November 20, 2018

Salad Bars and Swimming Pools

I've started and restarted this post because, while the date was a complete shit show for me, Mr. Nice Guy really is a nice guy and doesn't deserve me poking fun at him.  He's just not the Mr. Nice Guy for me.

I could do a stand-up comedy routine about it, except that it also kind of makes me sad.

There are two kinds of age differences -- one is chronological years; the other is the age between the ears. 

To be clear, I don't have a problem with age differences in chronological years.  My ex-husband was 11 years older than me.  I have dated older than me, and I have dated younger than me.  Always because there was some kind of connection.

But that age-between-the-ears-thing?  That's a big thing for me when the last big concert you went to and rave about is Jim Nabors singing Don Ho covers.  And you drive an expensive car that you have detailed to perfection, but when you finally smile and actually show your teeth... or lack thereof... it's the thing that I can't tear my eyes away from in horrified fascination.  (My grandfather was a dentist.  Teeth are important.  Self-care is important.)  While you're waggling your eyebrows suggestively at me and suggesting we go away for the weekend to a nearby dinner theatre... because they have a (*gasp*) swimming pool.  When you take me to a restaurant that's a bad throw-back to the seventies... because they have a salad bar.

Those were the highlights.  I'm leaving out the lowlights.

All I really wanted to do was run away.  There was simply no connection.

Of course, he's called and left me two messages.  I'm not looking forward to listening to them, because I'm pretty sure he thinks there's a weekend away in our future.  And I have to let him down gently.

And the Universe continues to laugh at me.

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