Back When I Ate Pasta

You know how sometimes you're eating pasta, and you're like, "Hey! This tastes good with some parmesan cheese. I bet it would taste even BETTER with MORE parmesan cheese!" And then you add four tablespoons of parmesan cheese and then it just tastes like gross, sour, mushy, cheesy overload? Yeah, so I think dating me is like too much parmesan.

On the first date, I kill it. You like a little somethin' EXTRA in your date? A little sass? A little spice? Someone who's gonna up the flavor factor of your routine skinny, blonde, vegetarian advertising chick who likes to talk about her puppy? Yeah, I got dat parmesan. Then, on dates two and three, they realize--Hey! You know what? This dish was kind of good without all that extra flavor. That extra intensity. All that extra cheese (read: honesty, emotional effusiveness, overindulgence period.) And then the inevitable happens. They throw out the parmesan-smothered disaster and move on to buttered pasta. Plain. Safe. Sane.

A friend once told me that she categorizes all people into types of pasta. She labeled me a spicy, tomato-y blend with penne. "Why spicy?" I asked. "Because, you know. You're a certain type. Not everyone's gonna like you." Clearly, I was shocked. As far as I was concerned, I was the macaroni and cheese--the single most crowd-pleasing pasta of them all. However, as friends often are, I believe she is right.

Last Tuesday night I went out with Madison (Okay, I'd never really date someone named Madison but I'm running out of pseudonyms that start with "M.") I wasn't very pumped for the date. He had asked me to INSTANT MESSAGE on OkCupid (oops--did I mention I reactivated?....) but a few wines into the date he was my next future husband. We really did have an amazing time, wines or no wines, and he sent me not one but TWO sweet texts the next day. We confirmed our date for tomorrow night, and I looked forward to it all week. Then, as the story always seems to end, the dreaded text came: "Hey. A million apologies. I'm gonna have to bow out of tomorrow night. I don't think it's gonna work out. Sorry." I just typed that out from memory. Fuck. I might have read it more than once.

Okay, so: A million apologies--fine, good start. Can't make it tomorrow--not a problem, I reschedule all the time.  I don't think it's gonna work out. Sorry. Nope, no explanations for that one.

It's like I repel them. There is literally NOTHING I could have done in this past week to fuck it up. I was in San Francisco, truly enjoying myself, and didn't feel the need to call or text or even WORRY because I was so confident in our connection.  I guess he reflected on things, and I was just a little too much cheese. He's on the paleo diet--what did I expect?