Me? Serial Dater?

Serial dater, psh, what does that even mean? Isn’t anyone with an active dating life a “serial dater”?

I met him at a club in PB. I was getting down on the dance floor when our eyes locked from across the room, no joke. He starts dancing, perhaps not as graciously, but it was funny nonetheless. Of course, I begin to mimic him. When he beckons me over with one finger, I think to myself, oooh no, I’m not falling for that one, and motion for him to come over to me.

“You really shouldn’t treat your boyfriend like that,” is the first line that comes out of Dancer’s smirking mouth.

“Oh this is progressing quickly. Name’s aren’t really important, right?” I fire back.

We exchange cute, sarcastic banter and he gets my number. Afterwards he claims that if he decides “not to be a pussy” he’ll actually call instead of text. Turns out he pussed out twice in the next week and then proceeded to send me a Facebook message to prep me for the next day’s phone call. I really don’t need that much lead-up. We went out the night he called.

I did it again, you know, that awkward end-of-the-date hug. That one where I stretch my arms out straight in front of me giving him no other option but to hug me, in hopes to avoid that “are we or aren’t we going to kiss” moment. But I wanted him to kiss me. Is the hug even more awkward?

We went to a local bar and had a couple beers. He paid. We talked about some of our goals in life, our family. There was laughter and smiles and compliments. Half way through it he crossed over to sit next to me in the booth, a bold move on a first “date”, to show me pictures of when he used to sport a comical mullet.

We closed the bar down and could both sense each other’s reluctance to leave already, I mean, it had only been 2 hours. We stood outside in the parking lot chatting, I was standing on the curb when he wrapped his arms around me. As we stood chest to chest, I returned the embrace, resting my chin on his strong shoulder. Our lips just inches apart.

“Sooo…. I guess we should go?” I say, not wanting to seem like I have the whole night to just stand here wrapped up in his comforting warmth. I give him a hug, trying to suppress the urge to attack him right there in the street.

He agreed. As we walked to our nearby cars we both did the turn around.

“You’re rad. I’m definitely going to call you,” he replied with certainty in his voice.

“You better.” I smiled back at him.

He hasn’t called. It’s been two weeks.

And no, texting doesn’t count. I have to remind myself I have only known him for a month. It felt so right that I lost my steez; lost my game… I just lost it. I turned into that girl.

Oh, you know the one. Overly paranoid, overly analytical. Why hasn’t he called? It went so well. Did I do something wrong? Maybe I should have kissed him. And then I slapped myself around a little bit, woke up and shook all the crazies off.

I am a catch, damnit! I feel like what I need is a temporary toy to distract me from the guy I really like. That’s normal, right?

Not serial dating, just dating. Maybe it’s to kill the time, maybe it’s to distract me, or maybe it’s to find someone to love. Either way, without it, I’d never find out what I really want and what I’d give my life to avoid.

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