Lanie in the City

I met Lanie for happy hour last night at my favorite happy hour bar. And like I said, it's one of those places that always ends up with a good story. That story is here.

And seriously, when a crusty old man approaches you and apologizes for his bloodshot eye before hitting on you, it's going to be a story.

Hodgepodge

I've got nothing going on right now. No crushes, no gentlemen upon which to shower my flirtations. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

***

I've seen Nameless Teammate around a few times. I pretend he doesn't exist and he returns the favor. I'm okay with that arrangement. But I did see him out at the bar Friday night. He was wearing pajama pants. At the bar. On a Friday night. I quickly admonished myself for ever taking to heart what he said to me.

***

Statham has somehow resurfaced. We were both at Screen on the Green a couple of weeks ago and he laid his blanket down in front of mine. He turned around and said hello. I was shocked he spoke to me. He had fallen so far off my radar that I forgot he even existed and that we had shared the sex.

He started showing up on my Facebook profile. This isn't an exact science, but the people who tend to show up on the top of my friends list on my profile page are the people with whom I most often interact. Then one day his tiny head appeared in that list and remained there for weeks, which I can only deduce that he's been active on my page.

And then the e-mails started. He wants to go running with me. I turned him down. He invited me again. I turned him down again. Then he made a Facebook event to go running and I respond with maybe, to which I get another e-mail inquiring about my maybe followed by this: ...but I see you're going to [Statham's good friend's] party the night before.... Dude knows my whereabouts.

Saturday night, I was standing in his good friend's kitchen when this text came through: Hi! Looking forward to running tomorrow...  His (ex)girlfriend was standing not 10 feet from me. (Incidentally, I hadn't seen them out at the same time in about a month.)

When I got home, I unzipped my romper and stared at my phone incredulously. Statham treated me like garbage. Had he somehow suffered an aneurysm and forgotten? I hadn't. I began typing.

I'm really tired and am looking forward to getting a good night's sleep. Count me out tomorrow morning.

***

Conor began texting me out of the blue one night. I hadn't heard from my old friend/ex in 9 months. At the end of the conversation, he reiterated that I was the best he ever had. Yup, some things never change.

***

With the absence of boys to flirt with and the hiatus between kickball seasons, I began filling my calendar elsewhere. I dropped in a boot camp one morning. I picked running back up again. I went tubing down the river. I tried out a CrossFit class. I joined the circus for an evening and learned to walk across a tightrope, shimmy up a Spanish web and swing on a trapeze.

While I learned that I have the right attitude and am willing to take myself out of my comfort zone, I also learned that I am not athletically talented. The boot camp instructor saw the color of my face and asked me if I felt light-headed and would I like to sit out the next exercise. "Just because we're hollering at you doesn't mean you have to do it," she told me. I must have really looked a mess. On the trapeze, I was the only person to fall off while hanging upside down.

Sports have taught me the art of forgiveness. Every day I have to forgive myself for not being as good as I want to be. It's okay that I can't do the 21/15/9 push ups. I have to start at whatever I can do and improve upon that. Every day. Forgive myself every day and try to do better every day.

It makes me wonder in what other areas of my life do I need to forgive myself.

THE DAY

Yesterday was THE DAY. It had been a week and a half since I had been running and yesterday was the day I was going to start it up again. Amazing how quickly gym-guilt can build up once you establish a routine. It had been my longest break since I started running in January.

In preparation for THE DAY, I set not one, but two alarms so my pampered ass could wake up at the crack of 8 to go running before work. It doesn't matter that I also set two alarms on Tuesday because I also thought that day was THE DAY, but alas, it was just practice for Wednesday, THE DAY TO RULE THEM ALL.

The warning alarm went off at 7:40 a.m. and was met with a deft swipe of the arm that silenced it into submission. Then the real alarm went off at 8, and was also met with a deft swipe.

Instead of getting up to go running, I fell back asleep and had a nightmare in which Nameless Teammate was campaigning to have me put to death by hanging. I awoke at 8:30 gasping and screaming. Not the start of the morning that I was planning for THE DAY.

