I got mansplained

Ok so I signed up for online dating. And by I signed up, I mean that drunk me let sober me be talked into it by one of my friends. But I'm on there nonetheless, proclaiming for the world wide web that I am single and ready to mingle. I had second thoughts when the first person to message me was a 35-year-old divorced Catholic with two kids, a place in suburbia and tons of shirtless photos of his tattooed chest. If this is the kind of person who thinks I would date them, Match.com had best review the way it calculates its compatibility algorithms...

One of the guys who messaged me soon after seemed cool enough. We had things in common, he looked really cute in his pics and he was a doctor. I do not see dollar signs when a guy is a doctor, I just figured it meant he was really smart and probably a good person. But I began to get red flags from this guy almost immediately. Douchey red flags.

He asked if I wanted to meet up so I gave him my number so he could call me expressly for that purpose. Instead, he begins texting me really stupid, inane, boring small talk while I'm busy at work. How's your day? Whatcha doing? I'm in Chicago, etc. (Here's the thing: If I have never met you, it's safe to say I do not care what you are up to and do not want to expend the time and brain power on coming up with funny/cute/coy responses to your texts while I'm on deadline. When we've met in real life and I see if you are indeed as hot as your pics suggest, then maybe I will engage in witty repartee. But not before.) I responded to his texts, but curtly.

Three days and 20 texts later, he finally decides on a place and time to meet up. I say, ok, great, see you tomorrow night. The next day he texts me to make sure we are still on. Uh... yeah. We just agreed on this 12 hours ago, remember? Then half an hour before we are supposed to meet he texts and says for me text him when I get to the place so we can walk in together. Hmm... I thought it was understood that when meeting someone, anyone, even friends, the first person to get there generally goes into the establishment, gets a drink or a table or whatever and waits for the other person. But I play along and text him when I get there, then I stand around awkwardly outside a trendy, hip bar while he keeps me waiting for 10 minutes. His douchbaggery thus far has sufficiently turned me off to the point that I no longer even want to meet him, but I silence the voice in my head that is screaming at me to run away while I still can.

Things went downhill from there. Five minutes in I knew I had made a mistake. The "date" consisted of me getting mansplained. For one hour. All men mansplain at one time or another and all women have been mansplained. Boyfriends do it, dads do it, strangers do it. Here's what it looks like: the man stands up taller and puffs out his chest so he can literally talk down to you, his body language suggests he knows waaaay more about whatever topic you are discussing than you do. He's an expert in fact. He sticks his chin in the air. Sometimes he closes his eyes while speaking, dismissing your thoughts and opinions while seething with condescension, all in a tone of voice that says, sit down, silly little girl, let me handle this, you don't want to hurt yourself by thinking complicated thoughts. When guys try to manage your expectations, it's a form of mansplaining.

He lectured to me, talked at me, talked over me, telling me how the world works. For one solid hour.

Here were his major points: Boulder is full of communists who hate dogs, doctors and journalists are a lot alike because they are both dying professions, (couldn't really make the leap on that one) the universal health care bill is bad because (sick) people will be getting something for free, because people are dumb and don't know any better they will go to physicians assistants and nurse practitioners instead of doctors, the city is not friendly to businesses and sets business owners up for failure, he lived in boston, hated it, he lived in the carribean, hated it, he doesn't have all the numbers on the economics of it, but he's SURE composting is bad, people who don't go to college deserve to make $15 an hour (this part was really funny to me, because I would sell my soul for $15 an hour. And although a few of those years were a little fuzzy due to all the 40s we drank, I'm pretty sure I actually went to, and graduated from, college. If he thinks $15 an hour is what people who don't go to college make, he is pretty out of touch with reality. Or at least my reality) Oh and because of some reason, blah, blah, I'd stopped listening, his income goes down by five percent every year. Oh yeah, ouch. I feel for you, doctor.

