Octopus earrings and the blue scarf of illness

"Car is parked, bags are packed, but what kind of heart doesn't look back?"

June 26, 2015: It has been 15 days and it seems as if we never were. Not that it shouldn't be like that... I mean, I don't know if what is should be like, but it feels more bizarre and sad and empty than I can quite process. Was it meaningless? Who instills it with meaning? What do I mean by meaning? Does learning lessons from a thing make it meaningful? Do I really know what I learned? Did he love me? Does it matter?

But... I remember there was all that kissing and dinners and hand holding and alarm clocks and long looks and walking in the snow. There were nuzzles and laughing and time with his son and smiling and make outs and something like happiness?  And then there wasn't.

Now there is just these silver octopus earrings and the pretty blue scarf he bought me at whole foods... for my birthday... a month late... (at whole foods).  One of the earrings broke, but I wear the scarf a lot. Not sure if that is a sign of resilience or just super sad. Best not to think about it too much.  It's pretty and, for real guys, it is in no way a sign that I am actually trying to make myself sad.

Update: It's been almost a month and I feel pretty much the same as above except that it doesn't sting as much and I have stopped wearing the scarf.  There have also been dates. Well, 3 dates.  One was pretty awful (seriously too terrible to write about), one was a nice coffee date with interesting conversation but no real attraction and one really kinda great ginger bourbon beer fueled sailing adventure that seemed promising... but then fizzled out as quickly as it had begun. Le sigh.

So here I am. A few lbs lighter (thanks anxiety diet) and half feeling excited for a new start and half filled with abject terror and ever fighting the very insistent urge to run to my ex and beg him to try again so I never have to go on another date.  But I refrain from giving into that predictable instinct. I have more dates planned and a few nice, interesting people sending me funny notes on dating web sites. So, I mean, life is moving on and I am doing my very best to move with it and not give up on the idea that I might find my person and, you know, maybe something nice will happen : ).  

Shut up, it totally might.

Here it goes, here it goes, here it goes again

"I guess there's got to be a break in the monotony, but Jesus, when it rains how it pours/ Throw on your clothes, the second side of Surfer Rosa, and you leave me, yeah, you leave me."

Well, I mean... technically I guess I left him. Or at least it was mutual. Who knows. Maybe he left me first in a million small ways that I was too frightened to acknowledge or accept. I suppose it's a weird thing we do, keeping score like it matters even a little bit who outdrew ya. Nobody wins, everyone is sad, so who cares? This thing that was "us" is now over and it doesn't feel like the wrong thing, but it feels bad, empty, lonely... I mean, of course it does, that's what breaking up feels like (what am I new?). It's a failure all around. But, yah, for the record... I suggested we needed space, he took it, there was space... then I told him we needed to talk and then he beat me to the punch with the words.

He sat down on my couch and looked up at me and said "I think we need to break up" (cue record screeching to a stop). I... was not expecting that. I mean, I totally was... but not like that. We had been through rough patches and he always insisted we were fine even when I was super positive it was over. This time was different for him, just not really for me. I knew that at the end of this night whatever we had become would be done, but I had expected to have to explain why and I guess for it to be harder. I was anticipating him not understanding. But here it was - final and decisive - which is totally better... right? Right...

I said something like "well, sure, I think we both know that's what we are doing here. But I guess I thought we might ease into it a little. I mean... are you double parked outside or something?" ba-dum-bum-CHING. Nobody laughed in the moment, but now it feels like the only funny thing. He stayed for a while, mostly at my insistence. I caught up on his life. I gave him my armchair psychoanalysis of his situation (which he tolerated politely). He asked me if I passed Pharm. We shared some nice memories of us and then he left. I wondered why exactly I had shaved my legs for this. I didn't cry. I stared out the window. He seemed sad and lost. I still feel the desire to help him but I couldn't reach him as his girlfriend so it seems unlikely I could help him now. That's normal to want to help people, right? Or am I just holding on? Being useful?

Now it just feels like a dull ache in my chest that I can't make go away. He's on my mind, but I know I need to let it go. Let him go. He is not my person and I am not his person and it was a year of our lives that is over now. I wish he had not forgotten my birthday and I wish I had helped him quit smoking. I wish a lot of things were different, but that is not how this works. I just don't know how this works. How do I get better?

Hello Again - Where the Hell Was I?

Greetings Lovelies!

