don’t say we didn’t warn you

Around the time I was 12 years old, I became convinced that being adult was the greatest,  most awesomely bad-ass fun thing in the world.  From the point of view of an awkward, bespectacled, pimply adolescent in a small, dead-end town, adulthood was as magical and welcome as an oasis in the desert – no one could tell me how late I could stay out, what to eat for dinner, or what kind of clothes I could wear.  I would be sophisticated and successful, beautiful and rich, and many, many attractive men would desire me.

Whenever I vocalized these feverish visions to someone who actually was an adult, the typical result was laughter – sarcastic snorts, cynical snickers, or full-on belly laughs, usually accompanied by some form of, “Oh yeah, that’s what you think adulthood is?  Well, let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

I’m remembering this today because last night, I found myself having a similar conversation, only this time I was the naysayer, and the topic wasn’t adulthood, but singlehood.

Let me explain.  Last night, I was at the opening of InterAct Theater Company’s new show, “City of Numbers” (highly recommended, btw).  During the opening night reception after the show, I was talking with my friend Samantha and one of the theater company’s interns, DeAndrea, who had recently parted ways with her long-term boyfriend.  As is the case with many people who have recently been released back into the wild, DeAndrea was enthusiastically extolling the virtues of being single, and suddenly, like all those grumpy, over-worked adults who rained on my wide-eyed, naive parade, Sam and I found ourselves trying to disabuse DeAndrea of the notion that singlehood is all it’s cracked up to be.

“I know what you’re saying – it’s great at first,” Sam said as we tried to bite back our bitter, cynical cackles, “but try being single for FOUR YEARS.  I told my mom the other day that I just hope my body gets to the morgue before it starts to smell.”

“I’m just trusting that my cats will start eating me before that happens,” I said, and Sam and I dissolved into laughter as DeAndrea looked at us as if we had parted ways with our sanity.

“Come on, guys, it’s not that bad,” she said.  “Why are you so pessimistic?”

“We’re not pessimistic,” I said.  “We’re realistic.  Give it time, you’ll learn the difference.”

As if to drive the point home, later on in the evening, I was approached by a member of the show’s running crew who I apparently communicated with back in my early days on Match.com.  We had never gotten to the actual face-to-face meeting stage, and finally, last night, I understood why – with all due respect, the kid was a bit of an awkward creeper, of the I’m-going-to-hover-near-you-at-an-uncomfortably-close-distance-until-you-acknowledge-me-and-then-refuse-to-take-your-hints-that-the-conversation-is-over variety.  I’m ashamed to admit that I actually abandoned Sam with him for a bit, but it’s every man (or woman) for himself out there, and after three glasses of wine and no dinner, I was in no position to gracefully handle any remotely uncomfortable situation.  (Sam, I owe you a drink for taking one for the team like that.)

Anyway, the whole thing made me laugh, and as we were leaving the theater, I said to Sam and Julie, “See, that’s what we were trying to warn DeAndrea about.  She thinks there’s all sorts of wonderful, interesting, attractive men out there, but there’s not.  There’s that guy, and many, many others like him.”

“She’ll learn,” Sam said, laughing the way my parents laughed when I would express anticipation of adulthood.  “Just give it time, just give it time.”

where do we go from here?

As promised, today’s post will include a more in-depth analysis of Friday night’s date with Mr. Smooth Operator, who was teetering on the brink of elimination in the “Who Wants to Date Krissy Scatton?” sweepstakes.  (I wonder if VH-1 would snap up that concept for a reality show?  They are the network that is about to bring us, this shitshow so who knows?)  But I digress.

Those of you who checked the blog over the weekend know that the date actually (perhaps anticlimactically) went well.  We went for dinner at a cozy little BYOB up in Old City, had some bangin’ Italian food (including my favorite dish in the whole wide world, lobster ravioli), and enjoyed some nice conversation.  Not that the date wasn’t without its awkward moments.  Twice I had to put my foot down and forbid him from using two different tired, cheesy jokes, which he already overused on our first two dates.  And he did voluntarily admit at one point that he has a tendency to try too hard.  This was the point when I slid on my Awkwardness Cloak (similiar to Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, except an Awkwardness Cloak is red and blinking and tends to make people around you shift nervously in their seats) and kind of nodded, then blathered something about people always being nervous when they meet someone new and want to impress them before hastily and gracelessly changing the subject.  Which I guess makes me a hypocrite for ribbing this guy, since I’m not exactly Slick Rick over here, although I mostly only tend to get awkward in conversation when I’m trying really, really hard to be tactful, because that’s not a normal state of being for me.  It’s like my mouth and my mind get locked in a fight to the death, and I wind up sounding like English is my second language.

At any rate, Friday night was not as bad as it could have been (or frankly, as I was expecting it to be), although I should know by now that  any scenarios that my overly pessimistic mind can dream up are usually 10 times worse than anything that can actually happen (although I don’t like to think of it as pessimistic, I prefer to think of it as prepared.) We don’t have any concrete plans to see each other again this week, but I borrowed one of his CDs to burn, so I feel like there is the understanding that we will see each other again, which is ok with me, but…

But, but, but.  There’s always a but.  The rest of the weekend, as I thought more about Friday night, the more I became certain that I am not interested in anything more than casual dating with this gentleman.  Going out to eat or see a movie or something once a week or so is fine for now, but deep down I’m not feeling the spark that’s telling me to really push for this to go somewhere deeper.  Which of course begs the question, Do I tell him that?

My gut instinct tells me that full disclosure is the way to go – that I should tell him right here and now that I’m not looking for anything more than a casual dating arrangement with him.  However, in my experience, 9 times out of 10, full disclosure is the fastest way for me to end up flat on my face, embarrassed and alone.  This time, part of me really, really, really wants to keep my big trap shut, if only to see if I can, and let the chips fall where they may.  Let him be the one to bring up the “Where is this going?” question for once; I’m tired of it.  My only concern is that leaves me no opportunity to cover my ass – he would be wide open to tell me that I was leading him on.  And, honestly, I would tend to agree with him.  So, as usual, the scenario is something like this: Rock – Krissy – hard place.

Of course, this may all be wild speculation.  For all I know, he could have walked out of his house this morning and tripped over some beautiful, wonderful woman and fallen in love at first sight and forgotten all about me.  Chances are, the things that I worry about today will never come to pass tomorrow.  Maybe for once I should just relax, go with the flow, and look on the bright side – at least I didn’t need that other bottle of wine on Friday.