And here's the kicker: He does surgeries to implant some kind of spinal cord stimulator into people who have chronic pain. (Although he likes this kind of surgery, it's not worth it to him because he has to drive to a different hospital and doesn't get paid enough for it. You can see he went into medicine for all the right reasons.) Then he mentioned that a woman once asked him if he was able to implant one that would allow her to have orgasms whenever she wanted. He said yes, he was able to, but no, he didn't do it.

He would ask me questions about myself and then interrupt me to mansplain how I was wrong or interject his opinion on something he was clueless about. It was especially comical when he started mansplaining all about the journalism industry and how it works and what's wrong with it. He just kept talking. And talking. It was like he paid someone (me) by buying them one drink to sit there and listen to his lectures. And I'm pretty sure his hatred of me was equal, judging by his chilly good-bye as he sent me packing, although I can't figure out why since I barely got one word in the entire time and dutifully nodded my head and pretended to listen...

But here's the best part: As we were leaving he actually said, as if he had some kind of ESP: "You aren't one of those people who writes about their dates and how full of themselves they are, are you?"

No, of course not. You mean people do that?

And the Hippos were Soiled in Their Tanks

So I was supposed to go out on like a real date with this guy I had met online. Not like meet for a drink/coffee, but a real date. He planned it and everything. It was to start at the zoo. Since I used to live just a few blocks from the zoo, I thought I would walk there to meet him.

It was a Saturday and I was in super training mode for a half Ironman triathlon, which meant I had gotten up at 5:30 a.m. and ridden my bike 50 miles, followed by an hour run. When I got home, the exhaustion, coupled with the intense heat of my shoebox of an apartment, caused me to fall asleep. For two hours.

I woke up on the couch, still in my tri clothes, already late for the date. There was no time to shower and I just hoped he wouldn't notice all the dog fur sticking to my still-sunscreen-covered, sweaty limbs. I threw on some clothes and deodorant, and ran out the door.

Although driving would be quicker, I decide to stick to my original plan and walk to the zoo. Only now I have to run. Like sprint. I texted the date real quick and said sorry I was running late and that I would be there in a few minutes and proceeded to run the few blocks through the park to the zoo.

Because I wanted to look like a cool hipster I wore the official shoe of the cool hipster: Converse All-Star sneakers. Without socks. And despite what the Harlem Globetrotters say, Chuck Taylors are terrible, terrible athletic shoes. After 100 yards I can feel the blisters forming, but it's too late to turn back now. I hobble the rest of the way to the zoo, half running, half limping. I spot a guy that looks vaguely like the guy in the online pics sitting on a bench. He's dressed a little too nicely for a date at the zoo...

At this point I realize I'm sweating profusely. It's 90 degrees. I have pit stains. I look down at my feet and the blisters have now apparently popped because blood is soaking through my shoes in several spots, turning the blue canvas dark purple. Hopefully he won't notice. I try to walk like a normal human being.

We amble (by amble I mean limp) around the zoo, looking at animals, commenting on how weird/cute/ugly they are and making getting-to-know-you small talk. Then we walk into the inside half of the hippo enclosure where you are able to view the hippos swimming in their pool. No other zoo patrons are inside the hippo house and it immediately becomes clear why. It stinks. Really bad. Not like your typical manure-and-hay farm smell of livestock and zoo animals, but really, really horrible. Like something died. There is hippo poop everywhere and it's obvious this animal is experiencing some severe digestive problems. This, coupled with the stifling afternoon heat and humidity from the water is too much. We can't just ignore it. The situation must be acknowledged.

You know what's more awkward on a first date than talking about a hippo swimming around in its own diarrhea and speculating about what it must have eaten? I'll tell you. Going to a sushi restaurant and trying unsuccessfully to stifle giggles as you discuss ordering rolls with names like "Multiple Orgasm," "Booty Call," "69," "Climax," and my personal favorite, "Foreplay." Yeah, I'm 12.