Egads! It has been a year and one day since I last posted to this blog.  Life continues to be weird and confusing - full of triumphs and defeats - but I am enthusiastic about the prospect of the future.  In comparison to most of this past year, I am currently more grounded, happy and my bangs look fantastic.  I woke up this morning consumed with thoughts about Bladerunner (watched the 25th Anniversary release last night - I thought 6 replicants escaped.  Do they count Rachel? What the... what now?) but also about this blog (after legit not thinking about it at all for a year) and low and behold... I logged in I saw that I was a day late and so really I am not sure why I am mentioning it at all.  Except as a way to say hello, I missed you (all 5 of you who read this) and I am very glad to be back : ).

So where were we... oh yes, my hilarious musings on dating!  So now I am 40 (sweet) and I have been on a lot of dates in the past year.  Some were kinda cringtastic (sitting in a car in silence listening to The Wall in the parking lot of the 7-11 with a guy who was living in his parent's shed. I really kinda wish I was making that one up).  Some were super fun (seeing the Pixies and getting kicked out of a bar (not our fault!) with a 29 year old Turkish composer).  Most were tragically in this sort of middle ground/ no man's land of dating.  Dates with nice guys who I had some fun with, could talk to a little, but with whom I didn't connect exceptionally well (for no reason, of course, except my own failings as a person, clearly).  This last category is, I fear, the most treacherous (much more so than the actual awful "wolfy" dates that inspired this blog) because for some reason these mediocre dates consistently inspire the "running back to the most recent person" thing that is almost certainly a recipe for disillusionment and heart hardening (and there is no place for that here. No place I tell you! Sorry Pat).  Just pain, pretending and pathos - so, you know, don't do that if you can help it.

I could not say what has changed exactly (I have some ideas, but no real evidence) but all of a sudden there are all these nice, cool, interesting men in my life.  There is some wining (or beering or bourboning if you want to be a stickler) and some dining (if olives and bread count?) and movies (on iPhones in the corners of pubs one time because... creative!) and flowers (ok, it was only 3 flowers but I was still charmed) and lots of unsolicited texts and emails ("Good morning sunshine" - like, who are you writing to? Can boys really say nice things like that? What's the angle...).  I am not picking out white dresses or knitting baby booties quite yet - I'm not even sure I want that.  I don't know... perspective is weird and I guess my point is, when you are upside down for so long it takes a minute before you realize the bubbles are going the other way.  Like "aw man... I thought I was swimming towards the surface but I was totally not doing that (not even a little bit). No wonder I was feeling so nauseated and dizzy all time." Also it is nice to go on dates with boys who are affectionate and communicative and honest (all in their own weird ways) and sometimes miss me when we aren't together (and tell me that).  I am maybe surprised a little that I like that as much as I do (there is so much less sarcasm than I expected.  I mean, of course - who am I kidding - there is still a lot of sarcasm, but also an actual little bit of sincerity too.  Real moments that remind me that we are actual people and that it is actually happening and that it matters).  Is this what dating is like for other people all the time?  Is this happening because of my bangs... or are my bangs happening because of this?  I'm asking the big questions (watch out) : ).

In all seriousness (well, I mean, kinda) and at the risk of sounding like there is hope for us all in the barren wasteland of emotional needs amidst this dangerous dearth of self awareness - I might be turning into a successful dater.  I am not having delusions of grandeur or anything (never fear, gentle reader). I still get the sads and think about people who don't think about me and still don't know if I could ever fall in love and the idea of intimacy and sharing actual "feelings feelings" remains terrifying and confounding - but I want to try.  I find myself less looking for fault in these men but also am much more ready to let things go when they are not right.  I am trusting my instincts and doing my best to recognize when I am behaving like a narcissistic jerk and when I need to stand up for myself. I wonder if it's odd that I have to do both of those things, maybe not so different from everyone else?

Less you (all 6 of you - I forgot my aunt Dorothy before) lose faith in me, I promise to try and populate this space with funny dating stories again some day.  Although I suppose a part of me is hoping that if things go right - I might not have any future entries : ).

(Yah... right (so kidding).  See you in a month or so. Love, K)

The Date Goes On...

