It's not my blog.

I used an oxford comma for the title here.  Should have used periods for dramatic pause between those names.  Periods... Oh, the irony.

My friend had a baby today.  Or - shall I say, his wife did.  After a painful but quick labor, she birthed a beautiful baby girl.  I woke up to the photos and videos he’d texted me of his perfect six-pound little girl reaching out and wrapping her fingers around the nurse’s.  It put a light in my heart for the whole morning.

This afternoon another friend casually mentioned that he was heading to dinner to show off one of his culinary finds, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant he’d been bragging about for years.  Ordinarily his compadre in such pursuits, he hadn’t asked me to join.

“I’m going with David”, he announced without being asked.  “It’s a double date.  Him and his girlfriend, me and mine.”

David was charming, sometimes handsome, seldom the smartest in the room.  What he lacked in brains he made up for in his ability to lock eyes and flirt with everyone, making even the wall-iest of wallflowers feel noticed.  We’d been great friends until six months earlier when he drove me home on his motorcycle after one too many, made out with me in my driveway and then tried to coerce me into letting him inside.

It had happened more times than I’d like to admit -- the couple of secret, long kisses in the driveway.  I knew he had a girlfriend at home as well as he did.  But he’d spoken badly about her for years... and he didn’t wait long after meeting (years prior) to admit to taking her for a few abortions, to his shame that she was a former lesbian still mainly attracted to women, and that he couldn’t wait to leave her.  

The last time it happened, I had slipped out the passenger side of the door with an excuse and a quick “ThankssomuchfortherideGoodnight!”  I jetted inside my front door, feeling like my quiet empty bedroom was a sanctuary from the sins of my previous elicit makeout sessions.  Grateful he was on his way back home to her.

He texted. “why didn’t you let me in?” Winky face.

“What do you mean?” I texted back, knowing what he meant but trying to deflect.

“why wouldn’t you let me in to see your room?” he asked.  Winky face again. (Overuse of emojis.  Lack of capitalization.  Reasons enough to have kept him out.)

So I typed back what I was thinking.

“What would you have wanted to happen tonight, David?  You drive me home in your girlfriend’s car.  You want me to reach across the seat and make out with you in her car?  You wanna fuck in her car?”

I honestly don’t remember if he answered.  If he did, it wasn’t memorable.

But that was that: I had chosen.  I had been given a choice to be The Slut or the Bitch and I’d made my selection clear. 

For the next six months, I was accidentally absent from his group texts.  I must have somehow been left out of his ‘reply all’s at work and he suddenly didn’t have time to grab drinks after our all-company Tuesday meetings.  He moved on to idolize the next individual and found himself platonically pining after another friend/colleague named Jasper, a man whom he swore was the best on our team.  Where Jasper went, David followed, an exuberant golden retriever puppy trying to mimic his new new owner’s every move.  

I chalked David’s avoidance up to being offended with my clarity.  He’d recoil, regroup, and after a few weeks we’d go back to being friends... No harm, no foul. But six months later, he and his new idol were taking “their ladies” out on the town for a double date.  They’d bonded over their shared interests and whining over their “ol’ ball and chain” life style.  That meant that as the The Single Woman, i was Out.  

It would have been easy to be In.  I could have been In, had I been the doe-eyed sad-sack Pushover whom their girlfriends felt sorry for or supported or pitied.  I might even have snuck by as the Slut the girlfriends fawned over but secretly loathed.  But as the Bitch, the woman who told it like it was and wouldn’t put out, I had nothing to contribute to the group.  

The new kitchen manager had pulled everything into shape.  What had been chaotic and messy was now organized and clean.  My orders were going through smoothly, I was receiving the food I needed quickly and without error.  I used to order cinnamon and receive cardamom.  I’d have asked for sweet potatoes and received mushy baked carrots.  

Walking into the commissary kitchen, the difference since he’d started was clear.  The floors were scrubbed, buffed, and his team was punching out for the day, having completed everything more quickly and efficiently.  

He joined us for our regular all-team meeting and ordinarily stayed quiet, sitting towards the back of the room with his arms folded.  When the issue of food supply and production was raised, this time he spoke up.  

“It’s okay to call me”, he said.  “Shoot me an email.  Call.  Text.  Just communicate so that I can plan properly.”