I got up and paraded the dog up and down the busy street to do her morning business. It was cool out, the perfect temperature to run along the river. I berated myself for not getting up. Truth is, I don't do as well in the summer heat as I used to before I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder, which is why I had to give up my afternoon runs in the first place. Just in case the overcast day didn't warm up, I packed my running bag and went to work.

Schmoozer and I had been e-mailing about various fitness endeavors. I had just sent him a link to a circuit training I started the night before to prepare for Tough Mudder in February.

I’m thinking we may need to grab a quick beverage so you can tell me all about this madness :-D, he wrote back.

No way. Today is THE DAY. I have to go running, I responded.

Look outside, it's going to rain!

I don't mind getting wet as long as there isn't any electricity in the air.

On cue, the Nothing appeared. The sky boomed and the lights in the office flickered. My computer was now running on back-up battery. I checked the Doppler radar and saw the entire city was encompassed in angry crimson. My e-mail chimed.

Let’s see you jog in this weather! HAHAH.

6 o'clock work for you? I typed meekly. Today was not THE DAY.

We grabbed a table by the unlit fireplace in our happy hour spot. On the wall next to me were eight clocks. He had a tuna melt; I had the "fried goodness" as it was called on the menu. He had four beers; I had four gin and tonics.

Afterwards, I stood under the restaurant awning. The storm had passed, but it was still overcast. I was tipsy, if not a little drunk. I looked at my watch. It was 8:20. I had 40 minutes before dark. And it was cool out and the running trail is right around the corner and my shoes are in the back seat and, my god, I can't believe I ordered something called Fried Goodness.

I changed into my Lycra and stood in front of the exercise barre and steadied myself as I warmed up my hip. I didn't know whether it was a good idea or a bad idea to go for a run while under the influence, but I justified that running is a mental thing and with four gin and tonics, my mind was quiet.

I pressed the button on my watch to collect the data from my run and took off. Due to the recent storm, dusk had settled much more quickly. The running trail was near empty, save for a couple of marathoners and elderly walkers. One guy passed me wearing a head lamp.

About a mile away from my car, the rain had started again. Keeping pace, I extended my arms to the sky and welcomed it. I could feel the mascara run down my cheeks. It didn't stop me. I was running in the rain. I felt badass. The river appeared eerily, its surface no longer visible, hidden beneath a blanket of fog.

Water soon collected on the trail, flooding it in spots. My pace was punctuated with jumping over puddles and splashing in them when the puddle was too large for me. I squealed in delight each time."The Story of Benjamin Darling, Part 1" by State Radio played on my Shuffle. I got the joke: it's a seafaring song and I was surrounded by water. I laughed to myself and set the song on repeat for the rest of my run. There I was, drunk, listening to this song, laughing and jumping through puddles in the moonlight. It was probably the best I felt since Warrior Dash.

By the time I finished my five kilometers, I was running in the dark. And the rainfall wasn't light; it was moderate. I was soaked from head to toe and shivering. But I did it. That day was indeed THE DAY. I broke through my barrier and had a successful run, although the pace was a full minute slower per mile than when I was training. It does all take place in the mind though, or in my case: a dead one.

Checkmate

When Schmoozer's best friend walked in Schmoozer's house Saturday night, he found Schmoozer and me mid-chess game. He walked to the fridge and a grabbed beer before pulling up a chair to the table. It was my turn.

I ran a finger across the tip of my bishop. The Best Friend growled. I eyed him curiously.

"Not that piece," he enunciated.

I picked up my knight and looked at him. He didn't protest. I moved it across the board.

"Bup bup bup!" he interjected as he rolled his eyes.

I quickly picked it up again and found another place for it. The Best Friend was silent.

Schmoozer leaned forward and studied the board. Then he gasped as he collapsed back into his chair. "What did you do?!" he shouted at the Best Friend. "I was beating her!"