I brought my focus back into the inside of Toro (a pretty neat tapas place run by Ken Oringer - the food is all foody and good and stuff and they have lots of pricey but super tasty cocktails).  I righted myself at the bar, pushed my glasses up on my nose (I don't actually wear glasses, but in my memory of all of this I have been recast as Lisa Loeb and I needed to push up our glasses so deal with it), sat up straight, passed Jibril a menu and we began to study in silence. Yo La Tengo songs hummed softy in the background, providing our only (but jangly) company.  In all our exploring it had grown late and the bar was now mostly cleared out save for a smattering of aging white belts and a few interesting but tired looking women who might have been recently cut waitresses.  I know this because while avoiding eye contact with Jibril and also being terrified to look out the window at Washington Street I was borderline staring directly at them for the majority of the next 20 minutes.  Because, as you know, I am the best at all the stuff.

I feel I should admit that I am kind of bad at menus (and by "kinda" I mean, totally and completely, with no possible arguments from anyone who has ever witnessed me trying to order food from anywhere seriously even Friendly's, it's bizarre how bad I am at this. I mean even worse than nail polish selection. But I digress.).  In this case, I had the guide of the $63 in my pocket that kept me suggesting Tecate and stuffed dates.  He, of course, was having none of it.  He was all about the bone marrowey, short ribby, oxtaily, pate-esque and let's order a bunch of expensive stuff and share it and with fancy cocktails that I am not going to pay for.

Now, as delusional as I am (trust me, you have no idea), I do realize I could have just told him to hold on buster! I would be making the decisions since I was paying or just communicated that we were on a budget and perhaps he could slow his Rockerfellerian roll just for a sec, thanks but of course, I did not.  Although, to be fair, there may have been some eye rolling directed at no one in particular.  So he ordered like 4 plates of incredible stuff I wasn't sure how I was going to pay for and I ordered the dates and crossed my fingers and took a deep breath and started singing song selections from Reality Bites.  Ok, that last part did not happen (dude... focus!!!). 

The date ended with us standing on the platform at Massachusetts Avenue MBTA station avoiding almost certain attack by facing each other solemnly, holding hands and talking in the most earnest gibberish ever gibbered.  We were also smiling the crooked awesome smiles of people who really need to not laugh in this particular situation but want to (oh so much!).  This was kinda cool and for real didn't suck.  We were finding a solution to a precarious situation together!  We were working as a team!  We were holding hands!  I wasn't sweating (how out of character?).  As we stood there, our faces so close our eyelashes might have touched (if they were 7 inches long, which, I mean... ew) we smiled, maintaining eye contact against all odds and giggling for the better part of 3 minutes.  It was a little weird but I think we were imbued with a greater purpose (mainly, avoiding the crazy screechy tauntings of the crazy dude who had been recently kicked off the Orange line and was systematically making his way though the crowd on the platform).

The dude climbed up the stairs into the summer night in a musical montage that was something like the Broadway cast of Cats singing Seven Seconds songs in a sewer.  We were still holding hands as our eyes drifted from the montage back to each other.  I smiled at him just a little (no teeth) and gave him approximately 3 seconds to kiss me before it was too awkward even for me to stand.  He smiled at me too, but did not move. I dropped his hands gently and rubbed his arm like "oh well buddy, we tried".  Thankfully the train arrived and we got on and went home.

I wouldn't say I was sad about it.  I was poor at the end of it.   I think I was mostly disappointed that nothing happened.  I mean, nothing awful happened (which was good) but there was just no spark and that is just kinda sad for everybody.  I chalked it up to poor screening and/ or the inevitability of my aloneness in the sense of it being forever and absolute and got ready to move on (most likely to hard drugs and a life of writing maudlin poetry on bev naps or some combination therein).  So I was pretty surprised when he called me the next day excited about going out again.  He said since we were so poor maybe we should just drive up to Marblehead and have a picnic by the lighthouse and watch the sunset.  He said he knew a spot.  I promised to bring wine and paper cups.  He promised to pick me up right after work on Friday. 

I said "thanks Jibril, I will see you then" and he said "thank you for giving me another chance, I won't mess it up." 

I'm not going to lie, my heart went a little melty (but just a little, cuz after that Toro dinner I couldn't really afford a new one if this one melted all the way).  It's pretty genuinely endearing when anyone actually wants something and is not afraid to say it to you like that.  I mean, maybe people think that kind of stuff all the time and just don't say it, I don't know.  In this case, he seemed to want me to like him.  That was a sweet thing to want.  Who was I to begrudge him the opportunity to try?

Jibril and the restaurant at the end of the universe

Sometimes I listen to the wisdom gleaned from all my previous dating experiences.  Most times, in fact, I try (somewhat in earnest) not to make the same mistakes over and over again.  This may sound obvious, but I assure you old habits die hard and as much as (so much) this ugliness could clearly be avoided by simply heeding the caveats of yore - sometimes we just can't see the forest for the psychotic killer on a rampage waiting for us up in the branches.  Sigh...

