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So. Really. I need a break. And. You should know....I know how to hide.....

Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
© 2006
No More Curiosity Dating

“Just go on coffee dates.” My good friend, Taisha suggested. “So you can stay in the loop.”

“No.” I reminded her. “The plan is for me not to get asked out. No more dates.”

There was a pause, then shouting. “Holly, what’s wrong with you?”

Taisha is the kind of girl who knows how to fill an evening. She’ll start by rock climbing, and then meet friends for dinner before she hangs out at karoke for a few hours. She’ll end her night having milk and cookies with a man she met on the bus. Sitting home to write wouldn’t fit her idea of a night worth remembering.

I understood her fears that I’d become one of those women who cares more about having a clean kitchen than having a man, but know how unrealistic my chances of ever having a clean kitchen are. “I’m just taking a break.” I promised. “A few months should be enough.”

“But there’s this guy I want to set you up with from my ski trip. He’s your age. Cute. Sexy. I’d go for him if he were younger.”

How lucky I was to have friends looking out for me. Yes. There was interest, but not willingness.

She sighed. “I mean. If you’re even interested. You are, aren’t you?”

“Just a few months. Then you can give him my number.”

It was as if I had taken up smoking crack or had decided that my new passion would be handwriting analysis. My friends had a difficult time accepting my no-man-search.

“Why?” Ralph demanded. “The man you’re going to marry is out there looking for you. Why are you making him wait?”

Truth is I’d been dating up a storm. I’ve always loved meeting new men and hearing their stories. I never would have known how many patients an orthodontist can see in a day or the kinds of environmental hazards the water department deals with. I like hearing about lawyers suing lawyers from the guy getting sued, and from the man who has the office assistant from hell.

Taisha has no idea how many coffee dates I’d accepted in the name of fun. Only Ralph can guess. But. Now. I’m tired of putting so much energy into men for the sake of their story. No more curiosity dating. I’m changing.

My friend, Steve wondered if it had something to do with turning forty.

“Woman’s bodies change.” He said, slowly. “Maybe you’re changing, too.”

“I’m not menopausal.” I laughed into the phone.

So. The goal was not to get asked out. To either switch the conversation before the offer came, or change his mind before it stuck. This was born out of necessity after realizing I was punishing the men I was meeting by creatively cramming all of my disabilities into one tiny paragraph.

“More about me? Ok. Well. I’m epileptic, but it only shows up in the fact that I don’t have a visual memory and can’t remember people’s faces. Oh. And. I’m Celiac and can’t eat wheat, oats, barley, spelt, or rye. And I don’t eat anything with milk, butter or cream. And. Did I mention? I had some other stuff last year, but the heart surgery fixed it.”

It used to be the word “epilepsy” could strategically end a date quickly. No longer. I don’t get it. My yuck’s lost its shock value? So. Now. I have to be more creative when it comes to being alone. No. Not forever. Just till I figure out what I want off the menu.

I’ve heard some women wear a wedding ring, feigning marriage, when they don’t want to get asked out. I don’t need diamonds. The best way for me to look unattractive is to talk about my mother all the time. “Oh. Thanks. My mom loves this skirt, too. She helped me buy it. She helps me with e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.”

Perhaps I should write a book on how not to get asked out. I honed this skill back when I was flight attending. I’d have a lively conversation with a nice man, then right before he’d ask me out, I’d channel ‘psycho girl’ by changing the pitch and speed of my voice. Oh. And. I’d switch topics every ten seconds or so.

“I wish I could lose more socks in the dryer so I could buy more socks. You know what I mean?” “Is my mascara was running?” “I don’t cook because I always feel badly when I poison the people I care about.” “And. I mostly whine when I’m hungry, cold or tired, or when I’m having a bad day, but that’s normal.”

Men hate quick topic changes.

Oh. Sure. I can simply decline when asked out. But. Then some poor man has to feel rejected. I’m saving him the suffering.

And. This way. When I’m balancing bags of groceries on one knee so I can open the outer door to my building and several men walk up and initiate conversation, I know how to quickly extinguish their interest.

“Hey.” The twenty-something strangers pointed to my grocery bags. “You cooking tonight?”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

“I’m starved.” Blonde-boy-leader whined.

“Well. Go find your dinner.”

Leader leaned against the building and lowered his voice. “We’d rather hang with you.”

His friends stared at him. They let their mouths hang open as they turned to me.

I willed my mouth closed. Man. Where did he take ‘forward’ lessons? He gets the cake. I hid my bags of ribs and veggies behind me. I could get out of this. Yes. Piece of cake. Because I had zero interest. I mean. I wouldn’t have been interested even before my vow of the non-date-life.

I returned his stare and asked slowly, “Anyone here like lentil, lard casserole?”

They stared, considering.

“With quinoa.” I held my breath.

They looked at the ground.

I tried to meet the leader’s gaze. “And maybe we could find some tofu ice-cream for dessert?”

Well. They disappeared faster than icing off a cupcake.

Yeah. Not dating? Yeah.

I still got it.

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