And this was a fancy sushi restaurant in a swanky part of town that people like me have no business being in. I was waaay under-dressed because he didn't tell me we were going there. He just made a reservation and it was a really fun surprise when we show up in the part of town where all the Botoxed women wear high heels and clothes that accentuate their boob jobs to run mundane daily errands, like going to the grocery store. (VH1 NEEDS to take its Real Housewives series to this part of town.)

Needless to say, this was not a place where someone can show up unshowered, wearing their bloody Converse All Stars, sweaty tank top and jean shorts. Did I mention I was wearing jean shorts? Yeah, I was. Not like the short, cut-off, trashy kind, but the longish kind that are too tight to fit a cell phone in the pocket and make it difficult to ride a bike/run to the zoo in. Not that this in any way excuses wearing jean shorts. I told you, I had just woken up.

I'm pretty sure the restaurant had a dress code and that's why we were forced to eat on the patio. The air-conditioned dining room was apparently reserved for diners who don't look all homeless-hipster chic.

Anyway, by now my feet hurt, I'm still sweating, I'm not even drunk and all this pretending that this ill-fated date is actually super fun is exhausting. So I gave up. Against my better judgement, after seriously considering taking my shoes off and walking home barefoot, and without knowing for sure that this guy wasn't a serial killer, I let him give me a ride home.

Amazingly, this guy called me again so maybe I wasn't as much of a hot mess as I thought I was. He was nice and interesting and all, no complaints there. But the embarrassment of that afternoon of horrors was too much for me to ever face him again.

I don't know what it is, but talking about poop and sex with strangers, followed by an impromptu trip to the nice part of town never fails to make me feel awkward.

Damning with faint praise and harsh punctuation

*Again, the amazing Jacqui:

Well, that happened.

So I went out with the brave Valentine's Day caller on Tuesday. I had a feeling he was going to be perfect, and I was correct in my assumption. He was smart, kind, polite, witty, and very cute. I say was, because to me he is dead. Turns out he just wasn't that into me.

My friends keep saying, "You don't know that for sure!" "Don't be negative!" "Keep the faith!" "Relax, He might call!" Yeah, see here's the thing: no he won't. Most intelligent people of a certain age can get a pretty clear read on whether or not there will be a second date by the end of the first date. Friends, I love you, but you also know he isn't going to call again, so please don't patronize me. It's my pathetic dating life, I get to be the one in denial if I so choose. You should be the realists telling me to cut bate and fish in someone else's pond. Does that make sense? Probably not. I don't care.

So here is what happened. We work in similar industries so we had a lot to talk about, blah blah blah, wine wine wine, at some point I fell deeply in love with him, then he didn't try to kiss me or ask to see me again. This is puzzling because the conversation was great, he kept ordering more drinks, acting all "interested" in what I had to say. Woof.

It's quite possible that he knew within three minutes of meeting me that he did not want to see me again, or in other words, that he didn't want to see me naked at any point in the future. On the topic of not wanting to see me naked, another thing people have begun saying to comfort me is: "At least he didn't just sleep with you and never call." Hmmm, how to put this delicately.... THAT'S EQUALLY IF NOT MORE OFFENSIVE....to me, at this fragile, umm, moment in my life.

It's also possible that I talk far too much on a first date (at some point the Duke lacrosse players sex scandal came up, I can't exactly say how, but rape is probably not a first date topic. Whoa. That may be the real take away here. Shiver). Anyway, since we have a mutual friend I decided to be an adult and text a quick "Thanks for last night, I had a lot of fun!" I didn't expect any reply, but I did get the following a couple hours later: "Yes. It was a good time."

Now, what I find most interesting/disturbing about this is his use of punctuation. There are only six words, but he used two periods. YIKES. I felt like replying, Jesus, buddy, was it THAT bad? ! Quit yelling at me. Yes PERIOD. That first period sounded like a piece of wet cotton hitting the ground. It actually made a sound when it hit my phone. It is the text equivalent of a handshake and pat on the head.

So, no, methinks I won't be hearing from Mr. Wonderful again. Next date I'm going with a low cut blouse and an excessive amount of lower lip biting.