#readyforbabies

Mr. Fred asks me out for Friday night and I tell him I’m busy.  I think he’s a nice guy and my roommates and friends see some excellent potential, but I’m not changing around any plans to go out with a guy who isn’t Mr. Hot LA. 

I don’t want him to be totally discouraged though, so I ask him if perhaps we can do next Friday instead.  He responds affirmatively and a little on the frosty side.  I laugh.

I psych myself up so that when Friday arrives, I am ready.  I spend HOURS primping.  I’m not sure guys have ANY idea what goes into the physical side of getting ready for a date.  It is boring, time-consuming and prohibitively expensive.  My hair is “did,” my face is “on,” I am “subtly” dripping in diamonds and I am wearing a “casual” outfit on which I spent my entire two-week paycheck.  If I’m going to do it, I’m doing it right.

My roommate notices me all-dolled up (a vast departure from my usual matching Lululemon track suit) and asks to what I’m up. 

“I have a date with Mr. Fred.”

“Does HE know?”

“Yes weirdo, we planned it a week ago.”

My roommate scurries to his room and a few moments later I receive a text from Mr. Fred confirming that we are still on for the night.  I hadn’t realized it was in question.   

Mr. Fred picks me up and brings me to a kitschy Mexican joint.  I like it.  We order flaming margaritas and I ask the waiter to bring extra glasses so I can mix the flavors.  Mr. Fred gets a little nervous about possibly upsetting them, but concedes when my concoctions taste even better and suggests that they put them on the menu. 

The mariachi band plays and he is a little annoyed that we can’t hear each other talk, but I LOVE MARIACHI, so I can’t stop smiling. 

During dinner he confesses that he didn’t really think we had a date that night. 

Hmmmmm? 

I remind him that I’d asked him if next Friday worked for him and he told me he assumed I was blowing him off.  THAT explains why my roommate had acted so odd – he ran into his room to text him. 

Back in the car, after a little chatter, he leans over and kisses me.  I laugh. 

“Took you long enough.”

“What?”

“My roommates and I have been making fun of you for months.”

“You guys TALK about me?”

“YES.  You’ve been everywhere I’ve been.  I stopped asking if you were coming to things and started assuming you’d be there.  Did you want to discuss it or keep making out?

He kisses the smirk right off my face.

Later, he asks me if I like steak and when I say yes, he asks me if he can take me to The Palm on Wednesday. 

I AM ITALIAN.  OF COURSE HE CAN TAKE ME TO THE PALM.

Wednesday I throw casual to the wind and put on a dress.  And heels.  Small ones, because he isn’t very tall, but enough to force him to notice how nice my legs are when I shave and they aren’t covered in jeans or sweats.   He notices.

Our date is fantastic.  Even better than the last.  In the bathroom, another woman informs me that she has been observing us from across the room and wishes she were at our table.  She asks if we are married.  Odd.  But complementary.

A month and many fun dates later, I introduce him to my sister when she is in town and they bond instantly.  Over cigarettes.  He smokes?  Whoa.  She is good.  He concealed that one for a while, but I don’t mind.  Turns out he’s a little OCD as well.  Still okay.  He is cool, he is cute and most important, he is funny.  

I warm to him in a slow cooker – it takes me a while, but I’m starting to feel the burn.  

It seems like everywhere we go someone assumes we are married.  At a local music venue, I accompany him for a smoke outside (since that cat’s outta the bag) and some girl asks if we are married.  Hailing a cab, he gets the door for me and a homeless guy asks how long we’ve been married.  At a fancy restaurant, we are seated at the chef’s table and the waitress asks if we are celebrating our anniversary.  At that same dinner, he tells me he thinks he is ready to be a dad.

Whoa.  It feels a little pressure-y, but strangely comfortable, like the universe is trying to strip me of my fear of commitment.  I might like to have a kid, so maybe this is something we need to be considering together.  Doesn’t slow and steady win the race? And people won’t stop assuming that we are together forever anyway.

I decide I am IN. 

I’m ready to give it a go.  We are having a blast, spending the majority of our free time together - we see concerts, play guitar and sing, organize our lives, watch movies, talk about movies we are going to make, double date with his roommate, attend parties, throw dinners, go to dinners, get takeout, and almost die of food poisoning (together). 

I meet his family, who are awesome and invite me back East for Thanksgiving. We’ll see.  It’s a little soon, and he hasn’t actually asked me, but I’m not against it. 

Until I receive this voicemail:   

“I’ve been thinking about us and things are moving way too fast.  We need to talk.”

Ummm, no, we do not.  I am not even going to entertain this conversation.  He followed me around for months, bordering on stalking.  It took SIX people to convince me to “give him a chance.”  I have finally peaked on the idea of us being a team and started truly enjoying his company and NOW he thinks things are moving too fast? 

This is humiliating.