His words were quiet and fell gracefully on all of us.  After months of the main kitchen having made excuses, Carlos was someone who sought feedback and was willing to work with us.  He continued to speak, getting more excited as he talked.

“If you know you’re going into a busy week and you’re going to need additional produce, it’s okay to reach out to me.  I’m here!  I want your input!  I’m willing to work with you!”

He stood and uncrossed his arms to gesture.  It felt like this was the speech he’d probably been practicing in the shower for months as he grew in his role.  Somehow it was his time and he let it rip.  

“I need to know what you need so that I can provide it!  Without communication, we can’t be successful!”, he bellowed as he threw his short arms wide.

“If you make a mistake, that’s okay”, he continued.  “But you have to communicate that to me!  Own up to it.  I mean, Come on, boys!  Let’s be men!”

If my mind had a record player to playback his rally cry, this is where it halted with a loud scratch.  Who was he speaking to?!  I looked around the room for a colleague to lock eyes with me in silent laughter.  I looked around the room and found no one looking back.  Sitting at the front right of the long, natural, glossed, wooden table, I had a perfect view of my colleagues who had grown numerous as the company had grown.  I looked at buzz cut after shaggy ‘do after buzz cut after comb-over.  I started to count from the man sitting to my left.  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine..... I rounded the table.  Ten, eleven, twelve, on the short end.  Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, SKIP the female communications manager, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.  There was a gaggle of four men learning without chairs at the back that I counted silently as well.  SKIP the female human resources manager standing in the corner looking through a folder.  Add one owner leading from the front of room plus the one kitchen manager still gesturing (wildly now) in the back.  

Math had never been my strong suit but I realized that I was outnumbered.  29 people total: 26 men, 3 women, myself included.  After the tally, I surveyed my colleagues again.  Most bobbed their heads like lemmings in response to the “come-on boys!” rally call.  I shot dagger eyes at my friends in the room, knowing they would realize how ridiculous this cliched rhetoric was becoming. Again, I had no eyes back.  Within no one to corroborate, I looked towards the other two women in the room, thinking I could at least catch a commiserating eyeroll.  HR Manager was inspecting her manicure closely.  Communications had her eyes locked on something no one else was seeing, occasionally nodding her head slowly and clearly tuned out to whatever was going around on us.

Ordinarily my dates result in dramatic and comical stories with characters who have significant physical deformities, show up drunk and disorderly, or need to blow into a breathalyzer to get their car to start. But tonight's was simple; there was no drama, no excessive drinking and no cracked out homeboys with mommy issues.

I'd assumed tonight's date was.... me.

He had lived in Somerville for three years yet never been to the Fluff festival. (me)

He was an Aquarius. (me)

He had a border-collie mix named Misty. (me)

I couldn't have planned it better. We had so much in common that even if we didn't hit if off romantically, we were bound to have a good time based on chatting about our shared experiences. He was.... me!

No.

Not me.

I showed up at the pub early and spent time fluffing my shirt and smoothing my hair to make sure I was the picture of a Fun-but-alluring date. He rolled in on his bicycle exactly at 8:00 on the dot. He was normal looking (which is the equivalent of a Disney-prince-stud in the world of 30-something blind internet dating).

After a few moments of banter, we moved into the pub and towards a back "lounge" area. While cool outside it was warm in the lounge. While waiting for the bartender I took up a stool under a bright light and started fulfilling my end of the first-date-banter questions.

Where are you from?

Vermont.

What do you do?

Research.

How long have you been in this area?

Three years.

Much like an awful interview, he was bombing the questions. I opted for the more open ended route:

"Tell me about your dog", I said.

Three sentences later I had zoned out while he described the mind numbing story of how he acquired his pet. (Excerpt for those who don't believe just how dull it was: "I didn't know a lot of great dogs come from the south. She was from the south. Arkansas. A lot of dogs breed in the south. They don't spay and neuter their dogs as much. Up here in the north people want dogs. So they sent the dog up. I adopted her. She's three. I got her in April. She's part collie.")

It was getting hotter in there.

As a lover of the puppies, I asked more questions. The answers were painfully boring so I switched subjects. (Poor choice. At least I liked the sound of the dog.)

Despite my summer blouse, I had started to really feel hot; I felt a trickle of sweat drip down my temple.

Painstakingly, he described his job. He lived in Africa for two years. "Ooh!" I thought. "Something to talk about!"

