Dating is for morons.
When I worked in a corporate setting back in the 2010s, we had multiple floors in a high rise building in the middle of the gross part of Hollywood. If you’ve ever been here, you know which part I’m talking about — it smells of urine and weird men in knock-off Spiderman outfits are breakdancing on the Walk of Fame. Somehow, this is the epicenter of what tourists come to “See” when they come here. We shared a parking complex with Jimmy Kimmel Live, and you’d always be standing behind Darth Vader holding his helmet at the Coffee Bean. Leaving to get lunch was an epic adventure, and sometimes you’d get locked in overnight during a “bomb threat” and have to sleep on the day beds by the pool across the street at the Roosevelt.
Sometimes you got lucky and got to watch Spongebob get arrested in full costume through your office window.
We had several departments that did different things in advertising, and the best part was that even though we all worked in the same building, ate in the same lunch room, used the same restrooms, kitchens, and elevators — you didn’t dare speak to or make eye contact with someone who was NOT in your department. And because leaving the building was such an ordeal, we tended to just stay there all fucking day like little corporate prisoners.
Now, in Los Angeles — there’s this weird code of conduct that even occurs on the street, where you could be less than 1 foot away from a stranger and you still DO NOT under any circumstances make eye contact and say anything. This includes any sort of neighborly “hello,” “excuse me” or even a half smirk smile situation. Ask any Angeleno, and they’ll tell you it’s really confusing to go to another city and walk down the street, because people will be walking their dog, look you right in the eye and say “GOOD MORNING.” This also extends to Los Angeles nightclubs, where you must only speak to/interact with the people who came in your group. I.e., you may never approach a random stranger and say hello, or buy them a drink, or even act like you are in the same room. This is my theory on why it’s impossible to meet new people here, but that’s a story for another day.
My department was oddly split between two floors, one of which was shared with one of the most pretentious departments in the whole company. I would be doling out salad dressing from our buffet directly across from these guys, hear their entire conversation, and they would pretend I was invisible. Jake Gyllenhaal was once photographed by paparazzi wearing one of their T-shirts leaving Intelligentsia and they must’ve felt that that was some sort of indirect way of being famous through osmosis. Regardless, they were the rudest people I think I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve lived here my entire life.
I spent much of my time in the stairwell bouncing between my office and the floor below me, where most of my direct reports — and these assholes — worked. While I was down there, I would constantly run into those dudes (I.e., usually always good-looking white men, who thought they were stuck in a permanent episode of Mad Men.) And being the single girl that I was (and maybe just a kind ass individual???) I would always try to smile and say hello to them… only to be completely ignored.
I often used the kitchen on their floor to make tea/get coffee/try to survive in between meetings, and one day a good-looking guy I had never seen before came into the kitchen and started making tea right next to me. As we reached around each other to get our stirrers and sugars, he finally smiled at me. I suppose it could be categorized as some sort of “meet cute,” except when he walked away, I realized he was the new guy in the pretentious department of Don Draper wannabes. (Looking back, he was only half good-looking, like imagine the dumb cousin of Jake Gyllenhaal with a more smooshy jawline. But hey, I was just happy to make contact at that point.)
For the next few weeks, we would run into each other in the kitchen to make our tea — and we’d often even — GASP — hand each other things to help the process. I’d pass him the bowl of sliced lemons, and he would pass me a bag of green tea. We were breaking all the unspoken stranger rules of Los Angeles! Yet somehow, even with that, we never introduced ourselves to each other…. Like it was some unspoken Romeo and Juliet shit, where we couldn’t be seen speaking to each other.
I had been urged by my friends to talk to him, but every time I tried, someone would walk by, or I’d chicken out… then one day, I had the bold idea of adding him on Facebook. (This was 2010 sis, I know we don’t use that shit anymore, but go with me here) I, of course, am an expert internet sleuth and had sought out his name by looking on his office door one day when I was walking by, and found him in the company directory, and of course on google. His name was Evan, and he was from Chicago and didn’t appear right away to be a serial killer. When I typed his name into Facebook, BOOM, there was his smooshy jawline — smiling and making me feel like it might be ok to add him.
