October 06, 2005

Why I'll be Single Forever

The faithful among you probably noticed I did not post yesterday. I’m sorry for that. But on the other hand, doesn’t my page look pretty now? I wasn’t slacking; I was making my blog a nicer place to visit, and since I had to learn html before I could do that, I spent longer than I had anticipated doing simple things like changing colors and fonts. I’m still not finished, but I thought I’d better post before I got swept away in the time-sucking world of computer code. I feel pretty smart just for figuring out how to bold something. Yeah, yeah: You probably knew how to do that when you were seventeen. Bite me.

So, here’s today’s musing: I was working at my second job yesterday. I work at Starbucks. For those of you who are tempted to stop reading right now in protest of the evil corporate machine, please don’t, for two reasons: 1. You are my only reader, and 2. Starbucks is not as evil as you think they are. If you don’t believe me, go here and check out all the ways Starbucks is not the devil. They may make a billion dollars, but they don’t keep all of it, and in this day and age where people will exploit anything to make a little more money (Hint: rhymes with “tush”), Starbucks is the least of anyone’s worries.

Now that we’re friends again, I’ll relate my story. So it’s like 8:00 PM, and I’m making drinks, mostly for the late-night studying crowd. I finish one and hand it up the bar—to a really cute… boy. I have no idea how old he was—could’ve been anywhere from 17 to 25. He was blonde, which I normally don’t dig, but he looked geeky, which I am more than a little into. I think I forgot to say something, because he gave me the smile that pretty people give the less fortunate when they are stunned by their awesome beauty. I rallied, though, and sort of shook my head, and tried to smile, although I felt like an ass. He took his drink and said “thank you” and I was all, “oh, sure” and he smiled his pretty-people smile and was on his way.

Now, here is the part where I stand in place for a full minute, wondering how that might have gone differently.

Well, it’s just as well that I didn’t hit on him, because I look like hell. I have chai on my arms and mocha on my apron, I didn’t do my hair, and it totally needs to be redyed, ‘cuz I have roots, and I haven’t plucked my eyebrows—not that he was really that close, but he might have leaned in or something if we’d started chatting—and then I would try to hide my eyebrows, so he wouldn’t run away screaming if we were forced into closer proximity. And even if he didn’t notice them, I would know they were there, and it would bug me, so I’d be distracted and not be as witty as I usually am. I should wear makeup. I hate wearing it everyday—but you never know when someone’s going to turn up and you’ll have to hit on them. Why do women have to put makeup on like a preventative, like sharks could attack any moment? I failed the Spontaneity Shark Test. I’ve let down the sisterhood. Dammit—why don’t I ever run into anyone cute on my days off, when I have clean hair and makeup on and look halfway pretty?!

Then more drinks are called, and I go back to work for a few minutes.


He probably was like, nineteen. He looked really young—not like, breakouts-and-braces young, but… inexperienced. We wouldn’t have anything in common. His friends would all be immature, and I wouldn’t have heard of half the people in his CD collection. His mother would treat me like I’m Mrs. Robinson. His father would ogle my legs at Thanksgiving. People would think he’s my son at the movies—well, maybe not my son, but my younger brother, at least. And he probably wouldn’t want to see the same films I would. We would realize that our love is not strong enough to keep us together, and I would make a Captain & Tenille reference which he would not get, underscoring the inevitable ending of our bittersweet romance. I would hate to be the older woman that broke his heart. Not after all we’ve been through together.

I know this looks like a defense mechanism, but now that I look at it on paper, I wonder… is it an art? Have I perfected the theoretical relationship to the point where I really don’t need to date ever again? I even cut out all the awkward bits, like the ask-out and the first kiss, and only the sweet memory of love in its purest form remains. Of course, I made it all up. But is that really a downside? Reality could have been so much worse. At this point, I really start to question the motives of the little voice in my head.

...Besides, he’s probably gay.

See what I mean?

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