t send it at first. I waited until I was with girlfriends – Southern Belle and her sister. “I draft my texts in advance,” I bragged. “I am a professional communicator.” “Oh honey, no,” Southern Belle’s Sister said. “You gotta be coy on the first round. Make him come to you.” We settled on a less overt text. The Nurse replied immediately that he had to work in the morning. It was barely 10 p.m. and I was feeling mighty rejected. He could have met me for one drink if he cared. I blasted off the sexy text message, adding that I could keep him occupied until he had to be at work. I haven’t heard from him since, which is just fine, I guess. I was overzealous; I should have played it safe. But I’ve been playing it safe for 26 and a half years and, well; sometimes you just have to put it out there. As Best Friend Ever had told me earlier on the phone, “Babe, I know what everyone else has told you, but me, I go after what I want. And you have to make up your own mind, but if you want to see him tonight, you go after what you want.” The flip side to this is that now I was left looking like a million bucks and feeling like two dollars. And all of the Hoegaardens in the bar weren’t going to shake me from my bad mood. I flipped through the address book of my phone. Surely I had some sort of “In Case of Emergency” contact for these situations. I passed on many guys, B included. And then I landed on the Crier. Now, to back up a bit, I had seen the Crier weeks before. And he was still very into me. And I was talking to my College Roommate the other day and she said, “You know, we all thought that Crying Guy was too emotional, but now that I see the Nurse, I think maybe we were wrong.” This planted the seed in my mind, and after consulting with several other friends, I’d decided that maybe I was kind of a jerk to the Crier. He’s a nice guy who made a minor tactical error on a date and I’m the jerk who blabbed about it to everyone. So, I sent him a text message on that lonely Saturday night. And, like I knew he would, he called, ecstatic to hear from me. I felt a pang of guilt as I stood outside the bar and flirted with him on the phone, convincing him to come meet me for a late night drink. I all but skipped back into the bar. My friends couldn’t believe he’d agreed to meet me; I’d called him because I knew he would. My friends moved on for the night, so I parked myself up at the bar for a glass of wine while I waited for him to show up. Two men flirted with me unsuccessfully. (“That’s a nice Kenneth Cole bag” is NOT a pick-up line, FYI.) I didn’t see the Crier come in and he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders and said hello. We left my drunken suitors at the bar and found a table. The Crier bought me another glass of wine and settled in with a beer and we caught up. He has the best smile and he spoke animatedly about how glad he was that I’d reached out to him and how I looked fantastic. “That dress,” he said. “You look great in that dress.” As I talked to him, I realized that he really is Perfect on Paper. He’s about to turn 30, he has a good job, he’s just purchased a townhouse, he’s polite and well-mannered, he’s tall and husky, he is crazy about me and – this is the kicker – he coaches his nephew’s kid football team because the child’s father isn’t in the picture. He literally drives to another town for no other reason than to coach a six-year-old’s football team. (I think my ovaries just jumped a little bit.) But … there always must be a but. I just don’t get that punched-in-the-gut feeling when I’m around him, like I’m so nervous and so full of butterflies that I might need to run to the bathroom to throw up. I have a good time with him, but I don’t feel the urge to rip his clothes off or profess my undying affection. I’m never flustered around him. I feel as if he likes me much more than I like him. He speaks of making plans or trying a new restaurant and it doesn’t even faze me. He’s got these beefy arms that wrap around me so well – but I don’t have to have them there. My mind thinks, “Great!” but I can’t get breathless over him for some reason. We finished our drinks and he suggested watching a movie. I thought about resisting and going home alone. It would be unfair to lead him on, I thought. But he is so kind and sweet that I gave into desire and went to watch a movie at his place. He gave me a tour of the partially empty townhouse, noting that his living room furniture comes out of storage soon. He was so proud of his home, showing off places where he picked the colors himself and where he did painting and maintenance. He walked me through the upstairs and a guest bedroom he’s been working on and showed off the small balcony outside his master suite. “Not a bad view,” he joked, as I headed over to the railing. “Waterfront,” he giggled, motioning to the creek below. He was leaning against the door frame leading from his bedroom to the balcony, watching with glee as I tiptoed barefoot across the wooden floor. I turned and leaned my back against the rail, reaching out with my hands grasping the railing on each side of me. “Waterfront, eh?” I grinned. And he smiled and walked over from the door to his room, wrapped his hands around my waist and kissed me softly.



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Charming, but single is 25 26 27(!), lives in the Southern part of the U.S.A. and likes both her drinks and her boys tall. E-mail (listed below) her and she may respond. You can also IM her in AIM/AOL. (If she ever remembers to sign on.)
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Former taglines of this blog: "A Journal in Dates and Drinks" and "A Dateless Journal of Drinking."




Those Particulars
Some Backstory
Memories of the Way We Were
Updates and Towel Snapping
One Year Wrap-Up
Just As She Is
An Open Letter to Myself
After 26 years, she HAS learned something
An Open Letter to the Men Who Message Me Through Match
Sharing a smoke



Associated Content Interview with Charming
The Hindu: Blog Sisters are here

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