I figured, certainly, I could add him and it wouldn’t be an issue because I saw him every other day in the kitchen where we made our flirtatious tea together… So I thought, what the hell, and clicked “ADD FRIEND.”
SIDE BAR: This was also at the time that you under no circumstances added anyone on Facebook unless you knew them IRL, which I felt I indeed DID know him.
The next morning I was excited to see I had a message back from him, but he had NOT accepted my request for some reason. I hurriedly opened the message which said something like: “You look super familiar, did we go to High School Together?”
UM.
I felt deflated. Did I not look like my profile picture or something? Had he not spent hours looking up my name and my department and my hometown?? Rude.
Thinking I was being cute, I simply wrote back, “Nope, I work on the floor above you.” Which now, looking back, if you didn’t know the context and put two and two together and remembered we MAKE TEA TOGETHER EVERY SINGLE FLIPPING DAY, that this could come off quite stalkerish….but I digress. Also, I was assuming he was indeed a smart individual who possessed basic photographic matching to IRL situations skills — what is it they say? Never assume?
For the next week or so, I didn’t see him in the kitchen at all. I thought maybe they’d sent him out of town or somehow I just kept missing him. But I never thought…. Could he be avoiding me?
Finally, a coworker of mine whose office was a few doors down from Evan’s told me he had brushed paths with him. And apparently, Evan had asked him if he knew a girl named Angie in his department. GASP, this bitch DID know my name. But when my friend said he knew me, Evan began to ask him if I was some super weird girl who just added random people on Facebook — because, GASP, he had received a friend request from me and had never met me in his life.
UM. WHAT.
So now, I’m sure you are thinking what I’m thinking, like, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK/WHAT A DICK. I wanted to go knock on his door and say, “do you not recognize me? We make tea almost every day together, and you are nice and you smile at me and somehow you are too stupid to recognize that THATS my profile? Or do you have a wife or girlfriend and now you’ve realized if you add me, that your cover is blown? Or, are you just a straight up asshole?!”
In the months after this event, if I saw him in the lunch room or in the elevator, he never made eye contact with me ever again, no matter how close we would be standing. I never saw him again in the kitchen making tea. And soon after, I heard he got a new job and left the company completely.
Which like, whoa powerful, if I somehow caused him to freak out enough to leave the company — but I won’t take credit for that! I am truly born and raised in LA — and I was not raised to NOT make eye contact with people and not say hello. I think whatever unspoken rule that is to act like you are better than everyone else comes from the transplants that move here thinking they have to have that mentality in order to be successful here. So if you’ve never been here, please don’t think we’re all just assholes…
I’ll honestly never be sure of what exactly went wrong here — perhaps an early lesson in that “friending” can be “aggressive” somehow? I’ll never understand how even following someone or liking a photo on Instagram can be seen as creepy nowadays if you aren’t careful ( unless you are legit stalking their ex or something).
This leads me to today, whereas I currently have a crush on a person I follow on IG, and I seriously will respond to things he posts and then delete them before I hit “Send” because I remember this violent adverse reaction that Evan had all those years ago. I am not the random DM-er that slides in and is able to trick you into flirting with me because I have PTSD from Facebook Evan.
I’m not aggressive, I’m friendly, bitch. And I’m trying to ask you out, you idiot.
Do you think I should DM him?
