On my commute home, I got stuck on the train behind the train that broke down. I was able to read a local magazine from cover to cover, which caught me up on all of the wonderful social opportunities in which I've refused to participate, preferring my sweatpants, brie and crackers, and "Joan of Arcadia" to abject disappointment.
But somehow, I've managed to stay in a good mood since yesterday, and started thinking about hitting up the nightlife again this weekend. I thought back to a few weeks ago, when I was interviewing far away from here, and I went to a lounge/bar for ridiculously expensive drinks that come in small but sexy glasses. I had 2 or 3 of them, and since I've consumed only beer and wine for the past 3 years, 2 or 3 fancy martinis really got me wrecked. It was lots of unexpected fun, especially since I was the third wheel on the end of a birthday date. Snapping back to the bitter cold of my lonely commute, I decided that it would be really nice to go on a date myself this weekend. On my walk from the train to my house, an old, disheveled, impaired man leered, "Hey doll" at me. I smiled and kept walking. If by Saturday evening things aren't looking up, though, I'll be sure to stop and talk to him.
According to "He's Just Not That Into You," which I devoured at Border's yesterday, I cannot accept a date for the weekend after Wednesday. Additionally, women should let men pursue them and not vice versa, because that is a sign of a guy's true interest. I don't disagree that these are major indications of interest/disinterest. However, the 'sitting on my ass waiting for Mr. Wonderful to ask me out' hasn't proven to be fruitful, and now we're imposing time limits? For the love of Christ, when you combine both of those requirements, I haven't been on a real date since high school. I'd be interested in hearing from any male readers out there as to whether these guidelines are accurate indications.
My heart is breaking. PEDRO MEETS WITH HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED