Goodbye, Man-sprout

I was looking forward to my long-awaited date with Man-sprout, the man I went out with last April who then canceled our second date last-minute and recently charmed me into agreeing to go out with him again. It had been a looong week, one of the longest I can remember, filled with lots of tears over Big Guy's passing, some soul-searching over whether to take off work and go to his memorial, confusingly kind messages from La Moustache, a small car accident that led to missing an important work meeting... I *really* needed a cocktail.

Instead, I got one line:

Heathen, 

I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow. Something has come up. 

Man-sprout

Wow. It's hard to know how to respond to this level of rudeness. I decided to just laugh about it and get a cocktail with Slinky instead -- exactly what I did the last time he canceled on me (and SO much more fun than going out with Man-sprout would have been).

'Tis the season for exes to come crawling out of the woodwork

It's that time of year when people take stock of their lives, feel lonely, get sentimental, and contact their long-lost loves. I've seen signs of it all over the place, from my roommate mentioning over breakfast that she'd written a boyfriend she's barely spoken to in two years to headlines in Love Letters like Should she reach out to an ex over the holidays? and Contacting a old love [sic].

Some people do it well, like l'Artista, who sent me a sweet note telling me he's been thinking about me a lot lately. These people express their emotions without letting themselves get carried away by them. Other people do it poorly, such as Leif Ericson, who sent me an impersonal, self-serving, AA-style apology note. Six months after the fact, it was utterly unnecessary, and left me feeling that any connection I ever felt to him was imagined. I didn't reply; or maybe I did. (Gmail is giving me mixed messages about whether or not the reply I crafted was ever sent. But it's the thought that counts, and I didn't *mean* to reply.)

I also got an unexpected message from a long-lost date who I never thought I'd hear from again. (I'm a little bit hesitant to link to old posts about him, because I didn't say anything very positive about him and I want to keep an open mind. But what the hell.) He asked me to give him a second chance. I felt ambivalent about it and wasn't sure how to respond, so I asked some friends what they thought I should do. You know when you get the same exact advice from two of your very best advice-givers that it is really quality advice, so I followed it and requested that he provide me with a reason why I should go out with him again. He replied,

Hi Heathen, In the spring what happened was that I started seeing another girl more seriously right around the time when we went out. I agree I screwed up and should have been more straightforward with you and told you what was going on. I regret and and I'm sorry I ruined your Friday night. 

I think you should give me another chance because I thought we had a really good first date, because I think you're very smart and interesting, because on our date I made you laugh (a lot, as I recall), because I think we have a lot in common, because I think you're cute, because I want to talk more about education policy and French things with you, and because I'd like to spend more time with you. That's more than one reason, but I think they're all good. Have I persuaded you?

Man-sprout

I was charmed by this (I like nothing more than a man who likes me!), plus I remembered that he introduced me to one of my favorite music videos of all time, so I agreed. Time will tell if I live to regret this decision -- unless the world ends tonight, of course.

Questionable and more questionable

I have a second date coming up with my educational policy-loving, ageist Man-sprout. I have to admit I'm excited, despite some questionable behaviors he's exhibited.

Partly I'm excited because he's easy on the eyes, but mostly I'm excited because the date is awesome: We're going to a beach party at the Museum of Fine Arts. The concept reminds me of Paris Plages, the fake beach set up every year on the banks of the Seine so that Parisians can have beach vacations without stepping foot outside the 5th arrondissement. The event invitation has instructions to "wear our beachy best."

Not being totally sure what that means, given that it's going to be an early May New England day in the low 60s, I asked my Man-sprout about attire. He replied that he will dress as Brian Wilson and I should dress as a blonde Katy Perry. I replied, "Good idea. Now I have three days to figure out what Katy Perry would wear to a beach party at the MFA."

In response, he sent me this:



WHOA. I think I've watched it ten times, and I still feel overwhelmed by it. I mean, is is a music video, or is it porn?! She's naked and has whipped cream spewing out of her breasts!

So, is my Man-sprout saying I should wear a purple wig and a pink cloud to the MFA?!

I do love Snoop Dogg's cupcake-adorned suit, though.

Over the hill

I went out with a guy last week who is a couple of years younger than me. A little ways into the conversation, I found out that he went to the same college as a few of my friends.

I threw some names his way. "Ms. B? Miami Nice? Ring any bells?"

"When did they graduate?"

I told him.

"No, they're too old. I might recognize them, but they were seniors when I was a freshman," he said.

"There is someone else I know, but she's really young," I said. "We're going to be in a canoe race together this weekend. But there's no way you'd know her." I told him her name. She's my childhood friend's younger sister.

"Yeah, we graduated together," he replied. Then he made a few jokes about the fact that I was born in the 1970s. Including one about the Civil Rights movement. It went something like this: "The Civil Rights movement happened not that long ago. It was just two decades before I was born. I guess it was in the decade before you were born." Snicker, snicker.

Quite the charmer. Still, I might go out with him again. After all, those of us who were born in the 70s can't be too picky. We're pretty old.