I’m chatting.
Online. With a boy. Correction: With a man. This is “Young, Single & Catholic” not “To Catch a Predator.”
Anyways, I’m chatting. Like talking. Online. With a complete stranger. Trying to be witty and funny and charming and utilizing any other remarkable trait used to catch husband material.
Which means my face has turned the color of a tomato and my pulse is now at an unnatural rate when sitting.
The man is from over 500 miles away. And he’s 30. Which is officially pushing it. But he seems nice. Dare I say normal? Witty? Charming?
Oh wait. Back the train up. He has a therapist. And a minor psychological condition. Which he has failed to elaborate on.
I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that minor psychological condition does not translate into “I kill people in my spare time.”
And who doesn’t have a therapist these days? Well. Okay, maybe that trend hasn’t quite caught on in the Midwest. But who on the East or West Coast doesn’t have a therapist? Perhaps I’ve snagged some incredibly affluent and insightful philosopher.
** Keep an open mind Amy, keep an open mind. This could be, The One. **
Oh he’s elaborated. And it’s not some sort of serial killer syndrome. This is good. I think.
This is also a first. And a major one.
Every single romantic relationship I have ever had has stemmed from some sort of long-term friendship. My first boyfriend (albeit for only four hours)? We were friends for nine months before he popped the question. And he is my absolutely hands down positively best friend today. My second boyfriend (who also turned out to be the third, and arguably the fourth)—we were lab partners in seventh grade before we started dating in ninth grade….then the summer before senior year… and then whatever we were first semester of college.
Every relationship with Marquette boys? Friends first. Always friends.
Of course when you have a pretty rockin’ friendship before you decide you want more than that, you always are open for the possibility of hearing that dreaded sentence.
“I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
Been there, done that. Cried, eaten large amounts of chocolate ice cream and once even watched Britney Spears’s Oscar winning performance in “Crossroads” over it.So maybe this whole try dating the stranger thing is going to work out for the best?
Still scares me. Just a little.
Back to my chat.
Make nice talk…make nice talk…make nice talk.
Yep, yep nope. This is not working. Definitely definitely not working. At all. I love men that can hold conversations and share about themselves but I’m barely getting a word in edgewise here. And that’s somewhat complicated to do over im, but he has somehow achieved it. And he’s ranting. And oversharing.
La La La La La ** plugs ears covers eyes ** I don’t need or want to know that about you. Potentially ever. I applaud your openness. But please stop. La La La La La.
Must exit conversation, must exit conversation immediately.
“Umm…I actually have to get to a conference call.”
Crap. Just broke one of the commandments. Major Catholic dating faux pas. I don’t think I’ve ever in my entire life been on a conference call.
Oh no, he wants to be facebook friends.
Oh dear, he gave me his email address.
AND he wants me to call him at home.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
*** Block member ***
Phew.
An hour later on the treadmill…
Guilt. I’m Catholic. So it’s to be expected.
I feel bad. Perhaps blocking him was a bit over the top, but I completely and totally freaked out. I can never know for sure if he was going to email me 402 times in the span of 24 hours or come to Milwaukee when I chose to not return his smiles. I never intended to hurt his feelings, which I likely did. He was quite interesting. And definitely charming. He just came on too strong. With way too much information to share.
1 man down. Five gazillion single men to go.
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