Me: Hi Grandpa! Thank you for the birthday card.
Grandpa: You’re an old lady now.
Me: (uncomfortable chuckle) Yes. Well, I just wanted to call to say hi.
Grandpa: Mortality catches up with everyone.
Me: That’s true.
Grandpa: Are you dating anyone?
Me: No grandpa, I’m still single.
Grandpa: Well, it’s only going to get harder because you’re old now.
This month, I leave the realm of just being 30. Now, I’m actually in my 30’s. And yes, still single. Despite this forward march toward spinsterhood, I’m not upset about being a year older, which is somewhat surprising considering how hard I took turning 30.
The night before my 30th birthday, I drank far too much, and apparently, went out to eat. I woke up no longer in my 20’s, with barbecue sauce on my pillow case, pork in my hair and a food wrapper clutched in my hand. (I was told later I went out for ribs.) This was not a dignified step forward into adulthood. When I looked in the mirror that morning, all I could see were smears of barbecue sauce, mascara halos around my eyes and a few small lines across my forehead. I burst into tears and went back to bed.
I’ve had people tell me that they either had a hard time turning 30, or they had a hard time turning 31, and I think maybe my barbecue sauce coated distress at aging has passed. There are things I know now that I didn’t know in my 20’s and in retrospect, I am thankful I stayed single to experience them.
There are things about dating in your 30’s that are great. I have more confidence in me. I’m less willing to compromise on my values to appease someone else. I’m a far better bartender and I’m able to hold my liquor better. I’m also surer of what it is I want from life, and it’s not what I had convinced myself that I wanted when I was growing up.
The downside? The vast majority normal men in their 30’s are married. It’s true. There was a mass exodus from singledom to the alter around 28 years old when everyone decided to couple up or perish. And frankly, if I’d had the opportunity, I probably would have joined them. Of course, now they’re all reproducing and I’m somewhat glad I don’t have that level of responsibility on my plate, at least not yet.
Lesson learned: Everything happens at it’s own pace. I’m 31 and single and finally, I’m OK with the way things are. Incidentally, I’m also waiting for the first rounds of divorce among the 30-something men. I’m pretty sure they’ll be potty trained. (see: Tea and Pee)
I thought it was time to do another chart. And of course this is really only my opinion on facial hair. Lot’s of girls are fond of the “soul patch,” (although I’ve heard a lot more colorful names for it.)
Oh, Internet, I love you . . . but I also really hate you. I’m aware that I deliberately expose the inner-workings of my deflated love life by having a blog, but I had hoped to maintain some semblance of anonymity.
I try to protect the privacy (or at least the names) of every man I’ve written about. Alas, in the last week not one, but two men have said “so, I was Googling you and your blog came up.” Well smack my face and call me Susan.
And yes, the first entry for me is my blog. It was being regurgitated through my Buzz profile, which I had forgotten I’d even created.
Neither one of these blog voyeurs were particularly upset by what I’ve written, but it made me question: At what point do I say “I have a dating blog.”
Is it before the first date?
“Why yes I’d love to go to dinner with you at Osetra (it is my dream in life to eat there and see the wine fairies dangling above the bar) but first, can you sign this release that says I can make snarky observations about you? I won’t use your name.”
During the date?
“By the way, I will be rating your ability to kiss and making it public.”
Before the second date?
“I had a really great time last Friday! Of course we can go out again. Before we do, I should tell you that I have a dating blog. Don’t worry, my readership is fairly low.”
Lesson learned: I’ve decided not to blog about guys while I’m dating them unless they say it’s ok. Of course, if they do something awful, all bets are off. And as you know, with my dating karma, you’ll be reading something awful.