Nope.

According to the 20 minute story, he had lived in Malawi for two years, followed by a stint in Cameroon and Ghana. He spent his time there studying (as I recall) 'the relationships of farming and the social constructs that allowed for agricultural development of the native people as pertaining to development of crop rotation and the relationships within'.

"So..... farming and neighbors?" I asked. The light over my head flashed in my eyes and made me blink excessively.

No no. Apparently he supervised people - who studied people - who had at one time - had relationships with farmers.

I felt the sweat form along my upper lip while more sweat dropped from my hairline. The light above me shone down like a personal hellish sun. There were no cocktail napkins available to wipe my face and I was desperate. I was so hot. I was starting to feel dizzy. Had he drugged my drink? Had the bartender?

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" I asked, gathering my purse and stumbling down the hall and to the left -- off to the bathroom while "STRANGER! DANGER!" played on repeat in my mind.

I collected myself in the restroom while checking the mirror to make sure my mascara hadn't adhered itself to my under-eye area. With the amount of sweat I was wiping off my face nothing would surprise me.

I whipped out my phone and rapid-fire texted my A-list of emergency date contacts.

Me: he's the most boring man alive. I'm dying. I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Help. He's the black hole of fun. He's where fun goes to die.

Katie: is he cute at least?

Me: no no no no.

Katie: excuse yourself for life.

Me: he's the most boring man alive. I'm dying. I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Help. He's the black hole of fun. He's where fun goes to die.

Christa: Go back out, order a bottle of wine with dinner, get drunk on his dime.

Me: We're not having dinner! It's just drinks!

Christa: Get a bottle of vodka then. On him.

Last resort: my male bestie:

Me: He's the most boring man alive. I'm dying. I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Help. He's the black hole of fun. He's where fun goes to die.

Jay: Hahahahaha!

Me: no seriously, what do I do?

Jay: Hahahahaha!

Shit.

After a moment of splashing my face with the coldest water I could crank out of the faucet, I took a deep breath. While I realized it was probably the hot light I was sitting under, I rationalized with myself. "This isn't the light that's making me sweat", I said to the empty bathroom. "It's the FUN leaving my body while I listen to this guy."

I headed back out the door.

Then I saw it.

To the right was the lounge. But to the left was a low, giant, gaping, wide open, wonderful, window. With no screen (health code alert!), it looked out onto the patio, then the street. There was easily a 3' opening. I walked towards it and measured myself up against the window. At 5'3", it would barely take a hop and a duck to scoot through. Cool air breezed through and I realized (dramatically) that my salvation was on the other side.

Freedom! Cool air! Respite from the most boring man alive! I wanted it. I wanted it like a winning lotto ticket. But amongst other reasons, it was just too cliche. Leaving out a bar window?! I had survived dates with drinks, cheapskates and assholes.... I wasn't going to let the dullest man alive take me down.

I proceeded back to the bar, politely suggested we move to an area less lit like an interrogation room and proceeded with the mind numbing conversation.

Family? One sister.

Parents? I see them at Thanksgiving.

Fun? I like watching marching bands.

Favorite instrument? Trombone.

At some point the bartender (who at some point I realized I recognized, but could not figure out from where), noticed our table and wandered by.

"Anything else for you two?" he asked.

Nothing. Nothing! No! Check please! I shot the bartender daggers with my eyes in the hopes he would take pity on me and force the check upon us.

"Hmm, what do you think?" I asked my date, gritting my teeth and begging for the torture to be over.

"Do you want to have one more?" He asked me sweetly, the unsaid invitation for the date to continue.

"Ohhhh I think I should probably....."

..... get home, I have an early day tomorrow. (Lie. I'm going in late tomorrow.)

..... go take care of my cat, she gets lonely. (Lie. Hate cats.)

...... take care of my daughter. Did I not mention I have kids? (Lie. Childless.)

I didn't bother to finish the sentence with an excuse. I grimaced.

It was awkward.

When the check came I fumbled for my purse. "We'll split it?" I offered, looking for my misplaced credit card. He waited while I searched. After putting down my card, he offered "well I guess if you didn't find it, I could have covered you this time."

Classy.

After a (brief, obligatory) hug, he wandered off to his bicycle. I fanatically called an uber, wondering if I had tkme to grab a slice of pizza before it came.