For example, if I do not enjoy talking to someone on the phone, pretty good chance I will not enjoy going on a date with them.  I should mention, I can and will talk to anyone about anything - so this can be hard to gauge ("dude... you talked to him for an hour and there's no chemistry?  How can that beeeee?").  Phone screening success mostly boils down to us laughing and him not talking about himself the whole time without interruption (this is not a 2 way street, of course, I am allowed to babble on about myself ad nauseum and expect riveted interest and commentary because yes, I am just that interesting).  So, despite the protestations of friends who are always ready with a chorus of "but dudes hate the phone" or whatever, I have found it to be true 100% of all of the times that if our phone conversation is lacking, date will be all kinds of sucktastic. 

So when it came to Jibril, I tried to beat myself at my own game by having the shortest phone conversation ever and then announcing to him "Ok, you seem fine, do you want to make a date?"  I literally said this to him.  To be fair I may have had a few drinks.  To my surprise he accepted (weird, right?).  On paper he was pretty neat: Worcester guy (hey! my mom was born in Worcester!), working class background, booked bands, into the Worcester rock scene, loved Spags, cute accent, red beard, nice smile, confident, funny... okay... so maybe no real immediate chemistry, but maybe in person it would be better? Ok, so like, that has literally never been true, but I really wanted to go on a date.

We decided to meet at Back Bay station and explore the South End from there.  If you've ever been there then you know it is a huge cacophonous nightmare of a train station filled with way too much human suffering to process without tears and/ or hallucinogenics (or both).  He was late.  I sat on a bench and waited for a while... until far too much fodder for the maudlin gristmill I call a mind presented itself to me.  After the 3rd (4th?) homeless dude touched me and asked me searing life altering questions, I went to the nearest bar.  We finally met up, had a drink and thus the date began!

He had proclaimed himself a skilled and whimsical "explorer of neighborhoods" so I agreed to just walk around and see where the evening led us.  After wandering the streets of the South End for what seemed like hours (in heels), we found ourselves at the 1700 block of Washington Street near the place I had originally suggested (but couldn't seem to find).  The largest street sign I have ever seen in my entire life (for real) loomed above us proclaiming ominously "Massachusetts Avenue".  I remarked upon this phenomenon, he agreed, we laughed... and then we saw him.

Leaning up against a set of stone steps descending into nothing in particular, stood an impossibly tall and thin man.  He was wearing a white cubavera, a down tilted fedora that obscured his eyes.  He was smoking a thin cigarillo, the white smoke curling about his head and fading into the dark night sky.  His presence was oddly ominous, although he did not seem entirely real and I was not exactly afraid of him.  I am not sure if he was looking at us directly or not, but in my re-imagining of this whole scene, he made some kind of gesture to his right and our eyes followed. We abruptly stopped talking, our laughter fizzling into the gray dust that now seemed to swirl in the air before us.  Everything beyond that sign was drained of color, the buildings, the cars, the trees - all of it was shrouded in this surreal haze of gray smoke, swirling in the air in some kind of tempest of despair.  There were no people on the street, just our odd trio (assuming this gentleman even arose from our plane of reality).

If nothing else, it seemed clear that we were meant to proceed no further, as surely this was the abyss and we were staring into it in stunned and reverent silence.  "Hey," he said to me in a hushed tone, appropriate for the level of "what the hell is happening right now" that we were experiencing.  "Isn't that the place?"  We both turned to see the restaurant (how had we missed it?) and hurriedly, without comment or any looks backward, crossed the street, entered and took a seat at the bar.

"I don't have any cash" he said, before I could even feel for a hook to hang my purse.  I looked out the window and the man was still there.

So... this was really happening.

Next Up: Part II in which this date becomes somewhat less surreal, but maybe a little more terrible.

Before we go on...

So... let me take this opportunity to explain a few things about myself, this date and why I started writing it all down in the first place.  I am, like many of my brethren (you know who you are), the result of a terrifying mixture of John Hughes movies, Smiths' lyrics, Nikki Sixx hair styles, black nail polish and lots of meals eaten in parking lots watching boys in Op Ivy t-shirts fall down trying to ollie.  I grew into a tall, goofball red head with bizarre fashion sense and a taste for all things lost and lonely. I believe strongly that I am funny and nice and sensitive but know I am rarely all 3 at the same time.  I have a touch and go relationship with reality and most feelings (I mean I feel all kinds of stuff, but I don't really understand anything) and more or less deal with the world through sarcasm and a lot of head nodding.  I am also good at fixing things.