"Ha!" I laughed as I thumbed my nose at him. Usually the Best Friend is the grumpy one; it was funny to see Schmoozer irritated as his best friend laughed.

We played this way for a little while, with the Best Friend correcting my moves if I was about to make a colossal mistake.

After I beat Schmoozer, the Best Friend moved opposite of me and set up the table as Schmoozer got us another round of beers.

"I'm not very good at chess," I warned him. "I don't strategize and I can't see anything further out than two moves."

I drained the last of my beer as Schmoozer produced a new can in front of me. "There are sprinters and there are marathoners in life," I continued, heady from spirits. "And I am most definitely a sprinter. I'm more of the philosophy if it feels good, do it. Being short sighted doesn't allow for strategy and plotting."

The double entendre was intentional. The Best Friend laughed.

"Right now I feel like wreaking havoc," I demonstrated. "So I'm taking your bishop!"

Amazingly enough, I won that chess game too.

We piled in the Best Friend's car and headed to the bars. Schmoozer and I wanted to go somewhere cheap, but the Best Friend talked us in to going to the Irish pub, of Statham and Girl from Irish Pub fame. Facebook told me that they were there the previous night.

Schmoozer climbed onto one picnic bench on the patio. I climbed onto the other. The Best Friend stood at the head of the table and weighed his options. He then tried to join Schmoozer.

"Wait! What are you doing?" cried Schmoozer. "If there is a spot next to a girl, you take that one. You don't sit next to another dude."

"But if I sat here, I could look at the girl," he justified.

Girl, party of one, right here.

"No. Just no," argued Schmoozer.

The Best Friend took a seat next to me. "He's just so clueless," sighed Schmoozer.

I looked at Schmoozer, "You know, you could sit on the other side of me. I could be sandwiched!" I giggled.

Schmoozer groaned.

The boys each ordered McSorely's Dark. I'd never had it, but it is served two glasses at a time, which was good enough for me.

"So I've been thinking," I announced. "Do you think when you're 80 and old and crusty, do you think you'll look back on your sex life and be satisfied with or regret the number of people you've slept with? I mean, when you're 80, could there really have been enough randoms?"

"You're just asking this since it's been awhile!" laughed Schmoozer.

"Yes, it's been awhile," I huffed.

"People never think, I should have worked more," he answered.

"But do they think, I should have had less sex?" I asked.

"No," he shook his head.

"That's what I'm thinking. So, to more randoms!" I cheered. We clinked glasses.

I looked over at the Best Friend, who had remained silent during the conversation. "What do you think?"

"I think, if you've found the right person, it won't matter."

Schmoozer and I met each other's glance across the table and held it. I remember feeling the same way as the Best Friend. That finding the one special person will solve all of life's problems. Problem is, I don't feel that way anymore.

Schmoozer was the first to break the stare and bust out laughing.  "Ah, Best Friend," he toasted. "We're just too cynical for you." I snickered.

I thought about the surrounding conversations where we talked about the number of people we've slept with and the relationships we've had. What it comes down to is that the Best Friend is still a baby. Despite him being the oldest of the three of us, he's had the least life experience. He didn't know at which side of the picnic table to sit. He hasn't had the relationships and subsequent destruction. He's untainted.

As I put my first mug of McSorely's down and picked up the second one, I found it endearing. A man in his thirties who's untainted. I didn't know those existed.

And maybe that's what separates the Sprinters from the Marathoners. I often throw myself into things and simply wish for the best. I sleep with men too soon. I can never see more than two steps ahead.

How will you feel about your sex life when you're 80 and old and crusty?

Lessons

One of the things I enjoy about being an anonymous blogger is that when I'm feeling like a loser, I don't have to put on a brave face. I can detail all the ways in which I feel like a loser.

With that said, I received several e-mails from people asking if they needed to confiscate my shoelaces, so I apparently I write about feeling like a loser very well. I'm feeling much better. I had a good wallow. I felt sorry for myself. But then I got up Monday morning and went to work.

