Mediocracy and Mimosas

Dating, or failed and semi-failed attempts, still circle the air these days.  Of the best of the best, here are a few moments that make you wonder why you bothered to shower, flat iron your hair, or wear heels instead of a pair of hole-riddled college sweats and a wife beater. Instead, the weak nature of humanity--and yourself--seek companionship, and you continue to hate and torture yourself . . . Time and time again. 

I've had my share of duds and everything in between, and tonight I broke down and asked an old friend what the fuck is wrong with my profile to attract every asshat clown this side of the Mississippi. He assures me it is not me.  I think he's being kind.   I still feel like it is me, as it always is.  Doesn't help that two weeks ago I found out the dude I've been keeping up long distance texts with since August is a racist, wall supporting, anti-social program fucktard.  As the truth unfolded in his ill-punctuated texts, I felt like I was out of my body watching it all unfold on a terrible B film rejected from the Cannes Film festival for being too depressing for the most somber of indie flicks.  Even better, and hold onto your wigs, he's brown and wasn't born in the States.  What the holy hell indeed.  Then again, if this were a short story it would start with "Did I tell you about the time I went out with a dude who wore shoes costing more than my rent? That's NYC rent . . ."  Indeed.  Needless to say, I'm still blown back by it.  Best I can figure is that at three months in it was bite or move on, so gloves came off and I sat there in horror.  At least this one didn't call me a hippo. 

A month later I still find myself fielding the occasional message from dudes on an app, but mostly I'm still getting unmatched before I can finish typing a hello.  Probably doesn't help that I ate the bullet and linked my Instagram account to my profile this week.  Oh yeah, I had an infusion on Friday (so aside from the usual dark mood that it gives me for a couple of days) there's also the monthly drinking Pepto from a Kate Spade straw pic floating about. 

In case you missed it.  And, FYI, don't get the cherry Pepto.  It is nastier than near anything I can think of.  And, yes, there are many reasons I am alone.  Pepto and Kate Spade straws are one (or is that two). 

In the midst of that, I got stood up on the street corner as some white guy from Brooklyn conveniently had a work emergency when I was meeting him near his Midtown office.  I know a bail on what I don't like when I see it.  Even worse, he claimed he was sorry and that he wanted to still meet up . . . But of course, it turned into the feel of letting me meet you at 930 at night, at your place, in the cloak of darkness so that I don't have to be seen with you in public.  Yeah, I've had that one before.  Like so many other horrors . . . 

Did I tell you that a month ago the relationship I have no name for resurfaced, that was after the two tangos from last spring sprang back up from the dead.  The sister from another mother and father in Turkey called that one.  Well, the sister from another mother and father in Colorado did too.  No, I'm not done with my anger, and no I don't know what anything means.  What I do know is that things rarely change, and T has long called it emotional manipulation.  Probably is.  All of it.  Maybe one day I'll tell you.  Just like maybe one day I'll tell you more about the man with 1800 dollar shoes.  It'll probably fall under a title called "Things Men Say to Me."

That leads us to now.  

There was the dude who canceled plans with me on Tuesday, and he couldn't understand why I wouldn't meet him for a drink at 930 at night . . . Well, my asshat friend, every half-wit looser knows what that is.  Then there was brunch . . . Brunch is brunch, and say what you will it is more of a commitment than coffee and far, FAR less than dinner.  It is also a demanding hour that makes you put on a full face as shadows and drinks don't cover that up.  Well, mimosas might.  If you don't like mimosas with your eggs Florentine then we can't be friends.  If you don't like eggs Florentine . . . I 'll forgive you on that part.  All my mimosa jesting aside, brunch doesn't make for a bad first date.  You get to be casual too, so there's no need for lace tights and stilettos.  

Though, recently over mimosas and eggs, I sat listening to a dude conflate about being a writer not writing with justification after justification.  Though, in a phone conversation before he had tried to make a joke by asking me what I was writing . . . And then saying "or are we two writers not writing?" Yeah. I had a quick volley to that.  Trust me, there is always something being written, and while I get equal parts rejection and torture, there are also ample queries going out . . . And I finished a new short story not long ago.  Hence, the dampening lingers of mediocre set in.  I'd had my hunches, but as I sat there, I wondered why someone would want to tango with me knowing that I'm not one for justifications and lackluster feels.  Yeah, I know.  Most people don't understand why I work so hard, so much, and why I bother (most days I wonder, but then bills call . . . and then the dream that all I ever wanted was to write and teach and write fiction  . . . ).  Yet, there's a linger of mediocrity that I don't understand.  The complacency and they need to pull others into yours.  I've dated that.  I was married to that.  See my point? 

Yeah, not everyone has to chase their dream but . . . Don't tell me you have a dream, made it once, and then walked away because it was too hard.  Maybe I expect too much, then again I've long known I suck the oxygen from the room.  Is that why I'm so tired as guys like this one and the one from August found me more charming than I perceived them? Or am I just dead inside? It's probably more on me, as I seem to be the consistent variable.  

That being said, here's to before mimosas and the face after in unfiltered digital saves of the day. . . As I typed and squandered an afternoon too achy to ride a bike, as I used all my moxi to drink Pepto on my way to brunch and even more mojo to hide my exhaustion, as my mind is in stop loss mode and my ego is long gone.