So, it’s January 1, and I’m sitting on my couch gulping coffee (that’s misleading. I’ve only had one cup and probably won’t have another, because it’ll fuck up my stomach if I do.) and trying not to think too hard about last night, about the 3 gin drinks and 2 vodka drinks and red Solo cup of wine I had. My head is pounding. I think I’m still a bit drunk. Yes, I’m a lightweight: judge me.
At some point during the week I spent at my family’s house for Christmas, my aunt asked at the dinner table, “So Jenny, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”
Forks clattered and eyes landed on me. The room fell silent. “I, um….I’m going to a party,” I stammered.
“Oh, nice!” she said enthusiastically. “Like a house party?”
I laughed. “More of an event. With tickets.”
“Ooooh wow,” she said (40% of which was nostalgic for her own party days, 30% was “I should ditch my own plans and join her!” and 30% was parent-like concern for my safety).
They wanted details. I didn’t give them. They figured out pretty fast that it was some sort of LGBT thing and decided they’d be better off not knowing the details.
My mom insisted still that I text her when I got home.
So yes. There I was last night, nursing a drink in the corner, shaking like a leaf, simultaneously trying to be noticed and trying not to be noticed. Wondering where all these hot girl couples had met, and why the fuck none of them showed up at the lesbian events.
It was a masquerade party. I’d brought a mask which looked surprisingly good with my Sara Quin getup, but I set it down on a table, and within minutes it was stolen by a cute blonde.
Sara Quin would have fought the bitch tooth and nail for it and then asked her out.
I’m not that cool. I did nothing.
Honest confession: while blow drying my hair yesterday morning, I thought there was a possibility I might take someone home with me. I thought, at the very least, I’ll get a girl’s number.
In what universe?
The party was quite lame. At one point a new friend of mine turned to me and said, “Want to get out of here? We can go to this house party I’ve been invited to…”
Disillusioned by the lack of possibilities and the lame-ass straight girl music (DJ: “Cheerleader” is not a good track for a crowd of feminist girls who like girls, also please play “Closer” by Tegan and Sara), I said sure, take me anywhere.
So we left. And then I found myself sitting in the corner at some stranger’s house sipping wine out of a Solo cup and texting my friends, but not too much because I didn’t want my phone to die. Oh yeah, and I made an online dating profile.
Midnight came and passed. It was a sleepy crowd. There were quite a few lesbians, but mostly paired off and/or considerably older than me.
I’m a little disillusioned with myself. The most I can say for my dating life is that I’ve been pursued by a few weirdoes.
It goes like this: Show up at an event. Mostly weirdoes there (I am not normally a judgmental person, but I am not exaggerating: you have to see it). They eye me like a plate of brownies. Someone (or 2, or 3) comes up to me at the end and gives me her phone number. She mistakes my politeness for romantic interest and her voice goes all starry-eyed Ellen Page as she invites me to coffee right now/lunch tomorrow/dinner later in the week. I politely decline on account of busy-ness, but tell her I’ll be at the next event, why don’t we hang out there. And then the texting starts, and won’t stop, and I’m terrible at letting people down, so I continue the charade.
I think I’m going to stop going to these events.
I’m scraped too thin these days.
I don’t want a relationship. I want to date.
I want to bake cookies with a cute girl and run my fingers through her hair while she licks the spoon. I want to buy that giant rainbow umbrella at Target and walk down the street with her on a rainy morning after a night of, you know, sex.
I’m not looking for anything serious – but the right girl could get me to settle down. It’s finding the girls that’s proving to be difficult.