I know, I know... I sound like pretty much everyone's dream girl and yes, I am super easy to date (please note: hint of sarcasm).  As much as it fills my heart with deep fear and nausea, I actually go on lots of dates and not all of them are terrible (but, of course, those are the ones that make the best stories).  Just ask my friends at work who have to hear about all of them - usually more than once - through cubicle walls and over lunches where they may have actually wanted to say something about something else.  Guess what?  Totes not happening - my date story takes precedence (as if!).  My friends are patient and indulgent, but also curious and ready to laugh at/ with me to ease the pain.  I almost always enjoy this telling more than the terrible dates themselves - mostly because I am making people laugh, and they, in turn, are making me feel better about this perceived life failure and we are making it this funny thing we do together rather than, you know, my life. 

Sigh... so after monopolizing many conversations and traumatizing unsuspecting passersby, people started suggesting perhaps a blog would just be easier for everyone since clearly I wasn't going to stop dating (like, ever) and it was amusing, but getting inconvenient.  However, it wasn't until I spun the tale of this illustrious date with Alex that my public began to demand that I document this whole situation online because it was too bizarre not to, and thus this blog was born (and named).  I wrote the first entry on the train on the way to rehearsal, the second one on the way home from rehearsal that same night.  It's fun so far.  Some people like it, some people don't like it, i dunno... maybe I'll keep writing it?  My aunt (who is 76) thinks it awesome - so that might be enough reason right there. 

In the interest of clarity, I feel I should explain that I am sure there is no way I am a complete non-factor in the outcome of my dates.  It's sincerely frightening to imagine that there is something in me that brings out this behavior in others, but I can't be totally without fault here.  Unless these things just sort of happen to me because I was meant to document this specific sub-strata of nut ball dating experiences...  I mean, I guess that could be my calling.  I don't know (clearly).  I'm just here for the free pens.  And also the criticism.

Thanks for reading.  I hope I will keep going.  It makes me happy.  Later sk8ers : )

Part III

I blinked my eyes and the crows were gone.  I scanned the trees, turning myself around in a circle in the middle of Brattle Street but did not see any birds at all, anywhere.  Had Alex successfully driven me to hallucinate... was it the alum in the matcha... had he poisoned me or maybe he was astral projecting up into the branches as a whole murder of crows (most probable).  I thought "I really should just start walking to the train.  I kinda doubt he would follow me" but I did not do that.  I just stood there with my hands in my pockets looking around.

"Hey!  Yoo hoo... it's open!"  He didn't open my door for me, but really at this point it would have just delayed the date's ending which I was wishing for with increasing amounts of urgency so that was fine.  I made a mental note that "yoo hoo" was kind of a poor choice, but also was gradually accepting that he may be insane, so maybe a wash?  The car is dirty inside, the back seat is full of pieces of fabric that I can only assume are the tattered clothes of his hapless victims.  He wore driving gloves, no radio, complained a lot about how cold it was, announced we had to get gas ASAP and he needed to find (wait for it...) a bathroom.

He wanted to use his GPS, but that was not happening since it would entail me giving him my address.  I was able to convince him it was a straight shot down Storrow Drive.  I tried to give more details... he started to glaze over at  "Leverett Connector" - but I assured him the force was strong with me and we would be fine.  He didn't laugh.  I had definitely stopped caring.  This was before he tried to go the wrong way down Memorial Drive and also had a little trouble committing to a lane...sigh. 

Just for the record, I am not afraid of people who can't drive.  Well, ok, actually I am a little afraid of people who can't drive.  I am also not always a trusting passenger, but he was truly dangerous on the road.  Lots of beeping.  So that was fun for me too.  We crossed over from Storrow to Memorial Drive and sat between the neon Shell sign and the neon Mobil sign (while the Citgo sign kinda just supervised from above).  The light turned green and then red again and we remained poised between the two options.  I looked to Alex for a hint of his preference, but his face was stone and his eyes set straight ahead, dead center, revealing no leanings in either direction.  I looked straight ahead as well and meekly suggested "they are both the same price, maybe the Mobil is easier to pull into?" 

"Oh, really?  Is it?" (no idea on that one, don't care).

