Monday, May 08, 2006

Good God, I need a date. Or a drink. I'd settle for both.

Of the few single guy friends I have, one in particular is my favorite - if only because his are the only dating stories as bizarre and/or ridiculous as my own. It seems that neither of us has been particularly active in the dating world lately, and our conversations of late have forced us to find other ways to make fun of each other. Tonight's phone call, however, launched us right back into the nutty conversations of yesteryear.

Normally, I look forward to these talks with the joyful anticipation of a fat kid in a candy store. But right about the time he got to the "so then I asked for her number" part, I started to prickle. I've heard him utter those seven words enough times now that it can no longer be ignored. Apparently, my running theory that men in Seattle simply don't ask for numbers isn't true. Closer to the truth, it seems, is that they just don't ask for mine.

Picking up on the self pity? Good. Cuz I'm laying it on pretty thick.

It's not the worst thing in the world, I suppose, always being the one to make the move. But every once in a while, it would be nice to be approached. One time, I decided that the next guy I went out with would be someone who asked for my number all by himself, like a big boy. Uh huh. I was dateless for six months before I finally gave in.

But, while I don't presume to be every guy's idea of perfection, I'm pretty sure I at least pull off cute. I'm relatively intelligent. And people laugh at my jokes. So surely it's not me. It doesn't make sense. The only possible explanation, clearly, is that my friend is the only man in Seattle that asks for numbers. Yes. That must be it.

To the men in Seattle: Grow some balls and say "hi" every once in a while. It's not that hard.

To my friend: For the love of all that is good and holy, gather up the boys and teach a freakin' seminar or something.

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