Perhaps one of the reasons why my marriage failed was that after we moved, I was surrounded by men who I had never dated before. Moreover, my friends hadn't even dated them. I wasn't even related to them, not even by marriage. I had found my own personal version of Mecca. A whole community full of Northerners that I could date!
It was with an almost terrifying zeal that I jumped back into the dating game. I do love boys, which I believe explains why I have always had gay male friends. Nobody is as boy crazy as a Northern woman in a far-flung community, except for gay men. Internet dating was and still is my drug of choice.
Right off the bat I met an odd little fellow. I have always hung out with massive, burly men of questionable character (and even more questionable criminal pasts), so interacting with a functional member of society was an experience for me, to say the least. I have never followed the "life map" as I call it. There are people on this planet who graduate from high school, then they go to University, get their degree(s), build up their careers, get married, breed, raise their offspring and acquire expensive toys to compensate for the lack of excitement in their day-to-day lives. McPokey was clearly one of these people, and I could not for the life of me understand why he kept on setting up more dates. However, for the sake of science, and my feline ego, I continued along with this experiment.
At a certain point I decided that I had to kiss him. We had been on half a dozen dates, the kind with food, activities and conversation, without so much as a hand-hold. I was perplexed. My usual mating ritual involved wearing a booty top to the local bar and consuming shooters. Conversation was generally stupid, and thankfully soon forgotten. Fortunately my lack of coordination and low-end winter footwear came to the rescue. We had gone on a challenging dog walk one night (more on the primacy on dog walking on dates to follow) and I was in my full geek glory. I had misjudged the temperature entirely and overdressed. Finally, I was still closet smoking at the time and was gasping for air the whole time. Because my contacts had been bothering me that day I had decided to wear my glasses, which were fogging up every 30 seconds because I was sweating so profusely, and gasping for air. On top of all of that I had decided to wear my beloved pink and brown Columbia winter hikers, which had super-skookum grips, however, unfortunately, were not so very functional. The result was a tendency to fall, and a general inability to climb anything with an incline of more than 135 degrees or so. This resulted in a hand-hold of sorts, because I was falling all over the place. I do believe that I was so embarrassed that I actually apologized for my company that night. Skin-on-skin contact was small consolation.
Yet this odd gentleman persisted and asked me out again, and again. This was way beyond my scope of experience, and I was beginning to get uncomfortably, shall we say anxious, to move the game along. The gloves were off, I e-mailed the poor man and told him that it was okay for him to kiss me.
That weekend he invited me over for dinner. That night we finally kissed. The following Monday I received a note from him in which he thanked me for ahem, dinner.
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