Whatever I wore to work Monday—I think it was blue jeans and a knitted black top—someone stopped me and told me how skinny I had gotten and how in shape I looked. That helped. Then I wore a magenta shift dress and no less than five people stopped me and told me how gorgeous it was and a man at Subway said I looked pretty. That helped too. Today I'm wearing a white lace dress and someone already stopped me and told me it was pretty. Point is, there are far more kind people in my life than the two who had hurt my feelings.

Schmoozer's bestie has been in regular contact with me; I receive texts and e-mails from him every couple of days. So even though he isn't attracted to me, I've still made a new friend.

I've made friends with a couple of girls from my spring team and they came out with me Saturday at my invitation, so I have that. And I also have the new team I'm joining this summer. Those people are the highest quality of people I've met by far. They are also a few years older than me, if that says anything. Most are in their mid-thirties so the quotient for drama, I'm hoping, is diminished.

I also decided not to play with my spring team again. I contacted the company and they were able to issue me a refund. That means I won't have to play with Nameless Teammate. I think it's best that I remove myself from that situation for the time being.

So I'll be playing on a new night with a new team and a chance to meet a whole other circle of people.

Lesson number one: don't sleep with any of them.

Recipe for Rock Bottom

Re-read this post.

Substitute Hot Douchebag for Nameless Teammate.

Substitute "What I do know about you, I don't like," for some equally offensive and rude remark.

Add an afternoon spent "tasting" at a brewery.

Add ice. Stir.

I had asked for it. I had walked up to him and asked if I offended him. He stammered. I said if I did something, I really wanted to know. So he opened his mouth and said it. The words aren't important—I don't feel like adding the sentiment to the Universe—but it wasn't something I did; he just didn't like me as a person. I was left feeling the same as I did with Hot Douchebag. Punched in the stomach with all the words sucked out of me. I had no retort. When this 40-year-old man said what he did to me, I reacted the same way I did in elementary school. I stared at my shoes and walked away.

What had started as a funk earlier in the week turned into full despair as I returned to my table. Fat, juicy tears slid down my cheeks. The people I were with—the friends I had made—turned and asked me what happened. I told them. They were enraged on my behalf. I couldn't stop the tears. Boys who didn't know me got up from their stools and approached me out of concern. Immediately they told me I was gorgeous as if the rejection I just received was romantic. Someone bought me a shot of Southern Comfort and lime.

As I stood up to take the shot, Nameless Teammate approached my table to greet the remaining people. My new guyfriend purposely spilled his drink on him in retaliation. Words were exchanged. Nameless Teammate left. When I returned, the incident was regaled to me and everyone took turns telling me how Nameless Teammate had offended them in the past. I was not special.

But the telling off was too close in timing to what had already been rolling around in my head: I am not likable. There is now a list of people who don't like me. I haven't been on the receiving end of such open hostility since S.

The tears shortly subsided. A friend took me dancing to my favorite song, spinning me into Nameless Teammate's path and forcing him to leave the bar altogether. How he and I are going to coexist on the same summer team, I don't know yet.

As soon as I was alone though, I crumpled into sobs, gnashing my teeth and wailing at the half-lit moon. I was so profoundly sad. I felt like the man who had said mean things to me confirmed my fears. I am unlikable on even the most basic of levels. He didn't even want to know me. In my apartment I drank myself into oblivion. I fired off a very drunken e-mail to a stranger. And then I crawled in bed and cried myself to sleep.

I slept for 15 hours. I walked the dog to Kroger and bought myself a box of Goobers, ate half of it, and then slept for 12 more hours.

I feel like my heart is broken, yet there is no breakup.

Automatic Negative Thoughts

I've been fighting back sadness all week, telling myself it's hormones, or maybe it's sequela of my hypothyroidism. But I'm losing the battle against the funk and it's either write about it, or drown it in beer.

There are two incidences I can't stop thinking about. The sad thing is, they aren't even recent; neither of them occurred within the last month. They didn't bother me at the time, but now the words are running through my mind like an endless string of train cars: He isn't attracted to you. I don't like you. He isn't attracted to you. I don't like you.