So Mobil it was!  As he is gassing up he leaves the car running, inspiring a little speech about how it's a "total myth" that that is at all dangerous and he knows cuz he pumped gas for 2 months in 1993.  He also mentions he was robbed at knife point by 2 men during these 2 months and was fired as the station owners thought he stole the money and lied about it.  Now... historically, I am not great at doing appropriate things or talking about normal stuff on first dates, but really, I mean - come on!  Let us not forget, this guy is supposed to be a professional.  He gives seminars on love and intimacy and relationships.  He literally teaches people how to do this.  Like, for money.  Like, that is his main job.  I mean, how can that be?

But I digress.  The sense of hopelessness and defeat had grown so profound at this point, I just muttered something about wasting gas and then starting poking myself in the eye with a bobby pin I had found in my pocket.

Without explanation (don't gas stations have bathrooms?) we then drove to the Whole Foods for him to use the bathroom.  As I sat in the freezing car with my dead cell phone and felt the true empty parking lot level winter silence, I regretted not going in with him.  I could have sampled verbena soy soaps and cruelty free malomars or some other glorious version of "not sitting in the car alone" but I had not chosen wisely.  It was 9 minutes before he returned and just for the record he did not bring me a delightful vegan treat of any kind.  I am not vegan but it seemed like the thing to want... I mean we were in Cambridge after all?  Shut up.

Anyway...

He wanted to go to Mike's for cannoli (he only asked me twice and I told him I didn't really like cannoli, but we could definitely go if he wanted - so I can accept that this is my fault).  I let him know there would be no parking.  He was sure there would be parking ("it's a Sunday!" he proclaimed with a scoff).  I didn't really protest as my soul had already been taken from me and all I could think about was my dead phone and if I would ever get home in time to call Gibb and relay all this to another human being.  We double parked, he asked me one more time if I wanted a cannoli (dude, seriously?) and then ran in (more alone time in his car - sweet!).  He came right back out immediately, I rolled down the window and handed him a $5 (he swore he had been there dozens of times... but forgot they were kinda famously cash only...right).  He got his cannoli and we were now, at long last, on the way to all of this being over.  As we rolled at a painful petty pace down Prince Street and I could almost see my apartment arch and then - wait, what, what are you doing - is there a parking spot?  No no no. Nooo, this is not happening.  Please, for the love of God!

"Hey, I'll just pull over here so we can say goodnight."

"Neat."

Car stops, I tie my scarf up tight around my chin and thank him for the date. He removes his seat belt and turns toward me smiling that soulless smile of dubious intent.  I get a little wide eyed (not sure why in retrospect).  I mean, in what way was I not expecting this, exactly?  He is leaning into me slowly and I am backing away slowly to match.  We are doing this weird end of the date dance that I was hoping to avoid, but I guess is sort of the prickly icing on the awkward, awful, dry homemade cake that has been our date.  We end up with my back to his passenger side door and him almost on all fours advancing toward me.  Now his face is about 4 inches from mine and his eyes are totally crazy and focused directly on my 3rd eye.  An elderly woman walks by on the sidewalk and I stare out the window at her as if to whisper "do you see thissss?  Explain to me how this is happening?"  I realize I am holding my hands out in front of me like a T-Rex, kind of helplessly ready to swat away insects or birds or something, but likely no match for Alex's crazy face, which presently, is very much in mine.

I am just about ready to fumble for the car door latch behind me and, although that most certainly would mean tumbling out of the car backwards into a snowbank, is feeling like the winning choice.  Before I can make my move, he advances further, pushing my T-Rex hands up under my chin.  It seemed like 30 minutes we spent here in limbo (was probably 30 seconds) until he finally raised one hand next to his face and said the following, in a hushed, ferocious tone and ending with clenched teeth:



"I'm a wolf.  Rawr!"



Not making this up.  Not even sure I could.  This is what he said.  That is how he said it.  There was kind of a biting the air kind of move at the end... I don't know, don't make me re-live it. 

There have not been many times in my life in which I legit have nothing to say.  It's all a little hazy (don't forget, I still hadn't eaten).  I think I nodded gravely... maybe just to prevent him from saying it again?  He continued the eye contact but pulled away, thankfully.  I somehow got out of his car and walked to my apartment.  I closed the door behind me and never looked back.  Except, I guess, to write this very long 3 part blog and name it after this date.  Yah, except for that part, I super totally never looked back : ).