I luckily have a family who has accepted the fact that I’m here at 40 years old and have NEVER brought a man to any holiday dinner in my entire life. My father told me when I was in my early 20’s to not bring any man around unless it had already been 2-3 years and we were becoming serious — which has never happened. I don’t think any man can deal with me longer than around 18-ish months…(and vice versa)
There are still those extended family members who love to have the “how I financed my frozen eggs” conversations. And, though no one has said it to my face, I’m sure they’re all wondering why I’m not married or have kids or any of those things they think everyone is supposed to have done by this age… This year alone, I have watched at least five Holiday movies where the female is pretending she has a boyfriend/fiance or has to find a boyfriend by Christmas eve… I even saw a play where the storyline somehow had these women trying to get engaged before Christmas which was in 3 days (it was Jane Austen themed, so I guess, expected). I love a predictable Christmas movie, but this storyline is tired and archaic and will just keep many generations of women believing that we have to go along with this nonsense every single year until we die.
Also, let’s be clear — I am not some bah humbug anti-romance person. I am a Leo, and I am stupidly a hopeless romantic who wants it all to work out happily ever after, but in like, a realistic non-cheesy/non-cringey sort of way. Part of my personality is this weirdly logical emotionally mature person, who won’t put my needs second to anyone — but the majority of my personality is this confused people pleaser who wonders why people don’t like me enough to want to spend every waking breath with me. I think it’s what the last guy I dated meant when he said I was “difficult,” — because even I don’t know which one of me you’re gonna get today.
So I put together a list of what I would say if someone at the Christmas dinner table asked me why I am single (which I invite you to borrow, or steal, or make your own and use, if you need it):
Reasons I choose to be single:
The dating pool is a straight up travesty. I don’t want to generalize here, but if anyone has been on the apps in the last few years, you know what I mean. Swiping is the worst thing that’s ever happened to the human race, and keeps these dudes forcing a silent competition for attention they don’t deserve. Life’s too short to spend with gross people.
I am too tired to investigate if a guy is a liar or not, and the dinner table needs to know that the percentage of liars (regardless of gender) has risen to ridiculous heights. I recently went down a rabbit hole of trying to figure out if someone was lying to me — which I’m pretty sure he is, and yet he STILL keeps asking me to hang out like I’m an idiot and don’t see what he’s doing. My therapist says if the flag is leaning red, just call it red and gtfo — like, stop with the rationalizing and giving the benefit of the doubt, because no. Again, Life’s too short to spend with gross people.
I know what I want, and can tell pretty quickly if he ain’t it. Again, after like five questions with a guy, it's pretty clear if he’s even close to the mark — and I just don’t feel like settling and being mad about it later. (or having to deal with a divorce and splitting my shit with someone I super hate) Therapist always reminds me, it's MUCH harder to undo a bad marriage than it is to just take it slow and make sure the guy is THE GUY.
I’ve been close to what I thought was “marrying the guy” a few times before, but have always followed my gut feeling — and that bitch has never let me down. I’ve managed to look back a few years later and realized I’m dodging bullets like Keanu in The Matrix, and frankly, I’m proud of that (even though my back is starting to hurt). The thought of having to split my shit after a divorce with someone who maybe hasn’t worked as hard as I have to get the little I have, makes my stomach hurt. I once had a boyfriend move into my apartment in Hollywood, to which he made NO contributions except his own clothes, and would invite people over to see HIS apartment in HOLLYWOOD and accidentally erase shows from the TiVo that were MINE. I imagined a lifetime of this and immediately broke up with him, and THANK GOD.
I need a dude who will just let me be my weird self — the one dude that I still unfortunately think about/miss, once made a comment about my doc martens being the most hideous things he’s ever seen, and for whatever reason I stupidly packed them up and put them in storage for months. And a while later, I realized — if a dude is that shallow that he has to make comments like that, he’s gonna have MORE comments to make when he sees how really fucking weird I actually am, and I ain’t got time for that. Like come on, I need a dude who’ll wear matching Christmas onesies with me and my cat — get over yourself!
