Miss 13 has a boy crush and he’s apparently crushing on her, too. This is all I can say about this situation because I have signed a ‘Right of Privacy’ agreement wherein my sweet daughter will cease all communication with me if I spill all the beans about her life on this blog. That being the case, all you need to know is that she is entering what I like to call Club Awkward…also known as dating. Perhaps it wasn’t awkward for you, but it was for me and I’m almost positive it will be for her because DNA is a motherfucker.
My first boyfriend was a lad I knew in 5th grade who we will call Ryan…because that was his real name. He was cute and popular and everything the movies told me a boyfriend should be. So I asked him via note to my friend, to his friend, to him, if he liked me. And he said yes. That was also the year I was a volunteer at the school library, but instead of checking in books on the day I found out I had a real boyfriend, I jumped on the tables and hopped from one to the other in sheer joy that someone from the male species noticed me. Someone saw me and told Ryan. We broke up that afternoon. My awkwardness would continue to be a thorn in my side for years to come.
In my younger years, I was out with some girlfriends at a bar and we had some gentlemen offer to buy us drinks, then begin pulling up chairs to our already crowded table. My friends giggled and flipped their hair, completely overcome with the thought of free drinks. I looked at the most attractive male of the bunch and said “No thanks. I brought my own money.” Everyone laughed uncomfortably and I specifically requested my own check at the end of the night. My mom had told me years before that nothing comes for free and that if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.
The following year I met up with some out-of-town friends who were in Vegas on Spring Break while I was living there for a year. One of the male companions, a single guy my friend had told me about, was sauntering ahead of us up Las Vegas Boulevard while we followed behind. He had on cargo shorts that looked to be stuffed with either dead babies or room temperature beer. He was oblivious to me and tall and extremely funny, so I put on my awkward panties and decided to make my move.
“Can I have one of those pocket beers?” I eagerly awaited his response while staring at his pants like a hooker in heat.
The rest of that story is awkward girl history. That guy married me and did every male on the planet a huge favor by getting me the hell out of the dating market. I damn near invented awkward dating and it would be a fucking shame if I ever had to tackle that beast again. But what if I did?
Last month I found out that I’m on Tinder. You probably are, too. Apparently, if you have a FB page you are linked to Tinder in a social media clusterfuck that I don’t understand. It goes like this…someone you are friends with in real life and on FB is on Tinder. They come across someone they are interested in on Tinder and pull up their Tinder profile. If both of these people are friends with you on FB, then your face will show up on Tinder as “Friends You Have In Common”. So basically you are on Tinder. I contemplated what my Tinder profile would be like if I was actually on the market. I know…yikes.
“Divorced mother of two seeks male (or female) to assist with child rearing, bill paying, and yard maintenance. Must be employed and make more than I make at Starbucks. I’m not a breadwinner, okay? I like reading books, traveling, drinking coffee on my porch, and then drinking alcohol on my porch. Basically I like my porch. And alcohol. I need you to be available for one or two major cry sessions per week and I’m willing to have sex twice per week on scheduled days, but not the same days when I’m crying. Also, not two days in a row or on days when I work. I don’t iron clothes, kiss passionately in public, have elevator sex, watch scary movies, or eat treats from other people’s houses. Inquire by texting me because I don’t take phone calls and I will not send you a picture of my boobs. Trust me…you’ll thank me for that later.”
See? Absolutely no one would be interested in that scenario, minus my husband. The same man who seems convinced that since we have been married there have been men hitting on me, which doesn’t seem likely considering that they didn’t hit on me when I was single. But the issue is that I’m fucking oblivious and awkward. Case in point….
I was working the other day, making drinks at the Bux, and a handsome fellow in military garb looked over and said something that I didn’t understand because I was working and not listening. All I heard was “Mandy”. And I forgot I was wearing a name tag. So obviously I assumed he knew me.
In all my coolness, I pretended to know him and said “Hey you, how’s it going?”
He replied with “No. I was just saying that I liked your hair.”
“Thanks. I didn’t wash it today.” Because obviously he needed that information.
As I handed him his drink, I made some comment about it being very small and probably not enough coffee for the day. He smiled and then something happened with his eye. Like he had a eyelash in it or something and it closed at me and the first thing I thought was “Does he have an eyelash in his eyeball?” Then I told my husband about that weirdo and he’s like “I told you that you get hit on.” And I’m still convinced there was an eyelash involved. Cause the awkward club is never ending. Welcome, dear daughter. I hope you find a human with warm pocket beers who will save you from the hell of dating forever. The end.