The past few posts have been far too serious and actually kind of depressing so perhaps it’s time for a break. In the form of a humiliating tale about my complete inability to read guys. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I thought so.
It all began in the spring of 2011, that’s right kidlets this was months of complete obliviousness. I attended my lovely friend’s wedding and was taken by the tall, grinning groomsman. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you attend a wedding solo, fall in love with the wedding party. The only problem was he had a date who wasn’t really a date, but it seemed like enough of a date to make it difficult to make a move. That and I’m not smooth enough to make a move under even the most promising of circumstances, so the faux date was as good enough reason as any to be a complete pussy about it. I did manage to squeeze in a half dance, which was enough for me to decide that our wedding was undoubtedly going to be next.
Despite this undisputed conclusion, I departed that night with nothing to show for it. Not to fret, after I expressed my interest to the bride with a “squeeeeeeee” she assured me I would see him again at various gatherings she and her new husband would be hosting. There were housewarmings and holiday parties. But each time my efforts brought me no closer to my goal. Oh sure I’d flirt here and there and I’d get a flirt or two back. But no real progress was made.
I was about ready to throw in the towel when the perfect opportunity was presented. There would be a New Year’s party, hosted by the object of my affection (we’ll call him M to protect the innocent and disinterested). Where else would it be perfectly acceptable to kiss the object of your affection making your intentions fully known?
I had made plans to attend with the friend who made our love possible (L from this point forward) and a few others. But that was the one night Minnesota had decided she had been far too easy on us this winter and she would make up for it by spewing holiday-destroying flakes upon the roadways. This meant that L and her husband would not be making the trek to the party. I could see each layer of snow covering my visions of Jordan almonds and white doves.
But what good fortune! The others came through and agreed to accompany me to M’s party despite the fact that I would know only two people at what would amount to a high school class reunion for the others in attendance. We arrived and I immediately felt like Samantha Baker at the popular party. My friends and I mixed and mingled and it was all well and fine until Lauren (not the previously mentioned “L”) implored me to make a move on M, because what else was I here for?
Determined not to let Lauren down, I went for it. I flirted hard. It was a thing of beauty. He was reciprocating. It was magical like a ‘90s coming of age movie. I was Laney Boggs transformed…or something. There was one problem. He kept fracking disappearing. At first I thought it was because he was playing host. He would always return though, to flirt again. But eventually I was frustrated with the stalemate. So I sent L a text telling her that he was not succumbing to my womanly wiles and I was giving up.
On the way out the door I ran into a guy I never would have expected to see at this party. He had lived with an ex of mine in Mankato. I reintroduced myself and we bashed my ex for a bit before I asked how he had come to attend this event.
He replied simply “I’m dating M.”
It was a shock, but I kept my cool, because I am fly like that, “Oh? You are? That’s nice. He’s a good guy.”
“Yep he’s a keeper,” was his grinning reply and then I wanted to scratch his eyes out. Not really, but c’mon!
And then I bolted. I said goodbye to M, maintaining that suave demeanor until I was in my car. At that point I looked at Lauren and just said “SERIOUSLY!?” before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
This is not the first time I set my sights on someone with arguably ambiguous sexual orientation. But it was the first that I had put myself that far out there. I still hold he was knowingly giving me mixed signals. Playing with my fragile, nitwitted little heart. All just for kicks. Shame on you, M! But also shame on me, the next day I resolved to fine-tune my gaydar over the course of the next year.