Bitch, I’m 40! (She says with a kick) And I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever actually been in actual love before. There are only TWO (out of like 500) guys that have come close to giving me that butterfly feeling, and they weren’t even that nice or treated me that great. I thought at the time, Oh THIS IS LOVE, but then afterwards — I realized I loved the IDEA of them, and not actually who they were or what they had to offer me/our relationship (and usually, my love for them was for their songwriting and talent abilities, which therapist says is NOT a gage for a good relationship….LOL, which I’m still working on)
These are just some rough ideas — I’m sure you can tailor some of these to work for your situation, or you can just say, “Well, Aunt So-and-So, I’ve always modeled my life after you and it seems like you hate your husband….” I’m sure after explaining all this to the dinner table, everyone will be almost finished with their meals and just staring at you completely appalled. Hopefully they’ve had like six glasses of wine and won’t remember any of the details of what you’ve said — and maybe they’ll even just mosey away to find dessert or smoke a cigarette or something. The truth is, we don’t owe anyone an explanation for why we’re single (or childless), even if it’s just because you’d rather spend your time at home hanging out with your cat and listening to loud rock music.
Feel free to leave me any ideas in the comments I’ve missed that might work in this situation…
Back when I saw him in the Spring time — randomly, after I thought he’d moved to Utah never to be seen again and he had gotten married — I had half-heartedly mentioned that it would be nice “just to see HIS band” at the festival. When he asked if I would be going, that had been my response. Festivals are hard to navigate, even for the concert savvy… but that’s another story.
But I guess I meant it when I said it would be nice to see just his band… since I’d never seen them live. And, unfortunately, I was a former fan of the bands music — even before I met him. I just never made it to a show because I had been busy pretending to be a “serious” twenty-something when the band had peaked — I was wearing headbands and dresses with leggings and ballet flats back then. I couldn’t get away with wearing emo bangs as a “wannabe young professional”, even though I did in fact listen to a LOT of emo music.
They hadn’t played together in seven-ish years, and they always joked that they never actually broke up — he had just gone off to try a different project without the others, and this was during the time that I had met him.
He’s a great songwriter, just kind of an asshole. That’s the honest truth.
I’m pretty sure that’s what a lot of people thought of him (still think of him?). Every musician goes through this weird “am I relevant still?” thing, and he had hit his early when the band stopped playing together. Music had mostly turned to what I call “The Neon Era” — overproduced pop songs that either had a feature from Pitbull or T-Pain or had some repetitive lyric a la LMFAO. It was the time of Cobra Starship and the neon purple American Apparel hoodie. There were no guitars anywhere to be seen or heard — and he had primarily turned to songwriting, wondering if he’d ever be “in a band” again.
He would mention to me that he would look in the mirror, trying to find the 7-year-old boy playing his guitar and pretending to be a rock star — but he claimed he couldn’t find him anymore. The music industry had seeped into his skull and everything was a marketing plan and a viral Tiktok.
When I met him, he was doing the Bruce Springsteen thing — rock, but heavily 80’s influenced. I’ve never seen a wall of synths so tall. It was during this era at a photoshoot (where I was the writer/creative director), the stylist pulled out some Vans for him to try. He refused to try them on like a f*cking brat. He claimed vans were “young boy shit” and that he had stopped wearing them back in his “Tabloid boyfriend” era.
I guess it's sort of like my “Lauren Conrad” era — you couldn’t pay me to put on a headband now. I can remember thinking he was a complete asshole for not even trying the Vans on and making such a big deal about it. And he gave me the whole shtick about an artist being “visually defined by their shoes”. “Leather Chelsea boots” was the vibe he was going for now, and we couldn’t taint the image by suggesting sneakers of any type. For someone so seemingly confident, the whole project came off kind of timid and insecure, even if the choice in shoes was strong, it always felt like he was asking the audience “is it ok that I’m doing this now and not what you saw me do before?”
Hard to explain. And while I get it — I’m not out here dressing like LC and trying to go to Le Deux on La Cienega, I’m also not being an asshole about it.
When I saw that the week between the WWWY Festival weekends, the band had put together a mini week long tour — including a date in LA, I thought I could skirt around the issue. I mean, he was married now, and probably wouldn’t even remember that he saw me on the street a few months ago in front of Joan’s on Third. But when I got a text saying that I had “gotten my wish” and it would be “Just HIS band” playing a full set, it felt like I couldn’t get out of it.
