Segue way to social life

Seriously? What am I doing with my life?!! I inwardly sigh as I look around my shabby apartment. It’s so overwhelming, I don’t feel like doing one single thing. Legit. It has spots of crumbling plaster on the ceiling and water stains on the walls. Piles of half eaten plates of food and empty take out containers. Ugh. Mountains of clothes on the crappy mismatched second hand furniture. And a weird smell in the kitchen that I somehow can’t identify it’s exact location. Is this what my life has resorted to?! All I’m missing is like 10 cats to complete this sad scene.

I have a job that I feel lukewarm about (why is my talent for writing being wasted at some customer service phones sales rep position?). Wait- am I talented? Yes- I must be. My friends always tell me so. And they’re blunt. Like ruthlessly blunt.

Childless, alone. Doesn’t help that every time I look at Facebook I see disgustingly happy couples who are so in love and buying houses and having Gerber babies left and right.

Sigh. Again.

Oh wait- that reminds me- let me check my FB dating profile.

You know for everything I’m not, I am kind of cute. Honey colored skin, almond shaped green eyes. Jet black hair. Curvy body. But in the right places, you know? Good looking enough to get noticed here or there and sometimes have someone let me cut ahead in line. So there’s that, I guess.

Fingers crossed, I open the cesspool that has somehow become my segue way into a sort of social life with men. Sigh. I swear it’s all men trying to get into my pants. Or men that want me for a second until a hotter piece comes along. Or liars. I mean, really. Who am I kidding?!

And yet...

Oh my goodness! The guy I’ve been wanting to meet has sent me a message- asking for a date. I pick up my gigantic glass of Merlot and finish the final dregs with one dramatic drain of the glass. Hmmmmm. What to respond?

I want to seem cute and somewhat aloof as to not be clingy. But not like I’ve been thinking about the perfect response for the last 5 minutes. But interested enough to give it a go. I have to give him something to go on, right?

Hastily I type a reply. Almost instantly- I have an answer back. Yes, he wants to meet. Do I know this place down on 6th St? It’s kind of a dive, but has somewhat decent appetizers? Wait- is this guy a stalker? Does he know that’s where I secretly go to eat my feelings after a bad day at work? Haha. No, he can’t know that. He doesn’t know me. Yet...

I wonder if he ever will.

Ok, let’s do this.

I run to the shower and wonder if I should shave my legs or not. If not, I know I’ll behave. Eh, fuck it. 20 minutes later, I’m smooth and shiny and glistening and hanging on to a tiny thread of hope that something magical will happen tonight. Wrapped in a towel, I head to the closet where my hardly worn “nice” date clothes hang. I start sorting through them while doing the sniff test. Ok, well this will have to do. If nothing else, at least I get to feel somewhat attractive in my slinky black dress and glittery black high heeled booties. I’ll turn some heads, hopefully. That’s always a confidence booster. So long as they don’t delve past my confident facade and see the broken pieces silently hidden beneath.

Last minute and necessary check. Keys, wallet, ID, phone. Obligatory text to friends for an emergency “out” from my hellish date. Check, check, check. One last look in the mirror to monitor my looks. Silky hair, nice enough makeup and no food in teeth. Here I go. Dare I allow myself to feel excited?? Onwards and upwards to future possibilities, and I’m out the door.