Flirt

I’m liking the flirting lately. Perhaps it started with the rain and warm temperatures that defined January, reminding me of spring and encouraging the clothing that shows a little extra skin. I feel like I’m emerging from a hibernation from boys – cuddled into my house and busy with getting settled at home and at work, hesitant to emerge from my little cave because I can remember all the times I’ve tried before and ended up alone.

Honestly? If I’m going to end up alone anyway, why not save the energy and just leave the awkward first dates, the wondering whether you like him more than he likes you, cataloging faults and determining which can go on the could be charming and which go on the hell no list. Dating is exhausting for me, and I haven’t missed it at all.

In fact, I was at the point of starting to worry that I’d never get motivated again – that I’d just go on without wanting to be escorted to dinner or a movie, to be kissed or cuddled while watching football on Sunday, to have someone to call when you have really good news. But just as most things in my life, I go through these cycles – productive/lazy, social/hermit-like, etc.

I should have known my feelings were changing when I started feeling pretty. Looking in the mirror and being surprised at my reflection. At some point, my hair got long and has this cute curling thing going at the ends. The exercise plan that I’ve been half-heartedly pursuing might be working a little since my clothes seem to fit just right. So, encouraged at what I see in the mornings, I spend a little extra time with make-up and hair, choose clothes that might be a little more flattering, suffer through shoes with higher heels. Though I know I’m not a great beauty, and tend to beat myself up over it, I feel pretty lately.

I went to get dinner one night from Fazoli’s. I decided that after a long day at work, I wasn’t up for making a salad, pasta and bread. So much easier (when I’m lazy) to just go get something. I stopped at home to get Chienne – she likes to ride with her snout out the window, and I think it’s funny to watch her little jowls flap in the wind.

So I ordered and pulled around to pay and get my drink. I don’t generally talk to drive-thru workers. I realize that it’s probably a sucky job so I’m polite and grateful for their help, but don’t bother them otherwise. It's just part of my natural reserve. But Fazoli’s wasn’t busy, and Chienne got in the backseat to stick her nose out the window again.

The cutie working that evening smiled and rubbed her nose with the back of his finger. We discussed her pedigree, though she’s from a shelter and it’s difficult to define the parentage of a dog likely born of 2 mixed breeds. I like to think of her as an American – an amalgam of various dogs from many places.

Anyway, the smiles, the dog, the very light flirting made me flutter the tiniest bit. But it was easily pushed aside as an aberration. After all, I returned home to my salad and pasta alone, eating in the glow from the television, curled up on my loveseat, with only my dog and sitcom characters for company.

Last week, in an attempt to avoid the worst of the traffic, I coaxed myself into work clothes and pulled my hair back early on Tuesday morning. Leaving the garage shortly after 6, I promised myself Starbucks via the use of my Christmas gift card. Waiting patiently in the drive-thru line, listening to Chandler through the car speakers, I finally gave my order to the sexy voice emanating from the pretty speaker box. I kept my window down while waiting for my iced coffee (I scoff at your idea of cold weather), and was soon the next to be served my precious caffeine.

Sexy voice popped his head out the window to reach the woman ahead of me – handing her a pastry and hot coffee. Disheveled, scruffy, and in short sleeves, unafraid of the cold, I was immediately sure we were kindred spirits. Destined to fall deeply in love and frolic in the mild Southern winters.

I arrived at the window after quickly removing my ponytail holder, shaking my hair loose. I made a mental note in bold to set a hair appointment. I hadn’t yet found a salon since moving, relying on my sporadic trips to my grad school city to visit my much beloved Aveda stylist.

I handed him my gift card, and he graced me with a grin, confirming my order. My blouse didn’t allow for enough freedom of movement to reach the window easily, so as he leaned out to hand me my whipped cream topped treat, I handed him my dollar with a shy “I can’t reach your tip jar.”

“You’re a saint beyond measure.” He murmured. “Thanks a lot.”

I ducked my head, hoping he noticed how my hair fell forward and caught the light. And perhaps covered the fact that I had skipped the eye makeup that morning.

“You’re welcome.” I said, peeking up at him again. “Have a good day!”

“You too.” And with another smile, he ducked back inside the small window and left me to find parking and wait for the shuttle, iced coffee grasped in both hands.

As I begin to yearn for companionship greater than that of my furry puppy, I’m going back over my dating experiences. It’s Valentine’s Day – the day that makes me question what I’m looking for, why I’m alone and turns wistful thoughts to being part of a pair.

To understand why I’m alone, and what I’m looking for, an examination of my romantic past is in order. While I’ve had a few relationships I’d classify as semi-serious, I’ve had much more experience in dating. I’ve resisted publishing those posts, some already written, because they read a bit mean for my taste. I appear critical and confused and I question whether my descriptions of the men are very fair.

But as I read Dryden’s questions about why people would subject themselves to the horror that dating can be, I realized I have stories in this area that I would like to share. So, I’ll set the scene tomorrow – defending my decisions and defining my motives, then we’ll move on to the dates. So if you’re not up for it, give me a week to get it out of my system and return next weekend. If you’re in, we’ll be starting soon. It should be interesting if nothing else.