So, speaking of insecure, I bought two tickets and I asked my youngest hottest male friend to come with me. You know, just in case I ran into HIM face to face again, I wouldn’t be in a hoodie trying to hide from the rain, and/or trying to hide the emotions that were always ever-so apparent on my face.
Or WORSE, in case I ran into his wife I wouldn’t be by myself…
My hot young male friend was late as I stood in front of the tour bus on the street, watching the line enter the venue. My anxiety was at an all time high, and all I needed was for HIM to see me standing there alone.
I had worn a stupid pink crop top that I bought from Khloe Kardashian’s clothing line — thinking somehow I would invoke her “revenge body” spirit while wearing it. But instead, it was 45 degrees and I’m a native Southern California girl, so I was zipped up to my chin in a puffer instead. Like, a sexy marshmallow.
Finally, my young hot friend showed up and we made our way inside where I briefed him over a shot of vodka to take the edge off. “We’re really just here to see if he’s wearing his Vans again” I said to him, as I guzzled my double vodka Sprite.
We took our positions, slightly off to the side of the stage — where we had a direct view of where HIS feet would be for proper inspection. I wondered if I should ask my friend if we should stand closer together so we looked like we could be dating, but I instead found myself eyeing the room, looking to see if his wife had attended the show.
After one song — two things were clear: he was wearing chocolate crocodile boots, not Vans, AND he had seen me and pointed at me. Le sigh. Did that mean I could leave now?
My hot friend leaned in and said, “You should really just pretend you don’t know anything about him, and that you’re just a fan from 2008…. and enjoy the music.”
He was right.
And from that point, I sang along with all the other late 30’s emo fans all the songs that we loved and tried to forget I knew anything personally about him. Because yes, he’s a great songwriter, just kind of an asshole wearing chocolate crocodile boots.
He had kept his word about the Vans. Which I guess strangely meant to me that he had changed since those days. Just like me and those dumb headbands.
The show ended, and my hot friend asked if we should wait to say hi — I gave him the good ol’ “immediately no” face and said, “nah, I’ll just text him…”
And just as I looked up from my phone, there SHE was…. his wife: the woman I had only ever seen in influencer-posed hiking photos and with two different colored boots on the red carpet. I still haven’t figured out if he’d been dating her at the same time as me. She looked me in the face and of course didn’t recognize me…. She doesn’t know who I am like I know who she is. That’s the weird part of social media. Her skin wasn’t as perfect in person, but she was much taller and thinner than me — like most other women I guess.
I clutched my young friend's arm… it was like waiting for a panic attack or horrible gas pains to pass. I had some sort of weird hope that she wouldn’t recognize me — even though she never would — but the panic in me made me feel like maybe she could really see me looking at her profile after all?
On the way home, I had started the new Taylor Swift album, Midnights, and had unfortunately made it to “Anti-hero,” — you know, where the lyrics repeat on the bridge, “it’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.” And I don’t know if it’s what Taylor meant, but I literally felt the energy drain from my body like I was being eaten by a vampire and like accepting, that maybe in that specific relationship — even if HE was the asshole — that maybe somehow I was the problem. You know, for just like, having expectations.
When I got to my house, I sat in my car attempting to formulate a text to him since I’d avoided waiting for him…. And what I came up with was some semblance of, “Great show tonight! Looks like maybe you did find the kid in the mirror who just loves to play his guitar after all.”
I know. Dramatic. I guess I had brought some emo home with me, and you know, there was the Taylor Swift of it all — but I did mean it. He looked happy to be playing songs that everyone knew the words to alongside some of his best friends in the world. He wasn’t worried about a viral Tiktok anymore, that’s what his boots meant.
Not even a minute later he responded with, “yeah I did, honestly” and then “so happy you came, thank you.”