Several months ago when Schmoozer and Katie had first started dating, he decided to bring along his best friend to one of our little meet ups to set us up. Only Schmoozer is a dude. A dude who chose to introduce us after my kickball game, so I was dressed in a unisex t-shirt, gym shorts, a ponytail, and a red, sweaty face. NOT THE TIME TO BE MEETING DUDES. And I didn't know he was bringing his friend, so I had no chance to prepare.

I had no chance at all. Schmoozer's best friend is gorgeous: tall, slender, chiseled face.

Schmoozer had been telling me about him over the months: he dates younger girls because he's so pretty, but Schmoozer thinks someone his own age would be good for him. Someone who is outgoing and would drag him out of his shell. Someone who wouldn't put up with his bullshit, because he tends to be cranky. At the time, Schmoozer thought of me and he introduced us.

His friend left the bar booth to use the restroom. I swatted Schmoozer's shoulder. "He's cute!"

"It wouldn't work out."

"Why?"

"Because he's angry all the time."

"Oh no, I wouldn't want that." I sat there in silence for a minute, thinking about Schmoozer telling me about the guy and his sudden appearance at our little outing. I remembered I had left the table earlier, leaving them alone together.

"He's not attracted to me, is he?" I asked suddenly.

"It just wouldn't work out," Schmoozer repeated.

"Because he's not attracted to me."

Schmoozer didn't respond. It was all the confirmation I needed.

At the time, I shrugged it off. I was still online dating. I had just joined a new kickball league. It was his loss and I truly believed it. At the time.

Only I've been spending a lot of time with Schmoozer and his bestie lately. Happy hours. Workday lunches. Parties. And I haven't been out on a date in months. And the kickball season ended after everything blew up in my face. And he's still gorgeous.

And every time I see him, I'm reminded that's he's not attracted to me. It's such a defeating sentiment. There's nothing I can do about that: I can't change the curve of my chin or the tilt of my nose.

We've been e-mailing the past two days. Yesterday it was entirely in French. Or rather, he was having a conversation with me in French and I was having a conversation with Google Translator and a Dollar-to-Euro converter, despite having hosted 2 French teenage boys for the summer during the 1996 Olympics.

Today he's e-mailing me with a plot to mess with Schmoozer. But every time his name appears in my inbox, I read I'm not attracted to you. It's wearing on me.

The other incident that occurred was with Hot Douchebag. And really, with a name like Hot Douchebag, I shouldn't be surprised with how things turned out. But after several conversations and games of flip cup at the weekly bar, I sent him a Facebook friend request after he popped up in my "People You May Know." Why, yes, Facebook, I do know him!

The request went unanswered. I saw him a week later and told him I friend-requested him.

"I know," he said. "But I don't know you."

"She's right here!" piped up my girlfriend, who used to sleep with him.

"And what I do know about you, I don't like," he finished.

Yeeeeeeeeeeesh. That was humiliating.

We have a ton of mutual friends and people ask why I visibly stiffen when his name is brought up. Because that dude hates me, that's why.

Last night I was at Screen on the Green and I see him approach with his girlfriend. We eye each other across the field and I quickly look away and smiled at the person next to me. Mutual friends get up from our blankets and invite him over and he's walking toward me and all I can think is I don't like you in beat of the step he's taking towards me. We eye each other again. I look away again. I don't like you. I don't like you. I don't like you...

A few weeks ago when these thoughts first started, I removed myself even further from the dating game. Not only am I not dating, I'm no longer flirting. There's no point. I'm neither attractive nor likable. I'm just going to sit out like a fat girl in gym.

And to be fair, I'm not telling the story where the girlfriend of one of my kickball buddies approached me on her own with the idea to set me up with one of her guyfriends, who I'm told is cute and also a writer. Intellectually I know I'm not a social pariah. I know I have made other friends. There will be other guys.

I just can't stop these automatic negative thoughts from circling my mind. The damage I'm doing is to myself. They only said these things to me once. I'm saying them to myself on repeat.