I felt deflated. Happy for him, but deflated in that I was the one still going home alone at the end of the night. I guess it's one of those things where I wondered if anyone in my life had ever studied me that closely and seen me like I saw him — able to peg the change down to a single clothing item that meant he was in his “happiness era.” Could his wife do that?
More importantly, what item of clothing would replace my headbands? And would anyone even notice?
I don’t think there’s anything worse than having stomach issues on a date, am I right? Name a more embarrassing moment than having to excuse yourself to the restroom more than once in a 30 minute time span, I’ll wait…
Now, I don’t want to be a hypocrite because I know if a GUY does this on a date with me (especially a first or second date) it’s a major turn off. But when it does happen, I try to be understanding so that the Universe sends the same vibes my way… However, it always sort of reminds me of that time on Laguna Beach on MTV where Kristin was trying to make out with her prom date in the back of their limo and dude asked to pull over and barfed in the gutter instead. If your date stands by you and tries to HELP — I think its safe to say they actually really like you… not sure if that’s the case here?
I was visiting NYC and was planning a hang out day with the infamous “Hot Gandalf” (yes, the one you read about in the LA Times) — a silver-bearded long haired Brooklyn-ite who wears matching top knots when we go out. We had planned to have brunch at a spot in the city and then go to the Met Museum to see the American Lexicon Fashion Exhibit (My idea, clearly) before the spring met gala would clear it out for part 2.
Side Note: points for Hot Gandalf even agreeing to go to a museum to look at designer dresses behind glass for two hours…. I know husbands of friends that would pay money to get out of doing this.
Our brunch consisted of the usual for me: Scrambled eggs, a piece of bacon, a couple bites of fries and some sort of berry mimosa. I had been in town the full week working on a shoot, and because I’m gluten free (not by choice) I sort of am only able to eat very basic things like salads and sides of fruit when I’m not at home. You’d think I’d be a lot thinner because of the way I eat, but alas. Sometimes in New York, I’ll strike it rich and find a place with GF pasta and pizza, but frankly, its still a rare occasion. (Shoutout to any of my GF friends out there…. life is rough whenst traveling) Needless to say, I am not a spicy-food eater or very adventurous when it comes to food unfortunately.
I had had a weird incident upon landing in NY earlier that week… I fly to multiple cities in a year, and NEVER have issues feeling sick or dizzy upon take off or landing, or even during turbulence. I’ve been known to fully fall asleep before take off and not wake up until after landing. However this particular time, the landing was reeeeeally rough… I’m talking like in the movies when people start confessing wild shit because they think they’re gonna die, rough. And, it seemingly lasted FOREVER. It was so turbulent, I had one hand on my face mask ready to pull it off, and the other hand with the stupid little barf bag open and ready to catch whatever didn’t get caught in my mask…
Luckily, I was able to hold it together. But I got that whole sweaty palm and shaky knees thing that comes with it — which literally NEVER happens to me on a flight. Anyway, I KNEW something was up from that point on… but tried to convince myself I was totally fine.
After brunch, my tummy did a little gurgle and I excused myself to the restroom. I pre-emptively ate a pepto bismol while I was in there, completely as a precaution, and then continued out to the curb where Hot Gandalf had called an Uber for us. The restaurant we were at was downtown — about 30-45 mins in an Uber away from The Met. I stupidly assumed the pepto would have my back…. but girl…. I was wrong.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a NYC Uber, but its just as bad as an NYC taxi with super speed gunning and braking in heavy traffic. Given I don’t normally react to turbulence, there was something about this ride that made me feel truly sick to my stomach — on both ends. I couldn’t tell if I needed to pull over and barf, or if something worse was about to happen…
About 15 minutes into the ride, my stomach was flip flopping and I needed to find a restroom PRONTO.
As we got closer uptown, there were less and less restaurants to stop at and find a working restroom — in fact, we were near apartments that each had a doorman or a key code to enter, there were almost NO restaurants anywhere. I tried to be sly and ask if we should maybe “walk the rest of the way” — like, pretending to be romantique. But even as I batted my eyes and reached over to touch his knee, both the driver AND Hot Gandalf chuckled and said, “No way — we’re so far from the Met still, it’ll kill you to walk that far….”
Oh silly little girl raised in Los Angeles — she just doesn’t get how big NYC is. I stared perilously at the Uber app map, showing we were less than half way there… I tried to will the little animated car to move just a tad faster, but it seemed like we were getting stuck at every single red light instead.
I tried to roll the window down and claimed I needed some air, but really it was the other end of me that was screaaaaming for help. We had at least another 30 minutes in this terrible rollercoaster of a ride, complete with one of those really stinky car air fresheners. My stomach ached and creaked.
I started to panic, and began google-ing on my phone if I could buy tickets online that would allow us to go straight in, skipping the line… by this point, I don’t think Hot Gandalf knew there was a stomach issue, but probably thought I was some weird anxiety-ridden freak who couldn’t sit still for five minutes. And while yes, I AM an anxiety-ridden freak, I can sometimes sit still for like, a whole hour.
We finally arrived what felt like a whole ass day later, and I’ve never run up stairs faster in my life. Never mind they were filming a scene for the newest “Gossip Girl” on the steps…. My rear end was NOT impressed with this new cast at all.
Hot Gandalf was SO chill in the car mentioning the “line won’t be that long” to buy tickets when we arrived, so I stupidly didn’t buy the tickets online. I mean, I didn’t wanna seem like an anxiety-ridden freak who couldn’t sit still for five minutes, right? So instead, I was going to wait in a line of thirty tourists — who ask ALL the questions as they buy tickets for their seven children, OR their whole classroom of students who are seated nearby, while my ass is literally releasing steammmmm in anger.
We finally got our tickets, and as we entered the Egyptian wing — I asked the security guard where the restroom is, and in FULL New Yorker, she went off telling me to JUST READ THE SIGNS. But of course, as I looked around, I did not see ONE sign… she of course, looked away, ignored me, and never bothered to even give me even an inkling of which direction to go.
Finally, Hot Gandalf opened the map — and said, “Oh, I think it’s right back there!” and points behind some sort of golden tomb sarcophagus thing. MY FUCKING HERO. By some miracle of God, I made it in there — fully sweating and shaking like I was in the film “Bridesmaids”. And somehow, my cover STILL had not been blown (no pun intended, ha)
I tried to resume the rest of our date as if I was fine, but we didn’t make it through not one exhibit without me having to find the restroom in that wing. Pepto had really done me dirty…. A few times I just disappeared claiming I got “so wrapped up in the art” that I got “lost.” But Hot Gandalf is no dummy, so I’m guessing he either knew what was going on, or thought I was trying to escape from him.
To make matters worse, we decided to take the Subway all the way back to Brooklyn— something I have never truly experienced. Though it was a smoother ride, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a weirder group of people in my life, and I’ll never know what the strange liquid that was running down the middle of the car was. Coffee? Urine? Blood? Could have been anything… let’s just say the odd smells and weird liquids didn’t make my stomach feel any better.
When we arrived back at my hotel, I fully expected him to come inside and have a glass of wine with me — but instead, he told me he “needed to get home” and left me mystified as to if he was a) feeling like I was pulling away from him b) we’d lost our connection or c) was just grossed out that I was having stomach problems all day.
On my flight home — I think I ate 3 dramamine pills, and took 3 imodiums because I was TERRIFIED of what could possibly happen on the plane this time. When I finally made it back to LA, my doctor told me I had some intense sinus infection that would require weeks of antibiotics and steroids — which explained basically everything from the nausea on the landing, and the post nasal drip which made my stomach churn.
Hot Gandalf only checked to see that I made it home, and never mentioned the trip to the museum ever again. I’m still not sure what he thinks even happened…. sigh.
Have you ever had stomach issues on a date? Do we think I should ask Hot Gandalf what happened and if he knew this was going on?!
Loading more posts…